She gave him the address and ended the call. Her tiredness had lifted. She felt glitteringly awake and alert. Only her eyes throbbed, as if the migraines she had had as a teenager had reappeared. Lawrence Dawes. She had sat in his lovely, well-tended garden. She had drunk tea with him. Shaken his hand and looked into his weathered face. Heard the pain in his voice. How had she not known? She put her head into her hands, feeling the relief of darkness.
Then she swiftly pulled on baggy linen trousers and a soft cotton shirt, dropped her keys into her bag and left.
Fearby was waiting for her. Approaching him, Frieda was struck by how odd he looked, with his long white hair and those eyes that glared from his creviced face. He was more crumpled than ever, as if he’d been sleeping rough. He seemed to be talking to himself and when he saw her he simply continued with the sentence.
‘… so I have a few of the folders in my car but of course we can collect everything else later, and there are still some notes I haven’t typed up –’
‘Let’s go in,’ said Frieda. She put her arm under his sharp elbow and pulled him through the revolving door.
Karlsson was in a meeting, but when he heard that Dr Frieda Klein was downstairs he left it and bounded into Reception to meet her. She was standing very upright in the centre of the hall and her face was set in an expression of determination that he recognized from the old days. Beside her was a man who resembled a moth-eaten bird of prey. He was carrying several plastic bags bulging with folders and holding a tape recorder. Karlsson didn’t connect him to Frieda. He looked like one of the obsessive people who wandered into the station to disclose lunatic conspiracies to the indifferent duty officer behind the desk.
‘Come into my office,’ he said.
‘This is Jim Fearby. He’s a journalist. Jim, this is DCI Malcolm Karlsson.’
Karlsson put out a hand but Fearby had none to spare. He simply nodded twice and stared fiercely into Karlsson’s face.
‘We need to speak to you,’ Frieda said to Karlsson.
‘Is this about Hal Bradshaw?’
‘That’s not important right now.’
‘Actually, it is quite important.’
Karlsson ushered them into his room and pulled up two chairs for them. Frieda sat but Fearby put his bags on the chair, then stood behind it.
‘Hal Bradshaw has made it quite clear that –’
‘No,’ Fearby said harshly, the first word Karlsson had heard from him. ‘Listen to her.’
‘Mr Fearby –’
‘You’ll understand in a minute,’ said Frieda. ‘At least, I hope you will.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘We believe that a man called Lawrence Dawes, who lives down near Croydon, has abducted and murdered at least six young women, including his own daughter.’
There was silence. Karlsson didn’t move. His face was expressionless.
‘Karlsson? Did you hear?’
When he finally responded it was in a tone of deep dismay. ‘Frieda. What have you been doing?’
‘I’ve been trying to trace a missing girl,’ said Frieda, steadily.
‘Why don’t I know about this? Is there an ongoing murder inquiry that I’ve somehow missed?’
‘I told you they wouldn’t believe you,’ said Fearby.
‘You have to listen to me.’ Frieda fixed Karlsson with her bright gaze. ‘There’s no inquiry because no one has made the connection. Except Jim Fearby.’
‘But how did you get involved?’
‘It was something that that fake patient of Hal Bradshaw’s told me.’
‘The one who shafted you?’
‘That’s irrelevant. I don’t care about it any more. There was a detail that stood out and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. It haunted me. I had to find out what it meant.’
Karlsson looked at Frieda and the dishevelled character with her. He felt a lurch of pity.
‘I know it sounds irrational,’ she continued. ‘At first I thought I was going crazy and it was just a projection of my own feelings. But I traced where the story came from. I went from the man who’d been sent to me by Hal to the other three researchers. I met Rajit, who had got the story from his girlfriend. I found her and she told me it had come from her old friend, Lila. And then I discovered that Lila had gone missing.’
Karlsson held up his hand. ‘Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you come to me, Frieda?’
‘I knew what everyone says: people go missing all the time and they don’t want to be found. But this felt different to me. I met Lila’s friend and then this man Lila had spent time with just before she disappeared. Nasty character. Dodgy, violent, creepy. That was where I met Jim.’
‘Who was also looking for Lila?’ asked Karlsson.
‘I was looking for Sharon.’
‘Sharon?’
‘Another missing girl.’
‘I see.’
‘And all the others, of course. But it was Sharon who led me there.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘And that was where I met Frieda.’
Karlsson looked at Fearby. He reminded him of the drunks who sometimes slept the night in the police cells. He smelt a bit like them too: the thick reek of whisky and stale tobacco. Frieda saw his expression.
‘You should have heard of Jim Fearby,’ she said. ‘He was the journalist who got George Conley’s murder conviction overturned.’
Karlsson turned to Fearby with new interest. ‘That was you?’
‘So you can see why I’ve mixed feelings about the police.’
‘Why are you here now?’
‘Frieda told me to come. She said you’d help.’
‘I said you’d listen,’ said Frieda.
‘We think Lila’s father is responsible.’ Fearby walked round the desk and stood beside Karlsson, who could hear him breathing heavily. ‘For his daughter and Sharon and the others.’
‘Lawrence Dawes,’ said Frieda.
‘This is the man in Croydon?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re asking me to believe that the two of you have discovered that a man is responsible for several murders that the police didn’t even know had been committed?’
‘Yes.’ Fearby glared at Karlsson.
‘The girls went missing,’ Frieda said. She was trying to speak as clearly and logically as she could. ‘And because they lived in different places and no bodies were found, there was no connection made between them.’
Karlsson sighed. ‘Why do you think this Lawrence Dawes is the killer?’
Fearby went back to the other side of the desk and started rummaging in the bags for something. ‘The real maps are in my house, but I did this for you. So you’d see.’
He brandished a sheet of paper on which he’d drawn, very messily, a map of the route between London and Manchester, with asterisks where the various missing women had disappeared.
‘It’s all right, Mr Fearby.’
‘You don’t believe us.’ Frieda spoke quietly.
‘Look. Try to see it from my point of view. Or the commissioner’s.’
‘No. It doesn’t matter. You don’t believe us but I still want you to help me.’
‘How?’
‘I want you to go and interview Lawrence Dawes. And search his house, every room. And the cellar. I think there’s a cellar. And his garden, too. You’ll find something.’
‘I can’t just send a team of police officers to take a house apart on your suspicions.’
Frieda had been watching him attentively as he spoke. Now her expression closed; her face became a blank. ‘You owe me,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’
‘You owe me.’ She heard her voice, cool and hard. It wasn’t how she was feeling. ‘I nearly died because of you. So you owe me. I’m calling in a favour.’
‘I see.’
Karlsson stood up. He was trying to hide his angry distress and turned his back on Frieda and Fearby as he put on his jacket and slid his mobile into his pocket.