‘Yes,’ said Sasha, warily.
‘I want to see Seamus Dunne. I’ve got his phone number but I don’t know where he lives. There must be ways of finding out.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Sasha. ‘If you’re going to get into a fight again and get arrested, Karlsson may not be able to get you out again.’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Frieda. ‘I just need to talk to him. In person. Can that be done?’
Sasha looked at the notebook. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. She took her phone from the table and punched the number into it.
‘What are you doing?’ Frieda asked, but Sasha just held up her hand.
‘Hello,’ she said, into the phone, in a nasal tone quite different from her own. ‘Is that Mr Seamus Dunne? Yes? We’re actually trying to make a delivery to you and our driver seems to have the wrong address. Can you confirm it for me?’ She picked up a pen and started writing in Frieda’s notebook. ‘Yes … Yes … Yes … Thank you so much, we’ll be right with you.’ She pushed the notebook across to Frieda.
‘That wasn’t quite what I meant when I said I needed technical help.’
‘No violence, please.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
EIGHTEEN
‘No,’ said Seamus Dunne, when he saw Frieda. ‘No way. And how do you even know where I live?’
She peered over his shoulder. Student house. Bare boards. Bikes in the hall. Still-packed boxes.
‘I just want to talk to you.’
‘Talk to the newspaper. Or Bradshaw. It wasn’t my responsibility.’
‘I’m not interested in any of that,’ said Frieda. ‘Or the article. It was just something you said.’
Dunne’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Is this a trick?’
Frieda almost laughed at that. ‘You mean, am I coming to see you under false pretences?’
Dunne shook his head nervously. ‘Bradshaw said we were all in the clear. It was completely legal.’
‘I told you,’ said Frieda. ‘I don’t care. I’m here to say two things. Let me in and I’ll say them. Then I’ll go.’
Dunne seemed in an agony of indecision. Finally he opened the door and let her in. She walked through the hall to the kitchen. It looked as if a rugby team had had a takeaway and not cleared up, then had a party and not cleared up, had got up the next morning, had had breakfast and not cleared up. And then left. Seamus Dunne was a bit old for this.
He noticed her expression. ‘You look shocked,’ he said. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have tidied.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It reminds me of being a student.’
‘Well, I’m still a student,’ he said. ‘It may not look like much, but it’s better than the alternative. So, I guess you’ve come to shout at me.’
‘Do you think you deserve to be shouted at?’
Dunne leaned back on the counter, almost dislodging a pile of plates topped by a saucepan containing two mugs. ‘Dr Bradshaw told us about an experiment where a researcher sent some students to different psychiatrists and they just had to say they had heard a thud inside their heads. Every single one of them was diagnosed with schizophrenia and admitted to a psychiatric hospital.’
‘Yes, I know the experiment,’ said Frieda. ‘It wouldn’t be allowed today.’
‘Maybe that’s a pity,’ said Dunne, ‘because it was pretty revealing, don’t you think? But you don’t want to hear that.’
‘The way I see it,’ said Frieda, ‘people who weren’t really psychopaths were sent to therapists and only one of them made the mistake of taking them seriously.’
‘So what were the two things you wanted to say?’
‘I was interested in what you said in the article.’
‘I thought so.’
‘No, not the way you think. You said I asked you about irrelevant things, food, sleeping. By the way, how is your sleeping?’
‘Fine.’
‘No, really. Do you sleep through the night? Or do you still wake up?’
‘I wake up a bit. Like most people.’
‘And what do you think about?’
‘Stuff, you know. I go over things.’
‘And your appetite?’
He shrugged and there was a pause. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Do you know what I think?’
‘You’re probably about to tell me.’
‘When you came to see me, pretending to be looking for help, I think you subconsciously used that as an excuse to really ask for help.’
‘That’s just Freudian rubbish. You’re trying to catch me out.’
‘You’re not sleeping properly, you’re not eating properly. There’s this.’ She gestured at the kitchen.
‘That’s just a student kitchen.’
‘I’ve seen student kitchens,’ said Frieda. ‘I’ve lived in student kitchens. This is a bit different. And, anyway, you’re – what? Twenty-five, twenty-six? I think you’re slightly depressed and finding it difficult to admit to anyone or even yourself.’
Dunne went very red. ‘If it’s subconscious and you think I don’t want to admit it even to myself, then how do I disprove it?’
‘Just think about it,’ said Frieda. ‘And you might want to talk to someone about it. Not to me.’
There was another pause. Dunne picked up a dirty spoon and tapped it against a stained mug. ‘What was the other thing?’ he said.
‘That story you told me.’
‘Which? The whole thing was a story.’
‘No. About cutting your father’s hair and feeling a mixture of tenderness and power.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘It felt distinct from everything else, like an authentic memory.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you. It was just something I said.’
‘It wasn’t your memory?’
‘I learned it.’
‘Who told you to say it?’’
‘It was in my pack – I don’t know. Dr Bradshaw, maybe, or whoever made up our characters.’
‘Who actually gave you your instructions?’
‘One of the other researchers. Oh – you want his name?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Why? So you can go and make him feel guilty as well?’
‘Is that what I made you feel?’
‘If you want to know, I felt really nervous, coming to you like that. A bit sick. It wasn’t easy.’ He glared at Frieda. ‘His name’s Duncan Bailey.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘You want his address as well?’
‘If you have it.’
Seamus Dunne muttered something, but then tore off the top of an empty cereal box that was lying on the floor and scribbled on it before handing it to Frieda.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And remember what I said about talking to someone.’
‘Are you going now?’ Seamus Dunne seemed taken aback.
‘Yes.’
‘You mean that’s the end of it?’
‘I’m not quite sure it’s the end, Seamus.’
Jim Fearby had gone back through his files to make sure he had all the facts in his head. He always made notes first in the shorthand he had learned when he’d joined the local newspaper in Coventry as a junior reporter, more than forty years ago. Nobody learned shorthand now, but he liked the hieroglyphic squiggles, like a secret code. Then, on the same day if possible, he would copy them into his notebook. Only later would he put it all on to his computer.
Hazel Barton had been strangled in July 2004; her body had been found lying by a roadside not many miles from where she lived. Apparently she had been walking home from the bus stop, after the bus had failed to arrive. She was eighteen years old, fresh-faced and pretty, with three older brothers, and parents who had indulged and adored her. She had planned to become a physiotherapist. Her face smiled radiantly from the newspapers and TV screens for weeks after her death. George Conley had been seen standing over her body. He had been arrested at once and charged soon after. He was the local weirdo, the blubbery, unemployed, slow-witted loner, who lurked in parks and outside playgrounds: of course he did it. And then he confessed and everyone was happy, except Jim Fearby, who was a stickler for detail and never took anyone else’s word for things that happened. He had to read the police reports, had to rake through the files, thumb through law books.