Saturday Requiem (19 page)

‘The Dochertys,’ said Rick, coming straight to the point. ‘This is so weird. You can’t imagine how weird. Isn’t it weird, Saul?’

Saul nodded.

‘Were you close to them?’

‘I was really close to Rory when we were little. We did everything together. I got him into all sorts of trouble. I once persuaded him to nick some sweets from the shop down the road. When he died, I wanted to move house. I couldn’t stand being next door to where it had all happened. It was like I couldn’t escape it.’

‘I wanted to ask something rather painful and grim,’ Frieda said. ‘Do you remember Guy Fiske?’

Rick lifted both hands as if to ward off the suggestion. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I know what you’re going to say. Fiske did lots of awful things. But not that. Surely not.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Frieda. ‘But I’m wondering how you could possibly know that. He did teach Rory.’

‘He never came anywhere near me,’ Rick said. ‘Really. I’d have known if he’d done anything to Rory. Wouldn’t I?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Or Rory would have said something. At least to his mother.’

Saul was listening closely. He looked nervous and sad. Frieda remembered his father describing him as the good schoolboy, the nerd, whom Hannah had protected.

‘What was Hannah’s relationship with Rory like?’ She was asking Saul but it was Rick who answered.

‘Rory adored her. He was a shy boy. He didn’t have the easiest time at school. I didn’t help him either. I was his best friend at home, but at school I looked the other way. Some mate, eh? That’s one of those things I can never make right, but at least nowadays I can face up to it. But Hannah, she was his protector. You wouldn’t want to cross her. I’ve met people like her in hospital. She didn’t have a safety valve or a thermostat – she didn’t know when to stop, or how to stop. I guess that’s what happened that night. She didn’t stop.’ He rubbed the side of his face. ‘It’s really hard to think about it,’ he said. ‘It’s something that didn’t happen to us and yet it marked us all for ever, if that makes sense.’

Frieda nodded. Sebastian returned with two extra glasses and a bottle of red wine that he put carefully on the table. He patted Saul on the shoulder, then left again. Frieda looked at Saul, meeting his eyes.

‘She was the nicest person I’ve ever met,’ he said at last.

‘Was she?’

‘She hated cruelty. She hated bullies.’

‘She was found guilty of murdering her entire family.’

‘They said she was mad.’

‘Did you ever think, towards the end, that she was?’

‘Unhappy. Angry. All over the place. Not mad. I must have been wrong. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’ He paused; Frieda could see him swallowing. She knew he was preparing to ask her something. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she coping?’

‘No.’

She saw his nervous face twist.

‘I should have gone myself. Will you see her again?’

‘I will.’

‘Can you tell her that Saul is thinking of her? That he hasn’t forgotten about her?’

‘You again.’ It was the younger nurse, bulky and sullen and beetle-browed, with a smell of tobacco and sweat about him.

‘That’s right.’

‘You didn’t say you were coming.’

‘I don’t need to say. I’ve got clearance.’

‘She’s not in the right frame of mind for visitors.’

‘Let me be the judge of that. I know what’s happening here.’

‘You should be careful of what you say.’

‘And you should know – everyone here who has a duty of care towards Hannah should know – that I am keeping an eye on her.’

Later that evening, when Frieda was in bed reading, her mobile rang.

‘Hello?’ There was a sniggering, snuffling sound at the other end. In the background she could hear laughter. ‘Who is this?’

‘Jason. Jason Brenner. Hannah’s old mate.’ He sounded drunk or stoned, his voice slurred.

‘What is it? Is there something you want to tell me about her?’

‘Yeah. You told me if there was something important I remembered, I should call you.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I remembered I used to make her suck my dick.’ The laughter in the background grew louder. ‘Are you still there? She wasn’t keen but she did it. That’s what. A mass murderess sucked my dick.’

Frieda hung up.

It took her many hours to get to sleep and then before it was light she woke again suddenly and sat up in bed, alert and with a feeling of excitement. It was as if someone had shaken her, or a sound had disturbed her. But she was alone and the room was quiet, just the sound of wind outside and in the distance the faint hum of traffic. And yet she knew that something had woken her. A thought, an idea, a memory.

