by Nicci French
Frieda, soon you will be an orphan. But, my dear, do not grieve too much for your mother. The end of life is only the beginning of something else. She is coming to join me. It is her time. But not yours, not yet. Yours always, Mary Orton.
She read the message again, very slowly. Then she closed the card and stared for a moment out of the window as the countryside sped by in a blur of dun November colours.
This was a card signed by Mary Orton. But Mary Orton was dead. She was a woman who, long ago, Frieda had tried to save but had arrived too late. She would always be haunted by the old woman’s face as she lay dying. She herself had nearly died but had been saved – violently and bloodily saved – by Dean Reeve.
She opened the card once more and stared at the words. She stared at the writing. ‘Pull over,’ she said to Josef, and as soon as the words were out of her mouth he swerved to the side of the road and shrieked to a halt. Horns blared.
‘Yes?’ said Josef, not seeming to notice.
‘Look at this.’ Frieda showed him the card. ‘Do you recognize the writing?’
Josef took the card and held it very close to his face, then away. ‘I do not know. Perhaps.’
‘Does it remind you of Mary Orton’s?’
‘Perhaps, Frieda.’ His voice was solemn. He had known Mary Orton well and he had certainly seen her handwriting several times
‘Or someone imitating it.’
‘I do not understand.’ He looked both baffled and wretched.
‘But I think I do.’ She took her mobile from her bag and rang a number. ‘Karlsson, it’s Frieda. I need to see you.’
22
Sian Raven had broken up with her boyfriend after four years. She had moved out of the flat they had shared, she had lost her job, she had attempted suicide. But, as she sat opposite Frieda in her consulting room, she was smiling.
‘I’m really feeling better than I’ve felt for a long time. Really ever. What I’m doing is curing myself. That’s what we all have to do in the end, isn’t it?’
‘How are you curing yourself?’ Frieda asked.
‘I run every day for a whole hour, pushing myself all the way. Afterwards I feel this complete high. You can’t imagine it. And then, for the first time in my life, I’ve been thinking about my diet, stripping it down to absolute basics.’
‘Basics,’ said Frieda. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Fruit.’
‘Fruit?’
‘I don’t want to leave a footprint of any kind. I won’t kill anything to eat and I don’t mean just animals. I won’t eat anything if it means killing the plant. You know we all eat far too much.’
Frieda looked at the young woman in front of her and her flickering smile. ‘Shall we talk about your footprint?’ she said.
Karlsson and Yvette were in his office when Frieda arrived. They had spent a thoroughly bad-tempered couple of hours with the commissioner, going through the list of potential cuts. The only person Crawford insisted on keeping on full pay with no limitations was Hal Bradshaw, the psychological profiler whom Karlsson despised and Yvette loathed. At this point Yvette had stormed out of the room, and knocked against a harassed constable holding a tray of tea, which had fallen to the floor, creating far more mess and noise than she had imagined possible. She was still feeling angry and embarrassed and, what was more, there was a damp patch on her trousers.
‘Yvette,’ said Frieda, holding out her hand. ‘How are you?’
‘I’ve been better.’
‘That bad?’
‘Worse.’
Frieda turned to Karlsson. ‘Is this a bad time?’
‘What do you need?’ he said.
Yvette looked questioningly at Karlsson, then at Frieda, then back at Karlsson.
‘I’ll leave you two alone, then,’ she said.
Karlsson was holding the card delicately between forefinger and thumb.
‘So you think this is Dean Reeve writing as if from Mrs Orton.’
‘Yes.’
‘It seems a bit elaborate.’
‘He wants to tell me he’s still here.’
‘And in Braxton.’
‘Yes.’
Karlsson stood up and looked out of his window.
‘Tell me if you want me to go away,’ said Frieda, softly.
‘I don’t want that.’
‘I know that this is the last thing you need. But I felt I had to tell someone. No.’ She corrected herself. ‘I had to tell you.’
‘All right. Let’s go through all that you’re telling me. First of all, that Dean Reeve – who kidnapped Joanna Teale and then Matthew Faraday and who killed the young research student Kathy Ripon, and whom we all believed to have killed himself over three years ago – is alive.’
‘Yes.’
‘And that he killed Beth Kersey in order to save you.’
Frieda nodded.
‘You’re telling me he told you as much by sending a little girl with daffodils and a message.’
‘“It wasn’t your time.”’
‘Right. And that Dean Reeve was also responsible for burning down Hal Bradshaw’s house, also on your behalf.’
‘That’s how he would have seen it. Or wanted it to be seen.’
‘And this time he sent you lilies.’
‘A picture of them. Yes.’
‘And now he’s in Braxton.’
‘He went there once before. He sent me a drawing of my father’s headstone.’
‘Now he’s sent you this card.’
‘Yes.’
Karlsson sat for several moments in a silence that Frieda made no effort to break. She looked at his intent face, then at the photograph of his little children, Mikey and Bella, that he always had on his desk.
‘All right,’ said Karlsson, at last.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ll talk to Commissioner Crawford about reopening the case.’
‘Really?’
