Saturday Requiem (33 page)

Mary Hoyle lies awake, happy in the knowledge of what is happening elsewhere. It’s like she’s doing it with her own hands, as if she’s wielding the blades herself.

And then she’s asleep and then, for a moment, she doesn’t know if she’s awake or asleep. She can feel a pressure on her chest and on her neck. A face is looking down at her, eyes looking into hers, as if in curiosity.

‘Look,’ says Hannah Docherty.

Look at what?

‘The children,’ says Hannah Docherty. ‘Think of children.’

Mary Hoyle could say to Hannah Docherty: I think of the children every night. I think of them and I don’t care. But she can’t say it and she can’t call out or scream because there is something around her neck, a cord or a wire. Her arms are flapping helplessly, uselessly. It’s all too late.

She wonders how Hannah Docherty can be here and she sees a glimmer of keys, a rattle.

She sees a flash of something else. She sees that it is metal and that it is a blade and then she has time to wonder if it is one of those blades, the Stanley knife, the scalpel … What were the others? Hannah Docherty leans in close. Sweet breath. A flash of the blade.

‘Your blood,’ says Hannah. ‘You’re tasting.’

Yes. It is wet and warm and tastes of iron.

‘Think of the children,’ says Hannah. ‘You’re first I’ve killed. First.’

First. That sounds strange to Mary Doyle. And it’s the last word she hears and Hannah Docherty’s face, blurry in the darkness, is the last face she sees.

As soon as she arrived at Chelsworth Hospital, Frieda knew something was wrong. Everyone seemed to be expecting her, yet how could that be? She’d called Josef from the police station and he’d driven her straight there and for once she hadn’t objected when he broke the speed limit. It had felt, after Hannah’s thirteen years of incarceration, as if every minute counted. At Reception, the man behind the desk just nodded when he heard her name and lifted the phone. He said that Christian Mendoza and Charles Stamoran would see her immediately. He gave her the pass and she was led through the security barriers, down corridors, up the winding staircase, and into Mendoza’s large and light-filled office.

‘How did you know?’ asked Mendoza. He was thin-lipped and sombre; he wasn’t wearing his round spectacles and his eyes looked small and defenceless. She saw he still had on his bow-tie.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Frieda. It felt like the wrong question.

‘How did you know about Hannah?’

‘I always felt there had been a miscarriage of justice, but I’ve only just found out exactly what happened. How did
you
know?’

Mendoza peered at her as though he were having trouble making her out clearly. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m just puzzled how you already knew I had discovered the real murderer. I’ve told no one, so who told you?’

‘I think you should sit down,’ said Stamoran, uneasily.

‘I’d like to see Hannah at once.’

‘You don’t know about her?’ Mendoza frowned.

‘I know that the officer in charge of the inquiry thirteen years ago killed the Docherty family and framed Hannah. I know that Hannah has been held here for thirteen years for a crime she didn’t commit.’

‘You’re too late,’ said Stamoran, in a soft voice.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We thought you were here because you’d heard.’

‘Heard what?’ Neither of the men answered. ‘Heard
what
?’

Mendoza looked down at some papers on his desk, then back up at Frieda before speaking.

‘Last night, Hannah Docherty injured two other patients.’

‘Severely,’ said Stamoran.

‘Yes, very severely,’ said Mendoza. ‘She then gained entrance to the secure room where a woman called Mary Hoyle was being kept. She stabbed her with a Stanley knife.’

‘Is she badly hurt?’ asked Frieda.

‘Oh, she’s dead,’ said Stamoran.

‘So,’ said Mendoza, ‘your news makes no difference.’

‘Last night,’ said Frieda. She looked out of the large window, onto the lawns and beyond them the woodland. She had imagined walking out of here one day with Hannah by her side, taking her back into the world. She could feel the blood beating in her temples.

‘The hospital’s in lockdown,’ said Mendoza.

