by Nicci French
Now it was Frieda’s turn to hesitate. Burge saw her look around at Karlsson. He gave her a small nod. “I’m sorry,” said Burge. “Am I missing something?”
“All right,” said Frieda. “I’ll tell you my opinion. I strongly believe that Stringer was killed by a man called Dean Reeve. Have you heard of him?”
“Is this for real?” said Burge.
“It’s what I really think, if that’s what you mean.”
“Everyone has heard of Dean Reeve,” said Burge. “He was responsible for a series of abductions and a murder. The problem is that he killed himself more than seven years ago.”
Frieda shook her head. “When you go back to your office, you’ll find that there’s a fat file on me. And one of the things in that file is that I keep trying to tell people that Dean Reeve is still alive and that he’s committed other murders.”
Burge looked at Karlsson. “Do you believe this?”
“I do,” said Karlsson.
“If this is true, then why would he kill this man and why would he go to the trouble of putting the body in your house?”
Frieda wiped her eyes with a hand and took a deep breath, as if she were trying to collect herself. When she spoke it was with a composure that seemed to take an immense effort. “Bruce Stringer was helping me look for Dean Reeve and I think he must have succeeded. And I think Dean Reeve put the body here as a message.”
“What message?”
“This is what you get if you look for me.”
Burge stood up. “I’ll send a car for you. You’ll need to make a proper statement. Be careful what you say to anyone. Even your friends. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t talk to the press. Now I’d better go and look at that file of yours.”
She nodded at Karlsson and left the room. He stood his crutches against a work surface and sat at the table, whose surface was clear apart from a glass of water in front of Frieda and another with a finger of whisky in it and the whisky bottle it had come from. He leaned slightly toward her but neither of them spoke. Then she held out a hand and Karlsson took it between both of his. She closed her eyes briefly.
“Why can’t you be in charge of the investigation?”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
The door leading into the backyard opened and Josef came in. His face was dazed with shock. His clothes were sodden and his hair flat against his skull. Karlsson gestured to a chair. Josef looked blindly at him, sat down heavily, then lifted the bottle and filled the glass almost to the brim. He drained it and then tipped more whisky into it.
“I take up the boards.” His voice was slightly thick, his brown eyes glowed.
“That must have been . . .” Karlsson stopped. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t obvious.
“I have three of the whisky,” said Josef. “And now I have three more.”
“Is that your van outside?” said Karlsson.
“I bring my tools.”
“Maybe take the bus home.”
“What happens now?” Frieda asked.
“Someone will come to take swabs. With your permission. They might want your clothes.” He looked at Josef. “Yours as well.”
Josef emptied his glass again. “Mine?”
“They’ll get you some others. And they’ll fingerprint you. And take hair samples. And they’ll want statements from both of you. It’ll take some time.”
The door opened and Yvette came in. She pulled off her mask and crossed to Frieda. Her face was blotchy. Karlsson saw there was sweat on her forehead and her upper lip.
When she spoke, her voice was loud with awkwardness and distress. “If you need anyone to talk to about this,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“I’m probably the last person you’d choose. I’m not good with this sort of thing, but if you . . .”
Yvette was unable to say anything else. Frieda patted her hand as if to comfort her.
Josef held out the glass of whisky to Yvette and she took a large swallow, then coughed violently. Her eyes were watering.
“More?” asked Josef, encouragingly.
She shook her head. “I hate whisky. It gives me a rash.” She looked at Karlsson. “The commissioner wants you.”
He sighed and pulled his crutches toward him. “I’ll see you soon.”
Frieda made no reply. Her pale face was blank; she stared at him with her dark, unnerving eyes. He didn’t know if she even saw him.
3
“You know what this means, Mal?” Commissioner Crawford’s face was florid. He tugged at his collar to loosen it.
Karlsson nodded.
“I was called out of dinner at the Guildhall. Halfway through the bloody salmon en croûte.”
He took a coffee from the desk and contemplated it. “Could someone get me a fresh coffee?” he shouted, at a person Karlsson couldn’t see. “You want one?”
“No, thank you.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“Really?”
“And I know what she’s thinking.”
“Who?”
“Your Frieda Klein must be thinking that she’s won. You were right and your beloved Dr. Klein was right.”
“I don’t believe that’s what she’s thinking at the moment.”
Crawford got up from his desk and looked out of the window. Karlsson swung himself across and stood next to him. There wasn’t much to see. Just a police station car park whose high wall was topped with coiled razor wire.
“Did you see the body?”
“Yes.”
“It really was under the floorboards?”
“It really was.”
“It’ll be a big story. The press loves that sort of thing. The corpse under the floor. What do you think Dr. Klein will say?”
“About what?”
Crawford turned his face and frowned. “About it. About the case. About me.”
“About you?” said Karlsson. “In what sense?”
“I’m the one who stopped the Dean Reeve investigation. I didn’t believe her. Now Frieda Klein has me where she wants me. I bet she’s laughing about this.”
“Commissioner, I can honestly tell you that she’s not laughing and that you are not at the forefront of her mind.”
