Sunday Silence

by Nicci French

  “Then what?” said Frieda.

  “Then . . . It’s just that that’s not what I’m here for.”

  So, Frieda thought. It was clear what they needed to talk about.

  As Rossiter left, he passed through the waiting room. Another man was sitting in a chair.

  “I guess it’s your turn,” said Rossiter.

  “There’s several minutes,” he said.

  The two men looked at each other awkwardly, as if they had a connection they didn’t know what to do with.

  “We’re probably not meant to discuss it,” said Zavou.

  “So many rules,” said Rossiter, and continued on his way.

  32

  The next time Dennis Rudkin phoned Frieda, he said he was going to be in town and that he could come to her house. She felt a sort of horror at the idea that she couldn’t define. Frieda had always had a rule that she would never see any patient in her house. It would encourage a personal curiosity that would be inappropriate. Even that rule she had broken, when Sasha moved from being a patient to being a friend. But the idea of Rudkin seeing where she lived, seeing her possessions, her private space, seemed intolerable. She didn’t even want to suggest meeting anywhere that she normally went. She had her suspicions that he would have investigated her own past, either as a method of investigating others or else out of simple curiosity. She didn’t want to provide him with anything else. So she suggested a nearby pub, the Duke of Rutland, that she had never been to.

  “Is that your local?” Rudkin had said over the phone.

  “Well, it’s local,” she had replied.

  When Frieda arrived at the pub, Rudkin was sitting in the corner with a pint of bitter, a glass of Scotch and an open packet of crisps. Frieda asked for a tumbler of tap water and bought herself a spicy tomato juice, then joined him. “I was planning to buy you a drink,” she said.

  “You’re paying for this anyway,” said Rudkin, cheerfully, and took a gulp of his beer. He pulled a small black notebook from his pocket and laid it on the table. “You’ve got mixed feelings about me, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve got mixed feelings about myself. You’re doing what I’d be doing if I was capable of it.”

  “And yet you won’t have me in your house.”

  “I won’t have you in my house because you’re good at your job. You already probably know more about me than I’d want you to know.”

  “I like to get a sense of who I’m working for,” said Rudkin.

  “Most of what you need to find out about me is online. Unfortunately.”

  Rudkin picked up his black notebook and leafed through it. Then he put it back on the table. “So which one would you like to hear about first?”

  “I think I’ll leave that up to you.”

  “All right, I’ll put it another way. Do you have particular suspicions about either of them?”

  “Look, it’s a bit late to be saying this, especially to you, but these two men are my patients. Just tell me anything that seems relevant and nothing else.” She repeated the last two words for emphasis: “Nothing else.”

  “All right,” said Rudkin. “I’ll start with Alex Zavou, your have-a-go hero. He’s got form.”

  “You mean a criminal record?”

  “No. But he’s someone . . .” He paused. “I’m trying to remember the expression from the Bible. Alex Zavou isn’t someone who has a habit of walking by on the other side.”

  “You mean he’s a Good Samaritan?”

  “Well, it’s a long time since I was at Sunday school, but as far as I remember the Good Samaritan didn’t take on the robbers himself. He just helped afterwards.”

  “What exactly did Zavou do?”

  “Two years ago he got involved in a bit of a tussle in a pub in Walthamstow. Apparently someone disrespected a friend of his. There were bottles involved, serious damage was done. Several people were arrested.”

  “Was he charged?”

  “No charges were brought.” Rudkin smiled at Frieda. “But as you know—from personal experience—just because no charges were brought, it doesn’t mean that serious violence didn’t take place.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A few months after that, there was another club and another row. Apparently it was over a girl who was with a friend of Zavou’s. Words were exchanged, punches were thrown, several people—your Mr. Zavou included—ended up in A & E. Again, no charges were brought. But Zavou is someone who feels the need to get involved.”

  “It may just show that he has a sense of justice.”

  “I have no opinion about that. All I’d say is that it was just a matter of time before someone in one of his scuffles pulled a knife.”

  “But it wasn’t him.”

  “No. He just uses his fists. And whatever comes to hand. Still, he doesn’t seem like a bad lad. But the record shows that he’s drawn to violence. Or that violence happens when he’s around.” Rudkin smiled again. “I suppose that’s something you can talk to him about.”

  Every mention of the fact that Alex Zavou was a patient of hers made her feel slightly nauseous, but she didn’t respond.

  “What about Rossiter?”

  Rudkin picked up his notebook and flicked through a series of pages, then put it down again. “Ten years ago, Rossiter was at university in Cardiff. A young woman called Delith Talling went to the police and said that she had been sexually assaulted by Rossiter after a party. When I say sexually assaulted, I mean raped.”

  “What happened?”

  “Rossiter said she had consented. The young lady had been drinking heavily and passed out. It never went to court.”

  Frieda didn’t speak for a long time. She took a long drink of water. She felt as if she needed to wash her mouth out. “Anything else about the case?” she said finally.

