Текст книги "Friday on My Mind"

Автор книги: Nicci French

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

27

She was pale, her hair lank, her eyes large in her thin face. He saw that she kept twisting her hands together, that her nails were bitten, that she had a cold sore on the corner of her mouth. He knew that Frieda always worried about Sasha and remembered that after Ethan had been born she’d gone through an episode of post-natal depression that had never entirely passed.

‘I just want her to be all right,’ she said now, wiping the back of her hand against her cheeks.

‘That’s what we all want.’

‘I’ve made things worse for her. But it was so nice for me when she came back. Even when she’s in trouble herself, she makes the world seem safer.’

‘Do you know where she is now?’

‘No. I told that policewoman and it’s true. She wouldn’t say. I’ve tried calling her but she doesn’t answer.’

‘No idea at all?’

‘I don’t know if I’d tell you if I had. But I haven’t.’

‘How did she seem?’

‘All right. Not scared. Calm. Purposeful. You know what she can be like.’ Karlsson nodded: he did. ‘She was good with Ethan as well, in a stern kind of way.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘If he cried because he wanted something, it was as if she didn’t hear him. He keeps asking about her and the other kids.’

‘What others?’

‘She looked after two other young children as well.’

‘Frieda looked after three children?’

‘I know – it’s hard to imagine. The parents were good friends of Sandy – I think Al worked with him.’

‘I see,’ said Karlsson. A smile twisted his lips. ‘That was rather sneaky of her. Do you know their names?’

‘Al and Bridget. Hang on. Let me think.’ She furrowed her brow. ‘She had an Italian name. Bellucci? I think that’s right. I don’t know his last name. Why?’

‘They might know something.’

‘Is she going to be all right?’

Karlsson looked at her tightly plaited hands. Then the doorbell rang.

‘That’ll be Frank,’ said Sasha. ‘He’s come to return some of Ethan’s clothes.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears.

Karlsson stood up as Frank came into the room. They hadn’t known each other well, and hadn’t seen each other since the break-up, but Frank shook his hand warmly and asked after his children, even remembering their names. They left the house together.

‘Drink?’ asked Frank, as they stepped onto the pavement.

Karlsson looked at his watch. It was still not nine o’clock.

‘Two men with nothing to go home to,’ said Frank.

‘You make it sound sad.’

‘There’s a place at the end of the road.’

Karlsson couldn’t think of a reason to say no. That seemed sad as well.

Frank came across to the table, carrying two glasses of beer and two packets of crisps. ‘You’re looking at me with your detective’s eye,’ he said.

Karlsson shook his head. ‘I feel like I’m seeing myself in a mirror. Except that the person in the mirror is a bit younger and is wearing a much nicer suit.’

Frank glanced down at his pinstriped suit, his open-necked white shirt, as if it had taken him by surprise. ‘I’ve been in court. It’s really just a uniform.’

‘Did you win?’

‘It wasn’t much of a victory. The prosecution mislaid some evidence and their key witness didn’t turn up. The judge directed the jury to acquit.’

‘You’re good,’ said Karlsson. ‘That’s what I’ve heard.’

‘I can sense a “but” coming.’

‘It’s an “and”, not a “but”.’

Frank ripped open the two packets of crisps. ‘You’ve completely lost me.’

‘It’s about Frieda. I wanted to ask you something.’

‘Oh.’ Frank held Karlsson’s gaze. ‘Before you go on, I expect you know I was angry with her for a while.’

‘I had heard.’

‘I blamed her for the break-up with Sasha.’ He gave a rueful shrug. ‘Easier than blaming myself, I suppose.’

‘I suppose it is. Are you still angry?’

‘Not so much. She was always Sasha’s friend, first and foremost – and she’s someone you want as a friend, isn’t she? Someone you want on your side.’

‘She is that,’ said Karlsson.

‘So I understand now that she was being Sasha’s friend. She thought Sasha needed to leave me. Perhaps she was right. Though –’ He stopped and rubbed his face with both hands. ‘What were you wanting to ask about Frieda?’

‘I’ve never quite known what to think about the things she does. I’ve visited her in a police cell and I’ve visited her in intensive care, but this is something else. I can’t believe it can end well. But, however it ends, she’s going to need help.’

‘She’s got friends,’ said Frank.