Crawford continued speaking as if he hadn’t heard what Karlsson had said. “You know the woman. We need to work out how to handle this.”
“The way to handle it is to solve the crime.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Crawford took a large white handkerchief out of his pocket, unfolded it, wiped his forehead and replaced it. When he spoke, it was in a mutter, as if he were talking to himself. “I’ve got someone good on this. Properly good. Did you meet her?”
“Yes, I did.”
“A woman. That might balance things up a bit.”
“We just need her to be good.”
“We do,” said Crawford. “I’m fighting for my life here.”
Leaving the station half an hour later, Karlsson saw Frieda getting out of the back of a police car. She walked up the steps, an officer beside her. When she stopped beside him, he laid a hand on her arm and it felt as rigid as a piece of wood. She looked at him as if she barely knew who he was.
“I need someone to take care of my cat,” she said.
“I’ll sort it out.”
Frieda was shown into a small room. There was a ficus tree in a pot in the corner. She saw that it needed watering. The window blinds were pulled down, and there was a box of tissues on the table. Like a therapy session, she thought. All those tears. Someone came in with a jug of water and two tumblers. She was asked if she wanted tea, but she didn’t. Or coffee? No. Biscuits? She didn’t want biscuits either. There was a clock on the wall: the time was ten minutes to twelve.
She took off her long coat and someone hung it on the hook on the door. She sat down on one of the chairs and poured herself a glass of water. Her hands were quite steady, her heartbeat was normal. She could hear the rain outside. The minute han
d on the clock jumped forward.
At four minutes to midnight, the door opened and a tall young man stood there. He had broad shoulders, thick dark eyebrows and a nose that looked as if it had been broken sometime in the past and not properly reset. He came further into the room holding three disposable cups of coffee on a tray. Petra Burge was behind him. She slipped a leather backpack off her shoulders and dropped it to the floor.
“This is my colleague, Don Kaminsky. One of these coffees is for you. I can get you milk if you need it.”
“I’m all right.”
Petra Burge took a sip of her own coffee. “Even burglaries are traumatic,” she said. “People feel invaded, violated.”
“I’ve read that.”
“And this is a body. Of someone you know.”
“That’s right.”
Petra Burge looked at her through narrowed eyes, then gave a nod. “Are you all right to give an initial statement? I want to get going at once, unless . . .”
“I feel the same,” said Frieda.
“Good.” She sat opposite Frieda and drew a notepad from her backpack. “Don will take down what you say properly but I might make a few notes as well. Is that OK? At the end, you’ll be asked to sign your statement.”
“I understand.” Frieda took one of the coffees. She was cold to her bones, and its warmth was comforting. “I’ll have this after all.”
More than two hours later, DCI Burge sat back in her chair. “We’re done. You must be exhausted.”
“Not really.” In fact Frieda’s mind felt hard and clear.
“You’ve had a bad day. You need to sleep.”
“I need to walk.”
“I think it’s still raining. And it’s nearly half past two.”
“I know.”
Petra Burge gazed at her for a few seconds, then looked at her colleague. “Don, go and see who’s available.”
“Available for what?” asked Frieda, as Don Kaminsky left the room. But Petra Burge didn’t answer, just stared intently at the few words she’d written on her notepad, among a succession of doodles. There was a fierce frown on her thin face.
Kaminsky returned with a young female police officer. She had dirty-blond hair, flushed cheeks, a nervous expression. Petra Burge introduced her as PC Fran Bolton. Frieda shook her hand, which was limp, with bitten fingernails. Even though she was presumably on the night shift, Fran Bolton looked tired and pale, as if she had been kept up past her bedtime.
“Go and change into street clothes, please,” the DCI said to her.
The young officer left the room.
“Fran Bolton will be accompanying you.”
“I don’t need someone accompanying me.”
“A body was found under your floor and you believe that it was put there by the murderer Dean Reeve. She will accompany you. If you walk around with a uniformed police officer, you’ll attract attention. People will wonder what’s up. They’ll think you’re under arrest or that something’s going to happen. Of course, it’s a trade-off.”
“Dean Reeve wouldn’t be put off by a uniform.”
The officer returned in dark trousers and a brown corduroy jacket. Frieda had thought of walking down to the river and along the embankment toward the east, then back along the canal. But she didn’t think she could subject the young officer to the wind and the rain and hours of walking. And it was difficult to see that she would be much use as protection. She was small and slightly built as well as looking like a schoolgirl on work experience. She had a radio. Perhaps she could call for help. Anyway, the point about walking was to walk alone.
“It’s all right. I won’t go for a walk.”
“I’m going to arrange somewhere for you to stay, just for tonight,” said Petra Burge.
“So I can go home tomorrow?”
“Absolutely not. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, we’ll have something more permanent for you.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
Petra Burge put her head to one side, as if she was examining Frieda. “That’s how it is going to be.”
“I don’t need anywhere tonight. I’ve already arranged that.”
“Give me the address. We’ll put two officers outside the house.”
“Really?”
