Nicci French: Waiting for Wednesday

Coming out on to a wider road, Frieda saw something in the distance – a bulky shape moving towards her, surely human but larger and stranger than any human could possibly be. It was like a figure from her nightmares and she pressed her hand against her heart and waited as it came closer and closer, and then at last resolved into a man slowly pedalling a bike, with dozens, hundreds, of plastic bags tied to its frame. She knew him, saw him most days. He had a wild beard and glaring eyes and cycled with slow determination. He wavered past, staring blindly through her, like Father Christmas in a bad dream.

It was no use. Dean Reeve, her stalker and her quarry, could be anywhere by now. Sixteen months ago, she had helped unmask him as a child-abductor and murderer, but he had escaped capture and killed himself. Two months ago, she had discovered that he had never died: the man who had hung from a bridge on the canal was in fact his twin, Alan, who had once been Frieda’s patient. Dean was still in the world somewhere, watching over her, protective and deadly. It was he who had saved her life when she had been attacked by a disturbed young woman with a knife, though Mary Orton, the old woman Frieda had come to rescue, had died. He had slid out of the shadows, like a creature from her own worst dreams, and hauled her back from the darkness. Now he was telling her that he was still watching over her, a loathed protector. She could feel his eyes on her, from hidden corners, in the twitch of a curtain or the chink in a door. Was this how it would always be?

She made her way back to her house, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. She picked up the envelope once more and went with it into the kitchen. She knew she wouldn’t get back to sleep so she made herself tea, and only when it was brewed did she sit at the kitchen table and run her finger under the gummed flap. She drew out the stiff paper inside, and laid it on the table. It was a pencil drawing or, rather, a pattern. It looked a bit like the mathematical rendering of an intricate rose, eight-sided and perfectly symmetrical. The straight lines had obviously been done with a ruler and, examining it more closely, Frieda could see marks where mistakes had been rubbed out.

She sat for some time, staring down at the image that lay in front of her, her expression stern, then she carefully slid the paper back inside the envelope. Rage crackled through her, like fire, and she welcomed it. Better to be burned by anger than drowned by fear. So she sat in its flames, unmoving, until morning came.

Many miles away, Jim Fearby poured himself a glass of whisky. The bottle was less than a third full. Time to buy another. It was like petrol. Never let the tank get less than a quarter full. You might run out. He took the old newspaper clipping from his wallet and flattened it on the desk. It was yellowing and almost disintegrating after all the foldings and unfoldings. He knew it by heart. It was like a talisman. He could see it when he closed his eyes.

MONSTER ‘MAY NEVER BE RELEASED’

JAMES FEARBY

There were dramatic scenes at Hattonbrook Crown Court yesterday as convicted murderer, George Conley, was sentenced to life imprisonment for killing Hazel Barton. Justice Lawson told Conley, 31: ‘This was an atrocious crime. Despite pleading guilty, you have shown no remorse and it is my belief that you remain a danger to women and may never be safe to be released.’

As Justice Lawson ordered Conley to be taken down, there were shouts from the victim’s family in the public gallery. Outside the court, Clive Barton, Hazel’s uncle, told reporters: ‘Hazel was our beautiful young treasure. She had her whole life in front of her and he took that away from her. I hope he rots in hell.’

Hazel Barton, a blonde eighteen-year-old schoolgirl, was found strangled in May of this year near her home in the village of Dorlbrook. Her body was found by the roadside. George Conley was arrested near the scene. He had left traces on her body and he confessed within days.

Speaking afterwards, Detective Inspector Geoffrey Whitlam offered his condolences to the Barton family: ‘We can only guess the living hell they have gone through. I hope that the speedy resolution of this thorough investigation can bring them a measure of closure.’ He also paid tribute to his colleagues: ‘It is my belief that George Conley is a dangerous sexual predator. He belongs behind bars and I want to thank my team for putting him there.’

It is alleged that Hazel Barton was walking alone because her bus had failed to arrive. A spokeswoman for FastCoach, the local bus operator, commented: ‘We offer all condolences to Hazel Barton’s family. We are fully committed to maintaining an effective service for our customers.’

Under the headline were two photographs. The first was the mug shot of Conley, released by the police. His large face was blotchy; there was a bruise on his forehead; one eye was askew. The other was a family photo of Hazel Barton. It must have been taken on holiday because she was wearing a T-shirt and the sea was visible behind her. She was laughing as if the photographer had just made a joke.

Fearby carefully read through his seven-year-old report, running his forefinger along the lines. He sipped his whisky. Almost every word in the report was untrue. FastCoach did not provide an effective service for their customers. And, anyway, they were passengers, not customers. Whitlam’s investigation had not been thorough. Even his own byline looked wrong. Only his mother had ever called him James. And the headline – which he hadn’t written, and wouldn’t have written, even at the time – was the most wrong of all. Poor old Georgie Conley was many things but he wasn’t a monster, and now it looked like he was going to be released.

Fearby carefully folded the clipping and replaced it in his wallet, behind his press card. A precious relic.

When Sasha arrived at a quarter to nine on Thursday morning, Frieda had just finished watering the plants on her small patio. She was wearing jeans and an oatmeal-coloured pullover, and there were rings under her eyes, which looked darker and fiercer than usual.

‘Bad night?’ asked Sasha.

‘No.’

‘I’m not sure I believe you.’

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

‘Do we have time? My car’s on a meter for another quarter of an hour, but we need to get to the hospital for half past nine. The traffic’s dreadful.’

Sasha had insisted on taking the day off work to bring Frieda to her follow-up appointment with the consultant and then with the physiotherapist.

‘We’re not going to the hospital.’

‘Why? Have they cancelled?’

‘No. I have.’

‘What made you do that?’

‘There’s something else I need to do.’

‘You have to go to see your doctor, Frieda. And the physio. You’ve been very ill. You nearly died. You can’t just walk away from all the follow-up care.’

‘I know what the doctor will say: that I’m making progress but that I mustn’t think about going back to work yet, because for the time being, making a good recovery is my work. You know the sort of things we doctors tell our patients.’

‘That sounds a bit negative.’

‘Anyway, there’s something more important I have to do.’

‘What could be more important than getting better?’

‘I thought I’d show you rather than tell you. Unless you want to go to work after all.’

Sasha sighed. ‘I’ve taken the day off. I’d like to spend it with you. Let’s have that coffee.’

The road narrowed into a lane lined with trees that were freshly in bud. Frieda noticed the blackthorn. She stared fixedly: some things change and some things remain the same. But you never remain the same – you look at everything through different eyes so that even the most familiar object takes on a strange and ghostly cast. That small thatched cottage with a muddy pond full of ducks in front of it, that sudden stretch of road winding down over a patchwork of fields, or the farmhouse with its silos and its muddy enclosure of cows, and the line of spindly poplars ahead. Even the way the light fell on this flattened landscape, and the faint tang of the sea.