Waiting for Wednesday (30 page)

‘You can’t blame yourself,’ said Fearby.

‘Yes, you can.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Fearby. ‘But have you got a photograph?’

‘I can’t give you one,’ said the woman. ‘We gave some to journalists at the time. And the police. We never got them back.’

‘Just to look at.’

‘Wait,’ said the woman.

He stood on the doorstep and waited. After a few minutes, there was the sound of the chain being unfastened. The woman handed him a photograph. He looked at the girl, a young and eager face. He thought, as he always did, of what was to come, what that face would witness. He noted the dark hair, something about the eyes. They were like a family, like a gang. He took out his phone.

‘Is that all right?’ he said.

The woman shrugged. He took a picture with his phone and handed it back to the woman.

‘So what are you going to do?’ said the woman. ‘What are you going to do about our Daisy?’

‘I’m going to find out what I can,’ said Fearby. ‘If I find out anything, anything at all, I’ll let you know.’

‘Will you find Daisy?’

Fearby paused. ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’

‘Then don’t bother,’ said the woman, and closed the door.

Frieda had been interested to meet the woman who had broken Rajit Singh’s heart, but when Agnes Flint opened the
door of her flat, she thought she must have come to the wrong door. The young woman had a smooth, round face, with coarse brown hair swept messily back. She wore a black sweater and jeans. But she was saved from being nondescript by her large dark eyes and a slightly ironic expression. Frieda had a sense of being appraised.

‘I don’t know what this is about,’ she said.

‘Just give me a minute,’ said Frieda.

‘You’d better come in. I’m on the top floor.’

Frieda followed her up the stairs.

‘It looks a bit boring from the outside,’ Agnes said, over her shoulder. ‘But wait till you get inside.’

She opened the door and Frieda followed her in. They were in a living room with large windows on the far side.

‘I see what you mean,’ she said.

The flat looked over a network of railway tracks. On the other side was a warehouse and beyond that were some apartment buildings that marked the south bank of the Thames.

‘Some people hate the idea of living by the railway,’ said Agnes, ‘but I like it. It’s like living next to a river, with strange things flowing past. And the trains are far enough away. I don’t get commuters staring in at me while I’m in bed.’

‘I like it,’ said Frieda. ‘It’s interesting.’

‘Well, that makes two of us.’ There was a pause. ‘So you’ve been talking to poor old Rajit.’

‘Why do you call him that?’

‘You’ve met him. He wasn’t much fun when we were together.’

‘He was a bit depressed.’

‘I’ll say. Has he sent you to try to plead for him?’

‘Didn’t it end well?’

‘Does it ever end well?’ There was a rumble from outside
and a train passed. ‘They’ll be in Brighton in an hour,’ Agnes said. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question? I mean, since you’ve come all the way to my flat.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘What are you doing here? When you rang up, I was curious. Rajit probably told you that he had difficulty taking no for an answer. He rang. He came round. He even wrote me letters.’

‘What did they say?’

‘I threw them away without opening them. So when you rang, I was kind of curious. I wondered whether he was sending women on his behalf. Like some kind of carrier pigeon. Are you a friend of his?’

‘No. I’ve only met him twice.’

‘So what are you?’

‘I’m a psychotherapist.’

‘Did he come to see you as a patient?’

‘Not exactly.’

A smile of recognition spread across Agnes’s face. ‘Oh, I know who you are. You’re
her
, aren’t you?’

‘It depends what you mean by “her”.’

‘What’s this about? Is this some kind of complicated revenge?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging you. If someone made a fool of me like that, I’d fucking crucify them.’

‘But that’s not why I’m here.’

‘No? Then why?’

‘There was something Rajit said.’ Frieda saw herself from the outside, going from person to person reciting a fragment of a story that seemed increasingly detached from its context – an image that she couldn’t shake off, but that glinted, sharp and bright, in the darkness of her mind. She should stop this,
she told herself. Return to the life she’d been in before. She felt Agnes Flint waiting for her reply.

‘Rajit wasn’t actually the student who was sent to me; that was someone else. But all the four researchers told the same story, one that supposedly demonstrated they posed a clear threat.’

‘Yeah, I read about it.’

‘In this story, there was an arresting detail, which Rajit said actually came from you.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘About cutting his father’s hair – well, I guess, your father’s hair if it came from you originally and he changed it for his purpose.’

‘Cutting my father’s hair.’

‘Yes. The feeling of power and tenderness you got from that.’

‘This is freaking me out a bit.’

‘He said you told him the story when you were lying in bed together, and you were stroking his hair and telling him it needed cutting.’

‘Oh. Yes. Now what?’

Now what? Frieda didn’t know the answer to that. She said wearily, ‘So it was just a memory you had, a simple memory?’

‘It wasn’t my memory.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was something a friend once said to me. She told me this story about cutting hair. I don’t think she said it was her father’s, actually. Maybe it was her boyfriend’s or her brother’s or a friend’s. I can’t remember. I don’t know why I even remember her saying it. It was just a little thing and it was ages ago. It just kind of stayed with me. Weird to think of Rajit writing it into his spiel. Passing it on.’

‘Yes,’ said Frieda, slowly. ‘So your friend told you and you told Rajit.’

‘A version of it.’

‘Yes.’

Agnes looked quizzically at Frieda. ‘Why on earth does it matter?’

‘What’s your friend’s name?’

‘I’m not going to tell you until you’ve answered my question. Why does it matter?’

‘I don’t know. It probably doesn’t.’ Frieda gazed into Agnes’s bright, shrewd eyes: she liked her. ‘The truth is, it bothers me and I don’t know why, but I feel I have to follow the thread.’

‘The thread?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lila Dawes. Her real name is Lily but no one calls her that.’

‘Thank you. How do you know her?’

