A Wayward Game (26 page)

Am I walking
into a trap? Does Neil know about it? Could he have a hand in it,
even?

No
, my
heart says. But my head replies, just as quickly,
How do you
know
? All this time I believed I was the dominant one in our
affair. But what if he has actually been controlling me, working me
like a puppet? Throughout all these months, I have been the one
asking him if he trusted me. Perhaps I should have asked if
I
could trust
him
.

At last, Neil
sleeps. London is uncannily quiet tonight; there are no sirens, no
raised voices in the street outside, and only the faintest drone of
traffic. I think of the city, stretching out around us, and what
lies beyond. I imagine the lonely, low-lying coastal plains to the
east, reaching out to the horizon until they are swallowed by the
North Sea. Tidesend. Tidesend.

I lie close to
Neil, trying to take comfort in his warmth and solidity, but
tonight it makes very little difference at all. I have never felt
as lonely as I do now. He is asleep and oblivious, and I might as
well be alone here. And – the thought is like a curse, like the
tolling of a funeral bell – if I cannot even trust my own lover,
then I truly am alone.

Or so I think,
at least; but at nine o’clock the next morning, shortly after Neil
has left for work, the intercom buzzes, and I look at the screen
and see a grainy, black-and-white image of Frieda. I let her in,
and she hauls herself up the stairs to the flat, dressed in scruffy
jeans and trainers. Her frizzy hair is tied back in a loose
ponytail, and she looks tough and resolute, like a woman preparing
for a fight.

“What are you
doing here?” I ask, as she clumps into the living room.

“I told you I
was coming,” she says, and sinks down onto the sofa. “If this
fellow’s got some information, I want to be here to find out about
it. When have you arranged to meet him?”

“Tomorrow
evening.”

“Where?”

“A place called
Tidesend.”

“Tidesend?
Where the hell’s that?”

“It’s out in
Essex. I’m going to drive out there today to take a look around.” I
try to keep my voice light and unconcerned as I add, “Fancy coming
with me?”

“Nothing would
keep me away, Katherine. This is my damn business too, don’t
forget.”

We drive out
into one of those blank and weatherless days that are common in
Britain: a sky covered with pearl-grey clouds, with no wind, no
rain, and no sun. We crawl through the city streets, and then begin
to move faster as the housing estates and industrial parks slowly
give way to fields and meadows. Frieda, sitting in the passenger
seat with a road atlas open on her knees, occasionally shouts out
directions. Normally this would be fun: getting out of London for
the day, going out into the country, leaving everything behind.
Today, though, I feel gloomy and tense. The Essex countryside is a
flat table, staring blankly up at the sky. I think of the estuary
to the south, the water of the Thames spilling out into the North
Sea. Joseph Conrad lived in this area, I remember; the estuary was
the setting for the opening section of
Heart of Darkness
.
Savagery is everywhere, as is the darkness. I’d do well to remember
that.

Eventually I
see the signpost for Tidesend, and we turn off the main road and
begin to drive along a quiet country byway. On either side, the
flat coastal land stretches out for mile after monotonous mile,
broken only by the occasional village or roadside pub.

“Christ,”
Frieda snorts – she is used to low valleys and airy mountains –
“what a dump.”

“It’s not that
bad. A bit desolate.”

“This fellow
you’re going to meet – do you think he’s genuine?”

“God, I hope
so. I wouldn’t fancy running into a madman, or one of Sallow’s
henchmen, out here, of all places.”

“Jesus.”
Frieda’s bleak eyes sweep across the lonely landscape. “If you
disappeared out here, you’d never be seen again.”

I shiver
beneath my leather jacket. We are both thinking of Diane, I
know.

The village of
Tidesend is a miserable collection of gloomy redbrick houses,
rundown shops and industrial premises, transected by a railway line
that runs from London to the coast. We stop for some coffee in what
appears to be the heart of the village, and stand outside for a
while, looking out over the fields and coastal flats. A thin
easterly breeze whines through the streets, bringing a chill with
it, a hint of oncoming autumn. Despite my fears, I’m comforted by
Frieda’s strong, solid presence by my side. She, at least, could
never be accused of having secret motives or malign intentions. She
is as straight and simple as an arrow; her love for her daughter
lends her a direct and unstoppable energy.

