Текст книги "Friday on My Mind"

Автор книги: Nicci French

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Frieda didn’t reply.

‘I know that you’re going to say that anyone could do it. But he didn’t.’ Bridget paused, then began again in an angry tone: ‘Anyway, why am I defending myself to you? I just need to pick up the phone and the police will be here in two minutes and they’ll lock you up. Or are you going to stop me somehow?’

‘I’m not going to stop you,’ said Frieda. ‘If you want to call them, I’ll just sit here.’

Bridget glared at her. ‘Before I call them, is there anything you want to tell me or ask me?’

‘The police searched my house. They found Sandy’s wallet hidden in a drawer. Somebody must have put it there. Someone with a key to my house. Not many people have a key to my house. But you do.’

‘Do I? I didn’t know that.’

‘Do you want me to show you?’

‘You probably know more about what’s in my house than I do. I suppose you mean the keys I got from Sandy.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you want me to explain why I’ve got them.’

‘Yes.’

Suddenly Bridget laughed. ‘Let me get this straight. At the time you were wandering around South London with our tiny children while the police were hunting for you, you thought that Al, or maybe even Al and I together, like some kind of Bonnie and Clyde, murdered Sandy because of an argument in the office. And then, having killed him and disposed of the body, we decided to plant evidence in the house of his ex-lover, someone we’d never met and knew almost nothing about. Is that right?’

‘That was one possibility.’

Bridget looked around the garden as if she were only noticing it for the first time. ‘About three months ago, it was around one o’clock in the morning and I was sitting here. I was wearing a sweater, a thick jacket and woolly hat. And Sandy was sitting where you’re sitting now.’

‘At one in the morning?’

‘We talked here for a bit and then we started to feel cold. We felt we needed to move around. So we walked out of the house and down to Clapham Road and then we walked around the Common for an hour, I think, maybe more.’

‘Were you having an affair?’

Bridget flinched. ‘That’s the sort of moment when someone would slap you round the face. I was going to say “Carla”. It’s hard to shed an old habit. Frieda Klein. Frieda fucking Klein.’

‘Were you?’

‘He knocked on the door after midnight and woke me up. Al is a heavy sleeper. He was apologizing. He knew about the children and how little sleep we were getting. He said he was thinking of doing something stupid and he needed to talk to someone and I was the only person he could think of.’

‘You mean …’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yes. He was contemplating suicide.’

‘So we talked. He said a lot and I said a bit. Mainly I listened. Then he went home. But he gave me a set of keys, just in case. The ones you found.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘Mainly it was that he’d come back from the States for a relationship that had fallen apart and he didn’t think he was managing his life properly and he couldn’t see a way forward.’ She gave Frieda a look that had a flash of anger in it. ‘But I suppose you’re used to people lying on your couch and saying things like that to you.’

‘I don’t have a couch. What did you reply?’

‘Nothing clever. I said that it was hard to believe but it would pass. He just had to wait and trust in his friends.’

Frieda felt a pang. She should have been the one telling Sandy that. It was good advice and, in the end, that was what a lot of therapy for troubled people came down to. Just wait: gradually the pain will change and become more bearable. But she had been the cause of the pain.

‘Was it just once?’

‘It was only that extreme just the once. But we talked from time to time. Sometimes he would phone late at night.’

‘After all that, after all you did for him, wasn’t it a bit strange that he damaged Al’s career?’

‘Are you serious?’ said Bridget, in a tone of contempt that made Frieda wince. ‘You think we’re like that: I help you out when you’re in distress and, in return, you do my husband some kind of favour at work.’

‘He may have been trying to prove something.’

‘Like what?’

‘It can be difficult to be helped, to feel that someone has rescued you.’

‘You sound like you’ve got quite a low opinion of humanity.’

Frieda stood up. ‘You never know how people will react,’ she said. ‘Are you going to call the police now?’

‘Al didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.’ There was a long pause. ‘And I don’t think you did it.’

‘But someone did,’ said Frieda.

‘I know.’

‘And I need to find out who.’

‘We need to,’ said Bridget. ‘He was my friend. I won’t call the police.’

