Waiting for Wednesday

also
disappearing under scraps of paper, old notebooks, two computers, a printer, an
old-fashioned photocopying machine, a large camera with its lens off, a cordless phone.
Also, two chipped saucers overflowing with cigarette stubs, several glasses and empty
whisky bottles. On the rim of the table there were dozens of yellow and pink Post-it
notes, with numbers or words scribbled on them.
    When Fearby turned on the Anglepoise lamp,
it illuminated a paper copy of a photograph of a young woman’s smiling face. One
chipped tooth. It made Frieda think of Karlsson, who also had a chipped tooth and who
was many miles away.
    It wasn’t the mess of the room that
arrested her, however: it was the contrast of the mess to the meticulous order. On the
corkboards, neatly pinned into place, were dozens of young women’s faces. They
were obviously separated into two categories. On the left, there were about twenty
faces; on the right, six. Between them was a large map of Britain, covered with flags
that went in a crooked line from London towards the north-west. On the opposite wall,
Frieda saw a huge time line, with dates and names running along it in neat, copperplate
writing. Fearby was watching her. He pulled open the drawers of a filing cabinet, and
she saw racks of folders inside, marked with names. He started pulling them out, putting
them on top of the dangerous heap of things on his table.
    Frieda wanted to sit but there was only one
swivel chair and that was occupied by several books.
    ‘Are they the girls?’ she asked,
pointing.
    ‘Hazel Barton.’ He touched her
face gently, amost reverently. ‘Roxanne Ingatestone. Daisy Crewe. Philippa Lewis.
Maria Horsley. Sharon Gibbs.’
    They smiled at Frieda, young faces smooth,
eager.
    ‘Do you think they’re
dead?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And maybe Lila is too.’
    ‘It can’t be Doherty.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Look.’ He directed her towards
his timeline. ‘This is when Daisy went, and Maria – he was in prison.’
    ‘Why are you so sure it’s the
same person?’
    Fearby pulled open the first folder.
‘I’m going to show you everything,’ he said. ‘Then you can tell
me what you think. It may take some time.’
    At seven o’clock, Frieda called
Sasha, who agreed to go round to her house and stay there until she returned. She
sounded concerned, a note of panic in her voice, but Frieda cut the conversation short.
She also called Josef to ask him to feed the cat and perhaps water the plants in her
yard.
    ‘Where are you, Frieda?’
    ‘Near Birmingham.’
    ‘What’s this?’
    ‘It’s a place, Josef.’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘It would take too long to
explain.’
    ‘You have to come back,
Frieda.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘We all worry.’
    ‘I’m not a child.’
    ‘We all worry,’ he repeated.
    ‘Well, don’t.’
    ‘You are not well. We all agree. I
come to collect you.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I come now.’
    ‘You can’t.’
    ‘Why can’t?’
    ‘Because I’m not telling you
where I am.’
    She ended the call but her mobile rang again
almost immediately. Now Reuben was calling; presumably Josef was standing beside him
with his tragic eyes. She sighed, turned the phone off and put it into her bag.
She’d never wanted to have a mobile in the first place.
    ‘Sharon Gibbs,’ said Fearby, as
if nothing had interrupted them.
    At half past ten, they were done. Fearby
went outside for a cigarette and Frieda went to look in his cupboards for some food. She
wasn’t hungry, but she felt hollow and couldn’t remember when she had last
eaten. Not today; not last night.
    The cupboards, like the fridge, were almost
empty. She found some quick-boil rice and vegetable stock cubes long past their sell-by
date: that would have to do. As she was boiling the rice in the stock, Fearby came back
in and stood watching her.
    ‘So, what do you think?’ he
asked.
    ‘I think either we’re two
deluded people who happen to have bumped into each other at a donkey sanctuary – or that
you’re right.’
    He gave a grimace of relief.
    ‘In which case, it’s not Doherty
or Shane or whatever he’s called.’
    ‘No. But it’s odd, isn’t
it, that he knew them both? I don’t like coincidences.’
    ‘They lived the same kind of lifestyle –
two young women who’d fallen off the track.’
    ‘Perhaps they knew each other?’
Frieda suggested, lifting the rice off the hob, letting the steam rise into her face,
which felt grimy with toil and weariness.
    ‘That’s a thought. Who