by Nicci French
‘Like Chas or Jeremy? That’s never been me. Maybe that was why Vanessa and I got together. She felt the same way about herself.’
‘And now?’
‘Now it’s different. I suppose that’s one of the good things about growing up, finding a partner. You don’t have the same need to be part of the group.’
‘We were an odd group, though, weren’t we?’ Frieda said.
‘Looking back, I can see we were. But you weren’t on the margins or at the centre.’
‘Wasn’t I?’ She smiled, although she was feeling obscurely sad.
‘No. You didn’t follow or lead. You were just yourself. I admire that. It’s like you always knew who you were.’
‘I don’t think that’s true.’
Later, she walked along the dark, wet streets towards her mother’s house. Her thoughts were slow and her legs felt heavy. Looking at Ewan’s timeline had been like being trapped in a crowd of clashing voices, speaking over each other. She felt a queasy anxiety.
When she pushed open the front door, she saw there was a pair of men’s shoes just inside. Stout brown brogues, polished but scuffed at the toes. They didn’t look like David’s style.
‘Hello?’ she called, walking into the kitchen. No one was there, but the teapot was warm and there was a large bunch of flowers in the sink, still wrapped in paper.
She put her head round the living-room door, then went up the stairs. The bedroom door was shut and she knocked before pushing it open. Her mother lay in bed, propped up by pillows. She seemed to have shrunk in the past few days; her features seem oversized and her face much older. But she was smiling.
She was smiling because a man was sitting on the chair beside her bed. He was, Frieda saw, holding her hand between both of his. The back of his head was familiar. He turned round, and it was Detective Chief Inspector Stuart Faulkner.
His soft expression faded and a slightly sullen one took its place. ‘I don’t think your mother was expecting you.’
‘No,’ said Juliet. ‘I wasn’t. You can’t just turn up, you know, and expect I’ll be lying here waiting for you.’
‘I’m heading back to London first thing in the morning, so I won’t see you for a few days.’
‘I think I’ll …’ Juliet’s face twisted as she made the effort to find the word, which came out slurred ‘… survive. Or maybe not.’ She gave a hoarse laugh, sounding drunk.
The two of them looked at her, plainly waiting for her to go.
‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Shut the door after you.’
As she did so, she could hear them laughing.
‘Frieda? It’s Jack.’
‘Any luck?’
‘I got what you needed. Chas Latimer did go to hospital late on February the eleventh, 1989. He was rehydrated and released the next morning.’
‘So he told me the truth. How did you find out?’
‘Do you really want to know? A friend of mine from medical school works in Colchester and his girlfriend –’
‘All right, all right, that’s fine. Thanks, Jack.’
33
Frieda walked slowly back towards Eva’s house, her mind heavy with the sludge of memories. The rain had cleared and it was possible, through the chasing clouds, to glimpse pale stars. The wind was cool on her cheeks. She felt that she was gazing back through a fog at the figures in her past: Lewis, Jeremy, Eva, Ewan and Vanessa, Maddie, Chas, poor dead Sarah, but their young faces kept dissolving into the faces they wore today, creased by time, soured by disappointment, plumped by complacency. And she thought about Becky and her friends, who, it had turned out, were not proper friends at all: that great crowd of teenagers weeping in the church for a girl they hadn’t really liked. A hot and bitter anger surged through her, but when it faded she was left with sadness. Poor Becky, she thought, poor, solitary Becky. And very faintly, like the merest aftertaste, she thought, And me too, the Frieda I once was.
As she turned the corner she saw a figure hesitating near to Eva’s gate, and when he turned at the sound of her footsteps she realized it was Max, although for a moment her mind, preoccupied by the past, tricked her into thinking it was Lewis, they were so alike. She raised her hand and approached him, thinking as she did so of how Ewan’s daughters had spoken of Max as slightly creepy: hanging around like a stray dog, they had said. Like his father, they had said. The cruelty of the young.
‘Hello, Max. Are you here to see me? Or Eva, perhaps?’
‘I’ve only just discovered that you’re the therapist.’
‘I’m a therapist.’
‘I mean you’re the one Becky told me about. I didn’t know until today.’
She looked at him sharply. ‘Becky told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d better come in. We can go to the shed.’
They walked round the back of the house and through the garden, soft with fallen leaves. The lights were on in the house, and as Frieda closed the shed door and drew down the blinds, she saw Eva’s face peering out of the bedroom window.
He took off his heavy jacket, under which he was wearing just a thin red T-shirt in spite of the wintry weather. He sat on the chair by the desk, obviously finding it hard to begin.
‘Becky told you she came to see me,’ she said, to help him.
‘She said she trusted you.’
‘Did she tell you why she came to see me?’
There was a silence, during which Max didn’t meet Frieda’s gaze. Then he said, ‘Yes. She told me …’ He swallowed hard. His face looked pinched and young. ‘She told me she’d been raped.’
‘So she did have a friend, after all. I’m very glad.’
‘It didn’t do her any good, did it?’
‘When did she tell you?’