‘Have you told Al about me?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Not yet. I don’t think he’d be very understanding, though.’

She hadn’t told her husband about Sandy’s despair either, thought Frieda. There was a silence. Frieda looked at Bridget, her broad, sculpted face and her strong arms, and Bridget looked straight ahead, her hands clasped together. She seemed to be waiting.

‘Can you help me?’ Frieda said at last, softly.

Bridget looked round then, eyebrows raised. Her anger seemed to have evaporated. She was sad instead; sad and weary. ‘I’ve got young children. I can’t do the sort of things you do.’

‘There only needs to be one of me,’ said Frieda.

‘I can’t believe I’m doing this. Next time I’m going to insist on proper references.’

21

Josef was very hot. He was up in the loft of the Belsize Park house, inserting insulation foam between the wall cavities. Although there were skylights in the roof, through which the sun poured, there was also an extra-bright Anglepoise light rigged up to shine into the corners. Josef felt that he was trapped between its heat and the sun’s. There was grit in his eyes, a sheen of sweat and dust on his skin. His hair was damp and his feet itched.

Near him, another man was hammering the wall partitions back into place. He struck each nail with a loud, precise first blow, then followed it with a series of brisk taps that reminded Josef of a woodpecker. The man was solid, with muscles that rippled in his arms, and a shaven head that every so often he would wipe with a large cloth.

For the most part, they worked in silence, except to grunt a few words to each other – about the heat, the dust, the wealth of the owners who were ripping apart a perfectly good house in order to erect another inside its shell. Yesterday the man – his name was Marty – had had a radio with him but today he was empty-handed. They could hear the sounds of other builders beneath them: music, curses, the ugly shriek of a saw on metal.

At eleven Marty laid down his hammer. ‘I’m going for a smoke. Coming?’

Josef nodded and gratefully straightened up. They went down the several flights of stairs, through rooms, most of which were like their own mini building sites, and out into the garden. It was long for a London garden and sloped upwards towards the back wall between high trellises, and it, too, was evidently a work in progress. The two men sat on a step beside what would one day be the paved barbecue area but which was now piled with bricks and lengths of pipe. Josef pulled out his packet of cigarettes and offered one to Marty, but he shook his head and proceeded to roll his own, his stubby fingers deft.

Josef smoked his cigarette slowly, between swigs from his water bottle, and half closed his eyes against the bright shafts of sunlight. He was thinking about what he would cook tonight – perhaps something Ukrainian. And thinking about his homeland made him think of his two sons, whom he hadn’t seen for so long now, although his wife – ex-wife – had sent him photographs recently. Taller, more solid, their hair darker and cut shorter, they looked strange to him although not like strangers, familiar yet far off. And thinking of his sons and the pain in his chest that their absence caused him made him think of Frieda, for only Frieda knew something of what he felt about this – and it was at this moment that the back door swung open and two people, a man and a woman, walked into the garden.

At first Josef thought they must be surveyors or architects. The man, who looked like a rugby player, was wearing a light grey suit, and the woman, who was small and moved with a purposeful air, a biscuit-coloured skirt with a white blouse and flat shoes. He narrowed his eyes, then let out a groan.

‘What?’ asked Marty.

‘I know that woman. She is police.’

‘Police?’

‘They come for me, I know.’

‘You? What have you done wrong, mate?’

‘I? Nothing. They do wrong.’ But he was uneasy. He remembered the state Frieda’s temporary neighbour and robber had been in when they had left him. But how could the police know anything? He told himself it was impossible.

Hussein and Bryant picked their way through the debris in the garden.

‘Mr Morozov,’ said Hussein. ‘DCI Hussein.’

She held out her identification but Josef, still sitting on the step, waved it away. ‘I know. We met. You are hunting Frieda.’

‘Looking for her. We’d like a word with you.’

‘All right.’

‘In private.’

‘You want me to go?’ said Marty. He stood and moved to the end of the garden, his back to them, where he started to roll another cigarette.

‘Do you know why we’re here?’ asked Hussein.

Josef shrugged.

‘I think you know where Frieda is.’

‘I know nothing.’

