by Nicci French
‘I know that theoretically it’s against the law.’
‘No, it’s definitely against the law.’
‘But why do you assume we were actually having sex?’
‘Judith Lennox says you were. If she’s lying, then say so.’
‘Why do you assume I knew her age?’
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-eight.’
‘Judith Lennox is fifteen.’
‘She looks older.’
‘That’s a large age difference.’
‘Jude is a young woman. She knows her own mind.’
‘She’s a girl.’
He gave a tiny, almost invisible shrug with one shoulder. ‘Power is what matters, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘The law is there to prevent the abuse of power. In our case, it’s irrelevant. As far as I’m concerned we’re both consenting adults.’
‘The fact remains that she’s a minor. You’re guilty of a criminal offence.’
For a brief moment, anxiety broke the surface. His face puckered. ‘Is that why I’m here?’
‘You’re here because her mother was killed.’
‘Look. I’m really sorry about that but I don’t see the connection.’
‘Did you ever meet Mrs Lennox?’
‘I saw her. I didn’t meet her.’
‘She didn’t know about you?’
‘Jude thought she wouldn’t understand. And I wasn’t going to argue.’
‘You’re quite sure you never met?’
‘I think I’d remember.’
‘And you think that Mrs Lennox wasn’t aware of your existence.’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Did she suspect that Judith was involved with someone?’
‘I never met the woman. Why don’t you ask Jude?’
‘I’m asking you,’ said Yvette, curtly. She saw him give his tiny smile.
‘As far as I know, she didn’t suspect. But mothers have a way of sensing things, don’t they? So maybe she noticed something was up.’
‘Where were you on the evening she was murdered – Wednesday, the sixth of April?’
‘What? Do you really think I would have killed someone because I didn’t want them to find out about a relationship with their daughter?’
‘It’s a criminal offence. You could go to prison.’
‘This is all crap. She’s nearly sixteen. She’s not a little kid in pigtails with scabby knees. You’ve seen her. Drop-dead gorgeous. I met her at a club. Where you have to be eighteen to get in, by the way. And show your ID.’
‘How long have you been involved with her?’
‘What do you mean by involved?’
‘Oh, please, just give me an answer.’
He closed his eyes. Yvette wondered if he could feel the pulse of her hostility from where he was sitting.
‘I met her nine weeks ago,’ he said. ‘Not long, is it?’
‘And she’s on the Pill?’
‘You’ll have to ask Jude about things like that.’
‘Are you still with her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. That’s the truth.’ For a moment, his mask seemed to slip. ‘She couldn’t bear to touch me. She wouldn’t even let me hug her. I think she feels responsible for it all. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which somehow makes me responsible too.’
‘I see.’
‘Not really responsible,’ he added hastily.
‘No.’
‘So, really, I think it’s over. You should be pleased. I’m legal again.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Yvette.
That evening, there was a ring at the doorbell of the Lennox house. Russell Lennox heard it from the top of the house and waited for someone else to answer it. But Ted was out and he thought that Judith was too – that was something he ought to know, of course. Ruth would have known. Dora was in her room and already in bed. And, for once, Louise wasn’t in the house, vacuuming with her bloody baby strapped round her, or doing her endless baking. The doorbell rang once more and Russell sighed. He went heavily down the stairs.
He didn’t recognize the woman on the doorstep and she didn’t immediately introduce herself, just stared at him as though she was searching for someone. She was tall and bony rather than thin, with long hair tied loosely back and glasses hanging round her neck on a cord. She was wearing a long patchwork skirt with a muddy hem.
‘I thought I should come.’
‘I’m sorry – who are you?’
She didn’t answer, just raised her eyebrows, almost as though she was amused. ‘You should recognize me,’ she said at last. ‘I’m your partner in humiliation.’
‘Oh! You mean …’
‘Elaine Kerrigan,’ she said, and held out her long slim hand, which Russell took, then didn’t know how to let it go.
‘But why are you here?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’
‘Want? To see you, I suppose. I mean, see what you look like.’
‘What do I look like?’
‘You look done in,’ she said, and suddenly tears welled in Russell’s eyes.
‘I am.’
‘But really I came to thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For beating up my husband.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You gave him a lovely black eye.’
‘You’re on the wrong track.’
‘And a swollen lip so he can’t talk properly. And I don’t have to listen to his lies.’
‘Mrs Kerrigan –’
‘Elaine. You did what I wanted to. I’m grateful.’
Russell was about to protest again, then his face softened in a smile. ‘It was my pleasure,’ he said. ‘You’d better come in. Maybe you’re the only person in the world I want to talk to.’
