Текст книги "Friday on My Mind"

Автор книги: Nicci French

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

24

Frank was looking after Ethan the following morning so Frieda didn’t have to collect him until after midday. She went instead to Bridget and Al’s street and, standing a few hundred yards away, called their number. Bridget answered.

‘It’s me, Frieda. I wondered if I could have a quick word with Al. It’s just about things at King George’s that he might be able to help me with.’

‘All right,’ said Bridget. ‘But, Frieda …’ her voice dropped so that Frieda could scarcely make out her words ‘… he still doesn’t know.’

‘Doesn’t know what?’

‘Doesn’t know who you are.’

‘You haven’t told him?’

‘Not yet.’

‘That’s extremely discreet of you. I’d assumed you would tell him.’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Bridget. ‘I don’t know how he’d take it. A nanny who’s wanted for murder.’

‘I can see that.’

‘And he doesn’t know about Sandy’s darkest moments either.’

‘You’re good at keeping secrets,’ said Frieda.

‘I’m good at knowing whose secret it is to tell. Remember that when you talk to Al.’

Al came onto the phone. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s a bit awkward,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m actually outside the house but there’s something I need to ask you and I’d prefer to do it in private.’

‘What? You’re outside right now?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you don’t want to come in?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I don’t understand this at all, but I was about to go for a run. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

He came jogging towards her with his white shins and knobbly elbows and knees.

‘Bridget says you wanted to know something about Sandy’s job. But why are you interested in that? And why do you want to talk about it out here?’

Al didn’t know who she was and she was at a loss to explain herself to him. ‘I’ve been thinking about Sandy’s murder and some things have come up.’ She was conscious of Al’s nearly colourless eyes on her face as she spoke, and of the tameness of her words.

‘I’m confused,’ said Al, pleasantly. ‘You’re a nanny, right? Our nanny. At least, you were.’

‘Yes.’

‘And, for some reason, you want to ask me something about Sandy because you’ve been thinking about his death.’

‘I know about you and Veronica Ellison,’ said Frieda, suddenly. She’d had enough of this charade.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, I know about you and Veronica Ellison.’

He stared at her and she stared back.

‘I’m not even going to answer that,’ he said at last.

‘Sandy had some kind of an affair with Veronica, and then you did.’

‘Your point being?’ he asked. His voice was still perfectly polite.

‘I wondered if Sandy knew about it. Or Bridget.’

‘Did you now?’

‘I can’t ask Veronica. She’s on holiday and not answering her phone. I thought you could tell me.’

‘Are you quite mad?’ he asked. He didn’t say it rudely, more in a tone of amazement. ‘Why on earth should I tell you anything at all about my private life?’

‘Because it might help me understand why Sandy died.’

Al reached into the pocket of his running shorts and drew out a miniature iPod wrapped in its headphones. He started painstakingly untangling it.

‘Does Bridget know?’ repeated Frieda.

He looked up, resting his eyes on her with an expression of disdain. ‘No, she does not. And I hope she never will – unless, for some reason that I don’t pretend to understand, you think it fit to tell her.’ He gave her a curious little smile. ‘Of course, you will have to do what you think is right.’

Frieda thought of the passionate love letters from long ago that she had found in the locked tin in Bridget’s study. But it wasn’t the beautiful Bridget who had the secret to hide, it was her studious, gangly husband. She felt sick with herself but nevertheless asked the next question.

‘Did Sandy know?’

‘I’ve no idea. I assume not. Who would have told him? And what makes you think you have the right to ask me these questions? And now I’m done. And you, my friend, are likely to get into trouble if you go around asking questions like that. Everyone isn’t as understanding as me.’ He put the little buttons into his ears, shutting her off, gave her a nod, turned his back on her and broke into a slow trot.

That afternoon, Frieda took Ethan to the park. He was in high spirits: he hurled bread at the ducks, and at the playground tumbled from slide to seesaw to swing, where she pushed him high into the air and he screamed in joyous fear. As she lifted him out again and he collapsed into the buggy, she looked at the little boy’s face, in which she could see both Sasha and Frank. She would miss him, she realized. She had got used to the way he slid his hand into hers or fell asleep on her lap with a suddenness that always surprised her.

