Day of the Dead

by Nicci French

  Dissertation. The very word made Tearle shudder. By the end of the first term of the second year, each student had to have written a ten-thousand-word dissertation on a subject relevant to the field of criminology. Ten thousand words. Tearle had fifteen students. Fifteen times ten thousand added up to a hundred and fifty thousand words. Tearle would have to read every one of those words, write comments and award marks.

  ‘So what are your friends doing?’

  Lola’s nose wrinkled in concentration. ‘I think Ellie’s writing about historical sexual abuse.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s such a big subject. And Ellie’s already doing it. And Rob’s doing something about DNA.’

  ‘Which is also interesting. And important.’

  ‘I’m terrible at science. That’s why I chose criminology.’

  ‘Actually, we do think of criminology as a science. The clue is in the “ology”.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t understand the chemistry bit.’

  Tearle was silent for a moment. ‘Lola, do you think that criminology is a good fit for you?’

  Her eyes widened in alarm. ‘Totally,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a really great time doing it.’

  Tearle had been hoping for ‘inspiring’ or ‘stimulating’ rather than ‘a great time’. He tapped on his keyboard, calling up her last year’s marks. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘In fact, you’ve been doing well. Very well.’ Lola’s face flushed red. ‘All right, Lola, are you interested in something historical?’

  ‘I’d rather do something current.’

  ‘Philosophical?’

  ‘Not so much.’

  ‘What about a person?’

  Lola’s expression instantly changed. Finally she looked alert, engaged. ‘Exactly. I’d much rather write about people than ideas or science.’

  Tearle suggested a series of names: a lawyer who had chaired a public inquiry; a home secretary; a police commissioner; a campaigner. None of them seemed to raise much interest. Why was he doing this? They were supposed to be grown-ups. Couldn’t she find her own subject? But he needed to come up with something, if only to get Lola out of his office. Then an idea occurred to him. He walked over to his filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. He flicked through the different categories until he found a file of random press cuttings he kept. He dumped them on his desk and started leafing through them: trial reports, interviews with crime victims, surveys on crime rates, nothing seemed quite right. Then one news story caught his eye.

  ‘You want a person?’ he said. ‘Here’s a person. Have you heard of Frieda Klein?’

  ‘No.’

  Tearle took a deep breath. Yet again he wondered if any of his students actually knew anything at all about their subject beyond what he spoon-fed them. ‘Frieda Klein is a psychotherapist. About ten years ago she suspected that one of her patients was involved in the Matthew Faraday kidnapping case. You remember that?’

  ‘I would have been a child.’

  ‘Anyway, after that she somehow ended up as a sort of informal, unofficial consultant to the police. She was involved in the Robert Poole murder and the Lawrence Dawes case. Things got a bit complicated. You may have read about her being arrested. More than once, I think.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Lola, you’re studying criminology. You’re meant to know this sort of thing.’

  ‘It wasn’t on the course.’

  ‘She was involved in the Hannah Docherty case. You must have seen that.’

  ‘It sounds familiar,’ said Lola, without much conviction.

  ‘Or, more recently, in the copy-cat cases down in Silvertown.’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Well, now’s your chance to find out about her. Analyse her. Unpack her. Deconstruct her.’

  ‘What should I say?’

  ‘That is up to you. Just ask questions. Why would police need the help of a psychotherapist? Is crime investigation actually a form of therapy? Does it represent a failure of policing?’

  ‘How do I start?’

  ‘You start by starting,’ Tearle said, sounding more cross than he meant to. He calmed himself down. ‘Go to the library, look her up, read academic papers she’s written or that others have written about her, go through the press cuttings. She’s left a bit of a trail, over the years.’

  ‘Great,’ said Lola. ‘Can I keep this newspaper?’

  ‘Sure.’ Lola was getting up to go when Tearle remembered something. ‘There’s someone in the university who knows her. Or certainly knows about her. Professor Hal Bradshaw down in Psychology.’

  ‘I know him,’ said Lola. ‘I’ve seen him on TV.’

