Текст книги "Friday on My Mind"

Автор книги: Nicci French

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

6

The Warehouse wasn’t Bryant’s idea of a medical institution. With its stripped pine, metal, plate glass, it looked more like an arts centre, somewhere you’d be led through on a school outing. And the woman he’d spoken to on the phone the day before, Paz Alvarez, didn’t look like a manager. Dark-eyed, flamboyantly dressed, she was like a flamenco dancer or a fortune-teller. Bryant had told her that he wanted to talk about Frieda Klein and she was clearly suspicious. Reuben McGill was seeing a patient. He would have to wait.

Bryant waited in Paz’s office. When she talked on the phone, she seemed a different person, laughing, cajoling, ordering. Then she would hang up, look round, and her expression would darken. Bryant tried to make conversation. Did she know Frieda Klein? Of course. Had she known her long? A few years. Did she see her often? When she came into the clinic. Was that often? A shrug.

He gave up and looked around her office. There was a rug on the wall, small sculptures and metal ornaments on every surface. A man appeared in the doorway and looked at Paz, who nodded towards Bryant. Bryant stood up.

‘Dr McGill?’

‘Come through.’

Bryant followed McGill along a corridor and into a room that was simple and stark, with just an abstract print on the wall and two wooden chairs facing each other.

‘I thought there’d be a couch,’ said Bryant.

McGill didn’t smile, just gestured him to sit in one of the chairs and sat himself in the other. McGill didn’t look like Bryant’s idea of a senior doctor either. He was wearing walking boots, grey canvas trousers, a faded blue shirt. His thick, greying hair was swept back off his forehead. When people met police officers they were usually nervous or agitated. They could sometimes be confrontational. McGill said nothing and looked just a little bored.

‘We’re investigating the murder of Alexander Holland,’ Bryant began.

‘I knew him as Sandy,’ said McGill. ‘It sounds wrong hearing him called Alexander. I can’t believe that this has happened. It’s a terrible thing, especially for Frieda.’

‘You knew him?’ Bryant continued.

‘Yes, of course. I met him several years ago.’

‘Through Frieda Klein?’

‘That’s right. They were in a relationship, though that ended some time ago now.’

‘We’re looking into people who knew him well. Like Dr Klein.’

‘I’m confused. Can’t you talk to her directly?’

‘My boss is talking to her this afternoon. But your name came up.’

‘In what way?’

‘Frieda Klein is an analyst. But you were her analyst. How does that work?’

McGill looked amused in a way that Bryant didn’t like.

‘Work? It meant that she had sessions with me a few times a week. But this was all many years ago.’

‘I don’t know anything about this,’ said Bryant. ‘Is it usual to be analysed by someone who’s your friend?’

McGill made an impatient gesture. ‘If you’re training to be a therapist, you first have to be in therapy yourself.’

‘Why?’

McGill’s grim expression lightened slightly. ‘That’s a good question,’ he said. ‘Probably the main reason is that by the time you’ve had your own therapy, you’ve spent so much time and so much money, you’ll be a good, obedient therapist and you won’t ask awkward questions about the old masters or the efficacy of what we do. It’s also useful to deal with some of your own issues so they don’t get in the way when you start seeing patients.’ He frowned again. ‘We became friends later. I was her analyst, then I recruited her and then we became friends.’

‘And through her you met Alexander Holland.’

‘Yes.’

‘They were a couple.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then they broke up.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know why?’

McGill crossed his arms. Bryant felt he was being pushed away.

‘You must have friends.’

‘I’ve got a few.’

‘When their relationships break up, do you really know why?’

‘Usually. Maybe one of them had an affair or they argued too much or one of them got bored.’

‘Well, I don’t know why they broke up.’

‘Do you know who initiated it?’

McGill unfolded his arms. ‘Why do you need to know all this? You seem to be asking me about Frieda rather than Sandy.’

‘Holland was murdered. We want to know what was happening in his life.’

‘Frieda ended it.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘She’s her own woman. Maybe she felt trapped. I have no idea.’