She gave him his beaker of juice and a biscuit and pushed the buggy out of the park onto the road that led towards Sasha’s house. It was a muggy, overcast day and she was thinking about Karlsson’s letter. She wondered about his children, Bella and Mikey, who had lived in Spain for a long time with their mother and stepfather. She remembered how painfully Karlsson had missed them. He had described it to her as a sharp pain, like something gnawing at him. As she was thinking this, a few drops of rain fell from the sky and there was a low rumble in the distance. She quickened her pace, hoping to get back to the house before the storm. And then she saw the group of young men, boys, really, a few yards ahead of her down the hill, shouting and jostling. It took her a few moments to realize that a figure was lying on the ground in their midst, a man with a thick beard, matted grey hair, grubby clothes. They were taunting him, laughing. One of them picked up an empty beer can and threw it at his head, and from where she stood Frieda heard him cry out in a high, wavering voice. She saw that other people were looking as well, furtively, not wanting to be involved. Rage, which felt pure and clean after the shameful encounter with Al, rose up in her. She bent down and fastened the safety straps around Ethan, who looked at her with his bright eyes.

‘Ethan, I’m going to run as fast as I can and you’re going to shout as loudly as you can. Your biggest scream. OK?’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

He opened his mouth very wide and emitted a howl that hurt her ears. She took a deep breath and sprinted down the hill towards the group of youths, the buggy bumping wildly as she went. Ethan’s roar became a shriek. The buggy smashed into the first figure and Frieda caught a glimpse of a pimply, startled face. She veered into the next, lifting a fist and aiming it at him. She felt flesh against her knuckles, heard a grunt of pain. The figure on the ground was huddled into a foetus shape, all his pitiful things scattered around him. She swung round again and drove the buggy into a boy in a hoodie, who was staring at her with his mouth open slackly, in an expression of comic surprise.

The group was breaking up. People were arriving from across the street. The man stirred, lifted his head. She saw that he was crying.

‘Christ,’ said a voice, excitedly. ‘You were terrific. Just terrific. How did you do that?’

‘I’ve called the police,’ said another voice. A man came towards her, his mobile in his hand. ‘Someone will be here any minute. I got some of it on my phone.’

‘You can stop screaming,’ Frieda said to Ethan, although the sounds he was making were hoarse and intermittent now.

‘They just ran,’ the man said to Frieda. ‘I should have helped you. But it happened before I had time.’

‘Time to film it,’ a woman said.

‘It’s OK,’ said Frieda. ‘I’ll be on my way now.’

‘But the police will want to talk to you.’

‘You can tell them what happened. You saw it.’ She looked towards the man on the ground, homeless and now beaten up. ‘Make sure he’s OK. Buy him a drink, talk to him.’

‘But –’

Frieda left, pushing the buggy rapidly back up the hill. By the time she reached the top, Ethan had already fallen asleep.

‘I think my child-minding days are coming to an end,’ she said to Sasha, later that evening.

‘You’ve done too much already. I’m interviewing several nannies this week. I’m sure one of them will be fine. I’ve got several days’ leave I can take.’

‘I can do a few more days.’

‘You’ve done enough. I don’t know how I would have managed without you. Ethan will miss you. And so will I.’

‘Right,’ said Frieda. ‘Let’s talk about your story, if anyone asks questions about this.’

Walking away from Sasha’s house, Frieda saw Frank coming towards her. It was too late to cross the road or turn aside, so she just kept moving steadily forward, keeping her expression unconcerned. He seemed tired and sad, his dark brow furrowed. And he stared right through her without seeing her, as though she didn’t exist. Which was sometimes what she felt herself.

‘Look at this,’ said Yvette Long, flinging a newspaper onto Karlsson’s desk.

He picked it up. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘An active citizen. Good for her.’

‘You’re not looking closely enough.’

He glanced at the headline – ‘Have-a-Go Heroine’ – and then read the story about a woman with a buggy charging at a group of young men who were assaulting a homeless man. And then at the blurred photograph that showed a woman with very short dark hair, wearing bright clothes, running with a buggy.

‘Fuck,’ he said.

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Yvette. ‘And somebody filmed it with their phone. It’s on the website.’

‘Show me.’

Yvette went to her desk and tapped on a keyboard. ‘Here,’ she said.

He clicked the ‘play’ button. Things jerked and blurred and then came into focus. There was a youth with his mouth open wide throwing something and then a figure shot into the frame: a woman running and some unearthly noise coming from the buggy she was pushing in front of her, like a battering ram. For a moment she disappeared as another shape passed in front of her, the face out of focus, and then there she was again, her back to the camera. Then the film stopped. It had lasted about twenty seconds.

‘It could be her,’ he said.

‘It is her.’

He looked again. Yes. And he had a pretty good idea of who had been in that buggy. ‘Bloody Frieda,’ he said, but he felt oddly elated.

A few miles away, there was a call for Commissioner Crawford.

‘It’s from Professor Bradshaw,’ his assistant told him. ‘It’s something to do with Frieda Klein.’

