Waiting for Wednesday

TWENTY-EIGHT

The following morning, when Frieda received Rajit Singh’s call, she arranged to meet him in her rooms, which stood empty for so many hours of the week now, the red armchair abandoned. Later in the day she had to see Joe Franklin, so she could stay on for that, stand for a while at the window that overlooked the deserted and overgrown building site, sifting through the rubble of her thoughts. She walked as swiftly as her injured leg would allow through the narrow streets, the familiar clutter of shops. She had the sensation of following a thread, as thin as a spider’s, through a dark and twisting labyrinth. She didn’t know why she couldn’t let go of the story: it had been a fake tale, crudely obvious, designed to trip her up and make her look foolish and incompetent. She should feel enraged, humiliated, exposed; instead, she felt troubled and compelled. She woke in the night and her thoughts, drifting up from the mud of her dreams, snagged on the story. There was a faint but insistent tug on the thread.

Singh arrived promptly. He was still wearing his thick black jacket – in fact, he seemed to be wearing the same clothes that Frieda had last seen him in. His face sagged with weariness and he sat heavily in the chair opposite her, as if this were indeed a therapy session.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘What for?’

‘For seeing me.’

‘I think I was the one who asked you to contact me.’

‘Yeah, but we fucked you over, didn’t we?’

‘Is that how it feels?’

‘I don’t know about the others, but I felt a bit crap about all the coverage.’

‘Because you felt what you did was wrong?’

‘It seemed a good idea at the time. I mean, how can therapists be checked? Teachers have inspectors, but therapists can do whatever damage they want in the privacy of their little rooms and no one’s to know. And if patients don’t like it, then the therapist can just turn it back on them: if you don’t like it, it’s because there’s something wrong with you, not me. It’s a self-justifying system.’

‘That doesn’t sound like you. It sounds like Hal Bradshaw speaking. Which doesn’t mean it’s wrong. There is a problem about checking up on therapists.’

‘Yeah, well, but when it got all that attention, it felt wrong. Everyone found it funny, and then when I met you …’ He stopped.

‘I didn’t seem quite as crazy as Bradshaw said I was?’

Singh shifted in his seat uncomfortably. ‘He said you were a loose cannon. He said you – and people like you – could do a lot of damage.’

‘So he set out to check us?’

‘I suppose that’s how he sees it. But that’s not why I’m here. There’s nothing I can do about that. You said I should get in touch if there was anything I wanted to say.’

‘And there is?’

‘Yeah. I guess. I’m, um, how do I put it? Not in the best place right now. As you noticed. I don’t like my work as much as I thought I would – I thought it would be more seminars and discussions and research in groups and stuff, but mostly it’s just me on my own, grubbing away in the library.’

‘Alone.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you’re alone in your personal life as well?’

‘You’re probably wondering why this has anything to do with the story,’ he said.

‘Tell me.’

Singh looked down at the floor. He seemed to be pondering something.

‘I was in a relationship,’ he said at last. ‘For a long time – well, a long time for me, anyway. I haven’t had so much – well, anyway, that’s irrelevant. We were together a year and a half, pretty much. Agnes, she was called. Is called. She hasn’t died. But it didn’t go well or end well or whatever. But that’s not what I came here to say. The thing is, it was Agnes who gave me the detail about cutting the hair. I don’t know why you’re so interested in it. The whole thing was just a story. But I was writing up the notes for everybody and I thought it needed a touch of colour and it came into my mind. I’ve no idea why. So I put it in.’

‘So your ex-girlfriend gave you the story about cutting her father’s hair?’

‘I wanted to tell you so that you’d see it’s not a big deal. It was just a stupid story. And random – it just occurred to me and I used it. I could have used anything – or nothing.’

‘Did you change any of the details?’