Petra Burge paused for a moment. “I spend a lot of time like this,” she said finally. “Talking to people after there’s been a crime, a body found, a house burned down, that sort of thing. Sometimes they’re crying or they’re angry or scared, or sometimes they just shut down. But you’re just . . .” She searched for the word. “Normal. Calm.”
Frieda looked at her for a few seconds. “How do you react when something terrible happens?”
She raised her eyebrows, considering. “I get fired up.”
“I become very calm,” said Frieda. “That’s what I’ve found.”
“You sound like you’re talking about someone else.”
“No, I really am talking about me.”
In the car, Bolton asked where they were going.
“To a man called Reuben McGill,” said Frieda. “He’s an old friend. And another friend of mine, Josef Morozov.”
“The one who found the body?”
“Yes. He lives with Reuben.”
“Oh,” said Bolton. “So it’s like that.”
“No, it’s not like that. But I need to explain to you about Reuben. Maybe even warn you.” Then she noticed Bolton’s apprehensive expression. “He’s not dangerous or anything like that. You know that when you train to be a psychoanalyst you have to be in therapy yourself. For three years I was in therapy with Reuben, five days a week. He was important to me and we became friends. Deep down, he’s an intelligent, sensitive man. But when you meet him, it’s not always immediately obvious. That’s all.”
4
Although it was three in the morning when the car arrived at Reuben’s house, the lights were all on downstairs. Before Frieda could knock at the door, Reuben opened it.
“For fuck’s sake, come inside. Come on.”
He stepped forward and embraced her. She could smell his scent, the same he had used for decades, the cigarettes he’d been smoking, the wine he’d been drinking, and for a moment she closed her eyes and let herself be hugged.
“It’s so late,” said Frieda. “You shouldn’t have stayed up.”
Reuben stared at her. “You’re kidding me, right? A dead body under your floorboards and I shouldn’t have stayed up?”
“I don’t want . . .” began Frieda, then stopped. She didn’t know how the sentence should end.
“Are you all right? Frieda?”
“Yes.”
He put his arm around her to lead her into the house, then looked with curiosity at Fran Bolton, who was standing behind her, holding out her ID. “Are you under arrest?”
“My protection,” said Frieda. “Are you going to come in?”
“Whatever suits you,” she replied. “I can stay in the car.”
“Look at her sad little face,” said Reuben. “You can’t leave her in the cold.”
He took his arm away from Frieda and wound it around the shoulders of an alarmed Fran Bolton and almost pulled her inside. Josef was sitting at the table. Judging from the bottles and glasses scattered in front of him, Frieda assumed he had been continuing with his self-medication. He got up and tottered unsteadily toward her with open arms.
“You are here. We are both here. Life is all. We must for ever . . .” His words petered out. He sat down abruptly on the nearest chair, still holding his arms out.
“I wish people would stop trying to hug me. I just want a shower and a bed for what’s left of the night.”
“You must be completely exhausted,” said Reuben.
“I don’t know what I feel.”
“Shock,” said Fran Bolton. “It does that.”
“First, have something to eat,” said Reuben.
“No, thank you.”
“An omelette. I make a fine
omelette nowadays. With chives. Or there’s bread and cheese.”
“My poppy seed cake,” said Josef, trying to get up but failing. “My borscht in the fridge.”
“Nothing.”
“Sit,” said Josef. “There is much to talk about. Much much.”
“There are things to talk about and things to do. But not now. I can’t. I’m going to bed.”
“Hot water bottle,” said Josef. “Tea.”
“Could you give Fran anything she needs?”
“Any friend of yours can have anything,” said Reuben.
She looked at Fran Bolton. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
It felt like more than a few hours. Frieda set the alarm on her phone, then lay on the bed in Reuben’s spare room with open eyes. She tried not to think, and then she tried to think of slow, heavy waves, flowing in from a dark sea and breaking silently on the shore, but even through the waves she saw that face staring up at her. Perhaps it had been staring up at her for days, under her floor, as she walked unknowingly back and forward across it. She was sleeping and not sleeping, but when the alarm went off it woke her from some sort of clamorous, chaotic dream. She had slept enough to make her feel dull and fuzzy but not enough to refresh her.
She got up, picked up her shoes and padded out of the room. The house was dark except for a faint glow coming from downstairs. She went into the bathroom and tore a new toothbrush from its wrapping. She brushed her teeth, then washed her face in cold water. She looked at herself in the mirror. Where would that person be tonight? Strange to have no idea.
Still shoeless, she crept down the stairs. Fran Bolton was sitting on the sofa in the front room, leafing through a picture book.
“You didn’t sleep,” said Frieda.
“I’m working. I’m being paid for sitting here.”
Frieda rather liked the sour tone in which she said this. “Not any more. We’re going for a walk.” She laced up her shoes. They left the house and Frieda eased the front door shut quietly.
“Don’t worry,” said Fran Bolton. “I don’t think you’ll wake them.”
Frieda set off in the direction of Primrose Hill. “Were they as bad as that?”
“They got quite emotional. They were talking about you.”