‘A few days before she died.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘We were up by the witch monument – you know it?’
‘Yes.’
‘She started talking about how witches were just women who were outsiders, who didn’t fit in, so they had to be got rid of. She said she was like a witch. She said – she said she could talk to me because I was an outsider too so I knew what it felt like not to be listened to or believed. I didn’t really know what she was talking about but I knew it was important to her. She’d been looking so limp and hopeless lately but then she seemed stronger.’
‘Go on.’
‘She said she’d met someone recently who had listened to her and believed her. She said this person had told her that she rang true. She kept saying that phrase: “rang true”.’
Frieda remembered saying that to Becky, and how the girl had taken heart from the words.
‘Then she blurted out what had happened and she started crying. Really crying. I’d never seen her cry like that before, or anyone actually.’ Max seemed almost awed by the memory. ‘She was snorting and gulping and her whole face was wet and slimy. Then loads of people arrived and saw us there. They were sniggering and making stupid comments because I was hugging Becky and she was crying and I think I might have been crying too, though I’ve no idea why.’
‘Did you know them?’
‘Sure. They were from our school. Even Charlotte Shaw was there, giggling and rolling her eyes.’
‘Did you speak to them?’
‘Becky just ran off along the river and I followed her. She wouldn’t say anything for a while. Her face was all dirty and she’d got stung by nettles on her legs. I never saw anyone look so miserable,’ he added. ‘Not ever. When I think about her now, I keep seeing her like that.’
‘Did she say anything more?’
‘She said she was going to the police. She said she knew it was the right thing to do.’
‘She told me that too,’ said Frieda.
‘She had something she was going to give them.’
‘What?’
‘She was going to go and collect it before going to the police station.’
‘But what was it?
/>
‘I don’t know.’
‘But it’s obviously important. Think.’
‘I don’t know. She didn’t say. She just mentioned it in passing. She was talking about going to the police, about how she was feeling, all of that.’
‘But she didn’t say where she’d left it?’
‘She didn’t tell me,’ he said, ‘but I knew she’d left it at Vanessa’s.’
‘Why?’
‘She was really close to Vanessa – Charlotte’s mum. Everyone likes her. I knew she was there a few days before she died because Charlotte was going on to me about how pissed off she was that Becky came running to her mother, rather than Maddie. And then, the day before, she went to Vanessa’s again. I know that because Vanessa said so herself. She said that she was one of the last people to see Becky alive. So I figured Becky must have left whatever it was with Vanessa.’
‘We should go there,’ said Frieda, standing up.
‘I already did. I thought it might be important.’
‘And?’
‘And she told me it was true Becky had given her something for safe-keeping and she had collected it again the day before she had died. That’s why she’d gone round there.’
‘So Vanessa gave it back to her?’
‘Yes. She told me that Becky had come round with a little bundle a week or so beforehand and asked her to keep it safe. She said she wanted to keep it away from her mother’s prying eyes. It was in a plastic bag and all wrapped round with masking tape. Vanessa assumed it was something to do with a boy or something. She didn’t see any harm in it. She always had a soft spot for Becky – she felt sorry for her with everything that had happened. I think she was really upset when Charlotte started being so bitchy towards her.’
‘Did Vanessa know why Becky wanted it?’
‘She said that Becky wanted to show it to someone.’
‘Someone?’ said Frieda. ‘That doesn’t sound like the police. Did she know who it was?’
‘No.’
‘She must have taken it to give to someone,’ said Frieda. ‘And then somehow it went wrong.’
‘I think everything went wrong for her.’
Frieda walked with Max up the road.
‘Did you love my dad?’ he asked abruptly. He was staring ahead and on his face was an expression of stony acceptance, as if he was preparing himself for another blow.
‘I did. Young as we both were, we loved each other once.’
‘Why?’
‘Why did we love each other?’
‘Why did you love him?’
Frieda understood that Max was asking why anyone would love him, the son. ‘He was the only person I knew in all of Braxton who was true,’ she said. The words she had given to Becky – that she rang true – echoed in her mind.
‘True?’
‘Who was trying to be himself,’ she said.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘I don’t want to end up like him.’
‘Just because you’re like him it doesn’t mean you have to have a life like his.’
‘I wish Becky was here now and we could all three of us talk like this together. Making things feel less ugly.’
‘So do I, Max. But we’ll have to make do with finding out how she died.’
It was late now, and the streets were deserted, but she didn’t return at once to Eva’s. Instead she made her way to Maddie’s house. She was thinking of the bundle that Becky had retrieved.
It was several minutes before Maddie answered the door. She had obviously been asleep. She was in a dressing gown and her face was creased from the pillow. Old makeup was smudged round her eyes.
‘What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.’
‘I’m sorry to have woken you, but I’m going to London tomorrow and I needed to see you before then.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Can I come in?’
She stepped into the house and Maddie closed the door behind them. She led Frieda into the kitchen.
‘What?’ she asked again, sitting heavily in a chair. She looked frightened.