‘You knew she was being bullied and abused,’ said Frieda to him. ‘You saw her covered in bruises, with a broken rib. You let it continue.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘This isn’t the end. Hannah was pushed beyond what any human could endure: beaten up, drugged, placed for
weeks on end in solitary confinement. Whatever terrible things she did last night, she cannot be held responsible for them.’

‘It’s not about fault,’ said Stamoran. ‘It’s about capacity.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you think any doctor, legal body or politician in the country would find her fit to be released?’

‘Listen.’ Frieda put both hands on the wooden surface and leaned towards the two men. ‘Thirteen years ago, when she was barely an adult, Hannah’s entire family were savagely murdered. Imagine how she would have felt. And then she was charged with the crimes and found guilty. Imagine that. She was sent here, to be kept safe from herself and from others, to be cured, and has been repeatedly assaulted and tortured. Do you think I’m going to walk away from this?’

‘I’ve no idea what you’ll do,’ said Mendoza.

‘I want to see Hannah.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

‘I don’t care what you think. I want to see her. I’m not leaving until I do.’

‘Why not?’ said Mendoza, suddenly. ‘What harm can it do now?’

Hannah was in the same little room as she had been the last time Frieda and Andrew Berryman had seen her, and was sitting hunched up in the far corner, her knees under her chin, her arms around them, her hands pushed into the opposite sleeves of her oversized top, her matted tangle of dark hair hanging over her face, like a curtain.

‘You can go,’ said Frieda to the male nurse.

‘It’s not safe.’

‘Ask Dr Mendoza if you need his permission. Or watch us through the grille if it makes you happier.’

Frieda stepped into the room and the door shut with a small clang. Hannah didn’t move. There was a heavy, rancid smell in the room: blood, sweat, shit, fear.

Frieda sat on the floor beside Hannah. ‘I know what happened last night.’

From behind the greasy fall of hair she heard a muttering sound, but could make out no words.

‘Can you hear what I’m saying, Hannah?’

Hannah lifted her head. Her face was mashed almost beyond recognition, her nose swollen, one ear bandaged, a stitched gash running like a terrible smile from her mouth. There was blood even on her teeth. Her dark eyes glittered.

‘I know about it,’ said Frieda. ‘I know why you did what you did.’

Hannah took her hands from her sleeves and held them out. At first Frieda thought they were still red with the blood of her victims, but then she saw that they were lacerated and bruised, with a torn nail.

‘I showed them,’ she said, in her low voice, gravelly from disuse.

Frieda tried to keep her face clear of expression. ‘I want you to listen,’ she said, slowly and clearly. ‘I came this morning about something else. I know who killed your family, Hannah. I know it wasn’t you and so do other people now.’

She looked across. Hannah was staring straight ahead. Frieda took Hannah’s face in her hands. ‘Just once, I want you to look at me. Look me in the eyes as I say what I’m going to say.’ And the two women looked at each other as
Frieda told her what she’d discovered, and Frieda felt she was speaking to herself as well as to Hannah.

When she had finished, Hannah made no response. Frieda put out a hand to touch her arm. ‘Your mother loved you, in spite of everything that had happened between you. She was worried and that’s why, that evening, after she’d talked to Justine Walsh, she went to find you.’ She had started the story hesitatingly, but now she felt on sure ground. She knew how it had all unfolded, could almost see it. ‘The alibi you gave was true, though of course no one believed it, because no one knew she wasn’t the woman lying in bed beside your stepfather. She loved you, and you loved her. You didn’t kill her.’

Hannah made a small noise, like the beginning of a word, then stopped. Her eyes shone in her ruined face, her ripped mouth worked.

‘And you didn’t kill Aidan. However complicated your feelings were towards your stepfather, you didn’t harm him.’

She stopped. Silence filled the little room. Frieda could feel the tick of her heart.

‘You didn’t kill Rory,’ she said softly.

‘No,’ said Hannah – or Frieda thought that was the word she had spoken.

‘You always looked after Rory. You protected him. You fought for him. You didn’t kill him.’

‘Not me,’ said Hannah. Perhaps it was a question.

