Waiting for Wednesday

strangled in May of this year near her home
in thevillage of Dorlbrook. Her body was found by the roadside.
George Conley was arrested near the scene. He had left traces on her body and he
confessed within days.
    Speaking afterwards, Detective
Inspector Geoffrey Whitlam offered his condolences to the Barton family: ‘We
can only guess the living hell they have gone through. I hope that the speedy
resolution of this thorough investigation can bring them a measure of
closure.’ He also paid tribute to his colleagues: ‘It is my belief that
George Conley is a dangerous sexual predator. He belongs behind bars and I want to
thank my team for putting him there.’
    It is alleged that Hazel Barton was
walking alone because her bus had failed to arrive. A spokeswoman for FastCoach, the
local bus operator, commented: ‘We offer all condolences to Hazel
Barton’s family. We are fully committed to maintaining an effective service
for our customers.’
    Under the headline were two photographs. The
first was the mug shot of Conley, released by the police. His large face was blotchy;
there was a bruise on his forehead; one eye was askew. The other was a family photo of
Hazel Barton. It must have been taken on holiday because she was wearing a T-shirt and
the sea was visible behind her. She was laughing as if the photographer had just made a
joke.
    Fearby carefully read through his
seven-year-old report, running his forefinger along the lines. He sipped his whisky.
Almost every word in the report was untrue. FastCoach did not provide an effective
service for their customers. And, anyway, they were passengers, not customers.
Whitlam’s investigation had not been thorough. Even his own byline looked wrong.
Only his mother had ever called him James. And the headline – which he hadn’t
written, and wouldn’t have written, even at the time – wasthe
most wrong of all. Poor old Georgie Conley was many things but he wasn’t a
monster, and now it looked like he was going to be released.
    Fearby carefully folded the clipping and
replaced it in his wallet, behind his press card. A precious relic.



FOUR
    When Sasha arrived at a quarter to nine on
Thursday morning, Frieda had just finished watering the plants on her small patio. She
was wearing jeans and an oatmeal-coloured pullover, and there were rings under her eyes,
which looked darker and fiercer than usual.
    ‘Bad night?’ asked Sasha.
    ‘No.’
    ‘I’m not sure I believe
you.’
    ‘Would you like a cup of
coffee?’
    ‘Do we have time? My car’s on a
meter for another quarter of an hour, but we need to get to the hospital for half past
nine. The traffic’s dreadful.’
    Sasha had insisted on taking the day off
work to bring Frieda to her follow-up appointment with the consultant and then with the
physiotherapist.
    ‘We’re not going to the
hospital.’
    ‘Why? Have they cancelled?’
    ‘No. I have.’
    ‘What made you do that?’
    ‘There’s something else I need
to do.’
    ‘You have to go to see your doctor,
Frieda. And the physio. You’ve been very ill. You nearly died. You can’t
just walk away from all the follow-up care.’
    ‘I know what the doctor will say: that
I’m making progress but that I mustn’t think about going back to work yet,
because for the time being, making a good recovery is my work. You know the sort of
things we doctors tell our patients.’
    ‘That sounds a bit negative.’
    ‘Anyway, there’s something more
important I have to do.’
    ‘What could be more important than
getting better?’
    ‘I thought I’d show you rather
than tell you. Unless you want to go to work after all.’
    Sasha sighed. ‘I’ve taken the
day off. I’d like to spend it with you. Let’s have that coffee.’
    The road narrowed into a lane lined with
trees that were freshly in bud. Frieda noticed the blackthorn. She stared fixedly: some
things change and some things remain the same. But you never remain the same – you look
at everything through different eyes so that even the most familiar object takes on a
strange and ghostly cast. That small thatched cottage with a muddy pond full of ducks in
front of it, that sudden stretch of road winding down over a patchwork of fields, or the
farmhouse with its silos and its muddy enclosure of cows, and the line of spindly
poplars ahead. Even the way the light fell on this flattened landscape, and the faint
tang of the sea.
    The graveyard was crowded. Most of the
stones were old, green with moss, and