‘You know we have a camera rigged up at her house.’

‘I notice it, of course.’

‘So we know you go to her house every day.’

‘It is not a crime.’

‘You stay there quite a long time.’

Josef flushed. ‘So?’ he said.

‘What do you do?’

‘Feed cat. Water plants. Make sure things are nice.’ He scowled at the two officers. ‘For when she can come home again.’

‘Sometimes you stay there an hour.’

‘Not a crime,’ Josef said again. He wasn’t going to tell them that he wandered round the house, sat in Frieda’s chair, stood in her study, feeling her presence.

‘When did you last have contact with her?’

He waved his hand in the air. ‘When she left.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Josef gave his shrug.

‘You understand that we could have you deported,’ said Bryant, suddenly.

‘You know nothing,’ said Josef. ‘So you try to scare me. But I am not scared.’

‘Did you know she was there?’

‘What?’ Josef squinted at her. ‘Frieda?’

‘Yes.’

‘In her house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah,’ he said. It was like a sigh.

‘Did you know?’

‘No.’

‘Did you leave anything for her?’

‘No.’

‘Why was she there?’

‘Is her home.’ He stood up and took a swig from his water bottle. ‘Perhaps homesick. I left everything clean and good for her.’

‘You think she went simply because she was homesick?’

‘Do you know the homesick feeling?’

Hussein made an impatient gesture. ‘She is in serious trouble. If you are a true friend, you will tell us how to find her before things get any worse.’

‘I am a true friend,’ said Josef. ‘I will say nothing. Except you will see.’

‘What will we see, Josef?’

‘My name is Mr Morozov.’

‘Yes, Mr Morozov. We are not your enemy.’

‘Frieda’s enemy is my enemy.’

‘We are not Frieda’s enemy. But we need to find her. And we think you can help us.’

‘No.’

‘Perverting the course of justice is a serious crime.’

Josef didn’t reply. He took his cigarettes out of his back pocket, tapped one out and lit it.

‘You have our card,’ said Hussein. ‘If you think of anything.’

They left, and Josef sat down on the step once more. Marty joined him.

‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t help catching a bit of that. You’re a friend of that woman who’s on the run?’

Josef nodded. ‘She is my friend.’

‘And you know where she is?’ Marty sounded admiring.

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘Will they find her, do you reckon?’

‘No.’

‘But she can’t stay hidden for ever.’

‘Is true.’ The expression on Josef’s face became sombre. He ground his cigarette into the brickwork and stood up. ‘We should work.’

‘I want another biscuit.’

‘No. Three is enough.’

‘I want one.’ Tam’s voice rose higher. Her face became redder. ‘I want a biscuit.’

‘No.’

‘I’ll scream.’

‘That won’t help.’

Tam opened her mouth very wide, so it seemed to take up most of her face, and emitted a piercing shriek. Frieda picked up Rudi, who was trying to haul himself up on her legs, and put him on her lap. His weight felt comforting and his hair was clean and smelt of shampoo. The screaming went on, with little hiccups in between.

Bridget appeared in the doorway carrying two mugs of tea. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Did she fall over?’

‘No.’

‘I want another biscuit,’ roared Tam. ‘Carla said no.’

‘Oh, is that all?’

‘It’s not fair.’

‘Fair?’ Bridget’s eyebrows went up and she looked down at her daughter sceptically. ‘Here’s your tea.’ She handed a mug with a picture of a puffin on it across to Frieda. ‘I’ve found a nanny, by the way,’ she said, almost casually.

‘That’s probably for the best.’

‘Yes.’

They sat and drank their tea. At last Tam was winding down. She put her thumb in her mouth and within a few seconds had fallen asleep, her legs stretched out in front of her.

‘Welcome to the world of motherhood,’ said Bridget. ‘Nappies and tantrums and grazed knees and stained clothes and broken nights. Time’s never your own.’ She smiled at Frieda. ‘As you might have gathered, I’m not a particularly patient person.’

‘Going to work must make it easier.’

‘I’d go mad if I was with them all the time.’

‘Perhaps because you love them so much,’ said Frieda. ‘Perhaps that’s what makes it so overpowering.’

