Day of the Dead

by Nicci French

  ‘This is Lola.’

  ‘You’ve been having a hard time.’

  He slid his hand into his jacket and drew out two keys, one large and one smaller.

  ‘Do we have neighbours?’ asked Frieda, taking them.

  ‘In Rivingdale Terrace no one can hear you scream,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. Most of these places are empty. Drive past them at night and no lights are on. Their owners are somewhere else, hiding the rest of their loot.’

  Frieda smiled; she liked Keegan’s grumpiness.

  ‘Your apartment hasn’t been lived in for over five years,’ he continued. ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’

  ‘There’s no need. Thank you.’

  ‘There’s something else.’

  He took a small envelope and gave it to Frieda.

  ‘Spare key?’ she said.

  ‘If you need to leave in a hurry, there’s a key here and the address. It’s always good to have a back-up.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said, and turned on his heel.

  Their apartment was a duplex on the ground and first floors. There was an entrance hall larger than Lola’s flat, a laundry room, a personal gym with a punching bag and a rowing machine, a small self-contained flat that was probably meant for the servant. There were two sitting rooms, one on either level, and in the upper one there was a semi-circular bar and a bronze statue of a naked woman, while in the lower a projector and a screen occupied one wall. There was a dining room, where eight high-backed chairs upholstered in red velvet were placed around a long table, a large kitchen, a bathroom with gold taps and marble washbasins and two en-suite bedrooms, one of which had a dressing room attached and a four-poster bed hung with thick purple drapes, and both of which had safes bolted to the floor. There were vast, gaudy chandeliers hanging from ceilings, and pictures of sunsets with ornate frames. There was a garden at the back with huge earthenware pots containing ornamental trees and at the front, running the length of the first floor, a terrace. From there the park lay clear in front of them, golden in the late afternoon.

  The walls were damp and mildewed and one internal wall had half collapsed, showing the joists underneath. Water dripped through the ceiling in the dining room, whose wooden floor had disintegrated, and whose walls were sodden and rotting. The velvet on the chairs was chewed; the leather sofa was obviously home to mice, or perhaps to rats, while the chaise-longue with its gilded frame lay on its side, its legs broken. The purple drapes around the four-poster bed were faded and ripped. The mattresses in the bedrooms were damp and stained. The enormous mirror in the hall was shattered into a crazy network. The wallpaper in the larger sitting room bubbled, as if there was something underneath, trying to escape. The windows were grimy with thick dirt; several were cracked. In the kitchen, Lola almost stepped on the rotting remains of a pigeon. The garden was a tangle of weeds and rubbish with a great barbecue rusting at its centre. There were mouse droppings everywhere and a smell – rank and heavy – lay across each room.

  Lola pulled a face. ‘It’s disgusting here.’

  Frieda didn’t reply. Instead, she went into the kitchen, feeling the stickiness of the tiles under her feet, and turned on a tap. There was a spluttering sound and, after a few seconds, water was coughed out.

  ‘We can clean,’ she said. ‘Just an area for us to live in. We won’t be here long.’

  She started pulling open cupboards.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Buckets, mops. Here we are. These will do.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’ve got plenty of time to buy cleaning stuff, and we’ll get food for this evening.’

  ‘Shall I go? You’d have to give me the money.’

  ‘We’ll go together. I could do with some fresh air.’

  They found the locks to the windows and opened every one. They swept up grime and dust, mouse droppings and dead spiders and flies, the rotten pigeon, the bits of broken glass, the objects they couldn’t even identify. They wiped surfaces, cleaned the lavatory and bath, mopped the floor, using bucket after bucket of water. They pulled all the covers off the large bed and bundled them into bin bags. Frieda looked across at Lola as she sprayed disinfectant and scrubbed at encrusted dirt. Her face was flushed; she seemed better than she had a few hours ago. It was probably good for her to do this.

  By nine that evening, one bedroom, its bathroom and the kitchen were clean enough to walk into without shrinking back in revulsion.