‘How did he take it?’

‘What do you think? He wasn’t happy.’

‘How did he show that?’

McGill shrugged. ‘By not being happy. By complaining. By trying to get her to change her mind.’

‘Was he threatening? Or violent?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Did you talk to him after it ended?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘Why?’

‘He may have seen me as a way of getting to Frieda.’

‘What was his demeanour?’

‘Demeanour?’ McGill smiled. ‘That’s a word only policemen and lawyers use. We’ve all been there. It’s the most hopeless thing in the world, trying to persuade someone to love you again.’

Bryant pulled a photocopy from his file and pushed it across the table. ‘What do you make of that?’

McGill stared at the sheet of paper that showed the column of dates and times that Sandy had written down under the initials ‘WH’. ‘Nothing.’

‘It’s a reasonable assumption that “WH” means the Warehouse.’ McGill didn’t respond. ‘If so, can you think of what these dates and times refer to?’

‘No.’

‘For instance, they wouldn’t be the dates and times that Dr Klein works here?’

‘I’ll have to check that.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bryant.

‘It would be easier if you simply asked Frieda.’

‘We’ll do that as well.’ He glanced down at his notebook, reminding himself. ‘One more thing. Does the name Miles Thornton mean anything to you?’

‘Yes.’ McGill was visibly wary. ‘He is a patient here. Or was.’

‘He’s been reported missing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he hasn’t turned up for his usual sessions.’

‘His sessions with Dr Klein?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why is that particularly worrying? Presumably lots of patients miss their sessions.’

‘What has this got to do with Sandy’s death?’

Bryant, who didn’t know the answer to that, waited impassively.

‘Miles Thornton is a particularly troubled young man. Perhaps we should never have taken him here – a hospital might have been more appropriate. He was in a psychiatric ward of a hospital for a bit and when he was released he felt we – Frieda in particular – had betrayed him. He could be violent, even psychotic at times. So when he disappeared …’ he gave another of his shrugs ‘… well, it was obviously worrying. It was our duty to report him missing.’

‘I see.’ Bryant stood up. ‘Let me know about that list, will you? I’ll leave it with you. Is there anyone else here I can talk to?’

‘You’ve met Paz. And there’s Jack Dargan, who was Frieda’s trainee. He works here now. But they’ll just say the same as me.’

Now it was Bryant’s turn to look disapproving. ‘We’ll be the judge of that.’

Jack Dargan was a brightly dressed young man. Bryant liked to be invisible: on or off duty, he wore clothes that were dark, muted and interchangeable. But the man who came into the room wore a thinly woven yellow cardigan over a royal blue T-shirt and baggy trousers that looked like pyjamas. Perhaps this was what therapists put on to see their patients. His hair was colourful as well, a tawny orange with a kind of wave running through it that he emphasized by pushing his hand into it whenever he was asked a question. There was a perpetual restlessness about him that made it hard for Bryant to concentrate fully on what he was saying – but it was clear that he was saying no. No, he didn’t know any details about Frieda Klein’s break-up with Alexander Holland; no, he had not met him after Frieda had ended things, except for a couple of brief glimpses (here, his eyes slid away from Bryant’s); and no, he had nothing to add to Reuben McGill’s statement about Miles Thornton.

‘Did Alexander Holland come to the Warehouse much?’

Jack put his knuckles into his mouth and squinted. ‘No.’

‘You never saw him behaving angrily or violently?’

‘Violently? No, I never saw anything like that.’

‘Or angrily?’

‘I can’t believe this has happened,’ Jack said.

‘Was he angry?’

‘I don’t know. He was disappointed, the way people are when relationships go wrong. We’ve all been there.’

‘How disappointed?’

‘He’d lost Frieda.’

‘There’s nothing you can tell me that may be helpful to our investigation? And this isn’t just someone dropping litter, remember. A man you used to know has been killed.’

