Dark Saturday

by Nicci French

  Frieda shook her head. “What I want is for Hannah Docherty to get out. Nothing else matters. I’ve done all I can do.”

  Karlsson looked at Yvette. “Do you know who’s leading the investigation?”

  “I can find out.”

  “Good. And keep Frieda in the loop.” He looked back at Frieda. “So, you can get back to your job, Yvette can get back to her job, and I can get back to learning to walk again. All’s right with the world.”

  Frieda went straight from Karlsson to see Levin and Keegan. It was early evening and Keegan poured three glasses of whisky. The two men sat in silence as Frieda told them what had happened.

  “I thought I owed it to you to tell you,” she said, when she had finished.

  Neither man responded. Levin looked down into his whisky, which he hadn’t touched. Keegan drained his own glass and poured himself another.

  “So that’s basically it,” said Frieda.

  Keegan took another sip of his drink. “Good. That’s very good.”

  “What? The drink?”

  “Checking the unidentified bodies. That was very good.”

  “It seemed pretty obvious.”

  “Only afterwards. It took some sharp thinking to bring it all together.”

  “That’s good of you to say, because I know we’ve had our differences.”

  “I’m just trying to get my head around it,” said Keegan, as if Frieda hadn’t spoken. “Deborah Docherty isn’t at the murder scene where she should be. She’s at another one.”

  “Yes, it’s very strange.”

  “And this other woman, Justine Walsh, is in Deborah Docherty’s house. In Deborah Docherty’s bedroom. And she’s identified by Hannah Docherty as her mother.”

  “That’s right. But you saw the state of the body. Hannah Docherty identified her, at the scene, in what must have been a state of shock. If you see a woman in your mother’s bed, wearing your mother’s nightgown, you’re going to see it as your mother.”

  “So how did it happen?”

  “That’s why we have police forces,” said Frieda. “To answer questions like that.”

  “They didn’t manage it the first time.”

  “Well, now they have a second chance.” Frieda stood up. “I’m not one for goodbyes, but this feels like a goodbye.”

  Keegan stood up and held out his hand. Frieda shook it.

  “Maybe we’ll meet again.”

  “I can’t imagine where,” said Frieda.

  “You never know.”

  Frieda put her untouched whisky on the table. Then she turned to Levin. “You haven’t said anything.”

  He looked up at her. “I thought you would find this harder to walk away from.”

  “What do you mean, “walk away from”?”

  “The investigation hasn’t even begun. Hannah Docherty isn’t out yet.”

  “We’ll see.”

  As Frieda left the house, she felt as if she was escaping. Even though it was raining, she walked home. When she got in she took her clothes off, had a bath and felt purified, free of it all.

  She had two days of hard work. She saw patients, she went to the Warehouse and talked to Reuben about expanding her role there. She told Chloë that she would be coming to the shed soon to take away all the things she had left there. She dealt with a backlog of letters. She cleared up the house. She threw out some old clothes. On the Thursday morning, after a session with Maria Dreyfus, she switched on her phone. There was a missed call from Yvette and she rang the number.

  “I’m on my way to see you,” Yvette said. Even in those few words her tone sounded strange.

  “It’s bad news.”

  “I’ll be outside.”

  “Go to the coffee shop round the corner,” Frieda said.

  She gave Yvette the address of Number Nine, then walked there herself. She ordered two coffees, and just as they were being placed in front of her, Yvette came in, looking flustered, her cheeks red. She sat down opposite Frieda. “I’ll have tea,” she said, then noticed the coffee. “Coffee’s fine.”

  “They’re not proceeding with the case,” Frieda said.

  Yvette looked surprised. “How did you hear?”

  “Is there any other bad news you could be ringing about?”

  Yvette shifted awkwardly in her seat. “There could be.”

  “Who’s the detective in charge of the investigation?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s not someone you know.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I’m not going to tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You might do something. You might go and shout at him or hit him. It’s happened before.”