‘Nothing can bring him back, or your mother. Nothing can bring back your lost years. But I want you to know that, although last night you killed a woman, I will do everything in my power to help you leave this place.’

It was very still in the room, and the floor was cold. The lights above them flickered briefly.

‘Hannah, do you understand?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘It does.’

‘No.’ As if she was the one who was the comforter, Hannah took Frieda’s smooth hand in her cut and swollen one. ‘All done.’

Frieda asked Josef to drop her at St Pancras station and from there she walked towards the little church. It was drizzling, but that didn’t matter. In the twilight, the world around was grey, with a low, dull sky and the outlines of buildings blurred. Frieda walked into the churchyard, under the great plane trees, past the monuments and graves, and was at last in front of the Hardy Tree. One hundred and fifty years ago, graves had been moved to make room for the railway line, and now stood in an overcrowded circle around an ash tree, whose roots dug down into the bodies beneath. It was like a small city of the dead. She didn’t think, but thoughts drifted through her; she didn’t feel, but emotions shifted in her blood.

Frieda stood for a long time, staring at the tree, until the light faded. The wind blew in squalls across the grass, and clouds billowed in the dark sky. She turned, and as she did so, she saw them through the dusk. Five figures walking towards her – no, seven. Behind Reuben, Josef, Sasha, Chloë and Jack came Karlsson on his crutches and Yvette walking beside him. Josef must have gathered them all.

She waited as they made their way through the gravestones towards her. No one said anything, for what was there to say? Karlsson took off his coat and draped it round her shoulders. Sasha took her arm. Chloë gave one loud sob, then stopped herself. Frieda looked from face to face.

‘You’re done,’ said Reuben.

The fire was lit. She had a glass of whisky beside her and now she sat at her little chess table. She would play through an old game, clear her mind of everything except the felted click of the pieces, the mathematical reconfigurations, advances and retreats. But she couldn’t quite settle. There was a faint odour in the air, a sweet stench. She moved through the rooms, trying to work out where it was coming from, and at last rang Josef.

‘Sorry, I know it’s late.’

‘I help?’ Always so eager.

‘I think there might be something up with my pipes. Or maybe I’ve got mice or something. Can you help?’

‘I come now.’

‘Tomorrow’s fine.’

‘Now,’ Josef said, and the phone went dead.

‘Is not pipes,’ he said, sniffing the air suspiciously. ‘Is here.’

They were standing in the living room.

‘Could a rat have got under the floorboards? And died?’

‘Is possible.’

Josef knelt down on the floor and looked where it touched the wall. He licked his finger and dabbed at a joint between the floorboards. He lifted and showed it to Frieda.

‘What’s that?’

‘Sawdust.’

‘It must be left over from the work you did.’

‘Not me,’ said Josef. ‘Is fresh.’ He opened one of the large tool cases he had brought. He took out a crowbar and a heavy screwdriver, then everything became grainy and slow, happening far off and happening close up, in her home, under her feet. He levered up a board. Frieda could hear him saying something, in a hoarse whisper, which she couldn’t make out, and then her senses were overwhelmed by the foul smell,
spilling upwards. There was a white tennis shoe. A grey-yellow ankle. A heaving billow of maggots. A hand holding a shrivelled daffodil. A face of puddled flesh, whose mouth slipped and whose open eyes stared in dead surprise. Bruce Stringer looking up at her with yellowy dead eyes.

‘Dean,’ said Frieda.

‘No, Frieda,’ said Josef, still whispering. ‘Is that man. Stringer.’

‘Dean Reeve did this to him. To me. For me.’

Frieda heard Josef’s voice on the phone calling the police. She knelt beside the hole and closed her eyes and then she opened her eyes and made herself look at the mouth pulled open into a rotting smile. She stood up and stepped back until she felt the wall against her, holding her up. She was aware of Josef saying things to her, but she couldn’t respond, couldn’t make out what he was saying. And then there was a scrape of tyres outside, flashing lights outside her front window, heavy footsteps. The world outside was coming for her.