  ‘The psychology world is quite a small one. I think they’ve crossed paths a few times.’

  Five minutes later, Lola was three floors down knocking on a door that had Hal Bradshaw’s name on it.

  ‘Come,’ said a voice.

  She opened the door and walked inside. Coming from Simon Tearle’s office, she felt she had stepped into an entirely different world. Tearle’s room had been lined with books and every surface had been strewn with papers and journals. This room was completely bare, the walls undecorated and painted a blue that was so white it was almost grey. The room contained no books, no furniture, except for a desk and two chairs. On the desk were a laptop computer, a pad of paper and a pen. The man behind the desk looked up at her. Lola was so struck by his spectacles – the frames were under the lenses rather than above – and by his tie, speckled yellows and oranges and blues, that she scarcely saw the person behind them.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  Lola’s words poured out in a rush. ‘This is completely out of order, barging in like this without warning, but my supervisor is Simon Tearle and I was just talking to him and I think I might be doing my dissertation on this woman called Frieda Klein and he said you know her and I wondered if I could have a quick word with you about her.’

  Bradshaw frowned, but then gestured Lola to sit in the chair opposite his desk. She could see him properly now. He was beautifully groomed, his face smooth, his short hair immaculate. Here in his office, at work, he looked precisely as she’d seen him on television under the bright studio lights.

  ‘Frieda Klein,’ he said slowly, as if savouring the sounds of the words over his tongue.

  ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me something about her. Steer me in the right direction.’

  ‘You’re studying criminology, no?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So presumably you’ve read how criminal investigations attract fantasists, charlatans, the mentally disturbed?’

  ‘Are you talking about Frieda Klein?’

  ‘I just mean that you should approach the subject of an amateur insinuating herself into police operations with a certain objectivity.’

  ‘I thought she’d been involved in solving some cases.’

  Bradshaw gave a sad smile. ‘The main advice I would give you is to be careful of taking Frieda Klein at her own valuation. If you do your research properly, you may well come to see Klein as someone who has left a trail of havoc behind her.’

  ‘It sounds as if you really don’t like her.’

  Bradshaw shook his head. ‘I’m a scientist. I just analyse the data. If people choose to see her as a fraud and a busybody and a menace, then that is a matter for them. Or for you.’

  FOUR

  ‘Where’s this one from? Go on, have a guess.’

  Dan Quarry picked up the freshly filled glass of whisky, sniffed it and took a sip. He’d been off the drink for several months now. He’d promised his wife. But this was a special occasion. And going out with his new boss was part of the job. It was compulsory. He smelt it and tasted it again. This was the fourth – or was it the fifth? By now they all seemed the same.

  ‘Scotland?’ he said.

  Detective Inspector Bi
ll Dugdale looked disappointed. ‘Scotland? I wouldn’t have asked you if it was from Scotland. This is Japanese. Nice stuff. Smooth. A bit of class.’

  ‘I didn’t know they had whisky in Japan.’

  ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, Quarry. About policing, about whisky.’ Dugdale raised his glass. ‘Here’s to guilty verdicts.’

  Quarry drained his glass. The verdict had come in just after three that afternoon. Guilty on all charges. They’d headed straight for the pub, the detectives and the uniforms. There had been a few hours of laughter and backslapping and mocking jokes about the failed defence strategy. Then Dugdale had nodded at his new colleague and they’d walked over to a members-only bar just off Tottenham Court Road. Dugdale had called it a whisky-tasting, as if it were a scientific experiment.

  ‘Whenever we get a good result,’ Dugdale had said, ‘I taste half a dozen whiskies I’ve never tried before.’

  Half a dozen, thought Quarry. That meant there was one, or even two to go. He looked at his new boss. He had a large head, close-cropped, and a face that was round and soft and pouchy and flushed, with soft-grey eyes. But Quarry’s previous boss, down in Camberwell, had told him to watch out for him. Dugdale’s previous assistant had been got rid of very suddenly. Nobody would tell Quarry exactly why, but it made him nervous. He had seen hints of what happened when his boss wasn’t pleased.

