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 life.’
Boyfriend?
‘No. Not that I knew of. She’d had boyfriends before but nothing serious. There was someone she liked.’
And her character? Was she shy or outgoing, for instance?
‘Shy, Roxanne? She was ever so friendly – bold, you could even say. She always said what was on her mind and could have a bit of a temper – but she’d go out of her way to help people. She was a good girl, really. A bit wild, but she had a good heart.’
Would she have talked to a stranger?
‘Yes.’
‘Would she have got into a car with a stranger?
‘No.’
When Fearby got up to go, she clutched his arm. ‘Do you think she’s alive?’
‘Mrs Ingatestone, I couldn’t possibly –’
‘No. But do you? If you were me, would you think she was alive?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Not knowing is like being buried alive myself.’
Jim Fearby pulled over in a lay-by and took out his list of names. One was already crossed out. Next to Roxanne Ingatestone’s name, however, he put a tick. No, he didn’t think she was alive.
TWENTY-NINE
Joe Franklin had been more cheerful than for a long time but Frieda knew that he moved through repeating cycles of depression. For months he would be heavy, grey and defeated, barely able to go through the motions of living, often incapable of making it to her rooms or of uttering a word when he got there. The deathly numbness would lift and, for a while, he would emerge into a brighter world, exhausted and relieved. But he always got sucked back into the black hole of himself. Coming to see her was his way of holding on to a corner of life, but it was also his comfort blanket.
Frieda had often felt during her own therapy that she was standing in the desert, under the blowtorch of the sun, parched and bleached and unforgiven, with nowhere to hide. Joe, however, crept into her room like an animal into a lair. He hid from himself and perhaps she allowed him to do that in a way that wasn’t necessarily helpful. Solace not self-knowledge. Yet how much should we face ourselves full on?
As she was thinking these things, making her notes after the session, with the spring sun slanting through the window and lying in a blade across the floor, her mobile vibrated in her pocket. She took it out: Sasha.
‘I’m about to leave work. Are you free?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I come and see you?’
‘All right. I’ll be home in about half an hour – is that good?’
‘Perfect. I’ll bring a bottle of wine. And Frank.’
‘Frank?’
‘Is that OK?’
‘Of course.’
‘I feel a bit nervous – as if I’m about to introduce him to my family. I want you to like him.’
Frieda walked to her house in the soft dying day. Petals of blossom lay on the pavement. She thought about Rajit Singh and the story he had told that was someone else’s story; tonight she would send a message to Agnes Flint. And she thought about Joe and then about the happiness she had heard in Sasha’s voice. As she unlocked her front door, she wondered how long it would be before she could have a hot bath again, with no dust swirling through her rooms.
The door stuck against something and she frowned, then squeezed through the narrow opening into her hall. There were two large bags there, blocking the entrance. There was a jacket lying on the floor beside them. There were voices and laughter coming from her kitchen. She could smell cigarette smoke. She pressed the light switch, but no light came on.
‘Hello?’ she called, and the voices ceased.
‘Frieda!’ Josef appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was in his work clothes, but held a brimming glass of vodka and he seemed to have trouble walking in a straight line. ‘Come in and join.’
‘What’s going on? Whose are these bags?’
‘Hello, Frieda.’ Chloë appeared beside Josef. She was wearing what looked to Frieda like a jersey, but presumably was meant to be a dress, because there was no skirt underneath it. Her face was smeary with smudged makeup and she, too, was holding a glass of vodka. ‘I’m so grateful to you. So, so grateful.’
‘What do you mean, you’re grateful? What have I done? Jack!’ Jack was coming unsteadily down the stairs. ‘What’s going on? Is this a party?’’
‘A gathering,’ Jack said, looking sheepish. ‘Chloë told me to come over.’
‘Did she now? And why don’t the lights work?’
‘Ah.’ Josef took a hasty swig of his vodka. ‘Electrical problems.’
‘What does that mean? Are these your bags, Chloë?’
‘Frieda,’ a voice roared cheerfully.
‘Reuben? What’s Reuben doing here?’
Frieda strode past Josef and Chloë into the kitchen. Lit candles had been placed on the windowsills and surfaces, and smoke hung in blue clouds. There was an open vodka bottle and an ashtray with several butts stubbed out in it. The cat clattered through the cat-flap and wound itself around Frieda’s legs, mewing piteously for attention. Reuben, his shirt half unbuttoned and his feet up on the chair, raised his glass to her.
‘I came to see my good friend Josef,’ he said. ‘And my good friend Frieda, of course.’