When Sasha opened the door, she didn’t just look nervous, she looked distraught.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Hussein. This is Detective Constable Glen Bryant. Can we come in?’

Sasha didn’t reply. She flicked her hair away from her face.

‘Are you all right?’ said Hussein.

‘Things are difficult,’ said Sasha. ‘I’ve got a little boy.’

‘We know.’

‘And I’ve just lost my childcare, which is irritating.’

Hussein and Bryant looked at each other.

‘Can we come in?’ said Hussein.

Ethan was sitting at a miniature red plastic table drawing with crayons in broad strokes, red and black and brown.

‘What is it?’ said Hussein, but Sasha picked him up before he could answer and sat on the sofa with him on her lap. He started to wriggle and to grab at her hair.

‘I need to put him in his room,’ said Sasha. ‘It’s time for his sleep.’

‘We can wait,’ said Hussein.

Bryant walked around the room, looking at the bookshelves as Ethan’s protesting cries receded upstairs. He ran his finger along the mantelpiece and inspected it. ‘The house needs a bit of a clean,’ he said.

Sasha came into the room and sat back down on the sofa. Faintly, from upstairs, there was the sound of wailing.

‘So he’s not quite asleep,’ said Hussein.

‘He doesn’t like sleeping,’ said Sasha. ‘Even when he’s tired out of his skull.’

‘What’s he like at night?’

‘The same. I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep for what seems like my whole life.’

‘I’ve been through that,’ said Hussein. ‘You need to leave him to cry and he’ll go to sleep.’

‘I’ve never been able to do that.’

Hussein nodded at Bryant. He took a photograph from the folder he was carrying and handed it to Sasha.

‘That was taken the day before yesterday near Clissold Park,’ he said. ‘A woman intervened in an assault.’

‘That sounds like a good thing to do,’ said Sasha.

‘She left the scene before the police arrived,’ said Bryant. ‘The media are calling her a have-a-go heroine. They’re looking for her. So are we.’

‘Why are you showing it to me?’

‘Look more closely.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you think she looks like Frieda Klein?’ said Hussein.

‘It’s a bit blurry.’

‘People who know her think she does.’

‘But why are you asking me?’

‘This mysterious heroine was pushing a buggy.’

‘Well, then,’ said Sasha.

‘What do you mean, “Well, then”?’

‘It can’t be Frieda.’

‘Unless she was looking after someone else’s child,’ said Hussein. ‘And, after all, it’s quite good cover, isn’t it? London’s full of people pushing buggies around. People don’t notice them.’

Sasha didn’t reply. She was scratching the back of her left hand as if she had an itch on it. This was the moment that Frieda had talked about. It seemed like years ago. They had rehearsed what she would say.

‘We’ve talked to people who know Frieda or work with her,’ said Hussein. ‘And you’re the only one with a young child. Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I told you. I’ve got a problem with my childcare.’

‘Who was looking after your child the day before yesterday?’

‘He’s called Ethan.’

‘Who was looking after Ethan?’

‘The nanny.’

‘Can we talk to her?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘Gone where?’

‘Back home. To Poland.’

‘To Poland. What’s her name?’

‘Maria.’

‘Maria what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You had a woman looking after your child and you don’t know her second name?’

‘I was in a crisis, my other nanny had suddenly left. I’d met her in the park. She said she’d stand in for a while. But now she’s gone as well.’

‘Maria from Poland. Was she connected with an agency? Do you have her bank details?’

‘I paid her in cash. I know you’re not supposed to, but everyone does it.’

‘Do you have a phone number for her?’

Sasha took a piece of paper from her trouser pocket and handed it over. Hussein looked at it. ‘She probably used a pay-as-you-go phone?’

‘Probably,’ said Sasha.

‘Would Ethan’s father confirm your childcare arrangements?’

‘We’re separated. He leaves it to me mainly. He doesn’t really know what’s going on day to day.’

‘He’s a barrister, is that right? Frank Manning.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Has he talked to you about your friend, Frieda? About the legal implications?’

‘No, he hasn’t.’

‘Many people don’t realize how serious it is to interfere with a police inquiry. A person who is caught and convicted will go to prison. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes.’

Hussein leaned in more closely and put her hand on Sasha’s elbow. ‘I know about you and Frieda. I know that she has helped you in the past and that you owe her a debt of gratitude.’

She saw that tears were running down Sasha’s cheeks. Sasha took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. Hussein felt so close. Just another push.

‘This insane behaviour cannot continue,’ she said. ‘The best thing you can do for your friend is to help us to find her.’