‘Good friends. But what she’ll really need is a good lawyer.’

‘She’s got a lawyer, hasn’t she?’

‘She’s got a solicitor, Tanya Hopkins. She and Frieda didn’t see eye to eye.’

Frank nodded. ‘It’s the job of a solicitor to tell the truth. Often it’s the truth that the client doesn’t want to hear.’

‘That’s not true of Frieda.’

‘No, I guess not.’

‘That’s part of Frieda’s problem. She doesn’t want to get off. She wants the truth.’

Frank smiled. ‘The courtroom isn’t like therapy. It’s about winning and losing.’

‘So, what do you think?’

Frank took a gulp of beer. ‘I don’t know. As you know, the police don’t like being made fools of. Bear in mind that I knew the murder victim and I’m the ex-partner of one of the accused’s best friends. But I’ll do anything I can. Just keep me in touch. Here.’ He took a business card out of his wallet and handed it across. ‘If she breaks cover, I’ll be happy to talk to her. Though she might not want to talk to me.’

There was a pause while the two men drank their beer and helped themselves to the crisps.

‘She was looking after Ethan for a while, you know,’ said Frank.

‘Yes. Did you know about it?’

‘What? At the time? Of course not. Sasha only told me afterwards, when the police were suspicious. Frieda had left, and she was in pieces. Thank God – I would have reported it at once. I’m a barrister, for God’s sake. I would have been struck off if I’d known and kept silent. But then Sasha would never have talked to me again. Though I think she was quite wrong to do what she did. And so was Frieda.’

‘Are you on good terms with Sasha now?’ asked Karlsson, awkwardly.

Frank stared at him, through him, at something else. ‘Good terms?’ he said eventually. ‘Doesn’t that sound businesslike? How did we get to such a pass? To be on good terms with the woman I loved and who is the mother of my son. I couldn’t believe my luck when I met Sasha.’ He sounded dreamy and spoke as if he were really talking to himself. ‘She’s so beautiful, and I thought I could rescue her. She’s someone you feel needs rescuing, isn’t she? Sometimes, being with her, I’ve felt like I’ve been in a nightmare. It’s like I’ve been watching a very slow accident taking place and I can’t do anything to stop it. I feel like I tried everything and none of it worked.’

They walked out onto the pavement together. Frank held out his hand and Karlsson shook it.

‘So what’s your plan now?’ Frank asked.

‘I don’t know. Waiting. Doing what I can to help.’

‘And what’s Frieda’s plan, do you think?’

Karlsson made a gesture of helplessness. ‘Do you know? In all the years I’ve known Frieda, I’ve never known what she was going to do. And after she’s done it, I often don’t understand that either. She broke into the Warehouse. That’s the clinic she’s connected to.’

‘What for?’

‘I don’t know. It was something to do with Sandy, but I don’t know what.’

Frank wrinkled his brow. ‘Breaking and entering,’ he said. ‘And child endangerment. It’s not going to look good in court.’

Karlsson turned to go. ‘I don’t think it’ll ever get to court,’ he said. ‘Something will happen.’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘Aren’t you breaking the barrister’s first rule?’

Frank looked puzzled. ‘And what’s that?’

‘Never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to. Thanks for the drink, Frank.’

He was very tired now, his eyes sore, but he knew he was far from sleep. He didn’t want to go back to his empty flat to lie awake and wonder where Frieda could be and how he could find her. He thought of what Sasha had said and pulled his phone out of his pocket as he walked away from the pub towards his car; he Googled Bridget Bellucci, and in less than a minute had her email address. He wrote a message, explaining he was a friend of Frieda’s and would be grateful for the opportunity to talk to her and Al, as soon as possible and in strict confidence. Almost as soon as he’d sent it a reply pinged onto his screen. ‘Why not now?’ it said, and included an address.

Karlsson looked at his watch. It was ten past ten and Bridget and Al lived in Stockwell. But he climbed into his car, put the address in the satnav and drove off.

He thought he had rarely met a couple as dissimilar as Bridget and Al: she vivid and dark-haired, with an olive complexion and Italian gestures; he gangly, sandy-haired, drily self-deprecating, the quintessence of a certain kind of Englishness. Karlsson sat in their kitchen and drank tea. He longed for a whisky but he had to drive later and knew, anyway, that he was in the dangerous mood of alert and heady tiredness, which alcohol would only increase.