‘I realize that. I’m terribly sorry and shocked about that. But, no, I can’t think of anything that would be helpful. You’ll just have to ask Frieda.’

It was what they all said: ask Frieda.

‘This must be difficult for you,’ said Hussein.

Frieda was pouring tea and didn’t seem to hear. She put a coaster on the table in front of the detective and put a mug of tea on it. Then she took a sip from her own mug. ‘In what way?’

‘Alexander Holland was someone you cared about and –’

‘Can you call him Sandy? I never knew him as Alexander. It makes him sound like a stranger.’

‘Of course. Sandy was someone you cared about and he’s been murdered.’

‘One thing I’ve discovered,’ said Frieda, ‘is that when something happens, people want to become a part of it. If someone has a tragedy, then other people want to grab some of it for themselves, as if it happened to them as well. This wasn’t my tragedy. It was Sandy’s and his family’s tragedy. Can we take it as read that I’m deeply shocked by what’s happened?’

‘That sounds a bit cold.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve never been good at crying for the cameras.’ She paused for a moment, then added, ‘I know that I probably appear cold to you. But, as you know, people react very differently to distress and anger. They tend to make me withdraw into myself and appear harsh.’

‘All right. Thank you.’

‘I was explaining, not apologizing.’

‘They said you were difficult,’ said Hussein, who felt nettled and wrong-footed.

‘Who’s “they”?’

‘Commissioner Crawford. He told me about his experiences working with you. And Professor Bradshaw.’

Hussein was surprised by Frieda’s response. She didn’t seem angry or discomfited. Just curious.

‘How did that come about?’

‘Your name’s on our computer. And Crawford thought he should brief me about you.’

‘That explains things.’ Frieda smiled thinly. ‘This. You being here.’

‘It explains nothing. Alexander –’ She stopped herself. ‘Sandy Holland has been found murdered. He had your hospital identification tag on his wrist. You were in a relationship with him. Of course I need to investigate you. Of course I need to ask you questions.’

‘So ask a question.’

‘Had you been in contact with the deceased?’

‘I hadn’t seen him properly for months.’

There was a pause. ‘Would you like to elaborate on that?’

‘In what sense?’

‘You said, “seen him properly”. I said “contact”. And I’m not at all clear what you mean by “properly”.’

‘I’ve glimpsed him.’

‘Glimpsed?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes.’

‘You mean he just happened to be passing and you saw him out of the window? Out of a bus? Walking by on the other side of the street? At the house of a mutual acquaintance?’

‘I saw him a few times near where I sometimes work.’

‘The Warehouse.’

‘That’s right. I go there twice or three times a week.’

‘But you didn’t talk to him.’

‘No. Or, at least, no more than a word or so.’

‘When was the last time that you saw him?’

‘A couple of weeks ago, perhaps. I can’t remember precisely.’

‘A couple of weeks? The first week of June.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You can’t remember the exact date?’

‘Not off the top of my head.’

‘His sister last saw him on Monday, June the ninth. Was it after that?’

Frieda considered. ‘I usually work at the Warehouse on Tuesdays and I think it might have been the Tuesday of that week.’

‘No later?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m almost sure not.’

‘So that would be Tuesday, June the tenth. A Dr Ellison apparently rang the police to say he seemed to have disappeared. No one took her concerns very seriously. That was on June the sixteenth, six days after. Did you glimpse him any time between when you saw him at the Warehouse on June the tenth and then?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I am sure.’

‘Any other forms of contact?’

‘Sandy called me on the phone occasionally.’

‘Occasionally?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘You know that we’ve seen his phone records?’

‘He wanted to stay in touch.’

‘You mean he wanted to get back together with you?’

Frieda paused, hesitant. ‘I was always very clear that it was over.’

‘Was he angry about that?’

When Frieda replied, it was with a forced calmness: ‘I cared for Sandy a great deal. I still do. I only wished him well.’

‘It sounds like there’s a “but” coming.’

‘But these things are always painfully difficult. You hear about break-ups that are civilized, with no hard feelings on either side. I’ve never seen one.’

