‘That’s right.’
‘When did she go missing?’
‘Just over three weeks ago.’
Doherty finished twisting a wire fastening on the fence. ‘I haven’t seen her for months. Maybe more. I’ve been away.’
‘You’ve been away.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Where?’
‘In prison. Just for a bit. Bloody set up, I was. I went in in January. I got out last week. They let me out and they got me a job. Shovelling fucking dung for fucking donkeys.’
‘And have you seen Sharon since getting out?’
‘Why would I have? She’s not my girlfriend or anything, if that’s what you’re getting at. Just a squirmy little kid.’
‘A squirmy little kid who got into the wrong company, Mr Doherty.’ Fearby fastened his unnerving eyes on the man. ‘And whose parents are very anxious about her.’
‘That’s not my problem. You’re talking to the wrong person.’
A thought struck Frieda. ‘Do people call you Shane?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Reddish hair, Irish name.’
‘I’m from Chelmsford.’
‘But they call you Shane.’
Doherty gave a faint, sarcastic smile. ‘Sometimes they do. You know. Begorrah.’
‘Tell me about Lila Dawes.’
‘What?’
‘You knew a girl called Lila Dawes. Also missing.’ She felt Fearby stiffen beside her, as if a current of electricity had passed through him.
‘Two missing girls,’ he said softly. ‘And you knew them both.’
‘Who says I knew Lila?’
‘Lila. Crack addict. Spent time with you, Shane – Mr Doherty – around the time she went missing. Two years ago.’
‘You say you’re not the police, so I don’t have to say anything to you. Except …’ He put the wire down. Frieda could see the spittle on his mouth and the broken blood vessels on his skin. He clenched and unclenched his fists so that the tattoos on his arm rippled, and his eyes wandered round her, as if he was trying to see something behind her. ‘Except piss off back to where you came from.’
‘Hazel Barton, Roxanne Ingatestone, Daisy Crewe, Philippa Lewis, Maria Horsley, Lila Dawes, Sharon Gibbs.’
It sounded like a chant, an incantation. Frieda felt the breath go out of her body. She stood absolutely still and quiet. For a moment, it was as if she’d entered a dark tunnel that was leading towards a still darker place.
‘What the fuck are you talking about, old man?’
‘Missing girls,’ Fearby said. ‘I’m talking about missing girls.’
‘OK. I knew Lila.’ He gave a smirk of recollection. ‘I don’t know where she went.’
‘I think you do,’ said Frieda. ‘And if you do, you should tell me, because I’m going to find out.’
‘People come and go. She was always more trouble than she was worth.’
‘She was just a teenage girl who had the terrible bad luck of meeting you.’
‘My heart bleeds. And, yeah, I knew Sharon a bit. Not those others.’
‘Was this the first time you’d been in prison?’ Fearby asked.
‘I think I’ve had enough of your questions.’
‘Dates, Mr Doherty.’
Something in his voice made the man’s expression waver for a moment, the sneer replaced by a kind of wariness. ‘Eighteen months ago I was in Maidstone.’
‘What for?’
‘There was a thing with a girl.’
‘A thing.’ Fearby repeated the words as if tasting them. ‘What did you get?’
Doherty just shrugged.
‘How long?’
‘Four months, give or take.’
Frieda could sense Fearby working something out. His face was ravelled with concentration, deep furrows lining his forehead.
‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘We’re done.’
Fearby and Frieda walked back across the field. Two horses followed them; Frieda could hear their hoofs on the dried earth, like a drum.
‘We need to talk,’ Fearby said, as they reached his car. She simply nodded. ‘Is there somewhere we can go? Do you live nearby?’
‘No. Do you?’
‘No. How did you get here?’
‘I got a taxi from the station.’
‘We can find a café.’
Frieda got in beside him; the seatbelt didn’t work; the car smelt of cigarettes. On the back seat there were several folders. Only when they were seated at a table by the window of a small, dingy café on Denham High Street, with mugs of too-milky tea in front of them untouched, did they exchange another word.
‘You begin,’ said Fearby. He put a Dictaphone in front of him, then opened a spiral-bound notebook and took a pen out of his jacket pocket.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making notes. Is that OK?’
‘I don’t think so. And turn that off.’
Fearby looked at her as if he was seeing her properly for the first time. Then a faint smile appeared on his weathered face. He turned off the machine and laid his pen down.
‘Tell me why you’re here.’
So Frieda told her story. At first, she was conscious of its irrationality: just a paranoid instinct in the wake of her own trauma that had led her in a fruitless and inexplicable search for a girl she had never known. She heard herself talking about the tiny vivid anecdote that had sparked off her quest, of the dead-ends, the sad encounters with Lila’s father and with the woman from Josef’s homeland, who had pointed her in the direction of Shane. But bit by bit she realized that Fearby wasn’t responding with incredulity, as if she had gone slightly mad, the way that others had. He nodded in recognition, leaned forward; his eyes seemed to grow brighter and his granite face softer.
‘There,’ she said, when she had finished. ‘What do you think?’
‘It sounds like the same man.’
‘You’re going to have to explain.’
‘Well. I suppose it all began with George Conley.’
‘Why does that name sound familiar?’
‘He was found guilty of murdering a girl called Hazel Barton. You’ll probably have heard of him because he was released a few weeks ago, after spending years in the nick for a crime he never committed. Poor sod, he’d almost have been better off staying inside. But that’s a whole other story. Hazel was the first girl, and the only one whose body was found. I believe Conley interrupted the crime, whereas all the others – but I’m getting ahead of myself. And, in fact, Hazel wasn’t really the first – there were others. Vanessa Dale, for a start, and I just didn’t realize that at the time, because Vanessa was the one who got away. I tracked her down, though. I should have done it sooner, when she had a fresher memory, or any memory, but I didn’t know. I didn’t understand for many years what the story was really about, what a long, dark shadow it cast. Back in the day, I was just a hack, with a wife and kids, covering local news. Anyway –’
‘Stop,’ said Frieda. Fearby looked up at her, blinking. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’
‘I’m trying to explain. Listen. It all links up, but you have to follow the connections.’
‘But you’re not making any connections.’
He sat back, rattled his teaspoon in his cooling tea. ‘I’ve lived with it too long, I guess.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that the girls whose names you gave Doherty are all connected, and that Lila Dawes may be too?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Fearby stood up abruptly. ‘I can’t tell you. I need to show you.’
‘Show me?’
‘Yes. It’s all written down. I’ve got maps and charts and files. Everything’s there.’
‘Where?’
‘At my house. Will you come and have a look?’
Frieda paused. ‘All right,’ she said at last.
‘Good. Let’s go.’
‘Where do you live? London?’
‘London? No. Birmingham.’