  ‘That’ll have to do,’ Frieda said.

  Then she took out the food she had bought: pitta bread, hummus, carrots already chopped into batons, a small tub of olives, a netted bag of satsumas, a packet of Digestive biscuits. They’d found a shop next to the Polish deli that sold everything – paddling pools and walking sticks, party hats and cheap mugs – and she laid the bright paper tablecloth on the floor of the living room, over the stains on the mouldering carpet. No amount of scrubbing would make the table or the floor clean and, anyway, the red velvet of the chairs was torn and rotting.

  ‘A picnic,’ she said.

  ‘Do you think there are rats in here?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I hate rats. Their tails are too thick.’

  ‘It’s just a few days. The main thing is to be safe.’

  ‘You were all prepared,’ said Lola. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I didn’t. But it’s like chess. You need to think a couple of moves ahead.’

  Lola nodded. She tore off a piece of pitta bread, dipped it into the hummus, but didn’t eat it. ‘I still feel a bit sick,’ she said. ‘I’m hungry, but I think I might throw up again.’

  ‘Eat a bit and see.’

  Lola put a tiny morsel in her mouth and chewed. ‘Mum used to try and make me go on these diets when I was at home,’ she said. ‘I was quite a chubby teenager. She’d look at me and say, “I think there’s a beautiful Lola waiting to come out.” ’

  Frieda looked carefully at her. ‘What did you feel when she said that?’

  Lola shrugged. ‘She just wanted what was good for me. They both did. I’m their only child, you know. They thought they couldn’t have one so I was like their miracle, just when Mum was nearly past child-bearing age. But I don’t think I was quite what they expected. They used to have this look they’d give each other when I did something stupid. They thought I didn’t see it. It was their oh-Lola look. I dread to think what they’d make of all of this.’

  She gave a small laugh, put some more pitta bread into her mouth. ‘Oh, well.’

  Frieda insisted on sleeping in the same room as Lola. It looked over what must once have been stables but were now impossibly elegant mews houses.

  ‘I have bad dreams,’ said Lola. ‘I’ll keep you awake.’

  ‘I tend to keep myself awake,’ said Frieda. ‘For the moment we’re roped together, like mountain climbers.’

  ‘I’ve never liked that idea. I’ve always imagined one person falling and pulling the other after them.’

  ‘Here’s a first,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m going to be the optimistic one. One falls and the other saves them.’

  In the middle of the night Frieda was listening to Lola’s slow breathing and assumed she was asleep until her voice came out of the darkness.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m a burden to you. And on top of that, I’m stopping you sleeping.’

  ‘You’re not a burden and I wasn’t asleep. But I’m going to keep on saying this. I could still arrange for you to be taken somewhere.’

  ‘There’s nowhere.’

  ‘Couldn’t you stay with your parents?’

  ‘No!’ The word came out like a howl of pain. ‘I couldn’t do that. They wouldn’t be safe. Don’t even mention them. I can’t bear even to think about them.’

  ‘We can find a way,’ said Frieda. But there was no answer. Just Lola breathing in and breat
hing out. She was asleep. Or pretending to be asleep.

  They got up early the next morning and Frieda made coffee, cut up some fruit and insisted that Lola eat it, passing across to her the segments of orange and apple one by one. Lola was pale and barely responsive. Frieda had to steer her towards the shower, then laid out clothes for her to put on.

  ‘Can’t I just stay in my pyjamas?’

  ‘We’re going for a walk.’

  ‘You can go. I’d just like to go back to bed.’

  ‘You don’t get to do that. If you stay in, then I stay in. And I don’t want to stay in.’

  Lola looked as if she wanted to argue but it was just too much effort. So she slowly pulled her clothes on and then a jacket. Frieda led her out and they walked across the road into the park. There were the usual runners and dog-walkers, and a group of young Americans was throwing a football around.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be hiding?’ said Lola.