“Thanks for
coming with me today, Frieda,” I say quietly.

I sense that
the comment embarrasses her; she shuffles a little, and sniffs.

“Wouldn’t leave
you to come out here alone,” she says at last. “Wouldn’t do that to
you.”

I drive through
the village, as Lurker told me to, and find the lonely road that
leads down to the estuary. As we drive, the straggling remnants of
the village – the pubs, houses, and industrial areas – disappear,
and we are surrounded once more by featureless, windswept flats.
Then, just as we round a corner and the estuary comes into sight,
gleaming dully in front of us, I see the tumbledown, burnt-out
cottage Lurker told me about. It’s surrounded by trees and knotted
undergrowth, and it looks as though nobody has lived inside for
decades. I pull in at the side of the road and look across at the
building, but don’t turn the engine off.

“Well,” Frieda
says, “this is the place, then.”

“Yes.”

She looks at
me. “You’re frightened, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” I clutch
the steering wheel until my knuckles turn pale. “God, look at this
place. Why the hell does he want to meet me out
here
?
There’s nothing here at all, for God’s sake.”

“He wanted to
meet you somewhere quiet, you said.”

“Somewhere
quiet, maybe. Not somewhere like this.”

“Look,
Katherine, the guy’s nervous. He doesn’t want anyone following or
listening. If I were him, I’d choose somewhere like this too.” She
touches my shoulder. “This could be genuine. And if there’s even a
tiny chance that it is, we have to check it out.”

“I know.”

“Don’t chicken
out on me, Katherine.”

“I won’t.”

“You’d better
not.” Frieda looks at me, long and hard, and then suddenly her face
softens, and she gives me a curiously gentle smile. “Cool it, girl.
There’s nothing to be gained from sitting out here giving ourselves
the creeps. Turn the car around, and let’s go back to the
village.”

I do as she
says, and we head back to Tidesend. It seems almost welcoming,
strangely enough, after the estuary. I pull into a pub car park,
stop the car, and turn off the engine.

“Look,” Frieda
says, “you don’t have to face this alone, all right? I’ll come with
you.”

“He’s arranged
to meet just me, Frieda. He’ll run a mile if he sees anyone else
there.”

“I won’t wait
there with you. I’ll wait in the car.”

“He’ll see
you.”

She thinks this
over.

“Did you see
those trees just outside the cottage?” she says at last. “I could
hide out there. If we get there early, before he arrives, I can
find a place where he won’t see me.”

“I don’t see
how that’s going to help.”

“Look,” she
says, “while we’re waiting, you can call me. We’ll keep our phones
switched on, with the line open. Put yours in your bag or pocket,
where I’ll hear what’s going on. If anything happens, scream your
head off, and I’ll bolt out there and brain the bastard.”

I smile in
spite of myself. “I think it might be better if you just call the
police. I don’t want to risk a criminal conviction on top of
everything else.”

“If there’s one
thing the past eight years have taught me it’s that the police are
fucking useless. I prefer to rely on my own muscle.” She pats my
arm in an almost maternal way. “Don’t you worry, Katherine. I won’t
let you come to any harm. And just think: if this bloke’s genuine,
we might know the truth before too long.”

“God, I hope
so.”

“It’s worth a
try,” she says, and undoes her seatbelt. “Anyway, I’m bloody
starving. They do pub meals here. Come on, girl. My treat.”

The pub is
crowded with workers taking their midday break, wolfing down
Ploughman’s lunches and microwaved lasagne and chips. We sit down
at a corner table, near a spotty youth who’s crouched over a slot
machine. Soft rock drifts over the sound system. I try to take
comfort in the normality of the scene, to convince myself that
nothing really bad could ever happen in such a prosaic place as
Tidesend. But that’s a lie, and flies in the face of everything
I’ve learned about the world. Horror lurks in the most banal of
places, and you can’t escape from it. There’s danger here, and
country pubs and pints of ale are not the kind of charms that might
avert it.