FORTY
This time Frieda didn’t need to ring the doorbell. Lawrence Dawes was at the front of the house with another man. Dawes was up a stepladder and the other man was holding it. When Frieda announced herself, he looked round, smiled and descended the steps with care.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve forgotten the name.’
Frieda told him and he nodded in recognition. ‘I’m terrible with names. I do apologize. I remember you very clearly. This is my friend, Gerry. He helps me with my garden, I help him with his and then we have a drink to celebrate. And this woman is a psychiatrist, so be careful what you say.’
Gerry was a similar age to Dawes, but looked entirely different. He was dressed in checked shorts that reached his knees and a short-sleeved shirt that was also checked, but of a different kind, so that he almost shimmered. His legs and arms were thin, wiry and deeply tanned. He had a small grey moustache that was very slightly uneven.
‘You’re neighbours?’ said Frieda.
‘Almost,’ said Gerry. ‘We share the same river.’
‘Gerry’s a few houses upstream from me,’ said Dawes. ‘He can pollute my stream but I can’t pollute his.’
‘Cheeky sod,’ said Gerry.
‘We’ve been giving my roses some attention,’ said Dawes. ‘They’ve really started growing and we’re trying to train them. You know, roses round the door. Do you like roses?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Frieda.
‘We were about to have some tea,’ said Dawes.
‘Were we?’ said Gerry.
‘We’re always about to have tea. We’ve either just had it or we’re about to have it, or both. Would you
like to join us?’
‘Just for a few minutes,’ said Frieda. ‘I don’t want to keep you from your work.’
Dawes stowed his stepladder away – ‘Kids’ll nick anything that moves,’ he said – and they went through the house to the back lawn. Frieda sat on the bench and the two men came out, carrying mugs, a teapot, a jug of milk and a plate of chocolate biscuits. They laid them out on a small wooden table. Dawes poured the tea and handed a mug to Frieda.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Frieda.
‘You’re a psychiatrist.’
‘Well, a psychotherapist.’
‘Every time you come, I’m doing up the house. I’m digging the garden, I’m making the roses look nice. What you’re thinking is that I have this feeling that if I make my house nice enough my daughter will want to come back to it.’ He sipped his tea. ‘I suppose that’s one of the problems doing your job.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You can never just sit in a garden and have a nice cup of tea and a normal conversation. People think, Well, if I say this, she’ll think that, and if I say that, she’ll think this. It must be difficult for you to stop working.’
‘I wasn’t thinking anything like that. I really was just drinking the tea and wasn’t thinking about you at all.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Dawes. ‘So what were you thinking about?’
‘I was thinking about the little river at the bottom of your garden. I was wondering if I could hear it, but I can’t.’
‘When there’s been more rain, then you can hear it, even inside the house. Have a biscuit.’
He pushed the plate across to Frieda, who shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look fine,’ said Dawes. ‘You look like you need feeding up. What do you think, Gerry?’
‘Don’t let him tease you,’ said Gerry. ‘He’s like my old mother. Always wanting everyone to clear their plate.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Frieda thought she could just hear the soft murmur of the stream.
‘So what brings you here?’ asked Dawes, eventually. ‘Have you got another day off?’
‘I’m not exactly working at the moment. I’m taking some time off.’
Dawes poured some more tea and milk into her mug. ‘You know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think you’ve taken time off work because you’re supposed to be resting. And instead you’re chasing around.’
‘I’m a bit worried about your daughter,’ said Frieda. ‘Does that make sense to you?’
The smile faded from Dawes’s face. ‘I’ve been worried about her since she was born. I can remember the first time I saw her: she was lying in a cot next to my wife’s bed in the ward. I looked down at her and she had a little dimple in her chin, like me. Look.’ He touched the end of his chin. ‘And I said to her, or to myself, that I was going to protect her for ever. I was going to make sure that no harm ever came to her. And I failed. I suppose you never can protect a child like that, not once they get older. But I failed as badly as it’s possible to fail.’
Frieda looked at the two men. Gerry was staring into his tea. Maybe he’d never heard his friend talk so openly and emotionally before.
‘The reason I’m here,’ said Frieda, ‘is that I wanted to tell you what I’ve done. I’d hoped I could find your daughter but I haven’t got very far. I’ve heard from someone who knew her slightly.’
‘Who?’
‘A girl called Maria. I didn’t even meet her so it’s second-hand. But apparently she mentioned a man called Shane, who was some sort of friend of your daughter. Or, at least, he had some kind of connection with her. I don’t have a second name and I don’t know anything about him. I wondered if the name rang any bells with you.’
