Day of the Dead

by Nicci French

  ‘I’ve been through all the stuff we took away and there’s nothing that leaped out. He didn’t have money problems, he didn’t seem to have any secrets.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t find any.’

  ‘None that were apparent.’

  ‘There’s his searches on Karlsson,’ said Dugdale. ‘That’s the one odd thing we’ve discovered.’

  ‘Yes. But Karlsson was baffled,’ said Quarry. ‘He’d never heard of Geoffrey Kernan. He and his colleague are going to make sure there’s no connection.’

  He remembered Yvette Long looking at him with a kind of morose disapproval and felt shame flushing through him as he thought about his deal with Liz Barron. It was only temporary, though. A bad patch.

  ‘Tell me when you’ve heard back from him. I’m wanting to ask you about the satnav but I guess, if there was anything, you wouldn’t have kept me in suspense.’

  Quarry shook his head regretfully. ‘I’ve been everywhere that he went in the week before he died,’ he said. ‘I mean everywhere that was on the satnav. It’s not the same thing.’

  ‘Did you specifically eliminate every address?’ asked Dugdale, sharply.

  Quarry flushed. He felt Dugdale was being harsher on him than on the others. ‘I did what I could. A couple of people weren’t at home. Sometimes it’s difficult to identify the exact address.’

  ‘Difficult?’ said Dugdale. ‘If they’re nothing to do with the inquiry, prove it to me.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Quarry, in a low voice.

  Dugdale gazed gloomily at the men and women in front of him. ‘So what have we got? We have a man strangled, then put in a car and sped down a hill. We have another man strangled, then put on a bonfire. But he was dressed in a non-flammable fabric so that he wouldn’t be consumed by the fire. Both were displayed in public places. Probably the bodies were kept somewhere. There are no witnesses who are any use, no blood or traces or fingerprints to work with. The only thing we’ve found is that Kernan did multiple searches on DCI Karlsson. That must mean something.’

  He stood up and pulled on a shabby overcoat. ‘Off to meet the press,’ he said, peering disconsolately at a rip in the coat’s pocket.

  ‘I usually put in more butter than that,’ said Lola.

  Frieda ignored her. She broke three eggs into the pan, then beat them with a wooden spoon.

  ‘Scrambled eggs should be soft and buttery,’ continued Lola. ‘With lots of black pepper. You can never have too much black pepper. Don’t you agree? I sometimes even put black pepper on strawberries. It’s surprisingly tasty. Strawberries can be a bit boring on their own. Shall I butter the toast?’ She pulled open the door of the fridge and put her head inside, then withdrew it with an almost-finished pack of butter and disappointment on her face. ‘There’s not much in here, is there? My friend Jess always says that happiness is a full fridge. Not for you, obviously.’ She scraped the last of the butter on to two pieces of toast. ‘If I went to see a psychotherapist, I’d just gabble to fill up the silence. Does that happen a lot?’

  ‘Sometimes people can’t stop talking and sometimes they can’t start. I’ve had sessions in which nothing has been said at all.’

  Lola pulled a face. ‘I couldn’t stand that. And not just with a therapist – I say whatever comes into my mind as it is, to whoever cares to listen. My mother says there’s no gap between me having a thought and putting it into words. My dad’s even ruder.’ She gave a happy laugh.

  ‘You probably have things you don’t ever bring yourself to talk about.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’d lie on your couch – do you have a couch? – and chatter away.’

  ‘I don’t have a couch. Perhaps we would think about what’s behind the chatter, what it’s trying to hide.’

  ‘What if there isn’t anything?’

  ‘For instance,’ said Frieda, ‘when you talk about your parents, it’s always the critical things they say about you.’

  Lola wrinkled her nose. ‘They think I’m a bit flighty. Scatter-brained.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘It’s just my manner.’

  ‘Exactly. And manner gets in the way of self-revelation. As you told me when you explained why your friends wouldn’t miss you.’

  ‘I was probably exaggerating,’ said Lola, with an uncomfortable laugh. ‘It had been a strange sort of day.’

  ‘You didn’t sound to me like you were exaggerating. You sounded to me like you were feeling hurt.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that. You shouldn’t read too much into what I say.’

  ‘That’s my job.’

  Frieda shared the eggs between the pieces of toast and they sat at the small table.

  ‘You haven’t put black pepper on it. Why do you call yourself Ursula Edmunds?’ Lola asked.

  ‘In order not to call myself Frieda Klein.’

  ‘Well, obviously. I can see that. You’ve cut your hair and dyed it silver as well. And you wear those glasses. You don’t look bad, actually.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Frieda, drily.

  ‘Though you probably look better as yourself. Of course, I only saw the photos of you. When you’re being Ursula, do you feel different? Inside, I mean. Like when I’m in Italy and I wave my hands around and am more Italian. My inner Italian is released.’

  ‘All right,’ Frieda said. ‘I’ll tell you what you need to know.’

  Lola leaned forward expectantly.

  ‘I had to disappear, not because I was in danger from Dean Reeve but because everyone I was close to was in danger. I was cursed, like a plague-carrier, and I needed to remove myself.’

