Waiting for Wednesday

time – well, a long time for me, anyway. I haven’t
had so much – well, anyway, that’s irrelevant. We were together a year and a half,
pretty much. Agnes, she was called.
Is
called. She hasn’t died. But it
didn’t go well or end well or whatever. But that’s not what I came here to
say. The thing is, it was Agnes who gave me the detail about cutting the hair. I
don’t know why you’re so interested in it. The whole thing was just a story.
But I was writing up the notes for everybody and I thought it needed a touch of colour
and it came into my mind. I’ve no idea why. So I put it in.’
    ‘So your ex-girlfriend gave you the
story about cutting her father’s hair?’
    ‘I wanted to tell you so that
you’d see it’s not a big deal. It was just a stupid story. And random – it
just occurred to me and I used it. I could have used anything – or nothing.’
    ‘Did you change any of the
details?’
    ‘I can’t really remember.’
He winced. ‘We were lying in bed and she was stroking my hair and saying it had
got really long and could do with a cut. And did I want her to cut it for me. Then she
said this thing about her father – or I think it was about her father. I don’t
remember that bit. It could have been someone else. But she talked about holding the
scissors and how that gave a feeling of power and tenderness at the same time. I suppose
it stuck in my mind because it all felt so intimate. Though she never did cut my
hair.’
    ‘So the story was your
ex-girlfriend’s memory?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Agnes.’
    ‘Agnes Flint – why? Do you want to
talk to
her
now?’
    ‘I think so.’
    ‘I don’t get it. Why’s it
so important? We made a fool of you. I’m sorry. But why does any of this
matter?’
    ‘Can I have her number?’
    ‘She’ll just tell you the same
as I have.’
    ‘Or an email address would
do.’
    ‘Maybe Hal was right about you after
all.’
    Frieda opened her notebook and unscrewed the
cap of her pen.
    ‘I’ll tell you if you tell her
she’s got to answer my calls.’
    ‘She won’t answer your calls
just because someone else tells her to.’
    Singh sighed heavily, took the notebook and
scribbled down a mobile number and an email address. ‘Satisfied?’
    ‘Thanks. Do you want my
advice?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You should go for a run – I saw some
running shoes in your living room – then have a shower and shave and put on different
clothes and leave your cold little flat.’
    ‘Is that it?’
    ‘For a start.’
    ‘I thought you were a
psychotherapist.’
    ‘I’m grateful to you,
Rajit.’
    ‘Will you tell Agnes I said
–?’
    ‘No.’
    Jim Fearby had breakfast in the service
station next to the hotel he had stayed in the night before: a mini-pack of corn flakes,
a glass of orange juice from the tall plastic containerin which a
plastic orange bobbed unconvincingly, a mug of coffee. He returned to his room to
collect his overnight bag and brush his teeth, watching breakfast TV as he did so. He
left the room, as always, looking as if nobody had stayed there.
    His car felt like home. After he had filled
up with petrol, he made sure he had everything he needed: his notebook and several pens,
his list of names, with numbers and addresses written neatly next to some of them, the
folder of relevant information he had prepared the day before, the questions. He wound
down the window and smoked a cigarette, his first of the day, then set the satnav. He
was just nineteen minutes away.
    Sarah Ingatestone lived in a village a few
miles from Stafford. He had rung her two days ago and arranged to meet her at half past
nine in the morning, after she had taken her two dogs for their walk. They were
terriers, small, sharp, unfriendly, yapping creatures that tried to bite his ankles as
he stepped from the car. He was tempted to knock them on their snouts with his
briefcase, but Sarah Ingatestone was watching him from the front door so he forced a
smile and made enthusiastic noises.
    ‘They won’t do any harm,’
she called. ‘Coffee?’
    ‘Lovely.’ He sidestepped a
terrier and went towards her. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me.’
    ‘I’m having second thoughts. I
Googled you. You’re the one who got that man George Conley out of
prison.’
    ‘I wouldn’t say it was all
me.’
    ‘So he can go and do it
again.’
    ‘There’s no evidence that
–’
    ‘Never mind. Come in and take a
seat.’
    They sat in the kitchen. Sarah Ingatestone
made instant coffee while