There was a ring at the front door. Frieda got up and answered it. Hussein heard voices, and when Frieda came back, she was accompanied by a man. He was large and imposing. Frieda’s living room suddenly seemed smaller. He wore heavy, dusty boots, jeans and a grey-ribbed woollen sweater, in spite of the heat. His hair was dark brown and unkempt and his cheeks were stubbly.

‘This is a friend of mine,’ said Frieda. ‘Josef Morozov. This is Detective Chief Inspector Hussein. She’s here to talk about Sandy.’

Josef held out his large hand, and as she shook it, Hussein felt it was rough, worn, stained. ‘Was very bad.’ He looked at Hussein with suspicion.

‘Sit down,’ said Frieda to Josef. ‘We’ll be done soon.’

‘Not that soon,’ said Hussein, tartly.

Josef sat on a chair to one side, just out of Hussein’s eyeline. She felt certain that Frieda had invited him to be present while she was being interviewed. It made her feel as if she was being checked on and anger rose in her. She looked round at Josef, who was regarding her with utter impassivity.

‘Did you know Mr Holland, Mr Morozov?’

‘Three years,’ he said. ‘Four years. Frieda’s friend is my friend.’ And he gave her a nod, as if he were warning her.

‘Do you live here?’ she asked.

‘Here in England?’

‘Here in this house.’

‘No.’

She turned back to face Frieda. ‘About a third of all his calls were to you,’ she said.

‘Is that a question?’

‘You might like to comment.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘We found objects connected with you in his flat.’

‘What sort of objects?’

‘Photographs, for example.’

‘When you’ve spent years together, there are going to be remnants.’

‘Are there remnants of Mr Holland here?’

‘Probably.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t think of any just now.’

‘You sound defensive.’

‘What would I be defending myself from?’

‘You know what I don’t understand? If I had been close to someone and they had been found horribly murdered, and I’d been the one who identified the body and then the police had wanted to talk to me about it, I would be racking my brains and trying to come up with anything, anything at all, that could help them. I would produce any information that could be helpful. I’d probably try to help so much that it would almost be annoying.’

‘You’re saying that you want my help?’

‘From what I hear, that’s what you do. I was told that when you get interested in a case, nothing will stop you getting involved.’

‘I don’t think that’s quite all you heard. I assume you’re quoting Commissioner Crawford here and that he didn’t mean it as a compliment. But if you want my help, I’ll do anything I can. Of course I will.’

‘I don’t want your help,’ said Hussein. ‘I want you to do your duty as a citizen.’

Now Frieda looked at Hussein with a sharpness in her dark eyes that was new. Her face was paler, her jaw clenched slightly. ‘All right,’ said Frieda, in a softer voice, so that Hussein had to lean forward to hear it. ‘This might not be the help you’re wanting, but I believe I know who murdered Sandy.’

‘And who is that?’

‘A man called Dean Reeve.’ Frieda paused for a moment, as if waiting for a response. ‘I’m not a detective, but when someone identifies a suspect in a murder case, I at least expect you to get out a notebook and write the name down. Otherwise it might not appear on the record and I want this on the record.’

‘I don’t need to write it down. I’ve read your file.’

‘I’m surprised I’ve got a file. It’s not as if I’ve been convicted of anything.’

‘Well, if you take information from here and there and print it out and gather it together, it becomes a file. And one of the things that emerge in this file is your repeated accusations against Dean Reeve for various murders and attacks. The problem being that Dean Reeve died five years ago.’

‘If you’ve read the file, you’ll also know that I don’t accept he’s dead.’

‘I saw that.’

‘Dean Reeve is still alive and he is a very dangerous man. He has some warped notion of looking after me, or perhaps of controlling me. If he believed that Sandy was pestering me, he could easily have killed him. He would do it with pleasure.’ She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and gazed at Hussein, waiting for her response.

‘I have heard what you say,’ said Hussein, eventually.

