by Nicci French
Frieda crossed to the other side and stepped out on to a narrow, overgrown path, pulling her sandals back on to her wet feet. Here it was green, tangled and wild – a place of nettles and cow parsley, a smell of grass, mulched leaves and moisture. She started to walk.
The secret river narrowed to a ribbon of brown water. Frieda kept pace with its flow, watching the bubbles beading and bursting on its surface. She saw Jim Fearby’s face. She saw his dead eyes staring at her. What had his last thoughts been? She wished so much that he had stayed alive long enough to know he had won. She saw Josef’s face. He would lay down his life for her, but she would lay down hers for no reason at all, except that it seemed a cursed thing.
A short distance away in the opposite direction, the Wandle disappeared underground for ever, into a network of springs, burrowing its way under the earth. Here it wound north, the path following it almost closed over now with nettles that stung her feet and hanging branches that stroked her cheeks, so that Frieda felt she was in a tunnel of green light. She smelt something sweet and nasty; there must be the carcass of an animal or bird rotting nearby. This little river had worked so hard in its time, and carried so much shit and poison and death, a sclerotic artery clogged with waste. There would have been water mills once, and tanning factories, lavender fields and watercress ponds, litter and chemicals and flowers. All gone now, demolished and lying buried under concrete and housing estates. To her left Frieda could see through the tangle of weeds a deserted warehouse, a rash of light industrial units, a deserted car park, a rubbish dump rising out of the dusk. But the little river flowed on, quick and clear, leading her out of the labyrinth.
The water widened again, slowed. There were faces she could see in its swirling course, rising up at her. Faces of young women. Weeds for hair. Calling out for help. Too late. Only Sharon Gibbs had been saved: Frieda could hear her animal cries and smell her dying flesh. In the darkness, rats with yellow teeth – what had been done to her and what had she felt? Drinking tea in the garden, smiling. Shaking his hand – what had that hand done? His daughter. Lily. Lila. Wild child. All those wild children. Lost young women. How many more were there, in their own underworlds?
She saw Ted’s young face, then Dora’s and Judith’s – motherless, fatherless children, hungry for love and for safety. Lives wrecked. Homes torn apart. What had she done? How could she bear the damage she had caused and carry the burden through the rest of her days?
Now the river was channelled between concrete banks, tamed. And suddenly the path was a road that ran alongside a red-brick, buttressed wall. For a moment, she felt that she was in a country village long ago. There was a grey church beside her, surrounded by a huddle of graves. Frieda looked at one of the names, a teenage boy dead in the Great War. She thought she saw a shape rise up from the ground, but it was only a trick of the dying day. She didn’t know what time it was. She didn’t want to turn on her mobile to see. It didn’t matter anyway. She could walk through the evening and into the night. She could walk for days and never stop. The pain in her legs and her lungs was good; better than pain in her heart.
But where was her river? It had disappeared. They had taken it away from her. She stumbled, feeling sharp pebbles under her soles. Ahead, a park stretched out, an avenue of great trees. She walked towards it and after a while saw a small stone bridge. She had found it again and it took her to a pond. Dragonflies in the dusk. A child’s sandal on the bank. But it led her to a road and then disappeared, and a car sped by with the bass thump of music coming from it, and then a man in black leather crouched low on his motorbike, and Frieda was lost in a dingy corridor of houses and flats. But she walked in the direction it had been flowing and after a few minutes there it was, merry and leaping, as if it had been teasing her. Past buildings, cottages, an old mill, and once more she was on an overgrown path, leaving the road behind. The surface of the city dropped away as she walked along its hidden corridor. You could stand ten feet away and not know it was there. You could hide there, seeing but unseen. Like a ghost.
Too many ghosts. Too many dead people in her life. Already a crowd of them behind her. The ghost of herself, young and eager. You start on your journey full of ignorance and hope. Her father. Sometimes she still saw him, not just in her dreams but among the faces she passed on the streets. There was something she wanted to tell him but she could no longer remember what it was. Darkness was gathering round her. Her head was filled with the colours of pain.