  ‘But how? That’s really hard, isn’t it? How do you live without a bank card and things like that?’

  ‘I have a bank card – or, at least, Ursula Edmunds does. She also has a birth certificate, a passport, a medical card, a National Insurance number, an account, a phone. And a key to this flat.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I didn’t. Someone did it for me.’ Frieda frowned, thinking of Walter Levin, with his pin-stripe suit and his frayed tie, smiling amiably but his eyes cold and watchful. ‘I’ve worked with him. He’s good at things like that.’

  ‘He sounds like a spy.’

  ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘Why Ursula Edmunds?’

  ‘It’s a name.’

  ‘I wouldn’t choose it. I’d call myself something dramatic. Scarlett Savonarola.’

  ‘I didn’t want to call attention to myself,’ said Frieda.

  ‘So you’re like a ghost.’

  ‘It’s interesting you say that. I’ve always thought of Dean as a ghost.’

  ‘Two ghosts then – doing what?’

  ‘Looking for each other.’

  ‘How are you looking?’

  ‘Maybe looking is the wrong word. I’m waiting for a sign.’

  ‘What kind of sign?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see it.’

  ‘And I can help you?’

  ‘The main thing is that you don’t get in my way.’

  SIXTEEN

  The following evening, a middle-aged man wearing a bright yellow top and headphones was running along the canal towpath in the dusk and the rain. He dodged the cyclists, with their heads down and water streaming off their waterproof jackets, and the Canada geese and kept on, along the empty stretch ahead of him. Then his footsteps faltered. Something had caught his attention. He stopped, turned around.

  Sure enough there was an object floating in the water. A log, perhaps, but it didn’t look like a log. Or a large plastic bag, but it didn’t look like a bag either, and then he saw that the thing had what appeared to be arms, lying slack along its length, and his world tipped. He looked around frantically for someone to take charge, he called out, his voice sounding feeble, but there was no one, just him and the object in the water, and the rain falling steadily.

  He took several deep breaths, not quite believing he was going to do this, and climbed
down into the water, which was cold and murky and probably full of rats and disease, and waded towards the thing. As he got nearer he saw strands of hair floating on the surface and white legs and a yellow dress with the buttons still neatly done up. His music was still playing in his ears. With a lurch of terror he put his hand out and grasped at the shoulder, and with his eyes half shut he pulled and the body turned. He saw a face. He started to shout for help as he towed her towards the bank, and then let her go. It didn’t matter. There was no rush.

  Frieda was lying on her bed, still dressed, her eyes open. Her mind was full of thoughts and she knew she would not sleep tonight. She got up and put her face to the window. In the dim light before dawn, she could see the canal beneath her and she let herself be drawn into its softly moving greyness. It was windless and quiet, everything holding its breath.

  Then a scream cut through the silence.

  She whirled around and ran to the living room. Lola, wearing her stripy pyjamas and her hair in pigtails, was huddled on the sofa-bed. She looked ten years old. Her face was stricken. Frieda crossed the room and put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Tell me quickly.’

  Lola stared at her with huge eyes. ‘You were right.’ She spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I woke up and at first I couldn’t remember where I was. I felt so odd and restless and scared.’

  ‘You called out because you were scared?’

  ‘No. I started browsing –’ Lola broke off and started sobbing, pointing towards her computer. Frieda crouched in front of it. She had only to read the headline on the screen: ‘Journalist’s Body Found in Canal’.

  ‘Liz Barron.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘It was me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If I hadn’t started poking around, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  Frieda sat down beside Lola. ‘Listen. This wasn’t you. This was Dean Reeve. You’ve stepped into his story and I’m sorry for you. I’ll do my best to make sure you’re not harmed. It’s important that you try to keep your mind clear, alert. Do you understand?’

  Lola nodded. Tears filled her eyes but she bit her lower lip and tried not to let them fall.

  ‘Good,’ said Frieda, nodding at her, and in spite of her terror, Lola felt a trickle of pleasure spread through her. ‘Now I’m going to make you some tea and then we’ll go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘To where she was found.’ Her face was turned towards Lola, but she seemed to be gazing inward. ‘This is where it begins.’

  It was getting light as they left the flat and set off along the canal, although the sky was cloudy and there was still a faint drizzle falling.

  ‘Do you always walk this fast?’ asked Lola, struggling to keep up.

  Frieda didn’t reply. Her expression was stern, intense.

  ‘What are you hoping to find?’ Lola waited a few seconds, then asked the question again, thinking that Frieda hadn’t heard.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  A man in a suit cycled past; then a young woman ran by. There were lights on now in some of the houseboats. Under a bridge, a man lay in a sleeping bag, only his hair showing.

  At a bend in the canal, they came across police tape.

  ‘It was here, then,’ said Frieda, stepping over it.

  ‘Won’t we get into trouble?’ asked Lola, but she followed Frieda and stopped when she stopped to stare out at the rippling canal, where rubbish and a solitary moorhen floated.

  ‘What are you seeing?’ asked Lola. ‘Because all I’m seeing is the canal.’