He explained once again that he was a detective but that he wasn’t there as a detective. He knew that when this was all over – whatever ‘over’ might mean – he would have to think about what he was doing. Not yet.

‘Karlsson, you say?’ Bridget was looking at him speculatively.

‘Yes.’

‘Is that why she called herself Carla?’

‘What?’

‘Karlsson. Carla.’

‘I don’t know about that. I’m sure it was just …’ He found he couldn’t reach the end of his sentence. He lifted his tea in both hands and carried it to his mouth.

‘How can we help you?’ asked Al, politely, as though he were there to ask for directions.

‘I need to find Frieda.’

‘She no longer works for us.’

‘Do you have any idea of where she might be?’

‘No,’ Bridget said. ‘I never knew where she went back to each evening. I knew very little about her, even after I discovered who she was.’

‘I see.’

‘She worked for us,’ said Al, ‘because we knew Sandy. God help us, we let her look after our kids, thinking she was a nanny, when all the time she was conducting her own investigation while being wanted by the police.’

‘She was quite a good nanny, in fact,’ said Bridget. ‘Unorthodox.’

‘I didn’t know what she was up to until yesterday.’ Al cast a glance at Bridget, both rueful and accusing. ‘For a while, I believe she suspected me of being the murderer.’

‘Us,’ corrected Bridget. ‘Yes, she did.’

‘Of killing Sandy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I had his keys,’ said Bridget. ‘And hers as well.’

‘Why?’

‘He gave me a set of his keys and hers were attached. It was as meaningless as that.’

‘And I had a motive,’ added Al. Karlsson couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused. ‘He’d rather shafted me. Professionally, I mean.’

‘Frieda discovered that?’

‘Yes. She found out a lot of things,’ said Al.

‘I liked her,’ said Bridget. ‘Why are you so eager to find her?’

‘Because I think she’s in danger.’

‘Why?’

‘I think that whoever killed Sandy is also after her.’

‘We can’t do anything for you,’ said Bridget. ‘We don’t know where she is. I tried to help her – I gave her names of women Sandy had been involved with. I told her everything about him I thought might be helpful.’

‘Like what?’

Bridget sat very still at the table for a few moments. She didn’t look at Al when she told Karlsson that Sandy used to confide in her, that he had been in a bad way before he died, that she had been scared he would do something foolish.

Al looked shocked. ‘You mean, that he might kill himself?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you never thought to tell me.’

‘It wasn’t my secret to tell.’

‘Even after he’d been murdered.’

‘Especially.’

‘Why was he in such a bad way?’ asked Karlsson.

‘He felt he had made a mess of everything. I think he felt guilty about the way he’d treated various women – hurting them the way he thought he’d been hurt.’

‘By Frieda?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And Frieda visited these women?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who were they?’

‘I know she spoke to Veronica Ellison and Bella Fisk, who both work at King George’s. And then there was the old nanny of Sandy’s sister.’

‘I see. But she didn’t find anything?’

‘By that time, she’d stopped being our nanny. I don’t know what she found.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It’s Sandy’s funeral tomorrow.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m speaking and Al’s doing a reading. “Fear No More the Heat of the Sun”. Do you know it?’

‘I think I heard it at a funeral.’

‘Sandy was scared. Did you know that?’

‘Did he tell you?’

‘He was trying to contact Frieda about it.’

‘You should have told me, Bridget,’ said Al. His face was sharp and pale.

‘Maybe, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.’ She didn’t sound sorry. She looked at Karlsson. ‘And I wish we could help. I hope she’s going to be all right; I hope you find her before someone else does.’

He couldn’t sleep and wondered if this was how Frieda felt when she went on her night walks. Perhaps she was on one right now – he tried to imagine where that would be, what she would be thinking, planning.

Tomorrow Sandy would at last be cremated. Frieda would know that, of course. What would she be doing when at eleven o’clock in the morning the mourners gathered and his coffin was carried into the chapel? His family and friends and colleagues would all be there; the police would be there. Where would Frieda be?

28

‘I’ll be at the service,’ said Hussein. ‘You stay in the grounds. We have three other officers on the perimeters.’

‘She won’t be there.’ Bryant lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

‘We have to see.’

‘She’ll know we’ll be there and looking for her. It’s the very last place she’ll be.’