  ‘So which is your favourite so far?’ Dugdale asked.

  Quarry tried to remember them. There was the one that was caramelly and sickly. There was the one that smelt like the stuff you dabbed on cuts and scrapes. There was the one that Dugdale had told him was cask strength: ‘You’ll want a spot of water with that one, lad.’

  Quarry’s honest answer would have been: none of them. He didn’t like whisky. He didn’t really like this part of being a detective, the drinking, the joshing, the camaraderie, pretending everything was all right when it wasn’t. He looked around the small upper-room bar they were in. There was a masonic atmosphere of men in suits, huddled, drinking, in conversation, doing deals, making contacts, networking. What would they make of him? He looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar and saw a face he barely recognized as his own, pale, unshaven, not quite at ease. What Quarry really felt like was a cigarette, outside, on his own, and a chance to think. But he had to make a choice. The Japanese was least like whisky, almost as good as not having whisky at all.

  ‘This one,’ he said. ‘It’s …’ he searched for a word ‘… unassuming.’

  ‘Unassuming,’ said Dugdale, with a guffaw. ‘I like that. Unassuming. Good choice, though. I think you’ll like this next one.’

  But before he could order it, his phone rang. Dugdale showed some irritation, but within a few seconds his entire face seemed to change, to harden. He asked a few curt questions, but mainly he just listened. When he replaced his phone in his pocket, he was lost in thought, as if he had forgotten that Quarry was there. Then he looked round.

  ‘We’ll have to save the bourbon until next time,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Dugdale gazed at him with narrowed eyes. Quarry felt a nervous twinge. Had he sounded sarcastic?

  ‘That car in Hampstead, ran down Heath Street out of control, killed a man, another dead body inside. Did you read about it?’

  ‘No,’ said Quarry.

  Dugdale seemed disapproving, as if he thought Quarry should know, as if it was a part of his job to know. ‘It’s our problem now,’ he said.

  At ten the following morning Quarry was sitting opposite Dugdale’s desk, a file and a notebook precariously balanced on his lap. Dugdale took a carton of milk from the tray and poured some into his coffee.

  ‘You’re not having one, Dan?’ he said.

  Quarry shook his head. ‘I’ve had too many already.’ He had been in the office reviewing the material on the case since before seven.

  Dugdale chuckled. ‘You look like you had a few too many last night as well.’

  Quarry thought of various answers he could make to that but he kept them all to himself.

  ‘I’m assembling a team,’ said Dugdale. ‘But before we get them together, we should be clear about where we are.’

  ‘That’s why I came in early.’

  ‘So where are we?’

  ‘I read through the interviews with the bystanders,’ he said.

  ‘Waste of time,’ said Dugdale. ‘They all saw something different. Someone said there were two people in the car. Someone else saw him gripping the wheel and smiling.’ He took a gulp of coffee. ‘Sometimes I wonder why we even bother talking to eyewitnesses.’

  ‘The car was stolen in Didcot,’ said Quarry. ‘The owner’s on holiday. That’s why it hasn’t been reported.’

  Dugdale frowned. ‘Are you sure the owner’s on holiday? Has anyone checked?’

  Quarry looked down at his notes. ‘They checked. He’s in the Canaries.’

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ said Dugdale.

  ‘Not that lucky,’ said Quarry. ‘His car’s been stolen.’

  ‘Forget all that crap,’ said Dugdale. ‘Let’s start with what’s important. A car goes out of control down a London street. The only person in it is a man who’s already dead. Murdered. Was he even sitting in the driver’s seat?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I’ll check,’ said Quarry.

  ‘The witnesses to the car going through the shop window don’t matter now. We know what happened. What matters is what happened at the top of the hill. Those are the witnesses we need.’

  ‘As far as I can see, the police only interviewed people at the actual scene of the accident.’