‘All I ask,’ said Frieda, ‘is that you look at this file of mine with your own eyes, not Crawford’s or Bradshaw’s.’

Hussein stood up. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I will. But I expect you to be straight with me as well.’

‘Straight with you? Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I told you. I’ve read your file.’

7

The couple who lived in the flat under Alexander Holland’s hadn’t known him very well but he’d been a pleasant, friendly, unobtrusive neighbour. He’d had visitors but they were never loud; several women had come to see him but they weren’t aware of any particular one. They often saw him early in the morning when he went for a run. His assistant at the university, Terry Keaton, a round-faced youngish woman with blonde hair cut in a fringe, hadn’t seen him since the summer holidays began. She had liked him a lot and was obviously distraught. She didn’t know of any tensions either at work or in his personal life – but he kept himself to himself, although he was always friendly and respectful. She hadn’t come across Frieda Klein. His oldest friend, Daniel Lieberman, whom he had been at primary school with, said that he had last seen him on Sunday, June the eighth, twelve days before his body had been found. They had played squash and then gone for a couple of drinks; he had been fine. Yes, Lieberman had met Frieda Klein a few times. He confirmed that his friend had been upset at the separation – and added that he had returned from the States to be with her, which had made it doubly traumatic when they broke up. When Sophie Byrne asked him what he had made of Dr Klein, Lieberman had pulled a face. ‘You wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her. But Sandy adored her.’

His colleagues were shocked and mystified. His sister was full of grief and a pent-up rage against Frieda Klein for whom he’d given up his prestigious job in America and who had shortly after ended their relationship. His doctor confirmed he had been in good health as far as he knew. He had money in the bank.

One woman came forward when she heard about his death, saying she had met him in a bar at the end of May, on Friday the thirtieth. She had gone back with him and they had had several more drinks before they spent the night together. She hadn’t seen him again; he obviously hadn’t been interested in anything beyond a one-night stand.

On 11 June, nine days before his body was found, he had taken two hundred pounds from a cash machine. He had bought groceries at the Turkish shop on Caledonian Road. He had sent two texts to Frieda Klein and rung her once that same day – and also talked to his sister and to a friend in the States late in the evening. The pub at the end of his road thought he might have gone in there for a drink around then. The mail hadn’t been opened since then. It was likely, therefore, that he had been murdered on 12 or 13 June.

‘Is that what we’ve got?’ asked Hussein.

It wasn’t quite. That afternoon, a woman called Diane Foxton had walked into Altham police station, saying she needed to speak to an officer about Alexander Holland. Hussein went to talk to her. The woman was obviously having chemotherapy: she had lost her hair and had mauve patches under her eyes; she was painfully thin.

‘I didn’t know whether I should come – I thought it was probably nothing – but my husband persuaded me. So here I am.’ She made a gesture with her skeletal hands.

‘It’s about Alexander Holland?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Oh, not at all. But when I saw his face on the TV, I recognized him.’

‘Where from?’

‘I only saw him the once, but I wasn’t going to forget it. I was walking home and he was suddenly there.’

‘There?’

‘Yes. He came tumbling onto the pavement, so he almost sent me flying. He was shouting. Properly shouting. His face was so angry it made me scared. I thought he was going to do something violent. He had a half-filled bin bag in his hand and he flung it at her. A few things fell out onto the pavement, a T-shirt and a book, and he bent down and picked them up and threw them at her as well. He looked half mad.’

‘Her, you say? He was shouting at a woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it was her he threw the bag at?’

‘Yes. I assumed he was returning things to her or something.’

‘Was she with him on the pavement?’

‘Not with him but at the door, which is a few yards from the road, and –’

‘Hold on, Mrs Foxton. Can you tell me exactly where it was? What door?’

‘I thought I said. That medical place in Primrose Hill.’

‘Do you mean the Warehouse?’

‘I don’t know the name. It’s on Wareham Gardens.’

‘That’s the one. And the date?’

‘It was a week ago last Tuesday – I was on my way home from the doctor’s. Around three thirty.’