  Frieda stared past Yvette out into the street. She certainly felt like doing something. Hitting someone was a possibility. She forced herself to speak calmly. “How could they possibly not proceed with the case? After finding the body?”

  “He . . .” Yvette stopped herself. “Or she. Well, it’s actually a he. He said that nothing had really changed.”

  “How can he say that? What about the body?”

  “It’s not me. I’m just reporting what was said. I was only able to have a brief conversation and that was just because Karlsson asked him as a favor. He said Hannah Docherty’s prints were at the scene. Her statement was still inconsistent. She still had the motive.”

  “But it wasn’t her mother who was dead at the scene. It was Justine Walsh. Her mother was in the shallow grave in the woods.”

  “DCI—I mean he said that was the really key bit of evidence. It was Hannah Docherty who identified Justine Walsh as her mother. And you have to see he has a point, Frieda—there’s a way in which what you found only makes things worse for Hannah, if they could be worse. Why would she make a false identification if she wasn’t the murderer?”

  “Because she was in shock. Because her mother is who she would have expected the damaged corpse to be.”

  “I’m not the one who’s arguing this.”

  “Then tell me his name and I’ll go and argue it with him.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The inquiry’s over.”

  “Why was Justine Walsh in the Docherty house?” said Frieda.

  “Is that a question I’m supposed to answer?”

  “It’s a question the police are supposed to answer. Why was she killed in the Docherty house, while the woman who actually lived in the house was killed somewhere else?”

  “There are always loose threads,” said Yvette. “Unanswered questions.”

  “That’s just like giving a verbal shrug.”

  “No. It’s the way it goes. There are things we’ll never know.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Frieda.

  She felt an intense weariness. It was starting all over again.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “You again.” Levin twinkled at her in his sinister way.

  “Me. You knew, didn’t you?”

  “Knew what?”

  “Knew they’d never reopen the inquiry.”

  “Let’s say I’m not entirely surprised.”

  “How can you be so calm?”

  “Am I calm?” He settled back more comfortably in his chair. “Well, I probably am.”

  “Are you just going to let this happen?”

  “The real question is: are you? But I know the answer already.”

  “Which is?”

  “No, of course you’re not.”

  “Do you feel no responsibility?”

  “That’s an interesting question.” He frowned, reached his hand into his jacket pocket, drew out a bag and looked at it with an air of surprise. “Would you like a toffee?”

  “No.”

  “Bad for the teeth, I suppose. No, I don’t feel responsibility for this case. You choose what you’re responsible for, and you’ve chosen Hannah.”

  “I hardly think I had a choice.”

  “Really?”

  “I can’t just let her rot in that hospital.”


  “I understand.” He sounded gentle and vaguely sad.

  “It’s impossible.”

  “But you’re on your own now. You see that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “We could let you keep DC Long for a bit longer, if it would be helpful.”

  Frieda considered. “She deserves a bit of a break from me.”

  He popped a toffee into his mouth. “Just you, then.”

  Her mobile rang.

  “Hello, Frieda here.”

  “Is that Frieda Klein?” A woman’s voice, one that Frieda felt she recognized but couldn’t place.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Emma Travis, from fifty-four Oakley Road. The Dochertys’ old house,” she added unnecessarily.

  “Of course.” There was a pause. “Was there something you were wanting to speak to me about?”

  “Oh, well, not really.”

  “Something you thought might be helpful, perhaps?”

  “Oh, no.” Emma Travis sounded flustered. “Nothing like that.”

  “I’m sorry. How can I help you?”

  “I just wondered—well, I need to get hold of Josef.”

  “Ah.” Frieda remembered the white van she’d seen driving past the bar the evening she’d met Flora Goffin and Sebastian Tait for a drink. Her suspicion hardened into certainty and she grimaced at the phone. “Do you need his number?”

