Waiting for Wednesday

by Nicci French

  ‘Yes. Basically.’

  ‘You’re an analyst. You talk to people.’

  Frieda stood up, ready to go. ‘That’s right,’ she said.

  Dawes stood up as well. ‘I should have found someone like you for Lila,’ he said. ‘It’s not really my way. I’m not good at talking to people. What I do instead is to work at something, fix something. But you’re easy to talk to.’ He looked around awkwardly. ‘Are you going to search for Lila?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘If you hear anything, you’ll let me know?’

  On the way out, Dawes found a piece of paper, wrote his phone number on it and gave it to Frieda. As she took it, an idea occurred to her.

  ‘Did she ever cut your hair?’ she asked.

  He touched his bald pate. ‘I’ve never had much to cut.’

  ‘Or you hers?’

  ‘No. She had beautiful hair. She was proud of it.’ He forced a smile. ‘She’d never have let me anywhere near it. Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Something Agnes said.’

  Back on the street, Frieda looked at the map and set off, not back to the station she’d come from but the next one along. It was a couple of miles. That would be all right. She needed the walk and she felt more alive now, alert to her surroundings in this part of the city she’d never seen. She found herself walking along a two-lane road, lorries rumbling by. On both sides there were housing estates, the sort that had been quickly knocked up after the war and now were crumbling. Some of the flats were boarded up, others had washing hanging from their little terraces. It didn’t feel like a place for walking, but then she turned into a street of little Victorian terraced houses and it suddenly became quiet. Still she felt uncomfortable, miles from home.

  As she approached the station, she passed a phone box and stopped. There wasn’t even a phone in it. It had been ripped away. Then she looked more closely. On the glass walls there were dozens of little stickers: young model, language teacher, very strict teacher, escorts de luxe. Frieda took a notebook from her bag and wrote down the phone numbers. It took several minutes, and two teenage boys walking past giggled and shouted something but she pretended not to hear.

  Back in her house, she made a phone call.

  ‘Agnes?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Frieda Klein.’

  ‘Oh – did you find anything?’

  ‘I didn’t find Lila, if that’s what you mean. She seems to have vanished. Her father can’t find her. It’s not good news, but I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m going to the police to report her missing. I should have done it months ago.’

  ‘It probably won’t do any good,’ Frieda said softly. ‘She’s an adult.’

  ‘I have to do something. I can’t just let it go.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘I’ll do it at once. Though now that I’ve waited all these years, I don’t know what difference an hour will make.’

  Jim Fearby was nearly three-fifths of the way through his list. There were twenty-three names on it, obtained from local newspapers and missing-person websites. Three he had already put a tick by; one he had put a query by; others he had crossed out. He had nine families left to visit – nine mothers who would look at him with stricken faces, haunted eyes. Nine more stories of missing and nine more sets of photos for him to add to the collection of young women’s faces he had tacked up on his cork board in his study.

  They stared down at him now as he sat back in his chair with his tumbler of whisky, no added water, and his cigarette. He never used to smoke inside the house, but now there was no one to care. He looked from face to face: there was the first girl, Hazel Barton, with her radiant smile – he felt he knew her well by now. Then there was Vanessa Dale, the one who had got away. Roxanne Ingatestone, her asymmetrical face and grey-green eyes. Daisy Crewe, eager and a little dimple on one cheek. Vanessa Dale was safe, Hazel Barton was dead. What about the other two? He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another at once, sucking smoke down into his lungs, staring at the faces until it almost seemed that they were alive under his gaze and were looking back at him, asking him to find them.

  That was a very enigmatic little email. What’s going on? Tell me how you are, tell me how Reuben and Josef and Sasha are? What about Chloë? I miss hearing the details of your days. I miss you. Sandy xxx

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Frieda had arranged to meet Sasha at eight o’clock. Sasha had rung to say there was something she needed to tell her. Frieda hadn’t known from her voice whether it was good or bad, but she did know it was important. Before then, as she had promised, she went to see Olivia.

  She didn’t know quite what to expect, but she was taken aback by Olivia’s appearance. She came to the door in a pair of striped drawstring trousers, a stained camisole and plastic flip-flops. The varnish on her toenails was chipped, her hair was greasy – but, above all, her face, puffy and pale, was bare of any makeup. Frieda thought she had never seen Olivia without it. As soon as she got out of bed in the mornings, she would carefully apply foundation, eyeliner, thick mascara, bold red lipstick. Without it, she looked vulnerable and defeated. It was hard to feel angry with her.

  ‘Did you forget I was coming?’

  ‘Not really. I didn’t know what time it was.’

  ‘It’s six thirty.’

  ‘God. Time flies when you’re asleep.’ She made an attempt at a laugh.

  ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘I had a late night. I was just having a nap.’

  ‘Shall I make us some tea?’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I could do with a drink.’

  ‘Tea first. There are things we need to discuss.’