  “As always, it was his word against hers. She was very drunk and he had excellent character references.”

  “Is that it?”

  “There’s one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “He’d done it before. I mean, allegedly.”

  “What had he done?”

  “Six months earlier, he’d done it to someone else. Or, rather, was accused of doing it to someone else.”

  “What happened? Did that case come to court?”

  “She didn’t even report it to the police. But she came forward while the second case was under way. The prosecution were hoping to call her as a witness. To establish a pattern. But Rossiter’s lawyer got the earlier woman’s testimony excluded, arguing it was prejudicial. Without that witness, the prosecutors decided that the case couldn’t proceed. Rossiter’s lawyer was a woman, by the way.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I suppose it seemed ironic.”

  Frieda forced herself to stay calm. There was no point in having a discussion about Rossiter’s lawyer being a woman. “I’m sorry to snap at you,” she said. “I suppose you’re used to people getting angry with you when you deliver disturbing news.”

  Rudkin reached into an inside pocket of his jacket. He took out an envelope and slid it across the table. “While we’re on the subject of disturbing news,” he said.

  Frieda picked up the envelope. It had her name on it. She recognized Rudkin’s handwriting. “Is this something I should be worried about?”

  “It’s my bill.”

  “Good,” said Frieda. As she talked she tore the envelope open, then took a checkbook from her pocket and started filling one in. “You’ve done a good job. I wish I could say that you’ve laid my fears to rest.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m half curious about how you got all this and mainly think I shouldn’t know.”

  “It’s just about contacts and access and knowing who to ask.”

  “It can’t be that easy.”

  “I didn’t say it was. Is there anyone else?”

  Frieda found the idea almost comic. “I think you’d better stop whil
e I’ve still got some illusions intact.”

  “You don’t look like someone with many illusions.”

  33

  Jack had cooked spaghetti. “Do you want some?” he asked hopefully. “I made enough for an army.”

  “I’d love some,” said Frieda, not because she was hungry but to see the look of pleasure on his face.

  “I need to branch out,” said Jack. “I can make a few pasta dishes and I’m quite good at risotto. But it’s a limited repertoire.” He spooned pasta into a serving dish and poured over the sauce.

  “How’s the cheese stall?”

  “I’m better with people who buy cheese than I was with patients who needed help.”

  “Give it time. You may come back to it. How’s living here?”

  “A bit weird. Chloë’s back in her old room, I’m in the spare. It won’t be for long, though, will it?”

  “I hope not. Is there anything else you want to tell me about?”

  Jack was lifting pasta onto two plates.

  “That’s plenty,” said Frieda.

  “Are you asking as an analyst or as a friend?”

  “I’m asking as someone who is concerned for you.”

  “You’re wondering whether there’s someone new in my life.”

  “That would be one thing to discuss.”

  “Do you mean Chloë?”

  “Is Chloë back in your life?”

  “She’s never been out of it—but not in the way you mean, no.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “People are always coming and going in people’s lives.”

  “Just at the moment I’m interested in the people who are coming.”

  “All right. A person I knew from school got back in touch with me.”

  “Oh?” She tried to keep her voice neutral.

  “I hadn’t seen him in years—a decade or more. And I’d tried not to think about him, either.”

  “Why?”

  “For about two years he made my life a misery.”

  “He bullied you?”

  “He was good at it too. He didn’t just bully me himself, he got everyone else to bully me as well. It was almost impressive.”

  “Did you tell anyone about it?”

  “Not even when I was in therapy. Or not properly. I couldn’t somehow. So I was a bit surprised when he suddenly got back in touch.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “A few times. He looks exactly the same except older—round-faced, rosy-cheeked. All the teachers loved him—he seemed so straightforward. It was odd. He wanted me to forgive him. I think he’d been having counseling and he’d decided to go around to all the people he’d injured.”

  “And did you?”

  “What?”

  “Forgive him.”

  “He’s been through his own trauma. A few years ago his parents and sister were killed in a car crash. He said it made him look at his whole life from a different perspective. Maybe we’re all damaged in our way.”

  “Maybe. Are you going to keep in touch?”

  “I don’t know. To tell the truth, now that I’m through being angry with him, I realize I still don’t actually like him. Suffering doesn’t necessarily make someone nicer.”

  “No.”

  “But it made me remember everything I’ve tried to push away. For the first time in months, I started to think about the value of therapy rather than its downsides.”

  “You should think about both. Always.”

  Frieda had considered canceling her next session with Morgan Rossiter, but in the end she didn’t. She was troubled by the idea of him simply being out there in the world, being a teacher, interacting with young women. Rudkin had found out about those two cases when he was at university. Was there anything significant that he hadn’t discovered? What had Rossiter done after he had left university? Or was that all behind him? There was something to be said for seeing him, for continuing to see him. If there’s a wasp in the room, you’d rather know where it is.

