Waiting for Wednesday

Fearby arranged his props in front of him: hisspiral-bound notebook, which was identical to the one he’d had
all those years ago as a junior reporter, his sheaf of papers in the pink folder, the
three pens side by side, although he always used his pencil for shorthand. They
didn’t speak until she’d put the two mugs on the table and taken the chair
opposite him. He looked at her properly for the first time: greying hair, cut mannishly
short, grey-blue eyes in a face that wasn’t old, but yet had sharp creases and
furrows in it. Worry lines, not laugh lines, thought Fearby. Her clothes were old and
shabby, covered with dog hair. She was called Mrs Ingatestone, but there was no sign of
a Mr in this house.
    ‘You said this was about
Roxanne.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why? It’s been over nine years,
nearly ten. No one asks about her any more.’
    ‘I’m a journalist.’ Best
keep it vague. ‘I’m following up some queries for a story I’m involved
in.’
    She folded her arms, not defensively but
protectively, as if she was waiting for a series of blows to fall upon her. ‘Ask
away,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind what it’s for, really. I like
saying her name out loud. It makes her feel alive.’
    So it began, down the list of questions,
pencil moving swiftly, making its hieroglyphic marks.
    How old was Roxanne when she disappeared?
    ‘
Seventeen. Seventeen and
three months. Her birthday was in March – a Pisces. Not that I believe in that. She
would be – she is – twenty-seven years old now.’
    When did you last see your
daughter
?
    ‘The second of June 2001.’
    What time?
    ‘It would have been around half past
six in the evening. She was going out to see a friend for a quick drink. She never came
back.’
    Did she go by car?
    ‘No. It was just down the road, no
more than ten or fifteen minutes’ walk.’
    By road?
    ‘Yes. A quiet lane most of the
way.’
    So she wouldn’t have taken a shortcut – over fields or anything?
    ‘Not a chance. She was all dressed up
– in a little skirt and high heels. That’s what we argued about actually – I said
she wouldn’t be able to walk five yards, let alone a mile or so, in that
garb.’
    Did she ever arrive at the friend’s?
    ‘No.’
    How long did the friend wait before alerting anyone?
    ‘Apparently she tried phoning
Roxanne’s mobile after about forty-five minutes. I didn’t know anything
about it until the next morning. We – my husband and I – went to bed at about half past
ten. We didn’t wait up.’ Her voice was flat. She laid down the answers like
cards, face up on the table.
    Were you living here when Roxanne disappeared?
    ‘No. But nearby. We moved when – after
– well, my husband and I separated three years after. We just couldn’t – It
wasn’t his fault, more mine if anything. And Roxanne’s sister, Marianne,
went too, to university, but she doesn’t come home much and I don’t blame
her. And, of course, Roxanne never came back. I waited as long as I could in a house
that everyone else had left and at last I couldn’t stand it any longer. I used to
put hot-water bottles in her bed when it was cold, just in case. So I came here, and got
my dogs.’
    Can you please show me where you used to live on this map?
    Fearby pulled it out from the folder and
spread it on the table. Sarah Ingatestone put on her reading glasses, peered at it, then
put her finger on a spot. Fearby took one of his pens and made a small ink cross.
    You say you had argued?
    ‘
No. Yes. Not seriously. She
was seventeen. She had a mind of her own. When I told them, the police thought – but
that’s not true. I know.’ She pressed her hands tightly together, stared at
him fiercely. ‘She wasn’t one to bear a grudge.’
    Do the police believe she’s dead?
    ‘Everyone believes she’s
dead.’
    Do you believe she’s dead?
    ‘I can’t. I have to know
she’s coming home.’ The face quivered, tightened again. ‘Do you think
I shouldn’t have moved? Should I have stayed where we’d all lived
together?’
    Can you describe Roxanne? Do you have a
photo
?
    ‘Here.’ Glossy shoulder-length
brown hair; dark eyebrows; her mother’s grey-blue eyes but set wider in her narrow
face, giving her a slightly startled look; a mole on her cheek; a large, slightly
crooked smile – there was something asymmetrical and frail about her appearance.
‘But it doesn’t do her proper justice. She was little and skinny but so
pretty and full of