‘Shane?’ said Dawes. ‘Was he a boyfriend?’
‘I don’t know. I only have the name. He might have been a friend, or some sort of associate. Or it may all be a misunderstanding. This woman was quite vague, I think.’
Dawes shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name. But as I told you when we met before, in the last years I didn’t know anything about my daughter’s friends. I think she lived in different worlds. The only names I have are of schoolfriends and she’d lost touch with all of them.’
‘Mr Dawes …’
‘Please, call me Larry.’
‘Larry, I was hoping you could give me the names of her friends. If I talked to them, I might be able to get some information.’
Dawes glanced at his friend. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re a good person and I’m touched by anyone who cares about my daughter. God knows, most people have already forgotten her. But if you have suspicions, why don’t you go to the police?’
‘Because that’s all I’ve got: suspicions, feelings. I know people in the police and that won’t be enough for them.’
‘Yet you’ve come all the way down here twice, just because of your feelings.’
‘I know,’ said Frieda. ‘It sounds stupid, but I can’t stop myself.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dawes. ‘I can’t help you.’
‘I’d just like some numbers.’
‘No. I’ve been through this too often. I spent months looking and worrying and getting false hope. If you get any real information, then just tell the police, or come and see me and I’ll do what I can. But I can’t stir it all up again – I just can’t.’
Frieda put her mug on the table and stood up. ‘I understand. It’s funny. It should be easy to find a missing person nowadays.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Dawes. ‘But if someone really wants to get lost, then they can stay lost.’
‘You’re right. Perhaps I was really coming to see you to say sorry.’
Dawes seemed puzzled. ‘Sorry? What for?’
‘Various things. I tried to look for your daughter and I haven’t succeeded. And I blundered into your personal grief. I’ve got a habit of doing that.’
‘Maybe that’s your job, Frieda.’
‘Yes, but they’re usually supposed to ask me before I do it.’
Dawes’s expression turned bleak. ‘You’re just realizing what I realized some time ago. You think you can protect people, care for them, but sometimes they just get away from you.’
Frieda looked at the two men, sitting there like a comfortable old couple. ‘And I interrupted your work as well,’ she said.
‘He needs interrupting,’ said Gerry, with a smile. ‘Otherwise he never stops with his gardening and his building and his mending and his painting.’
‘Thank you for the tea. It’s been nice, sitting in the garden with you both.’
‘Are you going to the station?’ asked Gerry.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going that way so I’ll walk with you.’
Together they left the house. Gerry insisted on carrying Frieda’s bag, though she really didn’t want him to. He strode along beside her, in his mismatching, multicoloured checks, with his lopsided moustache, a woman’s leather bag slung incongruously from his shoulder, and for a few minutes they didn’t speak.
‘Do you have a garden?’ asked Gerry, eventually.
‘Not really. A bit of a yard.’
‘Soil’s the thing – getting your hands dirty. The pleasure of eating your own produce. Do you like broad beans?’
‘I do,’ said Frieda.
‘From the plant to the pan. Nothing like it. Lawrence gardens so he doesn’t have to brood.’
‘About his daughter, you mean?’
‘He doted on her.’
‘I’m s
orry if I’ve stirred up painful memories.’
‘No. It’s not as if he ever forgets. He’s always waiting for her, and always wondering where he went wrong. But it’s better to be active. Digging and mending, sowing and picking.’
‘I understand.’
‘I suppose you do. But don’t go bringing hope into his life if it comes to nothing.’
‘I don’t mean to do that.’
‘Hope’s the thing that will destroy him. Remember that, and be a bit careful.’
On the train back, Frieda stared out of the window but saw nothing. She felt an ache of incompletion, of failure and, above all, of tiredness.
She made one last phone call. Then she would have done everything she could, she told herself, to rescue a girl she’d never met and to whom she had no connection, yet whose story had sunk its hooks into her mind.
‘Agnes?’ she said, when the woman answered. ‘This is Frieda Klein.’
‘You’ve found something?’
‘Nothing at all. I just wanted to ask you something.’
‘What?’
‘Apparently Lila knew a man called Shane. Does that ring a bell?’
‘Shane? No. I don’t think so. I met several of her new friends. Mostly at this grotty pub, the Anchor. They used to hang out there. Maybe there was someone called Shane but I don’t remember him. I don’t remember any of their names.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re not going to find her, are you?’
‘No. I don’t think I am.’