Sasha shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. Her voice was surprisingly firm. ‘I don’t know. I can’t help you.’

‘Do you understand what you’re risking?’ said Hussein. ‘You could go to prison. You’d lose everything. You’d be separated from your son.’

‘He’d probably be better off without me.’

‘Miss Wells. Do you expect us to believe this story? We can check it.’

Sasha wiped her face with her tissue. ‘I’ve told you everything I know. Check all you want.’

‘All right,’ said Hussein. ‘We’ll go through it one more time. And in more detail. And after that, we’ll go through it again. We have plenty of time.’

After Hussein and Bryant had gone, Sasha walked upstairs to Ethan’s room. He was asleep. She leaned down as she always did to check that he was still breathing. Sometimes she was so anxious that she woke him up to make absolutely sure, but this time he shifted slightly and gave a small whimper. Then she walked downstairs, picked up a phone and went out onto the little patio at the back of the house. She dialled a number and heard the click of it being answered.

‘Frieda?’

‘I’m here, Sasha.’

‘The police came to my house.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right. I repeated what you told me to say.’

‘I don’t mean that. I put you at risk. I put Ethan at risk.’

‘You saved me and you saved him as well.’

‘This will be over soon,’ said Frieda. ‘For you as well as for me.’

‘That’s what I was ringing about. In a way. I need to tell you something.’

‘What?’

‘I can’t tell you over the phone. This needs to be face to face.’

‘That’s a bit awkward at the moment.’

‘I have to see you.’

Frieda paused for a moment. ‘All right. Where?’

‘There’s a place on Stoke Newington Church Street. It’s called Black Coffee. Can we meet there at half past ten tomorrow?’

‘Have you got anyone to look after Ethan?’

‘Frank’s coming round this afternoon. He might be able to take him. Or I’ll bring him along. He’ll be glad to see you.’

‘So things are better with Frank.’

‘I’m trying to get him to do more.’

The next morning Frieda took the train up to Dalston early and she was in Stoke Newington Church Street at half past nine, an hour before her meeting with Sasha. The road was dotted with cafés. She walked past Black Coffee, then crossed the road to another café, about thirty yards further on. She sat near the window and ordered a black coffee. The café had a pile of newspapers for customers and she took one and opened it on the table in front of her. But she didn’t read it. Instead she gazed out at the street. Once, in what seemed a previous lifetime, she and Sandy had sat in restaurants and, as an amusement or an exercise, they had tried to guess the stories and problems of the people at other tables, what they were doing there. Now, looking at the passers-by on Stoke Newington Church Street, Frieda did it for real. She saw the mothers, in groups, some of them pushing buggies, on their way back from dropping the older children at school. An old woman made her way with agonizing slowness along the pavement with a walker. At one point her walker got stuck where a driveway crossed the pavement. Over and over again she pushed the wheels against the edge of the driveway, and over and over again they wouldn’t quite get over. Frieda could hardly bear just to sit there watching. Finally two boys, who probably should have been in school, helped her over the tiny obstacle.

There was a bus stop right next to Black Coffee and a queue of people waiting. Two old women, one with a shopping bag on wheels. A young woman glancing anxiously at her watch, late for work. A young man, early thirties, bomber jacket, jeans, with earphones. Three teenagers, two boys and a girl. The girl looked like she was the sister of one of the boys. A middle-aged couple, together, but not speaking. He was doing something on his phone; she appeared irritated.

The bus arrived, obscuring the queue. When it left, the two old women had gone. The other woman was still looking at her watch. An old man and an old woman separately joined the queue, alongside two teenage girls. Another bus pulled up and then left. The young woman was gone. Frieda felt absurdly relieved. The two boys and the girl and the two teenage girls were gone. But the man with the earphones was still there. Another bus came and then another and another. Frieda came to see the queue as a kind of organism, permanent and permanently changing its constituent parts, mutating, shedding, accumulating. But the man with the earphones was still there.

Frieda ordered another coffee. On the other side of the road, further along, a car was parked on a yellow line. The light was shining on the windows, so she couldn’t tell whether anyone was inside. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter past ten. She saw the familiar green uniform of a traffic warden. She watched as he approached the car hopefully. Traffic wardens were paid by results, weren’t they? He leaned down towards the car. He seemed to be talking to someone. He moved on without taking action. Across the road, a bus came and went. The man with the earphones was still standing there. If the two of them had been in uniform it couldn’t have been any more obvious.

A young woman brought Frieda’s coffee.

‘Is there a loo here?’ Frieda asked.

‘Through the door at the back,’ said the woman, gesturing.