Bridget shot her a glance. ‘You’re being Frieda Klein now, aren’t you, not Carla? The Frieda Klein Sandy loved.’

Frieda rested her chin on Rudi’s head. He, too, was beginning to fall asleep. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath through his body. ‘It’s not enough,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘What? Love?’

‘I mean, it still doesn’t make sense that Sandy should become so desperate because I had left him and his life had gone awry.’

‘You don’t think losing someone can make you desperate?’

‘I’m a psychotherapist, remember? It’s what the loss uncovers in you that brings on despair, not the loss itself. Sandy was a deep-feeling man but he was also strong and quite good at protecting himself.’

‘You think?’

‘I do. Don’t you?’

‘He didn’t protect himself from you.’

‘But that’s not why he should have felt on the edge. You say that he wasn’t managing his life properly.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

Bridget hesitated; she was still clearly reluctant to betray his confidences. ‘He felt guilty.’

‘Guilty about relationships with women?’

‘Mostly, I think.’

‘Can you say anything more about that?’

‘Do you think this has anything to do with his death?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He had a series of flings,’ said Bridget. ‘And he didn’t always end them very well.’

‘I met Veronica Ellison,’ said Frieda, thinking of the words Veronica had used to describe how Sandy had been with her at the end – cruel and indifferent, because he himself was wretched.

‘Yes.’ Bridget smiled. ‘Carla was very resourceful, wasn’t she?’

‘Do you know who the other women were?’

‘I know a few. There was a research assistant at the university – Bella. Bella Fisk. She was smitten, I think.’

‘But he wasn’t?’

‘No.’

‘And then there was someone called Kim. Or Kimberley. I can’t remember her last name.’

Frieda frowned. A memory wormed through her. ‘Was she a nanny?’

‘Another?’ said Bridget. ‘She might have been.’

‘His sister had a nanny called Kimberley.’

‘That’s the kind of thing he was doing.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘There were other women but I’ve no idea who. They were the ones he talked about to me.’

‘Is there anything else you can think of?’

‘Well.’ Bridget looked out of the window for a moment. ‘He was scared.’

‘Scared?’ This was what Veronica Ellison had also believed.

‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘Why would I know that? We hadn’t really spoken for a long time.’ Frieda remembered her last sight of Sandy, outside the Warehouse, flinging a black bin bag of possessions at her, his face contorted.

‘He said he was trying to call you about it. He thought you’d be the one who would know what to do. Didn’t he talk to you about it?’

She looked into Bridget’s face. ‘I deleted all his messages.’

‘And you didn’t listen to them first?’

‘No.’

They sat in silence for a while, Rudi on Frieda’s lap, like a squashy warm parcel, and Tam between them, husky whimpers coming from between her parted lips.

‘You have no idea why he was scared?’ Frieda asked at last.

‘No. But he was right to be, wasn’t he?’

Frieda walked back to Elephant and Castle. It took her almost an hour. The day had turned to early evening, softly bright, and the streets were full of people in their summer clothes. Teenagers on skateboards rattled past. Couples, their arms entwined. The pavements outside pubs overflowed with drinkers.

She walked under the railway bridge and along the side of Thaxted House. She thought of her own little house, which in the summer was cool and clean and dim, as if it were under water. The longing she felt for it was so sharp it made her breath shallow. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. She heard voices from the kitchen, talking, laughing. She went on to her own room and pushed open her door.

‘Frieda,’ said a voice, as she closed it.

She spun round.

‘Josef! What are you doing here?’

‘Nice woman let me in.’

Josef made shapes in front of his chest.

‘Ileana,’ said Frieda. ‘And you shouldn’t do that. You should say, “the brown-haired woman”. And you should go.’

‘I must help.’

‘No! You must not help. Go away.’

‘Frieda, I cannot bear.’

Frieda stepped forward and touched him on the shoulder, looking into his sad brown eyes. She could smell the vodka on his breath. ‘It’s all right. Who else knows I’m here?’

