Текст книги "Friday on My Mind"

Автор книги: Nicci French

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

‘Wait,’ said Frieda.

She took him by the hand and led him off the main road and to the right and there, improbably, as if by magic, was something Ethan had never seen before. She led him through the gate, across the cobblestones, into the stables. Two horses peered out of their stalls, looking curiously at them. Frieda lifted Ethan up.

‘You can touch,’ she said. She put out her free hand and stroked the soft, salmon-pink skin between one of the horses’ nostrils. Ethan shook his head and leaned away. He didn’t dare touch the horses but he didn’t want to leave. Even when Frieda led him back out onto the pavement, he stared back behind him, as if he thought the stables might vanish when he stopped looking at them. Then they walked past the forge. Frieda tried to explain what a horseshoe was. Ethan just frowned. Frieda couldn’t tell whether he didn’t understand what she was saying or whether he did understand but didn’t believe it.

They continued following the tell-tale slopes and banks. Frieda noticed a broad pipe crossing the railway line. A few minutes later, she led him off into a little side-street. On the ground there were two manhole covers.

‘Do this,’ she said, and knelt on the ground and put her ear to one of them. He copied her. ‘Can you hear it?’ she said.

He sat up and nodded.

‘Do you know what it is?’ she said.

He shook his head.

‘Long, long ago there was a river,’ she said, ‘a little river. It ran through the streets and there were boats in it. And the horses, like the horses we saw, the horses drank from it. But then they hid the river. They covered it and built houses and roads on top of it. And people forgot about it. But the river is still there.’ She rapped on the metal cover. ‘That’s it, down there. It’s called the Earl’s Sluice.’

‘Sluice,’ he said solemnly.

‘That’s it. Only you and me know that it’s there and we won’t forget it, will we?’

‘No,’ he said obediently.

She stood up and held out her hand.

When they reached the Thames, Ethan put his head against the railings, as if he were trying to get at it. He seemed hypnotized.

‘This way,’ said Frieda, leading him westward along the riverside path. After a few hundred yards, when Ethan was starting to weigh on her, dragging on her arm to signal his tiredness, she bent down and spoke to him in a whisper. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ she said.

‘What?’

She led him through the little gate into the city farm. When Ethan saw the goats and the cockerel and the rabbits, he looked as if cognitive overload were going to cause him to spontaneously combust. At first he simply stood still, with his mouth open. Then he started to run around, pointing at this animal, then that one and then another. After a while, Frieda took him to the café and bought him an ice cream, but he was restless, then started to cry and say he wanted to go back to the animals. So Frieda took her coffee, walked out and watched him as he went back into the enclosure.

A school party arrived, a crocodile of six-year-olds, all wearing high-visibility yellow vests, like a team of miniature construction workers. After a time, Ethan went and stood next to two little girls. One was holding a rabbit while the other stroked it. A young female teacher came across and said something to Ethan that Frieda couldn’t hear. Ethan looked round and pointed at Frieda. The teacher took him by the hand and led him across to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘He can’t be with our children. Something might happen.’

‘Not while I’m here,’ said Frieda.

‘It’s the rules,’ said the teacher. ‘It’s not my decision.’

‘It never is,’ said Frieda.

The teacher looked puzzled, but Frieda just led Ethan away, tired, complaining, overexcited, shouting that he wanted to stroke the goat.

23

The site manager was called Gavin and he wasn’t pleased.

‘What kind of emergency?’ he said.

‘Back in an hour,’ said Josef. ‘Two maybe.’

‘Two hours? What is this? A hobby?’

‘I’ll cover for him,’ said a voice.

The two men looked round. It was Marty.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Gavin. ‘If you can do his job and your job, then what do we need him for?’

‘Joe is the best man on this job. And if he says it’s an emergency, then it’s an emergency.’

Josef looked at the two men with some apprehension. Things were either going to get better or they were going to get worse. Gavin’s face reddened, but something in Marty’s expression changed his mind. ‘Two hours,’ he said. ‘And don’t make a habit of it.’

As he left, Josef gave a nod of thanks at Marty.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Just a friend.’

‘This Frieda?’

Josef shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘She’s lucky to have you as a mate.’

‘No. I am the lucky one.’

