As the car drove away, she looked around. By the entrance, there was a pebbledash house. There were deep cracks in the façade and an upper window was covered with cardboard. It seemed deserted. On the wall, to the side of the entrance, there was another sign, stencilled: ‘Visitors Report to Reception’. She walked into a yard lined with stable buildings made out of breeze blocks and concrete but no Reception that she could see. There were piles of horse manure and straw bales, and off to the side a rusting tractor with no tyres on the front wheels. Frieda stepped delicately across the yard, making her way between brown muddy puddles.
‘Is there anyone here?’ she called out.
She heard a scraping sound and a teenage girl carrying a spade emerged from one of the stable doorways. She was dressed in rubber boots and jeans and a bright red T-shirt. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Yeah?’
‘I’m looking for someone called Shane.’
The girl just gave a shrug.
‘I heard that a man called Shane works here.’
The girl shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Maybe he used to work here.’
‘I don’t know nobody called Shane.’
‘How long have you been working here?’
‘A few years. On and off.’
‘And you know everyone who works here?’
The girl rolled her eyes. ‘Course I do,’ she said, and disappeared back into the stable. Frieda heard the spade scraping on the concrete floor. She walked out of the yard on to the road where she had come in, looked at her watch and wondered what to do. She thought back to the conversation in the pub. Had she misunderstood somehow? Were they just trying to get her to go away? She started to walk along the road. There was no pavement, just a grass verge, and she felt vulnerable to the cars that were passing her with a rush of air and noise. As she got beyond the buildings, she reached a rough wooden fence that separated the field from the road.
She leaned on the fence and looked across. The field was large, maybe a quarter of a mile across, bordered on the far side by the busy A12, cars and lorries rumbling along it. The field itself was scrubby and abandoned, broken only by occasional clumps of gorse and, in the middle, a large, dead oak tree. And then there were horses, and a few donkeys, scattered around. They were old and mangy but they seemed contented enough, heads down, nibbling at the grass, and Frieda found it relaxing just watching them. It wasn’t much, perhaps, but better here than anywhere else. It was a strange scene, neither town nor country but something messily in between. It looked like land that had been neglected, unloved, half forgotten about. Maybe some buildings had been there, had been demolished and the grass and the gorse had grown back. One day someone would notice it again, next to the motorway, close to London, and they’d build an industrial estate or a service station, but until then it would struggle on. Frieda rather liked it.
She rummaged in her pocket and found the card that the taxi driver had given her. It was probably time to give up, return to London and to her normal life and her work. The impulse brought an immediate feeling of relief. She was just reaching for her phone when a car pulled up at the entrance to the refuge. A man got out. He was tall, slightly stooped, with unkempt hair that was nearly white and a beaked nose. He wore dark trousers and a rumpled jacket, a thin dark tie pulled loose over his shirt. He had a watchful, unsmiling air, and she saw the blare of his pale, hooded eyes. They stared at each other. They were thirty or more yards apart, too far to talk comfortably. Frieda stood back from the fence. She walked a few steps towards him and he walked towards her. The expression on his face didn’t alter: it was as though he was looking not at but through her.
‘Do you work here?’ the man asked.
‘No. I was trying to find someone, but he’s not here.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘You aren’t called Shane, are you?’
‘No,’ said the man. ‘I’m not.’ And he walked past Frieda into the yard. Suddenly he stopped and turned. ‘Why do you want him?’
‘It’s difficult to explain.’
The man came back towards her. ‘Tell me anyway.’
‘I’m searching for a girl,’ said Frieda, ‘and I thought that someone called Shane might help me. I was told he was here but they haven’t heard of him.’
‘Shane,’ said the man, reflectively. ‘I haven’t heard of him. Still, you may as well come along.’
Frieda raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘I’m trying to find someone as well.’ He spoke slowly and sombrely.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. You’re a stranger to me, and I don’t know who you’re meeting or why you’re here. I’ve finished and I’m going home.’
‘It’ll just take a minute.’ He scrutinized her. ‘My name’s Fearby, by the way. Jim Fearby. I’m a journalist.’
The sun passed behind a cloud and the landscape in front of them darkened. Frieda had the feeling of being in a dream, where everything made sense but was senseless. ‘I’m Frieda Klein.’
‘And who are you?’
‘I don’t know.’ She stopped, hearing the words. ‘I’m just someone trying to help someone.’
‘Yes. What’s the name of your missing girl?’
‘Lila Dawes.’
‘Lila Dawes?’ He frowned. ‘No, I haven’t heard of her. But come with me.’
They walked into the yard where the girl was now sweeping. She was obviously puzzled to see Frieda again.
‘I’m looking for a man called Mick Doherty,’ said Fearby.
‘He’s over the other side,’ said the girl. ‘Doing the fence.’
‘Where?’
The girl sighed. She led them through the yard to the field and pointed across. They could see signs of someone moving on the far side, right by the main road.
‘Is it safe to walk across?’ asked Fearby.
‘They don’t bite.’
A small gate opened into the field. Fearby and Frieda walked across it in silence. Two horses came to them and Fearby glanced at Frieda.
‘They think we’ve got food,’ said Frieda.
‘What will they do when they find we haven’t?’
A small ragged horse nuzzled against Frieda. She stroked it between the eyes. How long was it since she had been that close to a horse? Twenty years? Longer? She felt the warmth of its breath on her. Comforting. It smelt sweet, musty, earthy. As they got closer to the far side, they saw a man fastening the fence to a new post, twisting wire with pliers. He looked at them. He was tall, with very long reddish-brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. At first the T-shirt appeared to have long sleeves, but then Frieda saw his arms were covered with a network of tattoos. He had earrings in both ears.
‘Are you Mick Doherty?’ asked Fearby.
The man frowned at them. ‘Who are you?’
‘We’re not police. I’m looking for a young girl called Sharon Gibbs. She’s missing. Your name came up as someone who knew her.’
‘I’ve never heard of her.’
‘I think you have. You are Mick Doherty?’
‘That’s right.’
‘We just want to find her.’ Frieda heard the ‘we’, but didn’t protest. This odd man spoke wearily but with a tone of authority. ‘However, if we don’t find anything, we’ll have to turn over what we know to the police. I’m sure that’s not a problem, but …’ Fearby paused and waited.
‘I’m clean. You’ve got nothing on me.’
Still Fearby waited.
‘I don’t know what you want.’ His eyes slid to Frieda. ‘You’re wasting your time here.’
‘Sharon Gibbs.’
‘OK. I know her a bit. So what?’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘You say she’s missing?’