‘Nobody. I tell nobody. I ask Lev and he show me the place. I dodge and duck so nobody can follow. Not the police.’ He sniffed contemptuously. ‘Not anyone. I keep your secret.’ He laid his large hand over his heart. ‘I help you.’

‘Josef, listen. You more than anyone have too much to lose. They could deport you.’

‘Threat.’ He waved his hand dismissively. Then he bent down and took a bottle of vodka out of his canvas bag. ‘This is horrible place. Shall we have a drink?’

Frieda looked at the bottle in his outstretched hand, then around her at the dismal little room, the low sun glinting in through the smeary windows, the thin orange curtains hanging limply. She smiled suddenly. ‘Why not?’

Josef’s face brightened. He bent down once more and took out two shot glasses. ‘Always prepared,’ he said.

‘To homecomings,’ said Frieda.

They clinked glasses and drank.

About five seconds after Josef had left, there was a knock at Frieda’s door.

‘What?’

The door opened and Mira’s grinning face appeared in the gap.

‘He’s gone?’ she said.

‘Yes, he’s gone.’

‘He can stay,’ said Mira. ‘He can stay all the night.’

‘He’s just a friend.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mira, laughing. She came into the room and looked around for somewhere to sit. There wasn’t anywhere.

‘We talk about you, Ileana and me.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘Ileana say you running away from husband.’

‘And what do you say?’

‘I not sure. But now we meet Josef. Interesting man.’

Frieda stood up and started to edge Mira towards the door.

‘You wouldn’t like him,’ she said. ‘He’s Ukrainian.’

Mira looked puzzled. ‘Ukrainian not so bad. Romanian bad. Russian a bit. Not Ukrainian.’

Frieda pushed the door shut.

22

A homeless man had been found kicked to death and left behind a skip near King’s Cross. Karlsson thought it was one of the most depressing cases he had ever dealt with: not just that the man, whose name he didn’t know, had been so mutilated and then discarded like a piece of rubbish, but that there was no one who claimed his body, knew his identity or anything of his life, or cared that he was dead. The victim looked old but the pathologist said he was only about fifty. His possessions, which he had pushed about in a rusty old supermarket trolley, had been scattered nearby and had been found near his body; they consisted of a sleeping bag, some pieces of quilting, a few cans of white cider, a plastic bag of cigarette butts, six used-up cigarette lighters and some dog food, although he hadn’t owned a dog. Nobody had seen anything; nobody knew anything; nobody cared.

He looked at the photographs of his two children, Bella and Mikey, that were on his desk: that man had been a little kid once; a baby who had squirmed and cried and smiled. How did a life go so off the rails? ‘Poor sod,’ he muttered.

There was a knock and Yvette put her head round the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

‘I needed disturbing. What is it? Any new leads from the lads?’

‘No. But it’s not about that. There’s someone who wants to see you.’

‘Who?’

‘A woman called Elizabeth Rasson. I asked her what it was about but she said she only wanted to talk to you. She’s very insistent.’

‘Elizabeth Rasson?’ Karlsson frowned. ‘But that’s –’ He stopped. ‘Never mind. Send her in.’

Lizzie Rasson came through the door in a rush and stopped, looking around her as if unsure of where she was or how she had got there. She was very thin, with a sharp collarbone, and her face wore a dazed expression that Karlsson was familiar with.

‘Mrs Rasson,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

‘Lizzie,’ she said. ‘We met once. Or were in the same room. You won’t remember.’

‘I think I do.’

‘It was a long time ago. I remember you because I don’t usually meet police officers, and also because Sandy really didn’t like you.’

‘Right.’

‘Sandy’s my brother.’

‘I know.’

‘Was. Was my brother. I keep doing that. How long does it take?’

‘To use the past tense, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’ll probably feel strange for a long time.’

‘I’m talking so that I don’t have to say anything, if you see what I mean.’

‘I do. Please.’ He pulled out a chair and she sat down in it abruptly, her long legs folding under her. He saw how bony her shins were.

‘We were very close when we were children – there’s only fourteen months’ difference between us. We drifted apart a bit when we were adults but then this time, when he came back from America, I saw a lot of him. He wasn’t in a good way and he came to our house a lot and, well, we’re family. I was the only family he had, after …’ She bit down on her words, rubbed her face.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘You’re a good friend of Frieda’s, aren’t you?’ Lizzie continued, as if he hadn’t spoken.