Every part of the journey seemed to take longer than it should have. Josef had to wait for the lift at Chalk Farm station. The train stopped in a tunnel for ten minutes, with repeated apologies to passengers over the Tannoy. As he emerged from Elephant and Castle, he got a signal and rang Frieda again. Nothing. He ran to the flat where Frieda lived, knocked at the door and rang the bell. Nothing. He knocked again and heard sounds inside. Finally the door opened. It was the blonde, the one without the breasts.

‘Frieda, is she here?’

‘I don’t know. In bedroom, maybe.’

Josef walked past her and pushed open the door of Frieda’s room. The bed was made as if for an army inspection. He looked round. Mira was at his shoulder.

‘She not here much. Work with the children, I think.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know.’

He took out the letter and looked at it. Should he give it to this woman? He thought of Frieda and then he thought of Karlsson. Karlsson was breaking the law. It felt like too much of a risk. He put the letter back in his pocket.

‘Tell Frieda to call me,’ he said. ‘If she ring or come back, say to call me. Important.’

‘You can wait,’ said Mira. ‘Have coffee.’

‘No,’ said Josef. ‘Just to call me.’

Frieda sat in the Watched Pot coffee shop and waited. Bella Fisk had been very reluctant to meet her but had eventually agreed to give her ten minutes of her time. Frieda wondered how she would identify her. But the door swung open, a woman walked in and Frieda was sure. She was starting to recognize Sandy’s type. Bella was tall, in a dark dress, with blue leather boots that were only half laced-up. She had brown frizzy hair and looked fierce and clever. She noticed Frieda’s glance and came over to the table.

‘What’s this about?’ she said.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

‘Yeah, but why are you so keen to dig around in the past?’

‘I knew Sandy. Some time ago. Can I buy you a coffee? We’ll just be a few minutes.’

She sat down. Frieda went over to the counter and ordered two coffees.

‘Nice place,’ she said, when she returned.

‘It’s not too bad,’ said Bella. ‘It’s my local. A friend of mine is coming in a few minutes. We’re going out.’

‘Fine,’ said Frieda.

‘What do you mean, “fine”? Of course it’s fine. I said ten minutes. So, tell me what this is all about.’

‘Everybody’s shocked about what happened to Sandy. I’ve been trying to talk to people who knew him.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to know how he was. In those last days.’

‘Old lover, was he?’

‘A friend,’ said Frieda.

A faintly ironic smile appeared on Bella’s face. ‘If you say so.’ She paused as a middle-aged woman arrived with two vast coffee cups on a tray. After the woman had gone, Bella stared at Frieda with a challenging expression.

‘So … what was your name?’

‘Carla.’

‘Carla. Funny. He never mentioned that name. So, Carla, you want to know about Sandy’s work life?’ Frieda didn’t reply. She just sipped slowly at her coffee and waited. ‘All right,’ said Bella. ‘Who have you been talking to?’

‘I just want to hear how Sandy was.’

There was a pause. Bella’s demeanour had changed. She was thinking hard and seemed restless.

‘I don’t know what this is about. Are you some kind of stalker?’

‘No. Sandy’s dead. You can’t stalk a dead person.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Bella. ‘By the way, if, when, my friend turns up, maybe we can stick to the work bit with Sandy. I mean, it’s not a big thing – Tom and I aren’t anything all that much – but you know how it is when you’ve just met someone.’

‘Of course. How was it with Sandy?’

Bella narrowed her eyes. ‘You know, I’m still trying to make you out. I’m trying to imagine going round to one of my ex-boyfriends’ ex-girlfriends and asking how things were with him.’

‘I know it must seem odd. But meanings change when someone is killed. Old rules don’t apply. For complicated and painful reasons, I feel I need to find out about Sandy’s life before he died.’

‘To lay him to rest, you mean?’

‘If you like,’ said Frieda.

‘Did he hurt you?’

Frieda gritted her teeth. ‘Perhaps.’

‘OK, then. But I don’t think I can help you much with whatever it is you’re after. He never mentioned you, if that’s what you want to hear. Sorry. And I wasn’t that close to him. We worked together, we had a couple of meals, we hooked up a few times. That was all.’

‘You make it sound like nothing.’

‘It wasn’t nothing,’ said Bella, looking down into her coffee. She hadn’t touched it. ‘But it wasn’t that much more than nothing.’

‘Why did it end?’

‘I don’t know. How do these things work anyway? You meet someone, you get on, you sleep together a few times and then it just stops happening.’