  ‘This is hiding.’

  ‘Are we going to meet someone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are we going to walk along one of your rivers?’

  ‘We’ll cross one of them but that’s not the point of this.’

  ‘So what is the point?’

  ‘Maybe not to have to ask what the point of it is.’

  Lola looked at Frieda with a puzzled frown. ‘I’m not one of your patients.’

  ‘Do you need to be?’

  Lola turned away from Frieda and when she spoke it was in a mutter that didn’t seem directed at anyone in particular. ‘Nobody can make me better.’

  They didn’t speak for several minutes as they made their way around the southern edge of the park, then turned up towards the north. Frieda pointed at the ponds on their right.

  ‘That’s part of the River Tyburn,’ she said. ‘If you want the tour.’

  ‘I don’t want the tour.’

  As they approached the Regent’s Park mosque, Frieda gestured across the road. ‘The canal’s ahead there,’ she said. ‘But we won’t walk that way. It feels too exposed. We’ll just head straight across the park.’

  Lola didn’t reply and they walked eastwards across the grass. Then Lola stopped.

  ‘What?’ said Frieda.

  ‘Are you frightened of dying?’

  ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘It seems kind of relevant at the moment. Can’t you answer the question?’

  ‘No,’ said Frieda.

  ‘You won’t answer?’

  ‘I mean, no, I’m not frightened of dying.’

  ‘I was afraid of that. That’s what I was thinking about in the middle of the night.’

  ‘I’m frightened of other people dying, though. If that’s a comfort.’

  ‘Not really.’

  Chloë met Jack at the entrance to Saffron Mews.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he said. ‘Is Frieda back?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You’d know if she was.’

  She led him along the little cobbled street to Frieda’s front door and rapped on the wood. Josef opened it. Without speaking, he stepped aside as they walked into the house.

  ‘Upstairs,’ said Chloë.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Jack.

  ‘Just wait and see.’

  They walked up, Josef behind them. When they got to the top, Chloë looked around. Josef was right. It really did feel as if it had always been like that. Where the window had been, there was now a door.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Jack.

  ‘I know,’ said Chloë. ‘Pretty amazing. Open the door.’

  Carefully, as if he were stepping into a strange new world, Jack opened the door and stepped out onto the new, spacious balcony, more like a roof terrace. He peered down at his feet and shifted slightly, trying his weight on it. Chloë followed him, then Josef. They all stood with their hands on the railings.

  ‘So what did you do?’ Jack asked Chloë.

  ‘Just the railings. And I’ve made a little table.’

  Jack examined the railings. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Getting the posts into the top and bottom balustrades and getting them straight took for ever,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure if I ever quite got it. I think Josef just asked me to make me feel I was doing something.’

  ‘No. Is good,’ said Josef.

  ‘Or maybe to share the blame when Frieda gets completely furious about this.’

  Chloë and Jack looked at each other. Jack went red and turned away.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Chloë said.

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘You’re thinking that if Frieda were here getting angry with us about this balcony, then at least she’d be here.’

  Jack turned round and leaned back on the railing, heavily, so that Chloë worried whether she’d made it strong enough.

  ‘No, not exactly,’ he said.

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘It’s like magical thinking. You and Josef think that if you create this for Frieda, it’s a way of ensuring she’ll come back.’

  ‘You make it sound childish.’

  Jack smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to. I wish I could have built some part of this, but if I had, I wouldn’t let anyone stand on it.’

  They stood for a long time, staring at the lights in silence.

  ‘What’s that tall building?’ Jack said.

  Chloë ignored him. ‘Why do you think Frieda’s doing this?’ she said.

  Josef shrugged.

  ‘It’s partly to do with us,’ Jack said. ‘She’s seen what’s happened to the people around her. I think she feels responsible.’

  ‘I think it’s more than that. She may have had enough. I sometimes wonder whether she might want to die.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ said Jack.