  ‘Look harder.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘Tell me what’s here.’

  ‘The canal, the towpath. That’s it.’ Lola nodded energetically. ‘So I met Dean by the canal, and you live by the canal and Liz Barron’s body was found in the canal.’ She clutched Frieda’s arm. ‘Does that mean he knows where you live? Where we live?’

  ‘You need to look more carefully,’ said Frieda. ‘What is in front of you?’

  ‘The canal,’ repeated Lola. ‘Water, rain. On the other side, houses.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Lola rolled her eyes. ‘A duck. Several ducks.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Plastic bottles. Weeds. A pipe thing.’

  ‘Right.’ Frieda’s voice was fierce.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That pipe, what is it?’

  Lola stared at the thick metal pipe that ran like a bridge over the canal. ‘Sewage?’ she said. ‘Water?’

  ‘Not just water, a river.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘In that pipe,’ Frieda pointed towards it, ‘runs the River Westbourne.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lola blinked, then opened her eyes wide. ‘Wow. One of your secret rivers, the ones you walk along.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you think that’s why the body was put here?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘My God. That’s horrible. Really horrible. You’re saying Dean Reeve killed poor Liz Barron just in order to put her body here as a sign. As if she was just an object, a thing that was serving his purpose.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’ Frieda’s voice was low. ‘Dean Reeve would know that over the years Liz Barron showed a hostile interest in me. You’ve read her pieces.’ Lola nodded. ‘And she was starting again. So he’s removing her and putting her body in a place that holds a particular significance for me.’

  ‘This is really creepy.’

  ‘He’s very dangerous, Lola. You must never forget that, not for a minute.’

  ‘Surely you have to tell the police.’

  ‘I will. For what it’s worth.’

  ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Not next. I think we need to find out if something happened before.’

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘This probably doesn’t mean anything,’ said Karlsson, hesitantly. ‘But it just might.’

  Dugdale nodded. Karlsson was wearing a suit that might have been grey but might have been a mossy-green as well, and though he was tie-less and there was stubble on his cheeks, he made Dugdale feel slightly shabby.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to Matt Selby. He’s in charge of the investigation into Liz Barron’s death, for the time being.’

  ‘For the time being? I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘I wanted to speak directly to you as well. A couple of days ago, Liz Barron came to see me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s complicated. I’ve known her over the years, largely because of her persistent interest – that’s putting it kindly – in Frieda Klein.’ Dugdale nodded: everyone knew about Karlsson and Frieda Klein. ‘She was trying to track her down, and failing. She thought I might be able to help her.’

  ‘Did she now?’

  ‘Yes. It was on the day you sent your officer round.’

  ‘Dan Quarry?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I don’t see how this is connected to the recent murders.’

  ‘It probably isn’t. But, given that my name had come up on Geoffrey Kernan’s computer, I thought you should know.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Dugdale, ‘that you’re connected to both Kernan and Barron?’

  ‘It’s a very loose connection. But, yes, that’s what I mean.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘As I said, probably nothing.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Dugdale.

  EIGHTEEN

  Frieda made tea for herself and for Lola. She stood at the window, staring out, lost in thought. When her mug was empty, she refilled it and sat down and opened her laptop.

  ‘Can I help?’ said Lola.

  ‘Don’t you have your studies to get on with?’

  ‘You mean my essay about you? I think I’m going to have to rethink that. You’re looking for something. Can’t I look as well?’

  Fried
a made up her mind. ‘All right. This is what I’ve been pondering. If Liz Barron had been found in her home or on the street, then that would just be Dean Reeve doing what he does, punishing people who get in his way. But when he put her body where he did, he did something different. He was sending a message to me personally. One that only I would understand.’

  ‘Can I make a comment?’ said Lola. ‘I mean I’d just like to raise something. For the sake of argument.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Well, some people would say, not necessarily me, but I’m imagining them, some people would say that you’re interpreting a tragedy as being all about you.’

  ‘You mean wrongly interpreting?’

  ‘That’s what some people might say.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And some people might also say that Liz Barron’s murder might not have anything to do with Dean Reeve. Maybe it was a mugging that got out of hand. Maybe it was a jealous boyfriend.’ Lola looked nervously at Frieda to see if she was angry, but she just seemed reflective.

  ‘They might say that. So we test the idea,’ she said.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Murders. In London.’

  ‘What?’ said Lola. ‘All of them? There must be thousands.’

  ‘There are about a hundred every year. Sometimes a few less, sometimes a few more. And about a quarter of them are committed by friends or family.’

  ‘That’s a bit depressing.’

  ‘But it’s not surprising. They’re the people who love us most and hate us most. Also, we’re searching for bodies found recently, not more than a month or so.’

  ‘I’ll start looking,’ said Lola, and soon there was the sound of tapping from her keyboard. ‘Here’s one. A teenager was stabbed outside a club in Streatham. He bled to death in the street. He –’

  ‘No,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Sorry.’ There was more clicking accompanied by the sound of Lola humming to herself. ‘A few weeks ago there was a shooting in Tottenham. In a kebab house.’