She pulled her duvet up to her chin and closed her eyes, thinking, concentrating, trying to remember, trying to hold on to the shape that was just at the edge of her vision, sliding back into the shadows. And then, like a flash of brightness, she had it. She looked at the clock by her bed and saw it was nearly three. She told herself that it made no sense to go now: nothing was going to change in the few hours before daylight, but she knew that she wouldn’t go back to sleep, not with this shimmer in her brain.

So at half past three Frieda walked out of her house. She emerged from her little hidden mews and headed west. As she walked towards Marylebone, she didn’t notice the blocks of flats, the hotels, the town houses. As always there were people around, taxis, the rumble of traffic from Euston Road. By ten to four she was on the night bus, which was empty save for one young woman in a headscarf sitting at the
front. By half past four she was in Walthamstow and inserting the key into the heavy lock of the workshop, pulling open the door. She felt for the light switch and then blinked in its sudden dazzle. Behind her the wet yard gleamed; occasional spots of rain still fell.

Frieda went inside and clanged the door shut. She crossed to the boxes and pulled the one filled with clothes into the centre of the shed, directly under the light. She took out the sweatshirt, the strappy top, the flecked jersey and the men’s trousers, and there it was. A brightly patterned coil of material: not a scarf, after all, but a bandanna.

At a quarter past six, she was standing outside Seamus Docherty’s house. No lights were on and all the curtains were closed, but she rang the doorbell and then, after a minute or so, rapped the knocker assertively as well. Their dog was barking now. Upstairs, a light went on and then she heard shuffling feet.

‘What the hell?’ Seamus Docherty was wearing pyjama bottoms and a towelling robe that he held closed with one hand. His face was creased with sleep. The dog was beside him, making a gruff noise in its throat as if a bark was forming.

‘When you threw away all of the things you took from Deborah’s house, did you put anything in with it?’

‘What are you doing here? I was asleep.’

‘I need to know: did you throw away anything of your own at the same time?’

‘What? What are you on about?’

‘All the things you collected and then threw away.’

‘Yes. I heard what you said, I just didn’t understand it. What time is it?’

‘Did you throw away things that were yours as well?’

‘What? Why would I do that? I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a spring-clean. But this is ridiculous. Why are you standing on my doorstep in the middle of the night asking me what I might have thrown away thirteen years ago? Is there something wrong with you?’

‘It’s gone six.’

‘Oh, so that’s all right, then. Perfectly reasonable.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Why?’

‘There’s something I want to show you.’

Seamus Docherty stared at her. There were bags under his pale grey eyes and lines bracketing his mouth; his neck was thin and sinewy.

‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘Come in and show me whatever it is. Be quiet – I don’t want Brenda being woken. I don’t think you’d find her as reasonable as me.’

In the kitchen he filled a kettle, then splashed water over his face.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘What is it that brings you knocking at my door in the dark?’

Frieda put her hand into her pocket and pulled out the bandanna. ‘This.’

Seamus Docherty looked at it, his eyes narrowed. Then he looked at her. ‘So you’ve come here with a scarf. Why has that got anything to do with me or Deborah or the whole fucking history or anything at all, except –’ He stopped. Frieda saw his hands were trembling.

‘Because it’s Brenda’s.’

‘Brenda’s,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘And so bloody what?’

‘It was with all the stuff you threw away.’

‘And you know this how?’

‘You mean how do I know it belonged to Brenda?’

‘Yes. That. And how do you happen to know what I threw away thirteen years ago, after my son and ex-wife had been slaughtered by my daughter.’

‘She’s wearing it in the photo in your living room.’

‘Photo?’

‘Of you and Brenda and Rory sitting on a hay bale.’

‘This is unbelievable.’

‘So I need to find out –’

‘How do you know what I threw away?’ He thumped his hand on the kitchen table hard. Behind him the kettle was boiling.

‘That’s not the point here. The point is that, among all the things you took away from the house, or that my, um, source tells me were later thrown away there, there was this bandanna.’

‘And this is relevant how?’

‘That’s what I want to establish.’

‘Seamus, what’s going on?’ Brenda Docherty stood in the doorway in her plaid dressing-gown. Then she saw Frieda and, for a second or so, her face was blank. Then it hardened into an expression of hostility. ‘What are you doing in our house?’

‘She’s got a bandanna,’ said Seamus. He lowered himself into a chair by the table and propped his head on a hand. ‘She says it’s yours.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Frieda. She held it up.