  Chloë turned to Josef. ‘What do you think, Josef? Do you think Frieda wants to die?’

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘Because you would know, if anybody knows.’

  Josef took a deep breath. ‘To save somebody, she might … I do not know. I cannot say.’

  ‘What about saving herself?’

  In response, Josef only shrugged again.

  ‘We can’t just stand here,’ Jack said. ‘We should do a toast to Frieda.’

  ‘No,’ said Chloë. ‘Not here. It’d be wrong. God would hear and would punish us. He’d punish Frieda.’

  Jack smiled again. ‘I didn’t know you believed in God.’

  ‘I’ll believe in anything just at the moment.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘What do you think? A five iron or a six iron?’

  Paul Arrowsmith pretended to think about that. What he was really thinking was that it didn’t matter much whether Lee Denton used a five iron or a six iron or a wood or even a putter. With other friends he would have made a joke about it, but Denton was hopelessly serious about his golf. So Arrowsmith adopted a serious tone.

  ‘I’d go for the five,’ he said. ‘You might need the extra length.’

  ‘The problem is overrunning,’ said Denton.

  ‘Then maybe you should go for the six.’

  ‘No, I think I’ll stick with the five. I’ll try to hit the front of the green.’

  ‘So as not to overrun.’

  Denton looked at Arrowsmith suspiciously but Arrowsmith’s face was as sober and serious as he could make it.

  ‘Well, I’d better go for it,’ Denton said. He looked at his partner, who hadn’t moved. ‘Are you going to stand and watch me make the shot?’

  ‘I thought I would. If that’s all right.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. Completely fine.’

  Denton took the club out of the bag. He weighed it carefully in his hands as if he were pondering his decision. Then he placed his feet apart and carefully addressed the ball. He put the club beside the ball, then raised it once, twice and struck. The two men swerved their heads simultaneously.

  Denton sighed. The ball had not reached the front of the green or the back of the green o
r any part of the green. He had hooked it round and it had skittered along the edge of the fairway, then disappeared from view.

  ‘Do you think it cleared the water?’

  There was a little stream that emerged from under the railway line, wound its way across the course and disappeared between houses on the far side. It was terrible luck to hit a ball into it. The chances were a hundred to one, a thousand to one.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I suppose that means a lost stroke.’

  ‘Them’s the rules,’ said Arrowsmith, cheerfully.

  ‘All right, all right, play your own shot, and I’ll worry about finding my ball.’

  Arrowsmith walked across to his ball, pulled an iron from his bag without even checking the number. He looked at the ball, looked at the green, looked at the ball again, then struck it cleanly. It landed on the green, to one side, leaving a lengthy putt. Still, a good position to have. Especially with Denton’s dropped shot.

  He looked across at his opponent. He expected to see him lining up his shot, or maybe on his knees retrieving his ball. But he was just standing, his head bent, his club still grasped in his hand. He shouted to him but Denton didn’t look around, even when he shouted again. So Arrowsmith walked impatiently over to him. ‘What’s going on?’ he said, as he got closer to his friend.

  Denton didn’t reply but pointed into the water. Arrowsmith looked down and at first couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing and then: ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he said.

  It was a body lying face down in the shallow stream. The skin was very pale, almost white, and very smooth. Arrowsmith couldn’t see whether it was a man or a woman. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he said again.

  ‘It wasn’t in Richmond Park,’ said Dugdale. ‘And it wasn’t Wimbledon Common. It was on a golf course just next to the Kingston bypass.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Frieda.

  ‘The body of a man was found face down in Beverley Brook earlier this morning.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Frieda.

  ‘What do you mean? It’s what you predicted.’

  Frieda covered the phone and whispered to Lola, ‘They’ve found a body. In Beverley Brook.’

  She could see the blood leaving Lola’s face, as if she might be about to faint. She took her hand from the phone. ‘Yes, it’s what I expected. And someone else is dead. I don’t exactly feel triumphant about it. Who is the victim?’