‘But it won’t be straightforward. As far as Crawford is concerned, and the rest of the world, Dean Reeve is dead. Plus …’ He hesitated.
‘Plus he thinks I’m crazy.’
‘He doesn’t appreciate your finer qualities.’
‘Do you believe me?’
Karlsson looked at her and, for a disconcerting moment, Frieda felt that he was looking not at but into her.
‘It’s worth investigating,’ he said eventually.
Later that day, in the early evening, it was turning cold and there was a feeling of rain in the air, but Frieda had no intention of taking the tube or getting on a bus. Arriving back from the country lanes, the blank, sodden fields, the silence, the darkness in the evenings, she felt as if she had surfaced and was able to breathe again. It was going to be a walk of a mile or two but that would be fine. She needed the noise, the traffic, the fumes. It felt soothing to be walking through crowds of people with no chance whatever that any of them would know her or her family or her history. When she reached Tottenham Court Road, she stopped for a moment, orienting herself, thinking of this or that landmark, this or that possible route. Then she plunged across into the streets around the university and past the Inns of Court and then to the old meat market almost without seeing them but instead just feeling their presence, smelling them, hearing them.
As she approached the City, the buildings changed. They were larger, taller, there was more metal and glass, but in her current mood Frieda found them welcoming, almost human. Frieda had never really understood the way people thought about the countryside. What she saw were fields that you couldn’t walk across, green spaces in which every possible living thing had been sprayed and poisoned out of existence. Cities were for walking through. Things could survive in cities.
Frieda stopped and looked around her. A vast construction of grey steel and dark glass loomed over her under which nothing could survive. She took a piece of paper from her pocket. It seemed to be the right address. There was a grand main entrance with the logo of a bank above it. She walk
ed inside. Two women were sitting behind a reception desk like that of a hotel. They were deep in conversation, and when Frieda approached them, they looked at her as if she were interrupting something important.
‘I’m looking for the Clouds Bar,’ said Frieda, doubtfully.
‘It’s round the side,’ said one of the women. ‘You take the lift.’
‘Which floor?’
‘There’s only one. That lift takes you straight to the top.’
The street entrance was surprisingly small, as if it were meant only for people who already knew about it. Inside, a man in a commissionaire’s uniform gestured her towards the lift. As she ascended, it felt like an improbable joke, but when the doors opened, she saw a large plate-glass window and lights out in the darkness. She was in a small lobby that led into the bar. A man stepped forward and asked for her coat.
‘It’s all right,’ said Frieda.
A brief discussion followed. Coats were not allowed. It seemed that there was a problem with sightseers coming for the view and not buying drinks. Frieda was going to ask about sightseers without coats but she gave up and handed over hers. As soon as she stepped into the bar, she heard her name being called. A middle-aged man was sitting by the floor-to-ceiling window that ran the length of the room. She walked over and sat down at the table. He smiled broadly.
‘Frieda. I can’t believe it. You haven’t changed a bit.’ He held up his hands. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to be polite. I don’t expect you to say the same thing back to me.’
Frieda couldn’t possibly have said anything like that. Her first feeling was one of shock. It wasn’t so much that Jeremy Sutton had changed or that he had simply grown older: she felt as if the old Jeremy had been snatched away, disposed of and replaced with someone different in every way. The fifteen-year-old she had known had been rake-thin, with long, dark brown hair that he was always pulling away from his face. It was a face that she remembered with a permanently ironic expression. He was as derisive about himself as he was about everything else. He’d been at Fearnley College, the expensive private school that occupied a vast set of Georgian buildings overlooking the estuary. Jeremy had mocked its uniform and its pretensions and his rich, entitled schoolfellows.
Frieda remembered another expression as well – or, rather, a set of expressions. The disbelief and the distress and the anger when she had told him that she wanted to break up with him. He’d bombarded her with questions, face to face, on the phone and even in a series of letters. Why? What did I do? Is there someone else? Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong? Can’t you give me another chance?
She could find almost no trace of any of that in the man sitting in front of her. He was armoured in a dark grey pin-striped suit. He was largely bald, which made his face seem oversized. She had been expecting to meet a man who looked like Jeremy’s father, but this man was more like his grandfather.
‘It’s been a long time,’ said Frieda.
‘You like this place?’
Frieda glanced around at the rows of leather seats, the bar with its rows of single malt whiskies arranged against an illuminated background, at the groups of men and women in suits. ‘I like the view.’
‘Same old Frieda. You think you’re too good for these people.’
‘You sound like we’re in a soup kitchen.’
‘We’re all just doing a job. You probably don’t want a lecture from me about how the British economy depends on people like us.’
‘You’re right,’ said Frieda. ‘I mean, about my not wanting a lecture from you.’
‘I could have invited you to my office. You’d have found that even more ludicrous.’
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ said Frieda. ‘Since I’m the one who asked you here.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in my territory now. Shall I get a bottle of wine?’
‘I’m on medication at the moment,’ said Frieda, truthfully but irrelevantly. She couldn’t face a negotiation on what to drink. ‘Water will be fine.’