Past an old deserted warehouse, painted an ugly blue and covered with graffiti. Shattered windows. You could hide there. Perhaps it, too, was full of dead people, or of lost people. You couldn’t look everywhere. There isn’t an end, there are always others, and she was tired. Not a soft, blurred tiredness but one that was sharp and insistent. Tiredness like a knife, a millstone grinding. Sharon Gibbs was alive, but Lila was dead. The others were dead. Bones in the rich soil that fed a garden full of flowers.
The path broadened out into a wide track. The river was slow and brown. If she lay down here, would she ever get up? If Sandy were here, would she tell him? If Sasha were here, would she cry at last? Or sleep? When would she ever sleep? To sleep was to let go. Let go of the dead, let go of the ghosts, let go of the self.
Cranes. Great thistles. A deserted allotment with crazy little sheds toppling at the edge of the river. A fox, mangy, with a thin, grubby tail. Swift as a shadow into the shadows. She liked foxes. Foxes, crows, owls. A bird flitted by and she realized it must be a bat. It was night at last. How long had it been? Her river was still showing her the way and a moon rose and everyone she knew stood a long way off. Reuben, Sasha, Olivia, Chloë, Josef, Sandy, Karlsson. Her patients were reduced to a crouched figure in a chair, asking her to rescue them from themselves. Dean Reeve stood in a corner; he looked in at a window; she heard his footsteps when no one was there; and he left behind him the sickly smell of lilies and death. He was more real than anyone.
It was hard to know any longer why she put one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, and kept breathing in and out, as if her body had the willpower her spirit no longer possessed. She was spent. Her waters were run dry.
But then the river widened and the path opened out and there was a fence, an iron bell hanging in a metal cage. The Wandle had guided her and now it opened out into its own small estuary and poured itself at last into the great thoroughfare of the Thames. Frieda was standing on a stone walkway, looking out at the lights of the city. She wasn’t lost any more, and somewhere in those pulsing lights lay home.
SIXTY-ONE
This was not a night for sleep. Thoughts burned in Frieda’s brain; images pulsed behind her eyes. She sat upright in her armchair and stared into the empty grate, where she saw the well-tended garden in Croydon. Now they would be pushing spades into the loamy soil, pulling the house apart. She remembered the two of them, Dawes and Collier, sitting in the garden. She felt sick and closed her eyes, but the pictures wouldn’t go away. She thought the stench of lilies still hung in the air.
At last she rose and went upstairs. She put the plug into the bath – Josef’s bath – and turned the taps, poured in bath lotion until the water foamed. She peeled off her dirty clothes and cleaned her teeth, avoiding looking at herself in the little mirror over the basin. Her limbs felt heavy and her skin stung; she was all used up. At last she climbed into the fragrant, scorching water and let herself sink beneath the surface. Perhaps she could lie here until day, her hair floating on the surface and her blood pounding in her ears.
At last she got out. It was still dark but there was a faint band of light on the horizon. A new day was starting. She dressed and went downstairs. There were things she needed to do.
First, she made a phone call, one she should have made days ago. He didn’t reply at once and when he did his voice was thick with sleep.
‘Sandy?’
‘Frieda? What? Are you all right?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m sorry.’
>
‘Hang on.’ There was a pause. She imagined him sitting up, turning on the light. ‘Why are you sorry?’
‘I’m just sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have told you.’
‘Told me what?’
‘Can you come over?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘I mean, now.’
‘Yes.’
That was one of the things she loved about him – that he would make a decision like that, without hesitation or a flurry of anxious questions that she wouldn’t be able to answer, knowing she would only ask out of extreme need. He would get up at once, book a flight, make arrangements with his colleagues, be with her before the day was out because she had turned to him at last.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
She made herself a bitterly strong cup of coffee and fed the cat, watered the plants in her backyard, breathing in the intense fragrance of hyacinths and herbs. Then she put on her jacket and left the house. It was a fresh, damp dawn; later it would be warm and bright. The sweetness of spring. The shops were all still shut, but she could smell bread baking in the little bakery on the corner. Lights were coming on in flats and houses; metal shutters rattled up in newsagents and corner shops; a bus lurched by with a single passenger staring out of the window. A postman pulling his red cart passed her. The great life of London starting up again.