‘How did you get that?’ asked Brenda.

‘It was with everything that came from Deborah and Aidan’s house after the murders.’

‘I don’t understand any of this,’ said Brenda. ‘Not how you came by it, not why it matters, not why you’re here. But, yes, it used to belong to me. I gave it to Hannah.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. She liked it and I gave it to her.’

‘When?’

‘Why on earth would I remember that?’

‘Shortly before her family was killed?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It must have been after the photo was taken that I saw, in which you’re wearing it. I think that must have been taken in the autumn of 2000. So after that.’

‘If you say so. Now, I think Seamus and I need to have showers.’

‘Odd.’

‘What do you mean,
odd
?’

‘In the year before the tragedy, I’m told that Hannah was wearing only black clothes. Goth. This doesn’t really fit in.’

‘What are you implying?’

‘Nothing. Thinking aloud.’ A wave of tiredness came over Frieda. ‘I’ll go now, but if you remember anything more about it, please tell me.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’ Brenda Docherty pulled the belt tighter on her dressing-gown.

‘Of course.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Want?’

‘Yes. Going around stirring up old pain and grief, poking into terrible things that should be left alone. What do you want to get from it?’

‘I want to find out what happened in that house thirteen years ago.’

‘What happened is that a sick and dangerous girl murdered her entire family. That’s what happened. What you’re
doing, in the name of truth or justice or whatever you want to call it, it’s cruel.’

There was an edge to her voice, of panic or rage. Frieda nodded at her. ‘I’m sorry I woke you both,’ she said. She picked up the bandanna from the table. ‘I hope it’s all right if I take this with me.’

Frieda leaned towards Hannah without touching her. ‘I’m Frieda. I visited you before. Do you remember?’

Hannah Docherty looked at her. Her face was bruised, one eye closed to a slit. Her hair was greasy. Her neck, above the shapeless navy sweatshirt, was still grimy. There was a cold sore at the corner of her mouth.

‘Hannah. You don’t need to say anything. I’m your friend.’

‘No one. No one.’

‘You’ve been alone for a very long time.’ Frieda kept her voice low and clear, enunciating each word carefully. She couldn’t tell if Hannah was following her. ‘I know that. You’ve had no one to talk to. But I am here and you can talk to me if you want to, or stay silent if you want to.’

Hannah did not respond, except for the trace of a frown crinkling her forehead. Frieda remembered the photos she had seen of her as a teenager, strong and full of life, with clear skin, bright eyes and glossy dark hair.

‘I’ve brought you some fruit. Even the security guards couldn’t find anything sinister with it.’

She lifted the satsumas and grapes out of the plastic bag and placed them on the table. Hannah stared and licked her lips. Then she put out a hand and touched a satsuma cautiously.

‘Have something now if you want.’

Hannah’s one good eye flickered towards her and then back at the fruit. Suddenly, she lifted the bunch of grapes and pushed it into her mouth, chewing frantically. Juice
dripped down her chin. After a few seconds she took the mangled bunch away from her face and held it out to Frieda. ‘You?’ she said, in her hoarse, rusty voice, the voice she never used, or that she used only to cry out with.

‘That’s kind of you. But it’s all for you, Hannah.’ She pulled the bandanna out of her pocket. ‘Did you used to wear this?’

Hannah gazed at it, then touched it with a forefinger. ‘Blue,’ she said. ‘Green.’

‘But did you wear it?’

Hannah didn’t answer. They sat awhile in silence. Then Frieda said, ‘Saul Tait said he’s thinking of you.’

Hannah made a sound. Frieda thought maybe it was a sob.

‘He said you were the nicest person he’d ever met.’ She waited. ‘I know you didn’t kill your family.’

Hannah put a hand up and covered half of her discoloured face. ‘Sssh,’ she said.

‘I know that you didn’t kill your mother or your stepfather. Or Rory,’ she added.

Hannah spread her fingers wide over her face.

‘A terrible thing has been done to your family and to you.’

Hannah moaned and bent over, her hair falling over her face.

‘If you can say anything to me about that time, it would help,’ continued Frieda. ‘Because I’m going to find out who did it.’ She waited and put a tentative hand on Hannah’s shoulder. ‘It wasn’t you. Do you understand?’

‘Rory?’