‘The more I know about Frieda Klein, the more I think that the last place might be the first place.’

‘That sounds a bit biblical.’

‘What? Oh, never mind.’

‘Are you going?’ said Frieda to Olivia, as they drank coffee in the kitchen.

Olivia put her mug down and leaned across the table. ‘Chloë says we shouldn’t, but I think we must, or at least I must. In spite of everything.’

‘Good.’

‘I thought you’d hate the idea.’

‘It’s important to say goodbye.

‘Chloë,’ said Olivia, to her daughter, who came into the kitchen at that moment. ‘Frieda says we should go to the funeral.’

Chloë looked across at Frieda. ‘Don’t you want me to stay with you?’

‘No. But listen, Olivia, there’ll be lots of people there.’

‘I know. The press will come, won’t they? What do you think I should wear? Black? Or is that a bit much?’

‘The police will be there as well.’

‘Why? Oh, right, I understand why.’

‘Will you really be all right?’ asked Chloë. She looked troubled.

‘I will.’

Reuben put on his summer suit and a bright blue shirt. He lent Josef a jacket that was a bit too small for him, and Josef put a rose in its buttonhole, a small bottle of vodka and a packet of cigarettes in its pocket. He polished his boots vigorously and shaved with extra care.

‘She will not come?’ he said to Reuben.

‘Even Frieda wouldn’t be so stupid.’

Olivia and Chloë left at half past nine. Olivia wanted to get a good seat. She wore her long grey skirt, a sleeveless white shirt and lots of silver jewellery; her hair was tied up in a complicated knot that was already unravelling and her nails and lips were painted red. At the last minute she remembered to stuff handfuls of tissues into her bag.

‘I always cry at funerals. Even if I don’t know the person very well – especially if I don’t know them very well – because then you think about your own life, don’t you? God, I could start weeping right now.’ She allowed Chloë to pull her out through the door.

Frieda washed up the breakfast things, then went upstairs to take a shower and dress. She barely had any clothes but Chloë and Olivia had given her several pairs of trousers and a variety of shirts. She picked out the plainest and coolest of them, for the day was going to be warm. She put on her dark glasses and left the house. It was just before ten o’clock. She had plenty of time.

By twenty to eleven, Hussein had taken up her position at the back of the chapel, and was watching mourners come in. Some of them she recognized: Sandy’s sister, of course, Lizzie Rasson, with her husband and small child, several people from the university that they’d interviewed during the course of their investigation. Then she saw Reuben McGill come in with Josef and also the young man from the Warehouse, she couldn’t remember his name, with wild orange hair. He was wearing striped jeans and a purple shirt. A woman seated near the front turned round and waved them over with extravagant gestures and Hussein recognized her too: Frieda’s sister-in-law, or ex-sister-in-law, there with her daughter.

Gradually the chapel filled up. It was going to be full: soon there would be standing room only. A slender woman and a solid-looking man took a seat across the aisle from her. She recognized Sasha, but not the man.

Frieda walked up Primrose Hill. It was a clear, warm day and she looked down at the zoo and the city beyond, spread out in the sunlight. People lay on the grass, which was already bleached from the summer – it had started early this year. She slid off her shoes and took off her dark glasses. It was eleven o’clock. They would be carrying Sandy’s coffin into the chapel now. What music would be playing? Who would pay tributes? She imagined the rows of mourners and she, who had known him so well, wasn’t among them. Instead she had come here, where they had so often come together, in all seasons. This was her own private ceremony, but how should she say goodbye to someone she had loved so dearly, left so abruptly, seen descend into a self-destructive and wretched anger?

‘… This is an occasion for people of all faiths and none to say goodbye to Sandy Holland …’

Hussein looked round at the solemn faces. The coffin lay on the catafalque and Lizzie Rasson and her husband sat at the front; she was already sobbing silently. Hussein glanced down at the order of service: Lizzie was supposed to be speaking later; how would she manage to do that?

‘… and to remember him, each in their own way …’

Frieda let herself remember Sandy as he had been when they first met. She summoned him into her mind, image by image: Sandy laughing, Sandy lying in bed, Sandy cooking for her, Sandy as he had been when she had sought him out after their long separation, at his sister’s wedding reception, and the way he had looked at her then. Sandy sitting by her hospital bed, with a stricken face. Sandy standing at her door, returned from the States because she had finally told him about something that had happened to her in her past. And then Sandy angry, baffled, hurt, humiliated, full of jealousy. All of these were him. Only once someone is dead can their many different selves come together.

