Waiting for Wednesday

FORTY-EIGHT

The following morning Frieda woke everyone early and took them all to Number 9 for breakfast – a raggle-taggle crew of bleary-eyed, anxious teenagers, who seemed closer today to childhood than adulthood. Their mother had been murdered, their father was in a police cell and they were waiting for the sentence to fall.

She saw them all on to the bus, waiting till it drew away, then returned home. She felt drained and subdued, but she had things to do. Josef was building a garden wall in Primrose Hill; Sasha was at work. So Frieda took the train out from Liverpool Street, through the nearly completed stadiums and sports halls of the Olympic Park. They looked like toys abandoned by a giant child. Coming out of the station at Denham, she climbed into a taxi waiting at the rank.

A horse refuge named after a flower. Frieda had imagined rolling meadows and woodland. The taxi passed a large, semi-demolished set of warehouses, then a housing estate. When the taxi stopped and the driver announced that they had arrived, Frieda thought she must have come to the wrong place, but then she saw the sign: ‘The Sunflower Horse and Donkey Refuge’. The driver asked if she wanted him to wait for her. Frieda said she might be some time so he wrote his number on a card and gave it to her.

As the car drove away, she looked around. By the entrance, there was a pebbledash house. There were deep cracks in the façade and an upper window was covered with cardboard. It seemed deserted. On the wall, to the side of the entrance, there was another sign, stencilled: ‘Visitors Report to Reception’. She walked into a yard lined with stable buildings made out of breeze blocks and concrete but no Reception that she could see. There were piles of horse manure and straw bales, and off to the side a rusting tractor with no tyres on the front wheels. Frieda stepped delicately across the yard, making her way between brown muddy puddles.

‘Is there anyone here?’ she called out.

She heard a scraping sound and a teenage girl carrying a spade emerged from one of the stable doorways. She was dressed in rubber boots and jeans and a bright red T-shirt. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Yeah?’

‘I’m looking for someone called Shane.’

The girl just gave a shrug.

‘I heard that a man called Shane works here.’

The girl shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Maybe he used to work here.’

‘I don’t know nobody called Shane.’

‘How long have you been working here?’

‘A few years. On and off.’

‘And you know everyone who works here?’

The girl rolled her eyes. ‘Course I do,’ she said, and disappeared back into the stable. Frieda heard the spade scraping on the concrete floor. She walked out of the yard on to the road where she had come in, looked at her watch and wondered what to do. She thought back to the conversation in the pub. Had she misunderstood somehow? Were they just trying to get her to go away? She started to walk along the road. There was no pavement, just a grass verge, and she felt vulnerable to the cars that were passing her with a rush of air and noise. As she got beyond the buildings, she reached a rough wooden fence that separated the field from the road.

She leaned on the fence and looked across. The field was large, maybe a quarter of a mile across, bordered on the far side by the busy A12, cars and lorries rumbling along it. The field itself was scrubby and abandoned, broken only by occasional clumps of gorse and, in the middle, a large, dead oak tree. And then there were horses, and a few donkeys, scattered around. They were old and mangy but they seemed contented enough, heads down, nibbling at the grass, and Frieda found it relaxing just watching them. It wasn’t much, perhaps, but better here than anywhere else. It was a strange scene, neither town nor country but something messily in between. It looked like land that had been neglected, unloved, half forgotten about. Maybe some buildings had been there, had been demolished and the grass and the gorse had grown back. One day someone would notice it again, next to the motorway, close to London, and they’d build an industrial estate or a service station, but until then it would struggle on. Frieda rather liked it.

She rummaged in her pocket and found the card that the taxi driver had given her. It was probably time to give up, return to London and to her normal life and her work. The impulse brought an immediate feeling of relief. She was just reaching for her phone when a car pulled up at the entrance to the refuge. A man got out. He was tall, slightly stooped, with unkempt hair that was nearly white and a beaked nose. He wore dark trousers and a rumpled jacket, a thin dark tie pulled loose over his shirt. He had a watchful, unsmiling air, and she saw the blare of his pale, hooded eyes. They stared at each other. They were thirty or more yards apart, too far to talk comfortably. Frieda stood back from the fence. She walked a few steps towards him and he walked towards her. The expression on his face didn’t alter: it was as though he was looking not at but through her.

‘Do you work here?’ the man asked.

‘No. I was trying to find someone, but he’s not here.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘You aren’t called Shane, are you?’

‘No,’ said the man. ‘I’m not.’ And he walked past Frieda into the yard. Suddenly he stopped and turned. ‘Why do you want him?’

‘It’s difficult to explain.’

The man came back towards her. ‘Tell me anyway.’

‘I’m searching for a girl,’ said Frieda, ‘and I thought that someone called Shane might help me. I was told he was here but they haven’t heard of him.’

‘Shane,’ said the man, reflectively. ‘I haven’t heard of him. Still, you may as well come along.’

Frieda raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Why should I do that?’