‘Did you mind?’

Bella’s smile was graver now, less mocking. ‘You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. I haven’t said this to my real-life actual friends. I should be better at this than I am. Sandy was good to work with and he seemed to be in some kind of distress and I thought he needed me. Well, maybe he did, but not in the way I expected. It wasn’t his fault.’

‘Someone said that he was behaving badly to the women he was with.’

‘Oh, someone.’ Bella Fisk sounded derisive.

‘That perhaps he hurt people and then felt guilty.’

‘Is that what happened to you?’

Frieda didn’t reply.

‘He didn’t hurt me. There were no promises on either side. The woman he was kind of with before me, or maybe alongside me, she was a bit upset, I think – but not for long. She soon found comfort elsewhere.’

‘Who was that?’

Bella Fisk’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t see why you’d want to know.’

‘Was it Veronica Ellison?’ asked Frieda.

‘You know already, so why ask me?’

‘She was upset.’

‘Only until she hooked up with Al.’

‘Al.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘You mean Al Williams?’

‘You’re beginning to spook me a bit. What are you looking for? Why does it matter any more? Nothing’s going to bring him back.’

‘Just some answers,’ said Frieda. Her brain was working furiously. Veronica had been with Sandy, then with Al. Al was married to Bridget, who had been one of Sandy’s closest friends and the person he turned to when in difficulty. What did it mean? And did Bridget know? She remembered when she’d first seen both Bridget and Al, at the party in memory of Sandy, and how they had both comforted Veronica after her little speech. But Bella was talking and she forced her attention back towards her. She was saying something about the small world of academia and how incestuous it could feel: her with Sandy, Veronica with Sandy, Veronica with Al …

And then she stopped because the door had opened. A man walked in, wearing black jeans and a leather jacket. He nodded at Bella and came over and sat at the table. Bella introduced him.

‘This is Carla,’ she said. ‘She used to be a friend of Sandy’s. I told you about Sandy.’

He shook Frieda’s hand. It was almost enclosed by his. ‘It’s the first time I’ve known anyone who was murdered.’

‘Did you know Sandy?’

‘Well, I know someone who knew him.’

‘You make it sound like it’s funny,’ said Bella, and she got up and walked through a door at the back of the room.

‘Sensitive subject,’ said Tom, watching her go. He turned back and looked at Frieda with interest. ‘Bella mentioned Sandy, but she never mentioned you.’

‘This is the first time we’ve met.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’d lost touch with Sandy. I wanted to meet someone who’d worked with him.’

‘So what do you do, Carla?’

‘I’ve been working as a nanny.’

‘Is that fulfilling?’

‘It’s a temporary thing.’

‘Interesting,’ said Tom. ‘Now then, Carla, would you like to meet for a drink some time?’ He asked her as though he were offering her a bag of crisps.

Frieda couldn’t stop herself turning in the direction Bella had gone. Did it make sense to feel hurt and protective on behalf of someone she didn’t know? ‘Er, we’re having a coffee now,’ she said, carefully.

‘You know. A drink.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘It never hurts to ask,’ said Tom, cheerfully. ‘Win some, lose some.’

‘Bella left the room about thirty seconds ago.’

‘Oh, Bella?’ Tom looked as if he had entirely forgotten her. ‘That’s just a thing.’

There didn’t seem anything left to say. Tom went over to the counter and bought a large cappuccino. He and Bella returned to the table together. Tom sat back, drank his coffee and gazed benignly at Bella and Frieda as if they were two old friends. Frieda just wanted to get away, but there was one more question she needed to ask.

‘Did Sandy seem at all nervous? Scared, even?’

‘Why would he be scared?’ said Tom.

‘He was murdered,’ said Frieda. ‘And I was asking Bella.’

‘But why are you asking?’

‘He was a friend. I’m concerned.’

‘Bit late for that,’ said Tom.

‘I know,’ said Frieda, getting up.

‘He seemed fine,’ said Bella, quickly. ‘He was working hard. But he was all right.’

‘I’ll pay for this,’ said Frieda.

‘I already paid,’ said Tom. ‘You can pay the next time.’

