‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ she said.
‘I owe you a favour.’ Frieda was smiling at her.
‘Oh, no! It’s me …’
‘You made the complaint against me go away.’
‘That was nothing. Idiots.’
‘Still, I’m grateful.’
‘I didn’t want to meet at the station. I thought this would be better. I don’t know if you’ve heard. Zach Greene was murdered. He was Judith Lennox’s boyfriend.’
Frieda seemed to become even more still. She shook her head slightly. ‘No. I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry,’ she said softly, as though to herself.
‘She’s in a dreadful state,’ Yvette continued. ‘I’ve just left her. The school counsellor was there and the head. I’m worried for her.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘You’ve met her. I know about your behind-the-scenes dealings with the Lennox family.’ She held up a hand. ‘That sounded wrong. I didn’t mean it grumpily.’
‘Go on.’
‘I wondered if you could go and see her. Call on her. Just to see how she is.’
‘She’s not my patient.’
‘I understand that.’
‘I hardly know her. Her brother is a friend of my niece. That’s the only connection. I’ve met the poor girl a few times.’
‘I didn’t know how to deal with her. There are things they don’t teach you. I could call up one of our people, I suppose.’ She wrinkled her nose dubiously at the thought. ‘Hal fucking Bradshaw would be only too pleased to tell her what she was feeling and why. But I – well, I guess I thought you could help.’
‘For old times’ sake?’ Frieda asked ironically.
‘You mean you won’t?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
OK. I won’t fly over and hammer at your door and I will trust you. But you make it very hard, Frieda. Sandy
FORTY-FOUR
In the morning Jim Fearby called on the family of Philippa Lewis. They lived on a new estate in a village a few miles south of Oxford. A middle-aged woman – she must have been Philippa’s mother, Sue – slammed the door as soon as he identified himself. He had read about the case in the local paper, the usual story of walking home after staying late at school and not arriving; he had seen the blurry photo. She had seemed a plausible candidate. He put a tick after her name, followed by a question mark.
Up towards Warwick, Cathy Birkin’s mother made him tea and cake, and before the first mouthful he knew that this was a name he’d be crossing off the list. She’d run away twice before. The cake was quite nice, though. Ginger. Slightly spicy. Fearby had started to notice another sort of pattern. The mothers of the runaway girls were the ones who would invite him in and give him tea and cake. He could almost remember the houses and the girls by the cake he’d been served. The one up near Crewe, Claire Boyle, had been carrot cake. High Wycombe, Maria Horsley: chocolate. Was it as if they were still trying to prove that they had done their best, that they weren’t bad parents? The ginger cake was slightly dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had to wash it down with his cooling tea. As he chewed, he felt his own pang of conscience. He’d been putting it off and putting it off. It was on the way and would only be a small diversion.
He almost hoped that George Conley would be out, but he wasn’t. The small block where he had moved to was neat enough. When Conley opened the door, he gave only the smallest flicker of recognition, but Fearby was used to that. When Conley had talked to him over the years, he had never seemed comfortable looking at him directly. Even when he talked, it was as if he was addressing someone slightly to the side of Fearby and behind him. As soon as Fearby stepped inside he was hit by the warmth and the smell, which seemed part of each other. It wasn’t really identifiable and Fearby didn’t want to identify it: there was sweat, dampness. He suddenly thought of the sour smell you get behind garbage vans in summer.
Fearby had lived alone for years and he knew about life with surfaces that never got properly wiped, dishes that piled up, food that was left out, clothes on the floor, but this was something different. In the dark, hot living room, he had to step around dirty plates and glasses. He saw opened cans half filled with things he couldn’t recognize, white and green with mould. Almost everything, plates, glasses, tins, had stubs of cigarettes on or in it. Fearby wondered whether there was someone he could call. Did someone somewhere have a legal responsibility to deal with this?
The television was on and Conley sat down opposite it. He wasn’t exactly watching the screen. It looked more like he was just sitting in front of it.
‘How did you get this place?’ said Fearby.
‘The council,’ said Conley.
‘Does anyone come round to help you? I know it must be difficult. You’ve been inside so long. It’s hard to adjust.’ Conley just looked blank, so Fearby tried again. ‘Does anyone come to check up? Maybe do some cleaning?’
‘A woman comes sometimes. To check on me.’
‘Is she helpful?’
‘She’s all right.’
‘What about your compensation? How’s it going?’
‘I don’t know. I saw Diana.’
‘Your lawyer,’ said Fearby. He had to speak almost in a shout to be heard above the television. ‘What did she say?’
‘She said it’d take time. A long time.’
‘I’ve heard that. You’ll have to be patient.’ There was a pause. ‘Do you get out much?’
‘I walk a bit. There’s a park.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘There’s ducks. I take bread. And seeds.’
‘That’s nice, George. Is there anyone you’d like me to call for you? If you give me a number, I could call the people at the council. They could come and help you clear up.’
‘There’s just a woman. She comes sometimes.’
Fearby had been sitting right on the edge of a sofa that looked as if it had been brought in from outside. His back was starting to ache. He stood up. ‘I’ve got to head off,’ he said.
‘I was having tea.’
Fearby looked at an open carton of milk on the table. The milk inside was yellow. ‘I had some earlier. But I’ll pop back soon and we can go out for a drink or a walk. How’s that sound?’
‘All right.’
‘I’m trying to find out who killed Hazel Barton. I’ve been busy.’
Conley didn’t respond.
‘I know it’s a terrible memory for you,’ said Fearby. ‘But when you found her, I know you bent down and tried to help her. You touched her. That was the evidence that was used against you. But did you see anything else? Did you see a person? Or a car? George. Did you hear what I said?’
Conley looked round but he still didn’t say anything.
‘Right,’ said Fearby. ‘Well, it’s been good to see you. We’ll do this again.’
He picked his way carefully out of the room.
When Fearby got home, he went online to find the number of the social services department. He dialled it but the office was closed for the day. He looked at his watch. He had thought of calling Diana McKerrow about Conley’s situation, but her office would be closed as well by now. He knew about these compensation cases. They took years.
He went to the sink, found a glass, rinsed it and poured himself some whisky. He took a sip and felt the warmth spreading down through his chest. He’d needed that. He felt the staleness of the day in his mouth, on his tongue, and the whisky scoured all that away. He walked through the rooms with his drink. It wasn’t like Conley’s flat, but it was a distant relation. Men adrift, living alone. Two men still trapped in their different ways by the Hazel Barton case. The police had no other suspects. That was what they’d said. Only George Conley and he knew different.