She opened her purse and took out two passport pictures, snipped from a set of four. He looked at it, then at her. The older Vanessa was plumper in the face, the hair long and dark. ‘Can I keep this?’ he said.
‘I’m not bothered,’ she said.
‘Someone rang me,’ said Fearby. ‘Someone from the police. He said that you contacted them on the thirteenth of July 2004. Is that right?’
‘I did contact the police once, years ago. I don’t remember the date.’
‘Why did you ring them?’
‘Someone gave me a fright. I called the police about it.’
‘Could you tell me what happened?’
Vanessa looked suspicious. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I told you, I’m writing a story. But your name won’t come into it.’
‘It seems stupid now,’ said Vanessa, ‘but it was really creepy. I was walking back from the shops near where my parents lived. There was a bit of scrubland. There’s a Tesco’s there now. And a car pulled up. A man asked for directions. He got out of the car and then he made a grab at me. He got me round the throat. I hit out and screamed at him, then ran away. My mum made me phone the police. A couple of them came round and talked to me about it. That was it.’
‘And it didn’t feature in the trial.’
‘What trial?’
‘The trial of George Conley.’
She looked blank.
‘Do you remember the murder of Hazel Barton?’
‘No.’
Fearby thought for a moment. Was this just another wrong turn? ‘What do you remember about your attack?’
‘It was years ago.’
‘But a man tried to kidnap you,’ said Fearby. ‘It must have been a memorable experience.’
‘It was really weird,’ said Vanessa. ‘When it happened it was like a dream. You know when you have a really scary dream and then you wake up and you can hardly remember anything about it? I remember a man in a suit.’
‘Was he old? Young?’
‘I don’t know. He wasn’t a teenager. And he wasn’t an old man. He was quite strong.’
‘Big? Little?’
‘Sort of average. Maybe a bit bigger than me. But I’m not sure.’
‘What about his car? Do you remember its colour, its make?’
She screwed up her face in concentration. ‘Silver, I think. But I might be saying that because most cars are silver. Honestly, I can’t remember anything, really. I’m sorry.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I’m sorry, it was just a blur even then and now it’s seven years ago. I remember the man and the feeling of his hand on my throat and the car revving and revving, and that’s all.’
Fearby wrote everything – such as it was – in his notebook.
‘And he didn’t say anything?’
‘He asked for directions, like I said. He may have said things when he was grabbing me. I don’t remember.’
‘And you never heard back from the police?’
‘I didn’t expect to.’
Fearby closed his notebook. ‘Well done,’ he said.
She looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You fought him off.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ she said. ‘It didn’t feel like me. It was like watching myself on TV.’ She picked up her phone. ‘I’ve got to get back.’
TWENTY-ONE
Frieda didn’t know New York: it was an abstract to her, a city of shadows and symbols, of steam rising from drains; a place of arrivals and scatterings.
She liked flying in when it was still dark, though dawn showed in a ribbon of light, so that everything was partially hidden from her, just a shifting pattern of massed buildings and pulsing lights, life glimpsed through windows. Soon she would see it laid out clear before her, its mystery resolving into plainness.
She hadn’t told Sandy she was coming because she hadn’t known that she was. It was early morning and he would still be in bed, so she did what she always did when she felt uncertain: she walked, following the map she had bought, until at last she was on Brooklyn Bridge, looking back at the skyline of Manhattan, which was at once familiar and alien. Frieda thought of her own narrow little house, surrounded by a network of small streets. There, she knew when a shop’s shutters had been newly painted, or a plane tree had been pruned. She thought she could have found her way blind to her front door. Suddenly she felt almost homesick and could barely comprehend the instinct that had sent her there.
By seven o’clock she was in Sandy’s neighbourhood, but she hesitated to wake him yet. The day was cool and cloudy, with a blustery wind that threatened rain. Even the air smelt different there. She made her way up the street to a small café, where she ordered a coffee, taking it to one of the metal tables by the window that looked out on to the street. She was cold, tired and full of a thick and mysterious trouble. She couldn’t work out if this came from the events of the past weeks, or from being there, of being about to see Sandy again. She had missed him so, yet now she couldn’t imagine seeing him. What would they say to each other and what could possibly match the intensity of their separation? It occurred to her, with a force that made her flinch, as if she’d been hit hard in the stomach and winded, that perhaps she had come to end things with Sandy. Once the thought had occurred to her, it settled like lead in her stomach. Was that it, then?
The little room filled up with people. Outside, it began to drizzle, spattering the window so the shapes in the street outside wavered and blurred. She felt far from herself – there but not there, alone in a teeming city, invisible. The grey sky made her feel as if she was under water; the journey made time into a kaleidoscope. Maybe she should leave before anything happened, pretend she had never been there.
Sandy, walking past the deli on his way back from the bakery on the corner where he always bought freshly baked rolls for breakfast, glanced briefly at the window of the café, then away again. But with a corner of his vision he had caught sight of a face that reminded him of someone – and he looked back again, and through the raindrops on the glass he saw her. She was sitting with her chin resting in one hand, gazing straight ahead. For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming. Then, as if she could feel his eyes on her, she turned her head. Their eyes met. She gave the smallest smile, drained her coffee, stood up and left the café, emerging on to the street. He saw how she still limped; how tired she looked. His heart turned over. She had a leather satchel slung over her shoulder, but no other luggage.
‘Christ. What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to see you, obviously.’
‘Christ,’ he repeated.
‘I was about to call you. I didn’t want to wake you.’
‘You know me.’ He rubbed his unshaven cheek and stared at her. ‘Early riser. What time is it for you?’
‘I don’t know. No time. Now.’
‘So you’ve just been sitting here, waiting?’
‘Yes. What’s in the bag?’
‘Breakfast. Do you want some?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘But, Frieda –’
‘What? Is there some other woman in your flat?’
Sandy gave a shaky laugh. ‘No. No other woman in my flat just now.’
He untied the belt of her raincoat and took it off her, hanging it on the hook beside his own coat. She liked the way he took such care. He unzipped her boots and took them off, pairing them against the wall. He led her to his bedroom and closed the thin brown curtains, so the light became dim and murky. The window was slightly open and she could hear the sounds of the street; the day beginning. Her body felt soft and slack – desire and fatigue and dread plaited loosely together until she couldn’t tell them apart. He peeled off her clothes and folded them, putting them on the wooden chair, then unclasped the thin necklace she was wearing and trickled it on to the windowsill. He ran his fingers over her scars, over her tired, stale, jetlagged body. All the while she looked at him steadily, almost curiously, as if she was making up her mind about something. He wanted to close his eyes to her scrutiny, but couldn’t.