  ‘Like me being a crap mother, you mean.’

  ‘No.’

  They went into the kitchen together, which was as bad as Frieda had ever seen it. It was a bit like the disorder Chloë had created in Frieda’s kitchen, with glasses and bottles everywhere, rubbish spilling out of bin bags on to the sticky tiles, puddles of wax over the table, a sour smell in the air. Frieda started stacking things in the sink to create a space.

  ‘She ran away from me, you know,’ Olivia said, who seemed not to notice the state of the room. ‘She might have told you I threw her out, but I didn’t. She said terrible things to me and then ran off.’

  ‘She says you hit her with a hairbrush.’

  ‘If I did, it was only a soft-bristled one. My mother used to hit me with a wooden spoon.’

  Frieda dropped teabags into the pot and picked two mugs out of the sink to wash. ‘Things have got a bit out of control here,’ Frieda said. ‘You need to sort them out before Chloë comes back.’

  ‘We’re not all like you. Everything in its proper place. That doesn’t mean I’m not coping.’

  ‘You look ill. You’ve spent the afternoon in bed. The house is in a dreadful state. Chloë’s left. I gather Kieran’s left too.’

  ‘He’s a fool. I told him to get out but I didn’t think he’d take me literally.’

  ‘How much are you drinking?’

  ‘You can’t tell me how to live my life, you know.’

  ‘Chloë’s in my house and we need to talk about how long she’s going to be there, and when you’ll be ready for her to come home. She can’t come home at the moment, can she?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Olivia, she’s still a child. She needs boundaries and she needs order.’

  ‘I knew you were going to tell me I was a crap mother.’


  ‘I’m saying that Chloë needs to be woken in the morning, talked to in the evening. She needs a clean kitchen and food in the fridge, a room where she can do her schoolwork, a sense of stability.’

  ‘What about me? What about what I need?’

  For a few minutes, there was silence. Olivia sipped her tea and Frieda made piles of dishes and pans and put bin bags out into the hall. After a while, Oliva said in a small voice: ‘Does she hate me?’

  ‘No. But she feels angry and neglected.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hit her. I didn’t mean to tell Kieran to get lost. I wasn’t thinking straight. I just felt wretched.’

  ‘And maybe you’d had too much to drink.’

  ‘You’re like a stuck record.’

  Frieda didn’t say anything to that, and a few moments later, Olivia spoke again: ‘I can hear myself saying these terrible things. I can hear my voice screeching obscenities. I can’t seem to stop myself, though. I know I’ll regret it later.’

  Frieda attacked the pans with a scouring pad. She felt terribly tired, defeated by the disorder of Olivia’s days. ‘You need to take control of your own life,’ she said.

  ‘That’s all very well to say. Where do I start?’

  ‘Take one thing at a time. Clear up the house from top to bottom. Drink a little less. Or nothing at all. You might feel better just by doing that. Wash your hair, weed the garden.’

  ‘Is that what you tell your patients? Wash your hair and weed the bloody garden?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘This wasn’t how I imagined my life would turn out, you know.’

  ‘No, but I think –’ Frieda began.

  ‘It’s like the man said, we all need to be loved.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Oh, just a man.’ Olivia was beginning to cheer up. ‘It was a bit embarrassing, actually. I met him last night when I was a tiny bit the worse for wear. I was so upset by everything and I went to that nice wine bar and had a few drinks, and it was when I was going home that I bumped into him.’ She gave a small yelp of laughter – a mixture of shame and exultation. ‘The kindness of strangers, you know what they say.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Happened? Nothing like that, Frieda. Don’t give me one of your looks. I tripped over on the street and there he was. My Good Samaritan. He helped me up and dusted me down, then said he’d make sure I got home safely.’

  ‘That was kind of him,’ said Frieda, drily. ‘Did he want to come in?’

  ‘I couldn’t just turn him away. We had another glass together. And then after a bit he went.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘He seemed to know you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. I think he sent his regards. Or his love.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘I don’t know. I asked him and he said that names weren’t important. He said he’d had several names, and it was easy to change them. He said you could change names the way you change clothes, and I should try it myself one day. I said I wanted to be called Jemima!’ She gave another of her raucous bursts of laughter.

  But the air had cooled around Frieda. She sat down opposite Olivia and leaned across the table towards her, speaking with quiet urgency. ‘What did this man look like, Olivia?’

  ‘Look like? Well. I don’t know. Nothing to write home about.’

  ‘No, really,’ said Frieda. ‘Tell me.’

  Olivia made the face of a sulky schoolgirl. ‘He had grey hair, cut very short. He was solid, I suppose. Not tall. Not short.’

  ‘What colour were his eyes?’

  ‘His eyes? You are strange, Frieda. I can’t think. Brown. Yes, he had brown eyes. I told him he had eyes like a dog we once had so they must have been, mustn’t they?’