‘I can’t really remember.’ He winced. ‘We were lying in bed and she was stroking my hair and saying it had got really long and could do with a cut. And did I want her to cut it for me. Then she said this thing about her father – or I think it was about her father. I don’t remember that bit. It could have been someone else. But she talked about holding the scissors and how that gave a feeling of power and tenderness at the same time. I suppose it stuck in my mind because it all felt so intimate. Though she never did cut my hair.’

‘So the story was your ex-girlfriend’s memory?’

‘Yes.’

‘Agnes.’

‘Agnes Flint – why? Do you want to talk to her now?’

‘I think so.’

‘I don’t get it. Why’s it so important? We made a fool of you. I’m sorry. But why does any of this matter?’

‘Can I have her number?’

‘She’ll just tell you the same as I have.’

‘Or an email address would do.’

‘Maybe Hal was right about you after all.’

Frieda opened her notebook and unscrewed the cap of her pen.

‘I’ll tell you if you tell her she’s got to answer my calls.’

‘She won’t answer your calls just because someone else tells her to.’

Singh sighed heavily, took the notebook and scribbled down a mobile number and an email address. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Thanks. Do you want my advice?’

‘No.’

‘You should go for a run – I saw some running shoes in your living room – then have a shower and shave and put on different clothes and leave your cold little flat.’

‘Is that it?’

‘For a start.’

‘I thought you were a psychotherapist.’

‘I’m grateful to you, Rajit.’

‘Will you tell Agnes I said –?’

‘No.’

Jim Fearby had breakfast in the service station next to the hotel he had stayed in the night before: a mini-pack of corn flakes, a glass of orange juice from the tall plastic container in which a plastic orange bobbed unconvincingly, a mug of coffee. He returned to his room to collect his overnight bag and brush his teeth, watching breakfast TV as he did so. He left the room, as always, looking as if nobody had stayed there.

His car felt like home. After he had filled up with petrol, he made sure he had everything he needed: his notebook and several pens, his list of names, with numbers and addresses written neatly next to some of them, the folder of relevant information he had prepared the day before, the questions. He wound down the window and smoked a cigarette, his first of the day, then set the satnav. He was just nineteen minutes away.

Sarah Ingatestone lived in a village a few miles from Stafford. He had rung her two days ago and arranged to meet her at half past nine in the morning, after she had taken her two dogs for their walk. They were terriers, small, sharp, unfriendly, yapping creatures that tried to bite his ankles as he stepped from the car. He was tempted to knock them on their snouts with his briefcase, but Sarah Ingatestone was watching him from the front door so he forced a smile and made enthusiastic noises.

‘They won’t do any harm,’ she called. ‘Coffee?’

‘Lovely.’ He sidestepped a terrier and went towards her. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me.’

‘I’m having second thoughts. I Googled you. You’re the one who got that man George Conley out of prison.’

‘I wouldn’t say it was all me.’

‘So he can go and do it again.’

‘There’s no evidence that –’

‘Never mind. Come in and take a seat.’

They sat in the kitchen. Sarah Ingatestone made instant coffee while Fearby arranged his props in front of him: his spiral-bound notebook, which was identical to the one he’d had all those years ago as a junior reporter, his sheaf of papers in the pink folder, the three pens side by side, although he always used his pencil for shorthand. They didn’t speak until she’d put the two mugs on the table and taken the chair opposite him. He looked at her properly for the first time: greying hair, cut mannishly short, grey-blue eyes in a face that wasn’t old, but yet had sharp creases and furrows in it. Worry lines, not laugh lines, thought Fearby. Her clothes were old and shabby, covered with dog hair. She was called Mrs Ingatestone, but there was no sign of a Mr in this house.

‘You said this was about Roxanne.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? It’s been over nine years, nearly ten. No one asks about her any more.’

‘I’m a journalist.’ Best keep it vague. ‘I’m following up some queries for a story I’m involved in.’

She folded her arms, not defensively but protectively, as if she was waiting for a series of blows to fall upon her. ‘Ask away,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind what it’s for, really. I like saying her name out loud. It makes her feel alive.’