Frieda turned and walked through the door. Straight ahead of her was the loo door. To the right was a doorway that led to a storeroom, with cardboard boxes and canisters. On the left was a fire door. She pushed at it and found herself in a small side-street. She walked up it, away from Stoke Newington Church Street. After a couple of turns she found herself walking along railings, then went through an opening and into the park. She just hoped that people weren’t still looking for the have-a-go heroine.

Almost without thinking, she headed across the park, then out through the gate on the other side, southwards towards the river. For a time she felt her mind was in a fog that only slowly started to clear. So they had got to Sasha. She tried not to think about it and then she realized it was her responsibility, all of it, so she made herself think about it. She imagined the police interviewing Sasha, threatening her with prosecution and with losing Ethan. Losing her son after having lost her partner. Then she imagined Sasha ringing her, what it must have cost her to lure her friend into a trap. Friend. Even saying the word silently to herself made her feel a pang of guilt. Was this what she did to her friends?

Suddenly she found herself on Blackfriars Bridge, staring at the water. A long open-topped boat passed under her. There was a party on board and some revellers at the back waved up at her and one shouted something she couldn’t make out. Next to them a dark-haired woman was standing alone, without a drink, both hands on the guardrail. Suddenly she looked up and saw Frieda and they seemed to recognize something in each other and then, almost instantly, the boat was too far away and the moment had gone.

Frieda took out her phone. It was tainted now; it would lead people to her. She leaned her hand over the railing and released it. It hit the water with a small splash she saw but couldn’t hear. She stared at the water and suddenly thought of Sandy. This was the river that had taken him and then had given him up. For the first time she thought of the sheer physicality of those days his body had been in the water, carried up and down with the tide, as if he were being breathed in and out.

When she arrived back in the flat she heard voices. She looked through the kitchen door. Ileana and Mira were sitting at the kitchen table. Although it was still early, they were drinking red wine from tumblers and there were the remains of a pizza in a box on the table.

‘There is left for you,’ said Mira. ‘And some of the wine.’

Ileana poured the last of it into a tumbler. It fizzed and bubbled like Coca-Cola. Frieda took a sip. It tasted a bit like Coca-Cola as well. Mira looked at her appraisingly.

‘Hair good,’ she said. ‘Tired also.’

‘Thanks,’ said Frieda.

‘No, no,’ said Ileana. ‘Eat pizza, drink wine, then sleep.’

‘I’ll just make myself some tea.’

‘There is no tea. And there is milk but not good.’ Ileana gave a sniff.

‘I’ll go and get some,’ said Frieda. ‘Do you need anything else?’

It turned out that they did need other things, so many that Frieda had to find an old envelope and write a list.

It took longer than she expected. The list was surprisingly complicated. She twice had to ask the man behind the counter where something was. Each time he sighed, took his headphones off and walked laboriously round the shop. Once he had to climb on a chair, once he went back into a storeroom. Finally Frieda emerged from the shop. It was late afternoon, sunny, warm. But she just wanted to get into bed with a mug of tea. Not to sleep. There was no prospect of that. She just needed silence to process the events of the day.

Almost immediately she felt a nudge and looked round. It was Mira. Frieda was so startled that she didn’t know what to say.

‘Is no good,’ said Mira. ‘Police there.’

‘Where?’

‘In flat.’

Frieda still had difficulty speaking.

‘But how are you here, then?’

Mira seemed out of breath. Frieda couldn’t tell whether it was from physical effort or just the stress of it all.

‘Ileana open door. I hear, go into room, out window. I grab some of your things for you. Not much, I have no time.’

She held out a plastic shopping bag. Frieda took it. It didn’t feel like it had a great deal in it.

‘And this.’ Mira put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a wad of banknotes. ‘Is yours,’ she said.

‘Thank you. But how did you know where it was?’

‘Frieda. You put money behind the mirror.’

‘Yes.’

‘So I find it.’

‘Oh.’ Frieda looked down at the notes, then back again at Mira. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Very much.’

Mira glanced at the bag Frieda was carrying.

‘You keep food? Is OK.’

Frieda just shook her head and handed her the bag.

‘Flat no good now,’ said Mira. ‘You must go.’

‘Yes.’

Mira took Frieda’s free hand, not as though she were shaking it, more like she was restraining her. She pushed Frieda’s sleeve up. Then she took a pen from her pocket, clicked it on her chest and started writing on Frieda’s lower arm. Frieda saw it was a number.

‘You call us,’ said Mira.

‘Some time.’

‘Good luck from us,’ said Mira.

‘Yes. Will you be all right? With the police?’

Mira held up the bag. ‘Fine. I have been shopping.’