Saturday Requiem (11 page)

‘So you threw everything away?’

‘Pretty much. Not the teapot or the picture. Almost everything else. Sometimes now I wish I hadn’t. The bin men must have come early the next morning because when the police arrived it had already gone.’

‘Can I ask you about your ex-wife?’ asked Frieda.

‘What about her?’

‘What kind of terms were you on with her?’

Suddenly he looked more wary. ‘We didn’t have much to do with each other. She lived in her world and I lived in mine.’

‘But you had two children. Did you talk about Hannah and her problems?’

‘Not really. Deborah gave me instructions sometimes – she was always very good at that, very certain she knew best.’

‘How else would you describe her?’

‘Who, Debs?’ This time he didn’t correct the name.

‘Yes.’

Seamus Docherty stood up and went to the window. With his back to them, he said, ‘She was clever, stubborn, a woman of few words but with deep feelings. She spoke her mind. You’d want her on your side. She was determined, organized, ambitious for her children. And for me, once,’ he added.

‘Until you left her,’ said Yvette.

He turned. ‘We left each other.’ His voice was soft, uninflected. Frieda couldn’t tell if he was angry or sad.

‘Was it because you’d found someone else?’ Yvette persevered.

‘There was no ill will.’

‘Easy for you to say that.’ Yvette looked surprised at what she had said, and her face flushed.

Seamus Docherty looked away again, back out of the window where the rain fell. ‘No one can understand a marriage from the outside. There were good times once, and then they weren’t good any longer. It was painful, distressing, too prolonged. We both let the other down. Now she’s dead and nothing can be changed.’

‘She left you, didn’t she?’ said Frieda, suddenly certain. ‘Not the other way round.’

Seamus Docherty slowly turned to face her. ‘Have you ever been divorced?’

‘I’ve never been married.’

‘No children, no marriage, no divorce. You’ve had a sheltered life.’ Frieda didn’t say anything. ‘There’s always mess when a marriage ends – never believe anyone who tells you different.’

‘So she had an affair with Aidan, who was richer and more successful than you,’ said Frieda. ‘And she left you. Did you feel bitter?’

‘I’m not saying that’s what happened. And, no, I didn’t feel bitter.’

‘Or angry?’ asked Yvette. ‘You must have been furiously angry and humiliated.’

‘No.’

‘Did Hannah know it was her mother who had ended the marriage? Is that why she was so angry with her?’

‘I haven’t said that it was. You’re making assumptions. I don’t know what Hannah knew or thought or decided. She usually knew everything that was going on. She wasn’t someone you could hide things from. She was always on the look-out, always listening in to conversations, picking up
secrets. Little Pig with Big Ears – that’s what we used to call her when she was small.’

‘You talk about her in the past tense,’ said Frieda, softly.

‘Because she is in the past for me. She killed my son.’

‘She’s still your daughter.’

‘I have no daughter. I have no children.’

‘You’ve never visited her?’

‘I went once, just to look her in the face. She’s a monster.’

‘She’s still a human being.’

‘Easy for you to say that. Easy for you to stand there and talk about what happened. I try not to think about the past.’

‘She’s all alone. You’re the only person she has.’

‘She doesn’t have me. I’ll never see her again. She’s dead to me.’

‘I’m going to find out how much the estate was worth,’ said Yvette, as they walked back down the street towards the Overground station.

‘Good.’

‘Though it’s a wild goose chase.’ She snapped her umbrella open. ‘And, also, you want to know about Hannah’s life before the murders.’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s a woman who’s made herself the Hannah Docherty expert. Look on Google. It’s her life’s work. She’s completely obsessed. She’ll know things about Hannah that even Hannah never knew.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘She’s called Erin Brack.’

‘She thinks Hannah’s innocent?’

‘I don’t know. But, innocent or guilty, she thinks she’s a freedom fighter.’

Maria Dreyfus arrived late. Her coat was wrongly buttoned and her dark hair was scraped back in an asymmetrical bun. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘That’s all right.’

‘I was going to say it was the public transport, but it wasn’t.’

Frieda smiled. ‘Then I’m glad you didn’t say it.’

‘It was me. I didn’t know whether to come. I had a row with my husband. He thinks I should snap out of it.’

‘Is that what he said?’

‘Not quite. He said that sometimes talking cures make things worse, not better – that dwelling on what’s wrong can make it seem more real, more solid. Suffering becomes who you are. If that makes sense.’

‘It does.’

‘I’m not saying I agree.’

‘It would be fine if you did. Because, of course, it’s something that therapists have to consider carefully. But you aren’t here to embrace your suffering. You’re here to work out why you’re feeling the way that you do, and by understanding it you may be able to have some power over it.’

‘He also said I should go back to work and maybe think about taking up some form of exercise. Running, he suggested.’

‘Right.’