  ‘Did he say what he did?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘You are sure he said he knew me?’

  ‘He said he’d helped you recently. He said you’d remember.’

  Frieda shut her eyes for a moment. She saw Mary Orton gazing at her as she lay dying. She saw a knife raised towards her – and then, like a flutter at the margins of her vision, she saw, or sensed, a shape, a figure in the shadows. Someone had saved her.

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘I think I talked more than he did,’ said Olivia.

  ‘Tell me anything you remember.’

  ‘You’re scaring me a bit.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘He knew I had a daughter called Chloë and that she was staying with you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s nothing else. You’re giving me a headache.’

  ‘He didn’t mention Terry or Joanna or Carrie.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or send any message.’

  ‘Just his regards or love. Oh, and something about daffodils.’

  ‘Daffodils – what about daffodils?’

  ‘I think he said he’d once given you daffodils.’

  Yes. Dean had sent a little girl across the park to her, bearing a bunch of daffodils and a message. Four words that Frieda had carried with her: ‘It wasn’t your time.’

  She stood up. ‘Did you leave him alone at all?’

  ‘No! Well, I went to the loo, but apart from that – he didn’t steal anything, if that’s what you mean. He was just being kind to me.’

  ‘How many spare keys do you have?’

  ‘What? This is stupid. Anyway, I don’t know. I’ve got keys and so has Chloë and there are a few others knocking around, but I’ve no idea where they are.’

  ‘Listen, Olivia. I’m going to get Josef to come round and change all the locks in the house and fit proper safety devices on your windows.’

  ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘I hope so. He’ll come tomorrow first thing, so make sure you’re up in good time.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing, I hope. It’s just a precaution.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I’m meeting Sasha. But, Olivia, don’t go letting any more strange men into your house.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Before his appointment with Sadie, Karlsson spent twenty minutes with Dora Lennox. They sat in the kitchen together, while Louise made loud clearing-up noises in the living room and hall. Karlsson thought that everything about Dora was pale – her thin white face, her bloodless lips, her small, delicate hands, which kept fiddling with the salt cellar. She seemed insubstantial. Her blue veins showed under her milky skin. He felt brutal as he took out the rag doll, hearing the suppressed whimper she gave on seeing it. ‘I’m sorry to distress you, Dora, but we found this in your room.’

  She stared at it, then away.

  ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘It’s horrible.’

  ‘Did you do this, Dora?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if you did. No one’s going to be angry with you. I just need to know if you did this yourself?’

  ‘I just wanted to hide it.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anyone. I didn’t want to see it.’

  ‘So you cut it up a bit and then wanted to hide it?’ Karlsson asked. ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘No. I didn’t do it! It’s not mine. I wanted to put it in the dustbin but then I thought someone would see it.’

  ‘If it’s not yours, whose is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why are you asking?’ Her voice rose hysterically.

  ‘Dora. Listen. You haven’t done anything wrong, but I just need to know how this came to be in your room, if it’s not yours.’


  ‘I found it,’ she said, in a whisper.

  ‘Found it where?’

  ‘I was at home one day on my own, ill. I had a temperature and had the day off school. No one else was there. Mum said she’d come back from work early and she left me a sandwich by my bed. I couldn’t read because my head hurt, but I couldn’t sleep either, and I just lay there listening to sounds in the street. Then there was a clatter and someone pushed something through the letterbox but I thought it would be junk mail or something. Then later, when I needed the bathroom, I saw it from the top of the stairs and I went down and picked it up and saw –’ She gave a small shudder and came to a halt, staring up at Karlsson.

  ‘You’re saying that someone pushed this through the letterbox?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cut up like this?’

  ‘Yes. It scared me. I don’t know why, but I just had to hide it.’

  ‘And it was done during the day, when normally no one would have been there?’

  ‘I had the flu,’ she said defensively.

  Karlsson nodded. He was thinking that on any ordinary day it would have been Ruth Lennox who found the mutilated doll. A message. A warning.

  This time Sadie had not put on any makeup or perfume. She had arrived early and ordered a tomato juice, and greeted Karlsson as if he was a business colleague. He bent down to kiss her cheek, which she turned away from him so he kissed her ear instead.

  ‘Get yourself a drink if you want. Then we can talk.’

  He went and bought himself half a pint of beer, then took the chair opposite her. ‘I don’t know what there is to say,’ he began. ‘I behaved like an idiot. I’ve always liked you, Sadie, and I didn’t want to mess you around.’

  ‘But you did mess me around. If I’d known you just wanted one quick fuck on your night off, I wouldn’t have let you near me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ There was a silence and she regarded him coolly. He found himself talking, to fill it and to bring some warmth back into her unyielding face. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I’ve been a bit wretched.’

  ‘Lots of us are a bit wretched.’

  ‘I know. It’s not an excuse. My children – Mikey and Bella, you met them when they were younger – they’ve gone away with their mother.’