  “I have it. As a matter of fact I’ve seen him once or twice. He came to look at the repairs needed,” she added hastily.

  “So how can I help?”

  “He’s not answering his phone.”

  “I see.”

  “So I wondered if you could tell him to call me.”

  “I can tell him you asked me.”

  “Thank you. Gutters, you know. Gutters and things that need patching.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him to call.”

  This time Frieda didn’t see Sedge in the Bear, with the broad brown sweep of the Thames behind him, but at his home in Romford. He was on annual leave—“Which is a polite way of saying gardening leave,” he’d said on the phone, with a laugh that wasn’t quite convincing. His house was a thirties build that stood back from the road. Through the front window she could see the conservatory at the back and beyond that a long lawn. When he opened the door, she smelled furniture polish and lilies. Everything was neater than she’d expected. Coats hung in an orderly line in the hall above paired shoes; next to them was a bag of golf clubs and two tennis racquets.

  Sedge himself didn’t look quite so neat and well tended. He had thick stubble on his cheeks and his checked shirt was buttoned wrongly. But he held out a hand and shook hers with a firm grip.

  He had made coffee and they sat in the conservatory looking out onto the lawn, which was thick with fallen leaves. “Just because I’m on gardening leave doesn’t mean I’m looking after the garden,” he said.

  “What are you doing?”

  “My wife, Laurie, says I should get out, play a few rounds of golf, meet friends, paint a room, maybe.”

  “But you don’t want to.”

  He cradled his coffee between his large hands and stared gloomily out of the window. “We don’t have kids. My mother’s my only family, apart from Laurie. My work’s my life and always has been. Whatever mistakes I’ve made, I’ve always been a worker. Ask anyone. I expect my team to work hard but I work harder.”

  “So you haven’t played golf and you haven’t done the garden. What have you been doing?”

  He rested his gaze on her for a few moments. “Well, obviously, I’ve been thinking about the mess I’ve made. Which is one reason I can’t go and play golf and hobnob with my mates in the bar. There’s no avoiding it. For the rest of my life I’ll be DCI Sedge who got the bodies muddled up.”

  “It’s good of you to see me, in the circumstances.”

  “You mean because you’re the one who figured it out?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re pretty much the only person I want to see. I feel I can talk to you about it without having to defend myself. Strange, isn’t it?” He took a sip of his coffee. “So. What are you wanting from me?”

  Frieda had a list of questions in the small notebook in her coat pocket, but she didn’t want to take it out and lay it in front of her. It felt like too much of a reminder of what he’d lost. “First of all, just tell me what you thought when you were told that the woman who was murdered in the Docherty house wasn’t Deborah Docherty.”

  “What did I think?” Sedge gave a short bark of laughter. “That’s easy. I thought, Holy shit. I thought, Oh, no, please, God, no, don’t let this be happening to me. And, That’s the end of me. And, How will I face the guys after this?” He looked up at Frieda, his eyes glittering.

  “But what did you think about the case?”

  “Oh. Sorry. You think I’m being self-involved. What did I think? I guess I thought it wasn’t possible, there must be some wild mistake. Because of course it was Deborah Docherty. I mean, there she was, lying in her bed, with her murdered husband, and her murdered son in the next room, and her daughter identified her. Hannah Docherty identified her. How could she not be Deborah Docherty?”

  “But she isn’t.”

  “No. She isn’t. I honestly don’t know what to make of it. I mean, it makes a horrible kind of sense that Hannah Docherty would murder her family. We know she was angry and troubled and had got in with a bad lot. But why would she murder this other woman?” He shook his head.

  “Do you know anything about Justine Walsh?”

  “Nothing, apart from what I’ve learned in the last few hours.”

  “You know her daughter Shelley Walsh shared a house with Hannah?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you never met Shelley?”

  “I suppose I must have done. I mean, I went to their house. I remember that. God, what a tip. The police already had their eye on it. But I can’t remember her, though it would be strange if I hadn’t talked to her during the investigation.”