‘And he was angry because we haven’t had sex for weeks. Months, actually.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘Guilty. But then angry too. Very. Like a gale howling through me. I felt like punching him. It was like he was telling me to be a good wife: good at work, good in bed. Compliant. Of course that’s unfair. He only wants to help. Or mostly he only wants to help. He’s a bit aggrieved too. I probably should start running and having sex and working and behaving like a normal person. Whatever that means. It’s just –’ She stopped and passed both her hands over her face.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve had enough.’

‘Enough of what?’

‘Enough of everything. Of working and cleaning and shopping and cooking and talking and attending to the needs of my husband, my father, my children, my friends, my work colleagues, generally making an effort. It takes all my energy to – I don’t know – pick up a dirty sock from the floor, open my mouth and make the right words come out. Smile. Push a trolley round the supermarket. You know. Stuff. I want –’ Again she stopped, frowning.

‘You want?’

‘I don’t know. I want this feeling to go away. I want to be someone else.’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘Can you help me?’

‘To be someone else? No. But to find yourself? That’s what we’re going to do, together.’

‘I’m not sure if finding myself is going to make me very happy.’ Maria gave a short, derisive laugh.

‘Oh, happiness,’ said Frieda. ‘That’s not what this is about.’

Frieda had the rest of the afternoon to herself, and the evening. It lay ahead of her, beautifully empty and quiet. She went up the road to the greengrocer’s and bought herself some
aubergines and red peppers: she would light her fire, take a long bath, have roasted vegetables with a glass of red wine.

As she was putting the food away in the kitchen there was a knocking at the front door.

‘Chloë.’

Her niece was soaked through, and she was laden with shopping bags. When she stepped over the threshold, her shoes squelched. ‘Frieda, I would have called but my mobile’s out of battery so I thought I’d come round instead. I’m so glad you’re in.’

‘Come and sit by the fire and get dry. Aren’t you working today?’

‘Half-day off.’

Frieda looked at the bags. ‘Where are you on your way to?’

‘Here, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Here?’

‘I thought it would be nice to have dinner together. I’ve already bought the food. You’re not going anywhere, are you?’

‘I hadn’t been planning to.’ Frieda tried to feel glad. ‘That looks like a lot of food for two.’

‘I thought we could ask other people round too.’

‘Other people?’

‘Reuben and Josef.’

‘Oh.’

‘And then there are a couple of people I’ve met recently and I thought I could invite them as well.’

‘Here?’

‘If that’s all right.’

‘This evening?’

‘Yes. Last-minute thing, you know. It’ll be fun.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Frieda!’

‘Why can’t you do it in your own house?’

‘Mum’s got some new man coming round so I couldn’t do it there. Don’t you want me here?’ Chloë’s face assumed a look of comical dismay. Her mascara had run and water still dripped from her hair, running down her cheeks like tears.

‘You and four others? I was planning a quiet evening.’

‘Seven, actually. And us as well. Why do you want a quiet evening?’

‘Seven.’

‘They’ve all said yes.’

‘You’ve already asked them?’

‘I knew you wouldn’t mind. Jack’s coming too.’

‘Chloë, you can’t just ask seven people round to my house without telling me.’

‘I am telling you.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘Will you help me cook?’

‘I was about to have a bath.’

‘I’d love a bath at some point too. I’m wet through and so cold. Don’t worry, I’ve got a change of clothes with me.’

Frieda sighed. ‘I wasn’t worrying. Do you want one now?’

‘That would be great. Just a quick one. You could peel the onions while you’re waiting. Someone told me that if you don’t cut off the root end, your eyes won’t water so much.’

There were nine of them, and not enough chairs – they had to fetch the stool from the garret and the chair from her room. There was too much food: an assortment of salads and dips and breads that barely fitted onto Frieda’s small table, among the candles. Chloë’s face was red from cooking and anxiety. Frieda hadn’t had time for a bath. Josef arrived with a whole spiced chicken, even though Chloë had told him that her friends were all vegetarian and Dee a vegan, who didn’t like to be anywhere near meat. He also brought
his honey cake, which reminded him of his homeland, and two bottles of vodka. Reuben came with red wine and runny cheese. He was wearing his favourite waistcoat, as if this were a party. Jack arrived late, empty-handed, and perhaps, thought Frieda, already slightly drunk. He was wearing tight, canary-yellow trousers and two scarves around his thin neck. His hair was cut shorter than usual but as if to compensate he had grown a beard; it was a brighter orange than his hair and he stroked it occasionally. He perched on the stool, between and slightly behind Frieda and Josef, and had to lean forward to spear his food. Frieda had been his supervisor and he had revered her; he had also helped her in previous cases. When he and Chloë had been involved with each other, it had felt strange and complicated.