Hussein made a mental calculation: 10 June. Ten days before Alexander Holland had been discovered floating in the Thames with his throat cut; at the most, three days before he died. And the same day that Frieda admitted to having ‘glimpsed’ him.

‘What did the woman look like?’

‘I didn’t really look at her. Pale-skinned. Dark hair, I think. Not blonde, anyway.’

‘Any idea of her age?’

‘Not really. Not very young but not old either. Mid-thirties or forty, perhaps.’

‘Was she responding?’

‘No. I don’t think she said much, if anything. Someone else came and joined her. A man. He looked as though he might get involved but she stopped him.’

‘How?’

‘Just put a hand on his arm or something. I’m not sure. I was more concerned with the man on the pavement. He was that far away from me.’ She held her hands apart to show Hussein. ‘I couldn’t get past him.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘The man kicked at a rubbish bin and strode away and she picked up the bin bag, put the book and T-shirt back into it, and tied it up. She seemed quite calm. Calmer than I would have been. Then she went back inside. That was it. So nothing actually happened. I just thought – well, I thought it might be helpful. Maybe I’m wasting your time.’

‘You’re not wasting our time. We’re grateful to you, Mrs Foxton.’

‘It gives me a shivery feeling, remembering his face. So angry. And then to know he’s been murdered. I’d have been less surprised if he’d been the one doing the murdering.’

The next time that Hussein met Frieda Klein, the Tuesday after the body had been found, it was at the police station, and a solicitor was present. Hussein sat on one side of the table and they sat opposite her. Nobody wanted tea or coffee; there was no small talk.

Hussein had met Tanya Hopkins once before. She was a middle-aged woman, plump, with greying hair and a face bare of make-up. She wore soft, rumpled clothes with flat shoes and there was a maternal air about her – but her grey eyes were shrewd and when they got down to business she was incisive.

‘I have several questions,’ said Hussein.

Frieda Klein nodded and rested her hands on the table in front of her. She didn’t seem nervous and she kept her dark eyes on Hussein’s face, but there was a subdued air about her.

‘It is very clear that Alexander Holland was still obsessed with you. Would you like to tell me something about that obsession?’

Hopkins leaned over to Klein and murmured something that Hussein couldn’t make out. Klein didn’t reply but just gave her a curious smile.

‘It’s all right,’ she said to Hussein. ‘Sandy and I broke up about eighteen months ago.’

‘You broke up with him.’

‘Yes. He found it hard to accept that something that was once so important to both of us was over. I wouldn’t call that an obsession.’

‘He was wearing your old hospital tag on his wrist.’

Frieda’s face was serious. ‘People can be strange,’ she said.

‘Indeed. I understand that he came back from America in order to be with you.’

‘Yes.’

‘And that he was very supportive of you when you found yourself involved in a case that stirred painful memories for you.’

‘You can call it by its proper name. When I was a teenager I was raped. I went back to my home town to find out who had done that. Yes, he was very supportive.’

‘And yet you ended it.’

There was a pause. Hussein waited. Frieda said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think that was a question. Yes, I ended it. You cannot stay with someone simply out of gratitude.’

‘Was he extremely angry?’

‘He was upset.’

‘Angry?’

‘Sometimes being upset takes the form of anger.’

‘Eighteen months later, he was still angry?’

‘He was still upset.’

‘Did you ever encourage him to think there was a chance?’

‘No.’ Her voice was clipped. ‘I did not.’

‘You never got back together with him?’

‘No.’

‘Yet he rang you or texted you almost every day, sometimes several times a day.’

Frieda had been speaking in a quick, precise tone. Now she paused and when she spoke it was almost in a sigh. ‘It was painful.’

‘For you or for him?’

‘For both of us, of course. But probably more for him.’

The door opened and Bryant came in, shutting it quietly behind him. He nodded at Frieda, introduced himself to Tanya Hopkins and pulled a chair to the table. Hussein waited until he was sitting before she spoke again.