‘You didn’t kill Rory.’

Hannah put her arms round herself and started to rock back and forward, back and forward, a large, battered creature with matted, unwashed hair, making a faint keening noise. There was a kind of transcendental homelessness
about her. Frieda kept the hand on her shoulder. She wondered when Hannah had last been physically touched out of friendship and comfort.

‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘Why don’t I wash your hair for you?’

Hannah lifted her swollen face. ‘Hair?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’ She took her hand away and stood. ‘Wait here. They can’t say no.’ She thought how quickly she had started using a language of alienation – the staff had become ‘they’, anonymous and hostile.

They could say no, and they did, but half an hour later, Hannah and Frieda were in a small bathroom on the first floor. Hannah sat in a metal chair with its back against the basin, a coarse towel over her shoulders, her head tipped back. Frieda had managed to get hold of shampoo in an industrial-sized bottle and a black comb, missing several of its teeth. She also had a plastic jug. She turned on both taps and filled the jug.

‘Tell me if it’s too hot.’

She poured jug after jug of water over the heavy tangle of hair, running her fingers through it to separate out the knots. A small moan came from Hannah.

‘Too hot or cold?’

‘No.’ The word was almost a wail. ‘Please.’

‘Close your eyes. I don’t want you to get soap in them.’

Hannah shut her good eye. Frieda squirted shampoo on to her scalp and massaged it in, bringing thick coils of hair up into the lather. She felt the bones of Hannah’s skull and she watched her bruised face soften and her heavy body relax. She was thirty-one years old. All of her adult life had been lived in this place where she had been bullied,
ostracized, drugged, beaten, shut into a cell, abandoned to the torment of her own mind.

‘I talked to Jason Brenner,’ Frieda said. She could feel Hannah flinch and tense under her fingers. ‘He mentioned the River Effra. He said you loved the idea of it. Do you remember that?’

Frieda felt a slight movement under her hands. Was Hannah shaking her head? Was it a denial?

‘It’s something I share with you,’ said Frieda. ‘The idea of a river like the Effra, hidden, covered up, forgotten, but still flowing under the streets and pavements.’

Frieda wasn’t sure if Hannah was even listening to her. Was she just talking to herself? She rinsed off the shampoo and then repeated the process, then slid a hand under the back of Hannah’s head to lift her into an upright position. She rubbed her hair dry. Then, starting with the last few inches of the thick hair, she began to tease out the knots, pulling clumps of loose hair from the comb every few seconds. She remembered how she used to wash Chloë’s hair for her and how her niece had shouted and wriggled. Hannah sat quite still and Frieda couldn’t tell if she was enjoying or enduring the experience. Gradually the hair became smooth and sleek.

‘I think your face suits a side parting,’ said Frieda, remembering how Hannah looked in photos of her as a teenager. ‘There.’

She gathered Hannah’s hair in a thick, damp ponytail and tugged off the band tying her own hair back to secure it.

‘Do you want to see?’ she said. She gave Hannah a hand and pulled her to her feet, then turned her to face her reflection. The two women looked at Hannah in the mirror, taller and bulkier than Frieda, utterly shabby in her sweatshirt and her grubby drawstring trousers, with a discoloured face. She
stared at herself, then with a surprising delicacy lifted a hand and touched her cheek softly, her split lip.

‘Me,’ she whispered.

‘You, Hannah.’

Frieda sat by her fire with a tumbler of whisky. The wind blew in gusts against the window, and the flames threw strange shadows round the dimly lit room.

She thought about Shelley Walsh, her turbulent past and her ordered present, and in the background the mother who had never mothered her. She thought about Hannah Docherty, bruised and bowed over, and all the years she’d spent in a kind of Hell. And then other images came into her mind as she looked into the fire: those missing girls; Mary Orton, the old woman she had been unable to save; that fierce old journalist, Jim Fearby, who had died in his obsessive quest for the truth; Sandy, the man she had once loved, whom she had left, and who had been murdered. So many people she would never see again.

The cat came into the room and wound itself round her legs. Frieda bent down to scratch its chin and felt something missing under her fingers. She lifted the cat onto her lap: the thin leather collar was no longer there. She put the cat onto the floor and went to the front and then the back door, drawing the bolts shut, standing for a moment in the quietness of the hall, listening to the wind blow.