So it began, down the list of questions, pencil moving swiftly, making its hieroglyphic marks.

How old was Roxanne when she disappeared?

‘Seventeen. Seventeen and three months. Her birthday was in March – a Pisces. Not that I believe in that. She would be – she is – twenty-seven years old now.’

When did you last see your daughter?

‘The second of June 2001.’

What time?

‘It would have been around half past six in the evening. She was going out to see a friend for a quick drink. She never came back.’

Did she go by car?

‘No. It was just down the road, no more than ten or fifteen minutes’ walk.’

By road?

‘Yes. A quiet lane most of the way.’

So she wouldn’t have taken a shortcut – over fields or anything?

‘Not a chance. She was all dressed up – in a little skirt and high heels. That’s what we argued about actually – I said she wouldn’t be able to walk five yards, let alone a mile or so, in that garb.’

Did she ever arrive at the friend’s?

‘No.’

How long did the friend wait before alerting anyone?

‘Apparently she tried phoning Roxanne’s mobile after about forty-five minutes. I didn’t know anything about it until the next morning. We – my husband and I – went to bed at about half past ten. We didn’t wait up.’ Her voice was flat. She laid down the answers like cards, face up on the table.

Were you living here when Roxanne disappeared?

‘No. But nearby. We moved when – after – well, my husband and I separated three years after. We just couldn’t – It wasn’t his fault, more mine if anything. And Roxanne’s sister, Marianne, went too, to university, but she doesn’t come home much and I don’t blame her. And, of course, Roxanne never came back. I waited as long as I could in a house that everyone else had left and at last I couldn’t stand it any longer. I used to put hot-water bottles in her bed when it was cold, just in case. So I came here, and got my dogs.’

Can you please show me where you used to live on this map?

Fearby pulled it out from the folder and spread it on the table. Sarah Ingatestone put on her reading glasses, peered at it, then put her finger on a spot. Fearby took one of his pens and made a small ink cross.

You say you had argued?

‘No. Yes. Not seriously. She was seventeen. She had a mind of her own. When I told them, the police thought – but that’s not true. I know.’ She pressed her hands tightly together, stared at him fiercely. ‘She wasn’t one to bear a grudge.’

Do the police believe she’s dead?

‘Everyone believes she’s dead.’

Do you believe she’s dead?

‘I can’t. I have to know she’s coming home.’ The face quivered, tightened again. ‘Do you think I shouldn’t have moved? Should I have stayed where we’d all lived together?’

Can you describe Roxanne? Do you have a photo?

‘Here.’ Glossy shoulder-length brown hair; dark eyebrows; her mother’s grey-blue eyes but set wider in her narrow face, giving her a slightly startled look; a mole on her cheek; a large, slightly crooked smile – there was something asymmetrical and frail about her appearance. ‘But it doesn’t do her proper justice. She was little and skinny but so pretty and full of life.’

Boyfriend?

‘No. Not that I knew of. She’d had boyfriends before but nothing serious. There was someone she liked.’

And her character? Was she shy or outgoing, for instance?

‘Shy, Roxanne? She was ever so friendly – bold, you could even say. She always said what was on her mind and could have a bit of a temper – but she’d go out of her way to help people. She was a good girl, really. A bit wild, but she had a good heart.’

Would she have talked to a stranger?

‘Yes.’

‘Would she have got into a car with a stranger?

‘No.’

When Fearby got up to go, she clutched his arm. ‘Do you think she’s alive?’

‘Mrs Ingatestone, I couldn’t possibly –’

‘No. But do you? If you were me, would you think she was alive?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Not knowing is like being buried alive myself.’

Jim Fearby pulled over in a lay-by and took out his list of names. One was already crossed out. Next to Roxanne Ingatestone’s name, however, he put a tick. No, he didn’t think she was alive.