‘She’s my friend, yes.’

‘Yes.’ The single syllable was heavy with bitterness. ‘That’s why Sandy didn’t like you. He thought the two of you were too friendly. He was jealous. Especially after it all ended. She treated him very badly, don’t you think?’

‘The ends of relationships are always painful,’ Karlsson said guardedly. ‘And Frieda –’

‘Yes, yes, Frieda’s a special case. Even now. Do you think she killed my brother?’

The directness of the question took Karlsson by surprise. ‘No.’

‘You mean, you don’t think she did.’

‘I mean that she didn’t.’

‘Why? Because she’s your friend?’

Karlsson blinked and pinched the top of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I suppose it comes down to that,’ he said at last.

‘Lucky Frieda, to have such friends. But you don’t sound very much like a detective.’

‘That’s because I’m not a detective in this case. You do understand that I have nothing to do with the inquiry? If you need to know anything, or if you have anything to say, you should speak to DCI Hussein. I can give you her number.’

‘That’s not why I’m here.’

‘Why are you here, then?’

‘I’ve been thinking.’

Karlsson waited.

Lizzie wrinkled her nose and looked into the distance. ‘About the last few weeks of Sandy’s life.’

‘Go on.’

‘He was all over the place. You know Sandy – knew. He was quite controlled, reserved. But not in the time before he died. He kind of unravelled, if that makes sense.’

Karlsson nodded but didn’t speak. The light was flashing on his phone but he made no move to answer it.

‘He’d done something bad,’ said Lizzie.

‘What had he done?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You should speak to Sarah Hussein. It might be important.’

Lizzie made an impatient gesture with her hand. ‘I’m speaking to you. He wasn’t just troubled, he was scared.’

Karlsson leaned forward in his chair. ‘What was he scared of, Lizzie?’ he said softly. ‘Who was he scared of?’

‘No. Not like that. You don’t understand.’

‘Then tell me.’

‘He kept trying to call Frieda.’

‘Yes, I knew that.’

‘But she wouldn’t answer. He called and he emailed and she never replied.’

‘I think she believed that there was nothing to be said.’

‘No. He wasn’t pursuing her – not at the end, anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t think he ever stopped loving her so when he was scared he was frantic to get in touch with her.’ Tears filled Lizzie’s eyes. ‘Frantic,’ she repeated.

‘He was calling Frieda for help?’ asked Karlsson.

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

‘I thought she killed him, so it didn’t matter. But if she didn’t, then I have to warn her, however cruel she was.’

‘Please. You have to be clearer. What are you saying?’

‘He wasn’t scared for himself. He was scared for her. He thought she was in danger.’

Karlsson stared at Lizzie Rasson. He felt a bead of sweat work its way down his temple. ‘Your brother believed Frieda was in danger.’

‘Yes.’

‘He told you that himself?’

‘Yes. But he was drunk when he told me, and when he died and Frieda was OK, I didn’t think it meant anything. Just a wild notion. But now you have to warn her. It’s the last thing I can do for Sandy.’

‘I don’t know where she is. But we need to tell Sarah Hussein.’

‘You have to warn her,’ she said again. ‘Before something terrible happens to her as well.’

After Lizzie Rasson had left, Karlsson picked up the phone and called Hussein, who listened to what he had to say in a silence so complete that he kept having to check that she was still there.

‘What do you think?’ he said, when he had finished, although he left out the part about the need to warn Frieda.

‘I think this is probably a red herring and that Frieda Klein killed her ex and that’s why she’s disappeared. If she was innocent, why would she do that?’

‘Because she was being framed.’

‘That’s a theory,’ Hussein said. ‘But it’s not one we can usefully pursue until Dr Klein is in custody.’

‘Sandy was scared Frieda was in danger. Then Sandy was killed. Doesn’t that suggest you’re looking in the wrong place for the murderer?’

‘No. It suggests that we need to find Frieda Klein and question her.’