Frieda reached Muswell Hill and consulted her A-Z, then turned off into a wide residential street full of handsome detached houses. Number twenty-seven. From the outside, the damage wasn’t immediately obvious – just darkened bricks, some charred woodwork, a broken window on the first floor and, as she drew closer, the acrid smell that caught in the back of her throat. She hesitated, then stepped into the front garden with its gravelled pathway and its tub of red tulips that had survived the blaze. From here she could see through the large bay window into the front room, where the devastation was obvious. She pictured the fire raging through the orderly spaces, gobbling tables, chairs, pictures, doors; licking ashy blackness up the walls. Dean had done this – casually pushed a petrol-soaked rag through the letterbox, dropped a match after it. We couldn’t let him get away with it. In a way, Bradshaw was right: this was her fault.
There was a side door to the left of the house, and when she pushed at it, it opened on to the garden at the back. She stepped through into a green space, and now she was looking in at what had once been a conservatory and kitchen but was now a ruin. She was about to turn away when she saw something that stopped her.
Hal Bradshaw was in there, stooped over the scorched remains. He squatted, pulled out what had obviously once been a book, held it up to examine, then dropped it again. He was wearing a crumpled suit and wellington boots and stepped softly through the silt of ashes that stirred as he walked, lifted in dark petals around him. Frieda saw his face, which was tired and defeated.
He seemed to sense her presence because he straightened up. Their eyes met and his expression tightened. He pulled himself back into the Hal Bradshaw she knew: controlled, knowing, defended.
‘Well,’ he said, coming towards her. ‘Quite a sight, isn’t it? Come to assess the damage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I needed to see it. What were you looking for?’
‘Oh.’ He smiled mirthlessly, lifted his sooty hands, then let them drop. ‘My life, I suppose. You spend years collecting things and then – poof, they’re gone. I wonder now what they all meant.’
Frieda stepped into the ruin and picked up the remains of a book that crumbled at her touch. She watched words dissolve into ash and dust.
‘I’m very sorry,’ she said.
‘Is that an admission?’
‘A regret.’
As she made her way towards the Underground, Frieda turned on her mobile and looked at all the messages. So many, from people she knew and people she didn’t. She was walking towards uproar, questions and comments, the dazzle of attention that she dreaded, but for now she was alone. Nobody knew where she was.
But there was someone she did have to call.
‘Karlsson. It’s me.’
‘Thank God. Where are you?’
‘I’m on my way to Tooting, to the hospital.’
I’ll meet you there. But are you all right?’
‘I don’t know. Are you?’
He met her in the lobby, striding towards her as he came in through the revolving door, putting one hand briefly on her shoulder as he stared into her face, looking for something there.
‘Listen –’ he began.
‘Can I say something first?’
‘Typical.’ He tried to smile, his mouth twisting. He looked exhausted and stricken.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry!’
‘Yes.’
‘But you were right. Frieda, you were horribly right.’
‘But I did wrong, too. To you. And I apologize.’
‘Oh, Jesus, you don’t need to –’
‘I do.’
‘OK.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have they found the missing girls?’
‘It’ll take more than one night. But yes.’
‘How many?’
‘It’s too early to say.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Several.’
‘And have you found …’
‘Of course we have. Gerald Collier isn’t saying anything. Nothing at all. But we don’t need him to. They were in his cellar.’
‘Poor Fearby,’ said Frieda, softly. ‘It was him, you know, not me. I would have given up, but he never did.’
‘An old drunk hack.’ Karlsson’s voice was bitter. ‘And a traumatized therapist. And you solved a crime we didn’t even know existed. We’ll be tremendously efficient now, of course. Now that it’s too late. We’ll identify the remains and we’ll inform the poor bloody relatives and we’ll go back over their lives and we’ll find out everything there is to be discovered about those two fucking bastards who got away with it for so many years. We’ll update computers and conduct an inquiry as to how this could have happened. We’ll learn from our mistakes, or that’s what we’ll tell the press.’
