Waiting for Wednesday

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.’



FORTY-NINE
    In the warmth of the car, Frieda felt herself
sliding towards sleep. She had had several nights of insomnia, worse than usual,
tormented in between by scraping, violent dreams, and was ragged and scorched-eyed with
tiredness. But she struggled against sleeping in front of Fearby, this shabby bird of
prey; she couldn’t let herself be defenceless in front of him. Yet it was no good,
she couldn’t