A striking woman came to the front.

‘My name is Bridget,’ she said, in a clear voice. ‘Sandy was my friend and I loved him. No. I love him. Just because he’s dead it doesn’t mean he has gone from our hearts. I loved him, but he wasn’t easy, as most of you here will know. I want to tell you all a little story about the first time I met him …’

Hussein half listened to the words, the appreciative ripples of laughter. Frieda wasn’t going to show up. She felt a stab of disappointment because, although she knew it was irrational, she had half believed that Frieda would find a way to say goodbye.

A few people were crying, most of them quietly, but at the front there was a snorting, choking noise that she worked out came from Olivia. Across from Hussein, Sasha had her head on the man’s shoulder and he was patting her tenderly on the back.

She wondered where Karlsson was. She had expected him to be there.

In her head, Frieda said goodbye to Sandy. She told him that she was sorry for all that had happened and that she wouldn’t forget him. She closed her eyes and felt the soft breeze on her face.

‘Hello, Frieda.’

The voice came from behind her. For a moment, she didn’t move but went on looking at the skyline. Then she turned. ‘Karlsson,’ she said.

‘I’ve been looking for you.’

‘How did they know where I was?’

‘They didn’t. I did.’

‘How?’

‘I know that you and Sandy used to come here a lot together.’

‘So now you’re a mind-reader as well as a detective.’

‘May I join you?’

‘Do I have any choice?’

‘Of course. If you tell me to go, I’ll go. But please don’t do that.’

‘You’re not here in …’ she gave a wry smile ‘… an official capacity.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You’re crossing a boundary, Karlsson.’

‘I crossed it some time ago.’

‘It’s what you used to get so angry with me for.’

‘Don’t think I won’t again.’

‘All right, you can join me.’

He sat beside her on the grass, took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘You brought me up here once, many years ago. I asked you to tell me something interesting about what we were looking at and you pointed to the zoo and said that, not so long ago, foxes had got into the penguin enclosure and killed about twenty of them.’

‘About a dozen, I think.’

‘Right. Your hair’s not so bad. I was a bit shocked when I first saw it on the video.’

‘What video would that be?’

‘The one of you breaking into the Warehouse.’

‘Oh.’

‘Which, of course, Reuben kept from the police.’

‘I’m sorry anyone else has to get involved in this.’

‘They’ll catch you soon, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘When they do, it won’t be pretty.’

‘No.’

‘And in the meantime, I think you’re in danger.’

‘I think perhaps I am. I feel that someone is always one step ahead of me.’

‘How can you be so calm?’

‘Am I calm?’

‘The question is, Frieda: what are we going to do?’

She turned her face to him and he felt the brightness of her gaze. Then she touched him very lightly on his arm with the tips of her fingers. ‘I appreciate that “we”.’

They both sat in silence, gazing at the horizon of tower blocks against the blue sky.

‘Will you give yourself up?’ he said at last. ‘It would be better than being caught and we could get you the best legal team there is. I’ve already started making enquiries.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Sarah Hussein is very fair.’

‘I’m sure that’s true.’

‘Where are you living?’

She just shook her head at him.

‘Tell me what to do, Frieda. Now that I’ve found you, you can’t just melt away again.’

‘Just a few more days.’

Karlsson stared straight ahead, at the haze over the city. ‘Promise me something.’

‘What?’

‘Contact me, day or night, if you need my help.’

‘That’s kind of you.’

‘I notice you’re not promising. Do you have a mobile?’

‘I threw it away.’

‘Here.’ He took his jacket from the grass beside him and took his wallet out of its breast pocket, opened it to find a card. ‘Keep this with you. It’s got all my different numbers on it. And this is my home landline.’ He wrote the number on the back of the card.

Frieda took it. ‘I should go now. I feel a bit exposed here and the funeral must be nearly over.’

Karlsson looked at his watch. ‘Yes. About now.’

Frieda slid her feet into her shoes and put on her dark glasses. She stood and smiled down at him. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, raising her hand in a farewell salute. ‘Thank you, my friend.’