Frieda was getting used to hanging around playgrounds. This one was in Parliament Hill Fields, by the running track. Frieda could see her, pushing a toddler on the swing. There were too many people around and this time there was no hiding her identity. They moved to the roundabout. Frieda looked at her phone. There was another message from Josef. She’d deal with that later. How long were they going to be? Finally the pair emerged from the playground and made their way along the railings, then to the left, across the railway bridge. Frieda shadowed them and when they reached the street she saw that there was nobody around. She walked quickly up and touched the woman on the shoulder. She looked round.

‘Kim,’ she said.

Kim’s expression moved from shock to bafflement. ‘Frieda?’ she said. ‘What on earth …’ And then the bafflement turned to outrage. ‘How did you even find me here?’

‘Lizzie told me where you’d be,’ said Frieda.

‘She wouldn’t talk to you.’

‘I didn’t say it was me.’

‘Are you crazy? Are you completely fucking crazy?’ She took her phone from her pocket. ‘I’m calling the fucking police.’

‘Wait,’ said Frieda.

‘Why?’

Kim was holding the little boy by the hand. He wore a blue T-shirt with a space rocket on it. Frieda knelt down, so that they were face to face. ‘What’s your name?’ she said softly.

‘Robbie,’ he said.

‘Hello, Robbie. I’m just going to talk to Kim for one minute, OK?’ She stood back up. ‘Did Lizzie know about you?’

Kim’s eyes flickered. ‘What do you mean, about me?’

‘About you and Sandy, when you were working for her.’

‘You bitch.’

‘Put the phone away, Kim. I want to talk to you for one minute and then I’ll go. But if you won’t talk to me, I’ll have to talk to someone.’ Frieda put her hand on Kim’s shoulder. ‘Look at me, Kim. I’m someone who has nothing to lose. You need to believe that. But if you answer my questions, I’ll go. Do you understand?’

‘It didn’t mean anything.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘It just happened.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It was after you’d split up.’

‘How long did it last?’

Kim looked surprised. ‘Last? We only did it twice. Well, once, really. The first time he couldn’t properly –’

‘I don’t need to hear that. How did it end?’

Kim’s face had gone very red. ‘It was stupid. I had a crush on him and we both knew it was a mistake. He wasn’t in a good place.’

‘Was he frightened?’

‘Frightened? No. He was just a bit down. He was nice in a way. He apologized. But you don’t really want to be apologized to when you’re both, you know …’

‘Who knew?’

‘Why would anyone know? I just felt I’d been stupid.’ Kim looked down at Robbie, who was weighing on her arm. ‘I didn’t think he would talk about it, but he must have told you.’

‘Sandy didn’t tell me.’

‘You mean he told someone else?’

‘What about friends?’ said Frieda. ‘Boyfriends?’

‘It wasn’t something I wanted to talk about.’

‘All right,’ said Frieda. ‘That’s all.’

She turned to go, but Kim put a hand on her arm. ‘Wait, can I ask you something?’

‘What?’

‘What are you up to?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘One thing led to another.’

It wasn’t until the evening that Frieda got the letter that Karlsson had written to her. She called Josef and he said – in a loud whisper – that he would meet her at her place as soon as he could get away. She could hear loud bangs and people shouting.

When she got back to the house, Mira was cutting Ileana’s hair. Dark wet locks lay over the kitchen floor. There were two mugs of tea on the table, and the atmosphere was peaceable. Frieda put the milk she had bought in the fridge and then unpacked supplies: tea bags, coffee, cleaning stuff. ‘That looks good.’

Mira snipped her scissors in the air beside Ileana’s ear. ‘You next.’

‘I don’t think so. My hair is short enough.’

‘Not shorter. Just more style. Layers.’ She pointed the blades at Frieda. ‘Choppy.’

‘It’s very kind of you but –’

‘You buy food for us. We would like to make a return. It makes us feel better.’

Frieda was about to refuse once more, but what Mira said stopped her. Reuben always told her how bad she was at accepting gifts, asking for help, and it was true. Everyone wants reciprocity.

‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Just a trim, though. Nothing drastic.’

So it was that Josef found her with a towel draped over her shoulders and her wet hair being busily snipped at by Mira.

‘Cut again?’ said Josef, in dismay. ‘But Fr–’ He remembered in time. ‘Is already short. Why more so?’

‘I think Mira feels I could be more stylish. What is it you want to give me?’

Josef reached inside his jacket and drew out the envelope, creased now with smudges of dirt across it.