  ‘We’re the police. We can find witnesses. Whoever did this drove the car from a place unknown to the top of Heath Street. He or she must have exited the vehicle and arranged for it to proceed down the hill. It’s the sort of thing someone would notice.’

  ‘If they did, then we don’t know about it.’

  ‘So it’s up to us to get hold of them. And it may have been caught on CCTV cameras.’

  ‘We don’t know exactly where it happened.’

  ‘Then go there and find out.’ Dugdale rubbed his face. ‘You kill a man, put him in a car and send him down a hill into a bunch of innocent people. What’s that about?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Do you want an answer to that?’ said Quarry.

  ‘What I want is some pictures. Or a witness. But you can do that later. First we need to see the widow. We need to tell her that her husband was murdered.’

  FIVE

  A little more than an hour later the two detectives were in Barking, on Sarah Kernan’s doorstep. Dugdale pressed the bell and stood back. The door opened on the unshaven face of a young man. He was wearing pyjamas and his hair was sticking up in tufts. Dugdale looked puzzled.

  ‘You must be Ned Kernan,’ said Quarry. ‘You’re the son, aren’t you?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  Dugdale held up his ID. ‘We need to talk to you and your mother.’

  They entered the kitchen to find Sarah Kernan sitting at the table, also in her nightclothes, a striped towelling robe over a blue cotton nightdress, cheerful slippers on her feet. Another woman was standing at the sink, her back to them.

  ‘Mum, it’s the police again.’

  She put her hand to the neck of her robe. ‘I didn’t know. I’m not dressed yet.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Dugdale. ‘There is something that we need to tell you.’ He nodded at Ned. ‘You might want to take a seat.’

  ‘My husband’s dead,’ said Sarah Kernan, her voice high and wavery. ‘What else do you need to tell me?’

  ‘Do you want me to leave?’ said the other woman.

  ‘No. Stay.’ Sarah Kernan put out a hand and clutched her arm. ‘This is my sister, Peggy.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Dugdale.

  ‘You’re not the same police.’

  ‘We’ve taken over the case. That’s
what I need to tell you: your husband was murdered.’

  He looked intently from her face to that of the son, watching their first reactions. Behind him, standing by the door, he was aware of Quarry doing the same. He’d said on the way over that you needed to be alert at the first instant when they hear the news. You’ll never catch them that unguarded again. All he saw was bewilderment. Sarah Kernan gave a small cry, like an animal in pain. Her son just looked stunned. The sister put a hand to her mouth and her eyes grew round.

  ‘How can that be true?’ Sarah Kernan said at last.

  ‘Who did it?’ cut in Ned Kernan. His voice was gruff. Dugdale saw the effort he was making to be manly, while his eyes were the eyes of a child, and full of fear.

  ‘We’re just beginning the investigation,’ said Dugdale. He wished he could say something more positive, make a promise.

  ‘So he didn’t leave me. I knew he wouldn’t leave me.’

  ‘All we know so far,’ said Dugdale, ‘is that you reported him missing three days before his body was found in a car in Hampstead.’

  She nodded.

  ‘September the thirtieth,’ said Quarry.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Sarah Kernan. ‘Peggy, was it then?’

  Peggy nodded. ‘Yes. That would be right. Do you want tea?’ she added.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Dugdale.

  ‘Splash of milk, no sugar,’ said Quarry, and he drew up a chair and sat beside Ned. ‘This has been a shock to everyone.’

  ‘You reported him missing,’ continued Dugdale, ‘but were told it was probably not a police matter. Is that right?’

  ‘I should have insisted. I knew it wasn’t right.’

  ‘Don’t think of it like that,’ said Dugdale. ‘You couldn’t have known.’

  ‘We’d been squabbling a bit,’ said Sarah Kernan. ‘It was so hard to be just the two of us with Ned gone.’

  ‘Mum,’ said the boy, his face wrinkling in distress. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Now it’s too late to make it better.’ She put her hands over her face.

  ‘We need to find out what happened to your husband, and to do that we need to ask you questions,’ he said mildly. ‘Are you up to that?’