‘Did you talk to him when he called?’

‘Not very often. At first I did, but not recently. I thought it would be …’ She frowned. ‘Counterproductive,’ she said at last.

‘When you did talk, what were the conversations like?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘It’s quite simple. Did he plead with you, shout at you, insult you?’

‘Sandy was a proud man.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘You’re making him sound …’ she slightly lifted a hand from the table, then let it drop ‘… disordered.’

‘Was he disordered?’

‘He was in a dark place in his life. So he probably did all those things. Usually I didn’t answer his call. I let it go to voicemail.’

Hussein pulled the photocopy of the dates and times that had been found at the dead man’s flat. ‘Do you recognize this?’

Frieda looked at it. ‘That’s when I’m scheduled to be at the Warehouse,’ she said, in a low voice.

‘So he knew your movements?’

‘He must have done.’

‘You told me at our last interview that it had been a long time since you had actually met him but that you had – what was the word? – yes, glimpsed him a couple of weeks before he was found dead. On Tuesday, June the tenth. Treat that as a question,’ she added, when Frieda just looked at her with her unnerving dark eyes.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘I want to know more about this last encounter with him. What was his mood?’

Before Frieda could speak there was a knocking at the door. Hussein looked around angrily. She nodded at Bryant, who got up and opened it. He could be heard speaking to someone outside, then he returned. A man came in with him. He was dressed in a dark suit, with a sober dark blue tie. He had rumpled grey hair and tortoiseshell glasses and he gazed about the room blinking like an owl. He was carrying a brown file under his arm.

‘I wondered if I could sit in,’ he said.

‘This isn’t a public event,’ said Hussein.

‘I know, I know.’ He fumbled in an inside pocket and took out a small white card, which he handed to her. As Hussein examined it, he looked around, as if he were uncertain of where he was.

‘You’re not from the Met?’ said Hussein.

‘No,’ said the man.

‘I don’t quite understand who you are.’

‘There’s a number you can call, if you want,’ he said amiably.

‘I certain do want. Here, Glen.’ She handed the card over to Bryant. ‘Go and check this out, will you?’ She looked at the stranger. ‘We’ll wait until DC Bryant returns before we continue.’

‘Of course. Terribly sorry to be a nuisance.’

Bryant went out of the room and Hussein waited, clenching and unclenching her fists on the desk. Frieda Klein sat still and upright opposite her. When Bryant returned a few minutes later, he had an expression of comic bewilderment on his broad face, but he nodded at Hussein and whispered a few words in her ear.

Hussein’s mouth tightened with anger. ‘It looks like your friends are bigger than my friends,’ she said.

‘I’ll try not to be in the way.’

He didn’t sit down. He walked to the far corner of the room and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and holding the file against his chest. His expression was impassive.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, to the room at large. ‘Ignore me. I’m not part of the inquiry.’

‘You’d better not be.’ Hussein turned to Frieda. ‘Where were we?’

Frieda didn’t answer at once, but turned towards the man leaning against the wall, with a vague smile on his face. ‘I would prefer you to stand where I can see you, please.’

‘Fair enough.’ The man moved further into the room, so that he was to one side of Frieda. ‘Better?’

Frieda nodded, then turned her gaze back to Hussein. ‘You were asking whether I remembered Sandy coming to the Warehouse,’ she said. ‘And the answer is, yes, I do remember.’

‘And behaving in a violent manner?’

‘I don’t think I would call it that.’

‘Shouting, throwing a bin bag at you, kicking the dustbin. What would you call it?’

‘Agitated.’

‘All right. Let’s all it agitated. Why did you not see fit to tell me about this glimpse of your former partner?’

‘I didn’t think it relevant.’

‘You do realize that this was one of the last known sightings of him before he disappeared? You can safely assume that he didn’t have long to live. A day or two at the most.’

Frieda stared at her; her face was like a mask and her eyes glittered.

‘For eighteen months Alexander Holland has been harassing you, and then he is murdered. What have you got to say to that?’