‘But –’

‘I appreciate your concern,’ Hussein said. ‘And I hope that you appreciate I’m not trying to stitch up your friend but to get to the truth. That’s my job. That’s what I intend to do. And that’s what is in everybody’s best interests, including Frieda’s.’

‘Of course,’ said Karlsson.

‘So are you going to help?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where is she? I assume that’s why Mrs Rasson came to you not me – because she thought you could let Frieda know she was in danger. I’m not entirely stupid.’

‘I never thought you were.’

‘So?’

‘I don’t know where she is.’

‘You had better be telling me the truth.’

‘I am. I don’t know.’

Karlsson didn’t know, but after he had spoken to Hussein he told Yvette he was going out for a while. Thirty-five minutes later, he was sitting in Reuben McGill’s office in the Warehouse. Reuben, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, sat on the sill of the open window and smoked.

‘Is this going to be awkward?’ he asked.

‘I’m concerned for Frieda’s safety. I need your help.’

Reuben threw his cigarette stub out of the window and turned towards Karlsson. ‘Is this a way of getting me to talk?’

‘Frieda’s in danger.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘I’m here as Frieda’s friend. I’m not on the inquiry.’

Reuben looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘What kind of danger?’

‘I don’t know. But Sandy was trying to warn her before he died.’

Reuben came away from the window and sat at his desk, his chin propped on his hands. ‘I don’t know what I can do,’ he said.

‘You don’t need to tell me where she is, but you need to tell her what I’ve told you.’

‘I don’t know where she is.’ He met Karlsson’s sceptical gaze. ‘It’s the truth. She’s disappeared.’

‘You have no way of getting in contact with her?’

‘No.’ He unfolded his hands so that they covered most of his face and closed his eyes. Karlsson waited. ‘You swear you’re not tricking me?’

‘I’m not tricking you.’

Reuben spoke slowly, reluctantly. ‘I don’t know why I’m saying this. But if anyone knows anything, Josef does. I may have done a terrible thing telling you that.’

‘I won’t get him into trouble.’

‘Frieda would never forgive you.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s working at a house in Belsize Park. He’s stubborn. As you know.’

‘We’ll see.’

Reuben nodded and wrote down the address on a piece of paper that he tore from the pad and handed across the desk. ‘If this goes wrong,’ he said, ‘I’ll come for you with all the weapons in my psychotherapeutic arsenal.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Karlsson. He took the paper and left.

He found Josef in the back garden of the house. He was with a group of men, drinking tea, smoking. Josef saw him and rose to his feet, looking wary. ‘Nothing to say.’

Karlsson took him by the arm and led him away from the group of men, who were watching them curiously. ‘There’s something you should know.’

‘You think you scare me?’

‘I’m not going to threaten you.’ He held up a hand to stop Josef interrupting. ‘I’m not going to ask if you know where she is. I’m just giving you this.’ He thrust his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the letter he had written in the café down the road.

Josef stepped away from it as though it were a bomb that might explode in his face. ‘This is trick.’

‘What trick could it be? I am giving you a letter. It would be good for Frieda if she read it, but that’s up to you.’

‘I know nothing.’

‘Then I’m wasting my time.’ He waited a moment. ‘I’m Frieda’s friend and I have reason to believe that she’s in danger.’

‘You are police.’

‘That too. But you can still trust me.’

Josef wrinkled his face, which was grimy. There was dust in his hair and Karlsson saw that his hands were blistered.

‘You say danger,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

Josef glowered at him. ‘If I take it, then it means nothing.’

‘OK.’

He held out the letter once more and this time Josef took it. As soon as Karlsson had gone, Josef pulled out his phone. Frieda had given him her new number. He dialled it. No answer.

Frieda felt as if she was on the verge of saying goodbye to Ethan, for the moment anyway. This couldn’t go on. They got onto a bus and went upstairs to the front. Ethan stood up on the seat and stared out of the window and gave a running commentary on what he could see: people and pets and cars and bikes and houses and shops. The bus went through Elephant and Castle and down the Old Kent Road. They got out and Ethan said he was tired and that he was hungry.