‘I told nothing,’ he said. ‘Not even that I give it to you.’

‘All right.’ She took the envelope, which was blank, and laid it on her lap. Little tendrils of her hair fell to the floor. Mira’s hands were oddly comforting on her scalp.

‘Go ahead,’ said Mira. ‘Don’t mind me.’

Frieda slid her finger under the gummed flap, then drew out the piece of paper, which she unfolded. She saw the first words – ‘Dear Frieda’ – and at once folded the paper and laid it back on her lap, under her hand. Karlsson. She had recognized the writing at once. Why was Karlsson writing to her and how had he known Josef would be able to find her? She closed her eyes for a few seconds. The scissors were cold against the nape of her neck.

‘All done,’ said Mira. ‘You want to look in mirror?’

‘I’m sure it’s fine.’

‘Very chic.’

‘That sounds good.’ She stood up and removed the towel. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘I just dry it.’

‘No. It’s fine. I can do that.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ She looked across at Josef, who had made himself a cup of tea and found the biscuits in the cupboard. ‘I’m going to read this. Stay there and I’ll come back shortly.’

‘You want me to come?’

‘No.’ She took the letter and, instead of going to her room, went outside with it. There was an area of scrubland near Thaxted House, where a house had been demolished, that was like an alternative garden, with butterflies among the buddleia and weeds and nettles pushing their way out of the cracks in the concrete. She sat with her back against the wall at the far end and opened the letter.

Dear Frieda,

I am going to give this to Josef on the off-chance that he will know how to get it to you. You may be in danger. Sandy’s sister, Lizzie Rasson, came to see me. She told me that in the last few weeks of his life, Sandy had been urgently trying to contact you because he wanted to warn you. This is all I know. She had no idea why. I think you should take this seriously. Hussein doesn’t know I’m writing this letter or that Josef knows where you are.

Frieda – please give yourself up. They’ll find you and things can only get worse. If you go to the police, you’ll be safe. The investigation will continue. I promise.

Please take this seriously.

Yours, Karlsson

Frieda read the letter slowly, carefully. She noticed how formal it was – how he didn’t once make any reference to their shared past and their friendship or draw her attention to what he was risking for her. And he was risking a lot, she knew – his entire career. She put the letter into her pocket and leaned back against the wall, feeling its rough brickwork through her thin shirt. Just as when she had seen him on television, pale and strained beside the commissioner, she felt the impulse to go to the nearest police station and give herself up. Have done with this.

Then she thought of Sandy’s body in the morgue, her name tag on his wrist. She thought of how she had erased all those texts and voicemail messages and emails, not reading them first. If what Karlsson was telling her was true, then she was looking in the wrong direction, or at least thinking in the wrong way about his death. Bridget had said he was scared, but now it seemed that he had been scared for her, rather than for himself – or as well as himself, perhaps. Which meant that his murder was linked to her life as well as his own. Of course she had always known this, because his wallet had been planted in her house and she had been framed. But she had assumed she was a convenient red herring. Now she had to assume that she was a target. She made herself think clearly, sorting through the fragments in her mind. Sandy had been murdered by someone who had tried to frame her. The murderer was not Dean Reeve, as she had at first assumed, because Dean had been far away, punishing Miles Thornton. Sandy had been in a dysfunctional state in the months leading up to his death – missing her and angry with her, treating women badly, feeling guilty, thinking of ending his life, scared by something or someone, sure that Frieda was in danger. Why would she be in danger, if it weren’t Dean? Why would they both be in danger from the same source – or had Sandy been killed simply as a way of getting to Frieda? That thought was so terrible that, for a moment, she stopped thinking and simply sat in the warmth of the dusk, staring at the fading blueness of the sky.

Sandy had been filled with guilt; with guilt and with fear. Why? She forced her mind against the question, as if the pressure of thought would give her an answer. She remembered him outside the Warehouse, shouting something – what? – and flinging the bag of her possessions at her. An idea came to her and she held onto it because she had nothing else, no solid ground.

Josef was still there when she returned. He and Mira and Ileana and another woman, who introduced herself as Fatima, were drinking vodka and he was teaching them a game that involved lots of slapping down of playing cards and shouting. But when he saw Frieda, he stood up at once and crossed the room to her.

‘It’s fine,’ she said.

‘What can I do now?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Shall I take answer?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘If you see him, say thank you.’