‘So he set out to check us?’
‘I suppose that’s how he sees it. But that’s not why I’m here. There’s nothing I can do about that. You said I should get in touch if there was anything I wanted to say.’
‘And there is?’
‘Yeah. I guess. I’m, um, how do I put it? Not in the best place right now. As you noticed. I don’t like my work as much as I thought I would – I thought it would be more seminars and discussions and research in groups and stuff, but mostly it’s just me on my own, grubbing away in the library.’
‘Alone.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you’re alone in your personal life as well?’
‘You’re probably wondering why this has anything to do with the story,’ he said.
‘Tell me.’
Singh looked down at the floor. He seemed to be pondering something.
‘I was in a relationship,’ he said at last. ‘For a long 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 container in 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 Fearby arranged his props in front of him: his spiral-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.’