‘I’m trying to find someone as well.’ He spoke slowly and sombrely.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. You’re a stranger to me, and I don’t know who you’re meeting or why you’re here. I’ve finished and I’m going home.’

‘It’ll just take a minute.’ He scrutinized her. ‘My name’s Fearby, by the way. Jim Fearby. I’m a journalist.’

The sun passed behind a cloud and the landscape in front of them darkened. Frieda had the feeling of being in a dream, where everything made sense but was senseless. ‘I’m Frieda Klein.’

‘And who are you?’

‘I don’t know.’ She stopped, hearing the words. ‘I’m just someone trying to help someone.’

‘Yes. What’s the name of your missing girl?’

‘Lila Dawes.’

‘Lila Dawes?’ He frowned. ‘No, I haven’t heard of her. But come with me.’

They walked into the yard where the girl was now sweeping. She was obviously puzzled to see Frieda again.

‘I’m looking for a man called Mick Doherty,’ said Fearby.

‘He’s over the other side,’ said the girl. ‘Doing the fence.’

‘Where?’

The girl sighed. She led them through the yard to the field and pointed across. They could see signs of someone moving on the far side, right by the main road.

‘Is it safe to walk across?’ asked Fearby.

‘They don’t bite.’

A small gate opened into the field. Fearby and Frieda walked across it in silence. Two horses came to them and Fearby glanced at Frieda.

‘They think we’ve got food,’ said Frieda.

‘What will they do when they find we haven’t?’

A small ragged horse nuzzled against Frieda. She stroked it between the eyes. How long was it since she had been that close to a horse? Twenty years? Longer? She felt the warmth of its breath on her. Comforting. It smelt sweet, musty, earthy. As they got closer to the far side, they saw a man fastening the fence to a new post, twisting wire with pliers. He looked at them. He was tall, with very long reddish-brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. At first the T-shirt appeared to have long sleeves, but then Frieda saw his arms were covered with a network of tattoos. He had earrings in both ears.

‘Are you Mick Doherty?’ asked Fearby.

The man frowned at them. ‘Who are you?’

‘We’re not police. I’m looking for a young girl called Sharon Gibbs. She’s missing. Your name came up as someone who knew her.’

‘I’ve never heard of her.’

‘I think you have. You are Mick Doherty?’

‘That’s right.’

‘We just want to find her.’ Frieda heard the ‘we’, but didn’t protest. This odd man spoke wearily but with a tone of authority. ‘However, if we don’t find anything, we’ll have to turn over what we know to the police. I’m sure that’s not a problem, but …’ Fearby paused and waited.

‘I’m clean. You’ve got nothing on me.’

Still Fearby waited.

‘I don’t know what you want.’ His eyes slid to Frieda. ‘You’re wasting your time here.’

‘Sharon Gibbs.’

‘OK. I know her a bit. So what?’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘You say she’s missing?’

‘That’s right.’

‘When did she go missing?’

‘Just over three weeks ago.’

Doherty finished twisting a wire fastening on the fence. ‘I haven’t seen her for months. Maybe more. I’ve been away.’

‘You’ve been away.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Where?’

‘In prison. Just for a bit. Bloody set up, I was. I went in in January. I got out last week. They let me out and they got me a job. Shovelling fucking dung for fucking donkeys.’

‘And have you seen Sharon since getting out?’

‘Why would I have? She’s not my girlfriend or anything, if that’s what you’re getting at. Just a squirmy little kid.’

‘A squirmy little kid who got into the wrong company, Mr Doherty.’ Fearby fastened his unnerving eyes on the man. ‘And whose parents are very anxious about her.’

‘That’s not my problem. You’re talking to the wrong person.’

A thought struck Frieda. ‘Do people call you Shane?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Reddish hair, Irish name.’

‘I’m from Chelmsford.’

‘But they call you Shane.’

Doherty gave a faint, sarcastic smile. ‘Sometimes they do. You know. Begorrah.’

‘Tell me about Lila Dawes.’

‘What?’

‘You knew a girl called Lila Dawes. Also missing.’ She felt Fearby stiffen beside her, as if a current of electricity had passed through him.

‘Two missing girls,’ he said softly. ‘And you knew them both.’

‘Who says I knew Lila?’

‘Lila. Crack addict. Spent time with you, Shane – Mr Doherty – around the time she went missing. Two years ago.’

‘You say you’re not the police, so I don’t have to say anything to you. Except …’ He put the wire down. Frieda could see the spittle on his mouth and the broken blood vessels on his skin. He clenched and unclenched his fists so that the tattoos on his arm rippled, and his eyes wandered round her, as if he was trying to see something behind her. ‘Except piss off back to where you came from.’

‘Hazel Barton, Roxanne Ingatestone, Daisy Crewe, Philippa Lewis, Maria Horsley, Lila Dawes, Sharon Gibbs.’

It sounded like a chant, an incantation. Frieda felt the breath go out of her body. She stood absolutely still and quiet. For a moment, it was as if she’d entered a dark tunnel that was leading towards a still darker place.