‘I’ve been talking to Max,’ said Frieda. Maddie made an impatient gesture. ‘Becky told him about the rape.’
‘She told Max?’
‘She also told him she was going to the police and she had something to show them.’
‘I don’t understand. What do you mean, she had something to show them?’
‘I don’t know myself,’ said Frieda. ‘But it seems clear that she left something with Vanessa, for safekeeping, then collected it the day before she died.’
Maddie rubbed her eyes. ‘What do you mean, left it with Vanessa?’ she asked. She sounded like a small child. ‘What did she leave?’
‘Max described it as a bundle. Wrapped up in masking tape so no one would open it. Have you seen anything like that?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Have you cleared out Becky’s room, been through her possessions?’
Maddie shook her head from side to side. ‘Not yet. I can’t.’
‘So there might be something in there?’
‘The police looked at her room. Afterwards.’
‘But because they were sure she had killed herself, they wouldn’t have conducted a thorough search.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I thought we could take a look.’
‘Now?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘If you think it’s important.’
‘We can do it together.’
‘Can I pour myself a brandy?’
‘Of course.’
‘Would you like some?’
‘Do you have whisky?’
‘Yes. I think so. We can both have whisky.’
She found the bottle, nearly full, and poured generous slugs into two glasses; she took the bottle with them as they went up the stairs towards Becky’s bedroom. The door was closed and Maddie stood before it with a face of terror. Then she turned the handle and they went in.
Becky had been nearly sixteen when she died, a disturbed and anorexic adolescent with a troubled history. But her room was the room of a girl, neat and bland. The walls were yellow, with a large corkboard above the desk covered with photographs and postcards. Frieda saw pictures of Becky as a little girl: Becky between her parents, Becky on a horse, Becky with groups of friends. There were several photo-booth strips showing Becky’s face pressed against the face of one friend or another. One was Charlotte. The girls were often pouting their lips as if for a kiss, or sticking out their tongues. It all seemed absurdly young and innocent. The bed was single, with a white, frilled duvet cover and several colourful cushions scattered across it. There were soft toys piled up on the broad windowsill, some worn and obviously going back to early childhood, but others newer, as if she was still collecting them. They stared at Frieda and Maddie with their glassy eyes.
‘What shall we do now?’ asked Maddie. She had already finished her whisky and now poured herself another.
‘Just look for this package,’ said Frieda, staring around her.
She opened the narrow wardrobe, in which there were bright dresses and shirts, a pile of shoes jumbled on the floor. She looked through each drawer in the chest, and in the padded pink jewellery box on its surface. She knelt down and slid out the under-bed boxes, where there were folders and files and school textbooks. She lifted up the duvet and the pillows. Maddie just watched her, drinking the whisky. She seemed unable to move.
‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ said Frieda, at last. ‘But I don’t think it’s here.’
Maddie wandered over to the window and stared down at the heap of soft toys. She picked one up and pressed her face into it. ‘I don’t know how to bear it,’ she said.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I wake up in the morning and sometimes I don’t remember and then I have to face it all over again.’ She put the so
ft toy gently back in its place. ‘She loved these,’ she said. ‘Even when she was going out in her stupid high heels or coming back reeking of tobacco and drink, she liked her little animals. They were her comforters. Stupid, isn’t it?’
‘Not stupid. Painful.’
‘This one’s called Rodney and this one’s Wendy and this one’s Lucy. I think I know all the names even now.’ She sniffed, then poured herself a third slug of whisky. ‘Where’s Percy, I wonder?’
‘Percy?’
‘Percy is a red squirrel, missing half his bushy tail. She often used to sleep with him on the pillow.’
Frieda turned to the bed. ‘He’s not there now.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Maddie’s voice was dull.
‘It might,’ said Frieda.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We can’t find the package, but we can perhaps work out what was in it.’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’
‘This squirrel – Percy – is missing. What else?’
Maddie stared at her in anguished bafflement.
‘What isn’t here?’ said Frieda. ‘What’s gone from Becky’s room?’
‘I don’t know.’
Frieda took the glass from Maddie’s hand. ‘Shall we try to work it out? You’ve already noticed that Becky’s squirrel is gone. Is there anything else? Items of clothing? Objects?’
Maddie stared around her, then suddenly she nodded and went over to the wardrobe. She slid the hangers across one by one, murmuring to herself, frowning intensely in an effort to remember. She took out shoes and paired them neatly on the floor. Then she did the same with each drawer, lifting piles of neatly folded T-shirts and going through them, shaking out each pair of knickers and each balled sock. There was a stupefied expression on her face. Suddenly, as she was working her way through the large bottom drawer, she stopped.
‘What is it?’ asked Frieda.
‘Her pyjama trousers. Stripy blue drawstring ones. A bit tatty, but she loved them. They don’t seem to be here.’
‘You’re sure?’
Maddie went through the contents of the drawer carefully, then looked in the other drawers once more. She stood up and picked up the pillow on the bed that Frieda had already lifted. ‘They’re definitely not here.’