‘I don’t. I knew her. We were at school together. Best friends.’ Again that ironic smile. ‘She was a bit wild, but never malicious. We kept in touch after she dropped out, when she was just sixteen, but not for long. Our lives were so different. I was on one road and she – well, she wasn’t on a road at all.’

‘So you have no idea where she is now?’

‘No.’

‘Where were you at school?’

‘Down near Croydon. John Hardy School.’

‘Is Croydon where you both grew up?’

‘Do you know the area?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘It’s near Croydon. Next to it.’

‘Do you remember her address?’

‘It’s funny. I can’t remember what happened last week, but
I can remember everything about when I was young. Ledbury Close. Number eight. Are you going to try and find her?’

‘I think so.’

Agnes nodded slowly. ‘I should have tried myself,’ she said. ‘I often wonder about her – if she’s OK.’

‘You think she might not be?’

‘She was in a bad way when I last saw her.’ Frieda waited for Agnes to continue. ‘She’d left home and she had a habit.’ She gave a shiver. ‘She looked pretty bad, thin, with spots on her forehead. I don’t know how she was getting the money to pay for it. She didn’t have a real job. I should have done more, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘She was in trouble, I could see that, and I just wanted to run a mile, as if it was contagious. I tried to put her out of my mind. Every so often I think of her and then I push her down again. Some friend.’

‘Except you remembered that story, and passed it on.’

‘Yeah. I can see her now, telling me. Grinning.’

‘What did she look like when you knew her?’

‘Little and thin, with long, dark hair that was always falling over her eyes, and a huge smile. It used to take over her whole face. Gorgeous, in an odd kind of way. Like a monkey. Like a waif. She wore eccentric clothes she picked up from vintage shops. Boys loved her.’

‘Does she have family?’

‘Her mum died when she was little. Maybe things would have turned out differently if she’d had a mother. Her dad, Lawrence, was lovely – he doted on her but he couldn’t keep her in order, not even when she was small. And she has two brothers, Ricky and Steve, who are several years older than her.’

‘Thank you, Agnes. I’ll tell you if I find her.’

‘I wonder what she’s like now. Maybe she’s settled down, become respectable. Kids, a husband, a job. It’s hard to imagine. What would I say to her?’

‘Say what’s in your heart.’

‘That I let her down. So odd, though, how it’s all come back like this – just because of a silly story I told to poor Rajit.’

Frieda – you haven’t answered my last phone calls or my emails. Please let me know that everything’s all right. Sandy xxxxx

THIRTY-THREE

Frieda walked home slowly. She could feel the warmth seeping into her body, hear her feet softly tapping on the pavement. People moved towards her and then flowed past, their faces blurred and indistinct. She saw herself from the outside; the thoughts that streamed through her brain seemed to belong to someone else. She knew that she was tired after all the nights of wakefulness and disordered dreams.

She did not go straight to her house but turned aside to sit awhile in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was a small, green square, bright with blossom and new tulips. In the middle of the day it was often full of lawyers in their smart suits eating their lunch, but now it was quiet, except for a pair of young women playing tennis on the court at the far side. Frieda sat down with her back against one of the great old plane trees. Its girth was tremendous and its bark dappled. She closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun that fell through its leaves. Perhaps she should do as Sandy said and go to New York, where she would be safe and with the man she loved, who loved her and who knew her in a way that no one else in the world ever had. But then she would no longer be able to sit in the shade of this beautiful old tree and let the day settle around her.

When she got up again, the sun was sinking lower and the air was beginning to feel cool. She thought wistfully of her bath. And she thought of Chloë, took out her mobile and made the call.

Olivia’s voice was ragged. Frieda wondered if she’d been
drinking. ‘I suppose Chloë’s been telling you all sorts of horrible lies about me.’

‘No.’

‘It’s no good pretending. It’s no good anyone pretending. I know what you all think.’

‘I don’t –’

‘Bad mother. Fucked-up. Wash our hands of her.’

‘Listen, Olivia, stop!’ Frieda heard her own voice, harsh and stern. ‘You need to talk about this, it’s clear, but I’m not washing my hands of you. I’m ringing up to talk about Chloë.’

‘She hates me.’

‘She doesn’t hate you. But it’s probably a good thing if she stays with me for a few days while you sort things out.’

‘You make me sound like a sock drawer.’

‘Say, one week,’ said Frieda. She thought of her tidy, secure house invaded by Chloë’s mess and drama and experienced a feeling of near-panic. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow evening and we can talk about what you’re going through and try to make some kind of plan to deal with it. Half past six.’

She turned off her phone and put it into her pocket. Her own plan was that she was going to go home, have a very long, very hot bath in her new and beautiful bathroom and climb into bed, pulling the duvet over her head, shutting out her thoughts. And hope that she wouldn’t dream, or at least that she wouldn’t remember her dreams.

She opened her front door. Several pairs of muddy shoes lay on the mat. A leather satchel. A jacket she didn’t recognise. There was a nasty smell coming from the kitchen. Something was burning and an alarm was making a piercing sound that felt to Frieda as though it was coming from inside her head. For a moment she considered leaving her own house and simply walking away from everything that was going on in there.
Instead, she went up to the alarm in the hall ceiling and pressed the button to turn it off, then called out for Chloë. There was no reply but the cat dashed past her and up the stairs

The kitchen was full of fumes. Frieda saw that the handle of her frying pan was blistered and twisted. That must be the nasty smell. There were beer bottles, empty glasses, a lovely bowl had been used as an ashtray and two dirty plates lay on the table, which was sticky and stained. She cursed under her breath and threw open the back door. Chloë was in the middle of the yard, and she saw that Ted was there as well, sitting with his back against the far wall and his knees drawn up to his chin. There were several cigarette butts scattered round him, and a beer bottle at his feet.