by Nicci French
It was a young boy. Dark hair, dirty face, T-shirt, jeans, trainers. It was so strange and out of place that she didn’t quite know what to say.
‘Are you all right?’ Her voice sounded unfamiliar in the stillness. He looked at her solemnly but didn’t speak. ‘Do you know where your mum or dad is?’
The boy looked down at his right hand, which was clenched in a fist. He lifted it up, then slowly pointed the palm at her. There was writing on it, in very small capital letters. She leaned in and read it aloud. ‘Police,’ she said. She took out her phone.
23
‘Can you tell us anything, Alexei?’
Fran Bolton and Petra Burge were both looking down at the little boy. Alexei was standing in front of them, not speaking, not crying, quite still except he was moving his head, rhythmically, as if he were knocking it against an invisible wall.
‘Papa,’ he said in a whisper.
‘He’ll be here very, very soon, Alexei,’ said Petra. ‘Can you say anything about the person who took you? Big, small? Fat, thin?’
Alexei looked puzzled. Then, after some deliberation, he slowly tapped the top of his right leg.
‘What’s he doing?’ said Fran Bolton.
‘There’s something in his pocket,’ said Petra.
She reached into her pocket and took out a pair of Nitrile gloves. She knelt in front of Alexei.
‘Look,’ she said to him softly, ‘I’m putting on these special gloves. Then I’m going to reach into your pocket. Is that OK?’
He nodded, though she couldn’t tell if he understood a word she was saying. She pushed her fingers into his trouser pocket. It was tight but she could feel something. She was able to grip it between two fingers and pull it gradually. It was something wrapped in toilet paper. It weighed almost nothing. She laid it on the table, then carefully pulled the paper aside.
‘What is it?’ asked Fran Bolton, drawing back instinctively.
It was like a thick, curled up leaf and it gave off a faint, sweetish smell, which made Petra think of damp mushrooms. She turned it over with her finger.
‘It’s an ear. Part of an ear.’
‘A pig’s?’ said Fran Bolton. ‘Something like that?’
‘No, not something like that. Get someone from Forensics up here right now.’
This time Frieda let Josef cry as much as he wanted. They sat together in the back and Josef leaned on Frieda’s shoulder and sobbed and sobbed. When they pulled into the police-station car park at Bow, Petra Burge turned round from the passenger seat.
‘Can you hear me, Josef?’
Josef lifted his head and she took a tissue from a box in the front seat and passed it to him, then another. He blew his nose and mopped his eyes and his face.
‘Josef, as we’ve told you, Alexei is physically well and, as far as we can see, he’s mentally well. Whatever that means after what he’s gone through.’
‘We see him now?’ said Josef.
‘He hasn’t spoken since he was found.’
‘He speaks no English. And he is quiet always since his mother die.’
‘All right. Come this way. He’s obviously upset.’
Josef nodded. For a moment he looked almost frightened; his brown eyes shone with tears. ‘You too, Frieda?’
‘I’ll be there in a few minutes. You need a bit of time alone with him.’
Josef looked troubled. ‘Please.’
‘If you want me to.’
‘I do want.’
As they got out of the car, Petra put a hand on Frieda’s arm to detain her. ‘Two things,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I said Alexei hadn’t spoken. That’s not quite true. He hasn’t spoken except for one thing. He said: “Frieda Klein.” Whatever they’ve asked him, that’s the only answer he’s given. Frieda Klein.’
‘That’s odd,’ said Frieda slowly. ‘And the other. You said there were two things.’
‘There was something in his pocket.’
‘What was it?’ asked Frieda, but before Petra replied, she suddenly knew what she was going to say.
‘A human ear, wrapped in toilet paper.’
Frieda was going to ask something else and then she realized. ‘Bruce Stringer’s.’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘It must be.’
‘But why?’ said Petra.
‘Which bit?’
‘All of it. You go to the trouble of kidnapping a child, then return him. And you don’t just return him. You give him a trophy from a previous murder.’
‘Trophy,’ said Frieda, thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think that’s right.’
‘Oh, you don’t? Why not?’