That evening,
shortly after I get back to Spitalfields, the telephone rings.

“Katherine?”
Neil’s voice asks when I pick up the receiver.

“Yes. Hi.”

“Where have you
been? You haven’t answered the phone all day.”

“I’ve been out.
Researching a story, you know.”

“Oh, right.” He
sounds disappointed. “Any problems?”

“No. Why would
there be?”

He pauses. “I
just wondered if maybe—”

“If maybe one
of your mysterious stalkers has been following me? No, I don’t
think so. Or if he has, he’s been clever enough to stay well
hidden. But then you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

There’s a
moment of taut silence.

“Katherine?
What the hell’s wrong with you?”

And what can I
say to that? What can I tell him? This telephone call, and his
apparent concern, could just be another trick. If so, he’s being
unnecessarily cruel. I feel tears prickling in my eyes, and blink
furiously.

“Nothing’s
wrong,” I say in a softer voice. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Do you need
anything?”

“No. No,
thanks.”

“All right. See
you on Saturday evening, then. If you want to.”

“Yes.” If I’m
still around on Saturday evening, I add silently. And if I am,
perhaps I’ll know who I can trust by then.

“See you,
then.”

“See you, Neil.
Goodbye.”

He hangs up,
and I dab angrily at my tears with my sleeve.

“All right,”
Frieda mutters the next evening, as the car crawls back towards the
estuary and the ruined cottage. “This is where I get out.”

I stop the car
just around the corner, before we get within sight of the
cottage.

“I’ll get as
close as I can without being seen,” Frieda says, taking off her
seatbelt. She pats her pockets to make sure she’s got everything.
“Remember, if there’s any trouble, bloody scream the place down.
Got the spray?”

I touch my
jacket pocket, where I’ve hidden a canister of self-defence spray.
Frieda gave it to me this morning when she arrived at my flat. “Aim
for the bastard’s eyes,” she told me grimly. “It’ll put him out of
action for a couple of minutes, and give you time to run like
hell.” God only knows where she got it; it may not even be legal,
for all I know. Still, I can’t deny that having it there makes me
feel safer.

“Don’t you
hesitate to use it if you have to,” she tells me. “And remember,
call me when you’re in position, and don’t fucking hang up. I’ll be
as quiet as a mouse, but if there’s any sign of trouble I’ll be
there in a second.”

“Okay.” I try
to smile, but I’m sure it looks as false as it feels.

“It’ll be all
right,” Frieda says. Her voice is not soft and reassuring, but
fierce, determined; these are not comforting words, but a simple
statement of fact. She leans forward and gives me a quick, tight
hug. “Look, I’m sick to death of waiting and being afraid, all
right? Let’s have at ’em, see what they’re made of. Anything’s
better than limbo. But don’t you worry, Katherine. I lost Diane to
the bastards. I won’t let them take you too.”

She opens the
car door and climbs out, and I watch as she sneaks off through the
evening, in the direction of the trees and the cottage. She’s
wearing dark, tight clothes and trainers, and as I watch her I see
for the first time that Frieda is strong, her bulk made up not just
of fat but of muscle and sinew. I see the tension in her shoulders
and the grim set of her face, but she isn’t afraid; she’s resolute,
determined. I shouldn’t be surprised, of course. She’d lie down in
the road, throw herself in the river or drink poison, if doing any
of those things could help her find out what happened to Diane. She
moves surprisingly quickly and quietly, until she nears the clump
of trees and slips amongst them like a shadow.

I drive on the
short distance to the cottage, and park the car by the side of the
road. I sit still for a moment, looking at the grey water of the
estuary and the grey shores of Kent on the other side. There’s
nobody and nothing else around, as far as I can see. There are no
houses nearby. The road leads nowhere, and no other cars pass by.
There isn’t even a boat on the river. I wonder how Lurker will get
out here. He told me that he didn’t drive, and there can’t be any
buses that come out here, so presumably he’ll have to walk.

I take my cell
phone out of my pocket, and tap in Frieda’s number.

“All right,” I
say when she answers. “I’m just taking up my position now.”

“Okay. I’ll be
watching and listening.”