  “Records show that you did talk to her, just the once.”

  “There you are, then.”

  “Did you know that her mother disappeared at the same time as Deborah Docherty?”

  “I don’t think so,” Sedge said slowly, his brow furrowed with the effort of remembering. “Though I might be wrong. It was a long time ago.” He took another small sip. “I talked to the boyfriend. What was his name?”

  “Jason Brenner.”

  “I talked to him at least twice. He was a creep.”

  “That’s what Deborah Docherty’s ex-husband called him as well.”

  The front door slammed and there was a clatter as something was dropped on the floor. “Ben?”

  “In here,” he called. “I’ve got a visitor.”

  Laurie Sedge was tall and very striking, with a dramatic fall of blonde hair and exuberant clothes.

  “I’ve just been to the market. What a crush.” She held out her hand to Frieda. “I’m Laurie, by the way. I’m glad Ben has company.”

  For a moment, Frieda thought Laurie would bend down and give her a kiss. “I’m Frieda Klein.”

  The woman’s brow creased and her mouth pursed. “Oh, my God. I know who you are.”

  “Please,” said Sedge. “Don’t.”

  “You’re the one who got him into all this trouble and now you’re sitting calmly in our house drinking coffee.”

  “We’re discussing the case,” said Sedge. “I thought you were going straight from the market to work.”

  “What’s there to discuss?” She turned to Frieda. “My husband is the best detective in the country. He’s won awards for bravery. He’s a good man. He’s made one mistake, and now look. What kind of justice is that?”

  “Laurie. It’s OK.”

  “How can it be OK?”

  “I know it’s hard,” said Frieda, who was rather taken with Laurie Sedge’s passionate defense of her husband. “I’m not he
re to rake over mistakes.”

  “Why are you here, then?” Her voice wavered and, for a moment, Frieda thought she might cry.

  “We’re reviewing the case,” said Sedge.

  His wife pulled a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. “This has been horrible,” she said to Frieda.

  “I’ll see you later,” said Sedge to her. She nodded and walked forlornly from the room. “Sorry about that.” He picked up his coffee mug.

  “I don’t blame her.”

  “Where were we?”

  “We were talking about Jason Brenner.”

  “That’s right. He’d been in trouble with the police. Drugs mainly.”

  “You asked a few minutes ago why Hannah would murder Justine Walsh. Doesn’t this make you wonder if Hannah did murder her?”

  Ben Sedge stared at Frieda, his mug lifted halfway to his mouth. “What?”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t Hannah.”

  “You mean she murdered Aidan and Rory and someone else murdered Justine?”

  “Maybe she didn’t murder anyone.”

  The look on his face was almost comical. “Let’s get this clear. You’re saying not only did I get the wrong body, I got the wrong murderer.”

  “Is it impossible?”

  He stood up and went to the window, then laid his forehead against the glass. They heard the front door open and shut once more.

  “Well?”

  “Of course it’s impossible. More than impossible. It’s crazy.”

  “Why?”

  “What are you trying to do? Look at me. You’ve already ruined my career, but you can’t let it rest. You’ve got to drag me through the mud.”

  “This isn’t about you.”

  “Really? That’s not how it seems from where I’m standing.”

  “It’s about Hannah.”

  “Who killed her whole family.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Of course I’m fucking sure.” He wiped a hand across his brow. “Jesus,” he muttered, under his breath. “Don’t you see that it makes even less sense?”

  “Why?”

  His face tightened. As he looked at her, Frieda could see him coming to a decision. Then his whole body seemed to sag slightly and he gave a shrug. “OK. If you really want to know what I think. Hannah was violent and angry. She had fallen out with her mother and stepfather. Her alibi was farcical. There was blood all over her clothes. Just because it wasn’t her mother she killed doesn’t mean it wasn’t her doing the killing. She was the one who identified the body. Why would she do that if she was innocent?”