‘What the fuck are you talking about, old man?’

‘Missing girls,’ Fearby said. ‘I’m talking about missing girls.’

‘OK. I knew Lila.’ He gave a smirk of recollection. ‘I don’t know where she went.’

‘I think you do,’ said Frieda. ‘And if you do, you should tell me, because I’m going to find out.’

‘People come and go. She was always more trouble than she was worth.’

‘She was just a teenage girl who had the terrible bad luck of meeting you.’

‘My heart bleeds. And, yeah, I knew Sharon a bit. Not those others.’

‘Was this the first time you’d been in prison?’ Fearby asked.

‘I think I’ve had enough of your questions.’

‘Dates, Mr Doherty.’

Something in his voice made the man’s expression waver for a moment, the sneer replaced by a kind of wariness. ‘Eighteen months ago I was in Maidstone.’

‘What for?’

‘There was a thing with a girl.’

‘A thing.’ Fearby repeated the words as if tasting them. ‘What did you get?’

Doherty just shrugged.

‘How long?’

‘Four months, give or take.’

Frieda could sense Fearby working something out. His face was ravelled with concentration, deep furrows lining his forehead.

‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘We’re done.’

Fearby and Frieda walked back across the field. Two horses followed them; Frieda could hear their hoofs on the dried earth, like a drum.

‘We need to talk,’ Fearby said, as they reached his car. She simply nodded. ‘Is there somewhere we can go? Do you live nearby?’

‘No. Do you?’

‘No. How did you get here?’

‘I got a taxi from the station.’

‘We can find a café.’

Frieda got in beside him; the seatbelt didn’t work; the car smelt of cigarettes. On the back seat there were several folders. Only when they were seated at a table by the window of a small, dingy café on Denham High Street, with mugs of too-milky tea in front of them untouched, did they exchange another word.

‘You begin,’ said Fearby. He put a Dictaphone in front of him, then opened a spiral-bound notebook and took a pen out of his jacket pocket.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Making notes. Is that OK?’

‘I don’t think so. And turn that off.’

Fearby looked at her as if he was seeing her properly for the first time. Then a faint smile appeared on his weathered face. He turned off the machine and laid his pen down.

‘Tell me why you’re here.’

So Frieda told her story. At first, she was conscious of its irrationality: just a paranoid instinct in the wake of her own trauma that had led her in a fruitless and inexplicable search for a girl she had never known. She heard herself talking about the tiny vivid anecdote that had sparked off her quest, of the dead-ends, the sad encounters with Lila’s father and with the woman from Josef’s homeland, who had pointed her in the direction of Shane. But bit by bit she realized that Fearby wasn’t responding with incredulity, as if she had gone slightly mad, the way that others had. He nodded in recognition, leaned forward; his eyes seemed to grow brighter and his granite face softer.

‘There,’ she said, when she had finished. ‘What do you think?’

‘It sounds like the same man.’

‘You’re going to have to explain.’

‘Well. I suppose it all began with George Conley.’

‘Why does that name sound familiar?’

‘He was found guilty of murdering a girl called Hazel Barton. You’ll probably have heard of him because he was released a few weeks ago, after spending years in the nick for a crime he never committed. Poor sod, he’d almost have been better off staying inside. But that’s a whole other story. Hazel was the first girl, and the only one whose body was found. I believe Conley interrupted the crime, whereas all the others – but I’m getting ahead of myself. And, in fact, Hazel wasn’t really the first – there were others. Vanessa Dale, for a start, and I just didn’t realize that at the time, because Vanessa was the one who got away. I tracked her down, though. I should have done it sooner, when she had a fresher memory, or any memory, but I didn’t know. I didn’t understand for many years what the story was really about, what a long, dark shadow it cast. Back in the day, I was just a hack, with a wife and kids, covering local news. Anyway –’

‘Stop,’ said Frieda. Fearby looked up at her, blinking. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’

‘I’m trying to explain. Listen. It all links up, but you have to follow the connections.’

‘But you’re not making any connections.’

He sat back, rattled his teaspoon in his cooling tea. ‘I’ve lived with it too long, I guess.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that the girls whose names you gave Doherty are all connected, and that Lila Dawes may be too?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

Fearby stood up abruptly. ‘I can’t tell you. I need to show you.’

‘Show me?’

‘Yes. It’s all written down. I’ve got maps and charts and files. Everything’s there.’

‘Where?’

‘At my house. Will you come and have a look?’

Frieda paused. ‘All right,’ she said at last.

‘Good. Let’s go.’

‘Where do you live? London?’

‘London? No. Birmingham.’

‘Birmingham!’

‘Yes. Is that a problem?’

Frieda thought of her house waiting for her, of her friends who didn’t know where she was, of her cat whose bowl would be empty. She thought of Ted, Judith and Dora – but she couldn’t resist the strangeness of the encounter, the pull of this strange old man. She would call Sasha, and tell her to hold the fort.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not a problem.’