  When he arrived for the next session, he simply sat down and started talking. At first Frieda could barely concentrate on what he was saying. She just saw his lips moving, saw the crinkle of a smile around his eyes. He was sprawled in his chair, as if he was occupying as much space as possible, dominating it. His legs were spread.

  “I’m sorry,” said Frieda. “I’m going to have to stop you there.”

  There was a pause.

  “Go on,” said Rossiter, almost as if it was he who was conducting the session and she had to seek permission to speak. In another context Frieda might have discussed this with a patient. Therapy sessions could become a battle for territory with the patient trying to seize control. She wasn’t concerned with that today.

  “The point of these early sessions is to make an assessment—”

  “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”

  “Please. Let me finish. The point of these early sessions is to make an assessment, to see whether this is the right setting for you, whether I am the right therapist. I’ve decided that I’m not the right therapist for you.”

  “Why?” said Rossiter. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll write to Dr. Singh and I’ll make some recommendations.”

  “What do you mean you’ll write to Dr. Singh? If something’s not working, can’t we just talk about it and fix it?”

  Frieda could hardly bear even to look at him. At the same time she felt shamefully compromised by what she knew about him. She worried about the consequences of setting him loose, but she couldn’t think of an alternative. She had a dim feeling that people should be warned about this man, yet whom should she warn and in what terms and on what authority? But she had to say something.

  “I strongly feel that you should be in therapy,” she said. “But I was struck by what you said in our last session about wanting a woman therapist and about specifically wanting me. I am absolutely certain that you should see a male therapist.”

  Rossiter clenched both hands on the arms of his chair so that the veins stood out. “I asked for you,” he said.

  “You don’t get to do that. This isn’t a supermarket.”

  “But what if it’s important to me to have a female therapist? What if I think you’re the only person who can help me?”

  “Then that’s something you should talk about,” said Frieda. “With a male therapist. Obviously you won’t be charged for this session.”

  “Well, obviously, since this isn’t going to be much use to me as therapy.”

  Morgan Rossiter continued to sit there. What if he wouldn’t leave? When he spoke again, it was in a softer tone. “I was probably too eager to impress you,” he said. “You know, to make Frieda Klein interested in me. I don’t suppose you could give me another chance.”

  Suddenly Frieda thought about those two young women from Morgan Rossiter’s student days. Where were they now? Were they free of him? Free of what he had done to them?

  “When you see your new therapist,” Frieda said slowly, “you should talk about your difficulty in hearing what someone is saying to you and acting on it.”

  Rossiter stood up. “I don’t need a fucking therapist,” he said, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door.

  And then it was the easiest thing in the world. Easier than the first time. Easier than the niece. Easier than Reuben McGill. It was what he’d been telling himself: you have to learn to improvise, be in a state of readiness and wait for the perfect moment.

  It came when he wasn’t expecting it, but he was prepared.

  When they are angry, people want to talk. They want to tell their side of the story. Soon enough they were in the man’s room. He didn’t even have to ask. He had put on his friendly face, sympathetic and interested. A smile was growing and growing and he could feel it pull at his mouth. He put his hand over his mouth and pretended to cough, to hide his exultation.

  And there was still that other one. Ticking.

  34

  Karlsson sat in
the kitchen of Crawford, once the commissioner, now retired early from the Met, his career overshadowed by its ending. He didn’t know why he was in the little house in Hammersmith and he felt ill at ease.

  Crawford was making coffee in an enormous machine that took up most of the counter, steaming, hissing, gurgling. He looked as if he was doing battle with it. His face was redder than ever; his eyes seemed smaller. His stomach bulged over his trousers. It was strange to see him in casual clothes, in his own home. He seemed too large for the small room and the small house.

  “How’ve you been?” asked Karlsson.

  Crawford pulled a handle violently. Coffee started to drip into a cup. “I blame you, Mal.”

  “What for?”

  “You brought her into my life. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d still be doing the job I’m good at, the politicians wouldn’t be getting their hands all over our work, everything would be all right.”

  Karlsson couldn’t think of what to say in reply.

  “It was down to me as well,” said Crawford. “I know I fucked up.” He handed Karlsson the coffee. “Don’t look so glum. I know she’s a special friend of yours.”

  “Just a friend.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “You wanted to see me.”

  “I wanted to ask a favor.” He brought his own coffee to the table, dropped in several sugar cubes and stirred vigorously, then took a small sip. “You know Hal Bradshaw.”

  Karlsson did indeed know Hal Bradshaw, psychologist, criminal profiler, used by the Met. He popped up every time the media wanted a quote on a particularly nasty crime, and he had crossed swords with Frieda on multiple occasions. What was more, Dean Reeve had once set fire to his house. “I do,” was all he said.

  “He’s doing some series on TV. Forget the title—Crimes in Mind or something. I’ve agreed to be interviewed.”