‘His own daughter,’ said Frieda. ‘She was the one I was looking for.’
‘Well, you found her.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll need to answer a lot of questions, I’m afraid.’
‘I know. I’ll come to the station later. Is that all right? But first I’m going to see Josef. Have you seen him?’
‘Josef?’ A tiny smile broke through Karlsson’s wintry expression. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen him.’
Josef had a room to himself. He was sitting up in bed, wearing oversized pyjamas, with a bandage round his head and his arm encased in plaster. A nurse stood by his side with a clipboard. He was whispering something to her and she was laughing.
‘Frieda!’ he cried. ‘My friend Frieda.’
‘Josef, how are you?’
‘My arm is broken,’ he said. ‘Bad break, they say. But clean snap so good recovery. Later you write on arm. Or draw one of your pictures maybe.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Drugs take away pain. I have eaten toast already. This is Rosalie and she is from Senegal. This is my good friend Frieda.’
‘Your good friend who nearly got you killed.’
‘Is nothing,’ he said. ‘A day’s work.’
There was a knock at the door and Reuben came in, followed by Sasha, who was bearing a bunch of flowers.
‘I’m afraid you aren’t allowed flowers,’ said Rosalie.
‘He’s a hero,’ said Reuben, decisively. ‘He has to have flowers.’
Sasha kissed Josef on his bristly cheek, then put her arm around Frieda, gazing at her with beseeching concern.
‘Not now,’ said Frieda.
‘I’ve brought you some water.’ Reuben drew a little bottle out of his pocket and gave Josef a meaningful look.
&nbs
p; Josef took a gulp, flinched and offered it to Frieda. She shook her head, withdrew to the chair by the window, which looked out on to another wall and a narrow strip of pale blue sky. She could see the vapour trail of a plane, but it was too soon for it to be Sandy’s. She was aware of Sasha’s eyes on her, heard Reuben’s voice and Josef’s boisterous replies. A junior doctor came in and then left. A different nurse entered, wheeling a trolley; the creak of shoes on lino. Doors opening, doors closing. A pigeon perched on the narrow sill and stared in at her with a beady eye. Sasha said something to her and she replied. Reuben asked her a question. She said yes, no, that she would tell them everything later. Not now.
Sandy took her in his arms and held her against him. She could feel the steady beat of his heart and his breath in her hair. Warm, solid, strong. Then he drew away and looked at her. It was only when she saw the expression on his face that she began to understand what she had come through. It took a great effort not to turn away from his pity and horror.
‘What have you done, Frieda?’
‘That’s the question.’ She tried to laugh but it came out wrong. ‘What have I done?’
SIXTY-TWO
Frieda had the strange feeling that she was on stage but that she was playing the wrong part. Thelma Scott was sitting in what should have been Frieda’s chair and Frieda was pretending to be a patient. They were facing each other and Thelma was looking straight at her with a kind, sympathetic expression, an expression that said there was no pressure: anything could be said, anything was allowed. Frieda knew the expression because it was one she used herself. She felt almost embarrassed that Thelma was trying it out on her. Did she think she would be so easily fooled?
Frieda kept her own consulting room deliberately austere, with neutral colours, a few pictures deliberately chosen not to send out any precise signals. Thelma Scott’s room was quite different. She had busy, patterned wallpaper, blue and green tendrils intertwined, here and there a bird perched on them. The surfaces were crowded with little objects, knick-knacks. There were miniature glass bottles, porcelain figurines, a glass vase with pink and yellow roses, pill boxes, china mugs, a set of plates decorated with wildflowers. But there was nothing personal, nothing that told you about Thelma Scott’s life or personality, except that she liked little objects. Frieda hated little objects. They felt like clutter. She would have liked to sweep them all into a bin bag and put them out on the pavement for the binmen to take away.