Jeremy went to the bar and returned with water for Frieda and a glass of wine for himself.
‘I got you sparkling,’ he said. ‘In honour of the reunion. Twenty-three years. I calculated it on the way over.’
They both sipped their drinks.
‘Are you going to ask me how I am?’ said Jeremy.
‘How are you?’
‘I mean, you’re the one who contacted me out of the blue and now you’re sitting there looking at me disapprovingly. I know this is meant to be a big nostalgic occasion, but that’s more of a flashback than I wanted. How am I? I’m married to a lovely woman called Catrina. We’ve been married for thirteen years and we have two daughters: a nine-year-old and a seven-year-old.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘You might even know her. She went to Braxton High.’
‘Really?’ Frieda was taken aback.
‘Catrina Young. Long dark hair. She was in the year below you. I went out with her in my last year, and we got together again after university.’
‘I don’t remember her.’
‘She’s going to this reunion thing. I said I’d go with her. Will you be there?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’ve become middle-aged.’
‘We’re still too young to be middle-aged.’
‘I’ve read about you,’ said Jeremy. ‘That’s what Google was invented for. You’ve had a dramatic time.’
‘Things get exaggerated.’
‘And you’ve become a figure of controversy. So, are you here about a criminal case? Is this part of an investigation?’
‘I went back to Braxton.’
‘In search of your roots?’
Frieda put her drink down and looked out of the window. She felt the view should interest her more than it did but it made her feel as if she was watching London on television. Then she turned her attention back to Jeremy. ‘Everything you’ve said so far has been sarcastic or prickly and I don’t know why.’
‘I’m going to get another drink.’
‘You haven’t finished your first.’
Jeremy drained his glass, went to the bar and returned with a full one.
‘When I arranged to meet you, I promised myself there was something I wasn’t going to say and now I’m going to say it. You were my first love and I’ve not felt the same about anyone since then.’
‘We were fifteen years old.’
‘Are you saying that fifteen-year-olds don’t have real feelings?’
‘They have lots of them. But they’re for learning, for trying things out.’
‘So I was one of the things you tried out.’
‘You told me yourself, you have a wife and two daughters. That’s something to be proud of.’
‘You don’t know anything about my life. I don’t think a day has gone by without me thinking of you. You probably don’t understand what that even means. I bet you never Googled me.’
‘Of course I did. That’s how I found you.’
‘I mean over the years.’
‘I left my Braxton life behind. All of it.’
‘That’s just another way of being obsessed with it.’
‘You’re probably right. But I’ve gone back. My mother’s ill.’
‘I’m sorry. I liked her very much.’
‘Yes,’ said Frieda. She remembered how, after the break-up, Jeremy had not just phoned her but phoned her mother as well. ‘But I want to talk to you about something else.’
‘What?’
‘Do you remember the Thursday’s Children concert?’
‘The one at the Grand?’
‘Yes.’
A smile spread across Jeremy’s face. ‘Those were the days. Why are you asking? Do you remember dancing in the aisles?’
‘I wasn’t there, but you were. There was an incident. Involving me.’
‘I don’t remember that. We weren’t together by then, re
member?’
‘We weren’t together, but you do remember it. The police interviewed people. Nobody forgets being interviewed by the police.’
‘I remember being asked a few questions. But nothing came of it. What’s this about?’
‘I want to talk to you about that evening. What you did. Who you were with.’
Jeremy took a drink, more slowly now. ‘I had a fantasy about this evening. I thought we might order champagne and you’d see in me what you saw when I was fifteen.’
‘I remember some of what we saw in each other when we were fourteen,’ said Frieda. ‘But things change. I’m asking for your help now. If you can’t do that, then just say so.’
Jeremy drained the last of his wine. He took a twenty-pound note and coiled it slightly so that it could fit into the glass. ‘I need to think about this,’ he said.
‘What’s there to think about?’
‘I need some time. You’ll have to come to the house. I’ll phone you.’
His expression had changed. Frieda had a sudden sense of what he must be like in the office. It was clear that the meeting was over.
23
Frieda sat by her fire, the cat curled at her feet. She was thinking about Jeremy, his oversized head and his expensive suit. She tried to connect them with the boy she’d known and – yes – loved in a way, although it seemed impossible to imagine that now. It was a distant, tarnished dream. Jeremy had told her he had never felt so intensely about anyone since, but that was because they had been each other’s first love. He was nostalgic for the fresh wonder of the time. Sitting in some high-up office, at a desk that was probably as shiny and large as a grand piano, he was remembering his fifteen-year-old self with yearning. But even when she’d looked into his eyes this evening, she hadn’t seen that boy. Where had he gone?
She stared into the flames until at last what she was seeing wasn’t flames, but faces. Their faces, twenty-three, twenty-four years ago. They were all sitting in a circle on the wide swathe of grass by the river in Braxton and it was spring. Frieda remembered the stencilled shadows of leaves on the ground, the warmth in the air, the sound of the river as it eddied past. She could almost feel her own body as she sat, cross-legged, barefooted, her hair loose about her face. Yes.