Waiting for Wednesday

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