At the far end of the table, they were talking about travel. Chloë was anxiously over-animated. Every so often she darted a gaze in Jack’s direction – ever since they had broken up there had been an uneasy relationship between them, sometimes charged with possibility, at others with hostility.

‘Did you read that finding,’ said Jack, suddenly, to Frieda, ‘about how women are more likely to have a faith than men?’

‘No. That’s interesting.’

‘I have faith,’ said Josef. He tapped his chest. ‘We all must have meaning in our life.’ He raised his voice. ‘You agree, Chloë?’

‘What?’

‘You have faith?’

‘I have
chicken
,’ said Reuben. ‘Who wants some down that end? Chicken is a vegetable, really.’

‘Sorry, Josef,’ said Chloë. She beamed at him: she’d always had a soft spot for Josef. ‘I’m an infidel.’

‘Do you know how they keep chickens?’ asked the young
man next to Chloë; he had a shaved head and close-set beautiful brown eyes.

‘Faith is such an odd thing,’ said Jack. ‘People say they just know things, but you can’t know what can’t be proved. You can only believe.’

‘I’d eat road kill, though.’

‘You’re quiet, Frieda,’ said Reuben. ‘How’s it going with that mad girl?’

‘She’s not a girl any more – and I’m not entirely sure she’s mad. Or not mad in the way you mean.’

‘Chloë told me about what you do,’ said the young man with the shaved head. ‘It sounds really interesting. You’re looking into the Hannah Docherty case, is that right?’

‘I’m not sure that’s for general publication,’ said Frieda.

‘There are lots of Anglican vicars who lose their faith after decades,’ said Jack. He drank some of Josef’s vodka, then poured wine into his empty glass. ‘Wouldn’t that be painful, all of your life built on something you don’t believe in any more?’

‘Frieda,’ said Chloë. ‘Surely you can tell us a bit. We’re not going to talk about it.’

Frieda looked at her niece. She seemed hectic and slightly tense. ‘I’m going to see one of her fans tomorrow,’ she said. ‘To get a better sense of Hannah as she used to be. Erin Brack. Yvette came across her on the internet.’

‘Erin Brack.’ One of Chloë’s friends, a woman called Myla, who hadn’t talked for most of the evening, had pulled out her laptop from the duffel bag slung on her chair and was already typing into it. ‘There can’t be many of them around. Let’s see.’

‘I pray,’ said Josef to Jack, pouring more vodka into their glasses. ‘If I doubt, I pray more. Now is time for honey cake. Please, everyone.’

‘And what is prayer,’ asked Reuben, ‘but talking to yourself?’ He smiled round the table and stood up. ‘I’m going to have a cigarette out back. Anyone coming?’

Josef and Dee, the vegan, joined him. Jack picked up a slice of cake and looked at it. ‘Talking to yourself,’ he muttered, and bit into it, spraying crumbs. ‘That’s not enough.’

‘Here we are. Erin Brack. Look. She’s got a blog.’

Chloë and the young man leaned towards the screen.

‘She’s crazy,’ said Chloë, after a few seconds. ‘You want to be careful, Frieda.’

‘She certainly writes a lot,’ said the young man, scrolling down. ‘She seems to write her blog almost every day.’

‘What about?’ asked Frieda.

‘Conspiracies, I think,’ he answered. ‘Here’s one: chemicals in the water deliberately causing infertility.’

‘It says here she has a collection,’ said Chloë.

‘What kind of collection?’

‘No idea. She just keeps referring to “my collection”.’

‘She calls it “archive” sometimes,’ said Chloë, and turned away to answer her buzzing mobile.

‘And “murderabilia”,’ said Myla.

Reuben, Josef and Dee reappeared, their hair damp from the rain. ‘Time to go,’ said Reuben.

‘We’ve only just been given cake.’

‘That was Mum,’ said Chloë, sliding her phone back into her pocket. ‘She was very upset. She wants to know why you didn’t invite her as well.’

‘I didn’t invite anyone. You did.’

‘She doesn’t see it like that.’

‘What would you do, Frieda?’ asked Jack, standing up and pulling on his coat.

‘Sorry?’

‘What would you do if you were a vicar who’d lost their faith?’

Frieda looked at him. She gave him a small nod. ‘I’d stop being a vicar.’

‘Even if your congregation believed? You might still be helping them.’

‘I know what you’re driving at, Jack. This isn’t about Anglican vicars.’

Colour flared into his cheeks. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘If you no longer believe in what you’re doing, you don’t have to do it.’

‘Can I come and talk to you?’

‘You don’t need my permission.’

‘I’ve got myself in a muddle.’

‘We’re all in a muddle,’ said Reuben, who was in his jacket and finishing off Frieda’s wine. ‘It’s part of being human.’

Frieda closed the door on the last of her visitors and started clearing up. She thought about Erin Brack’s collection. Murderabilia. And she wondered what was in it.