‘I know there are times when the sexual impulse somehow gets fused with violence. When they commit a crime they need a way of reliving it. Sometimes memory isn’t enough. I don’t think Dean Reeve is like that. If he was, he might be easier to catch. I think when he does something, he does it for a reason.’
‘So what’s the reason for the ear?’
‘It tells us that the person who took Alexei killed Stringer.’
‘And why do we need to be told that?’
‘If we were inside talking to Alexei,’ said Frieda, ‘and not outside talking to ourselves, we might find out.’
Petra’s expression hardened.
‘ “We”. Sometimes you presume too much.’
Alexei was sitting at a table, Don Kaminsky huge but curiously delicate at his side, not speaking and not quite touching him, but solid and close. The boy had a carton of orange juice and a sandwich, but he paid no attention to either. He was wearing unfamiliar clothes. His own had been taken away for examination. His face was blank, wiped clean. He turned and saw Josef and for a moment Josef didn’t move, just stared at his son with a look of anguish. Then he crossed the room to where Alexei sat. He knelt beside the chair and opened his arms.
‘You are safe.’
He put his arms around his son and, for a moment, Alexei didn’t move or react. Then he leaned into his father’s shoulder and closed his eyes. Josef was half sobbing and trying not to, and at last a single tear ran down his son’s cheek. For several minutes, they stayed like that, Josef stroking the child’s soft dark hair and muttering endearments.
When they moved apart, Frieda came forward. She sat opposite Alexei and didn’t speak. He stared at her. His face was pinched with effort.
‘Frieda Klein,’ he said at last. He made it sound foreign and strange.
She pointed at herself.
Alexei frowned, like a pupil called on by the teacher. ‘This,’ he said.
It was the first English word she’d ever heard from him; she’d barely heard a Ukrainian one.
‘This what?’ she asked, aware of the uselessness of the question.
‘This,’ he repeated painfully. ‘This. Is. Me.’
No one spoke, though Josef gave a small gasp. Kaminsky wrote on a pad.
‘Look. Somewhere.’ He obviously didn’t understand the words he was saying: he’d learned them by rote. There was a long pause. Somewhere? thought Frieda. What does that mean? ‘Else,’ said Alexei. Then, in a gabble of sound: ‘This is me look somewhere else.’
Frieda looked at Josef. ‘Ask him where those words came from.’
Josef and his son had a whispered conversation in their own language and Frieda heard her name being mentioned. Then Josef turned to her. ‘Man teach him words and say to him: say to Frieda Klein.’
‘Good,’ said Frieda to Alexei. ‘That was good. Thank you.’
He gazed at her uncomprehendingly.
‘Josef. You need to ask him one question,’ said Petra Burge. ‘There’ll be others, but this one first. Ask him why he went with the man.’
Josef put his arm round his son and they had another whispered conversation. Josef looked suddenly startled.
‘What?’ said Petra.
‘He say the man say in Ukrainian – in very, very bad Ukrainian – “I take you to your mothe
r”.’
‘That would do it.’ Frieda nodded to herself. ‘Of course.’
‘So Dean Reeve doesn’t know Alexei’s mother is dead,’ said Petra.
‘He absolutely knows she’s dead.’
‘Then why would Alexei go with him?’
‘Because he’s a boy who lost his mother.’
Petra gave a comprehending nod. ‘At least we know the area where Dean Reeve is probably staying.’
‘No, we don’t.’
‘Why else would he choose this spot?’
‘It’s where he killed his brother,’ said Frieda. ‘He left a memento and he chose a site to make us unequivocally sure that it was him. And, of course, that’s the point.’
‘You’re talking in riddles. What are you trying to say?’
‘Can we talk somewhere privately?’
‘If you want. Don will stay here with you, Mr Morozov,’ she said to Josef. Don Kaminsky gave a nod. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘Vodka?’
‘I was thinking tea or coffee.’
‘Oh.’
For a moment, Frieda thought even Petra Burge would make an exception to a fixed rule because of Josef’s mournful brown eyes.
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ she said.
She led Frieda along the corridor to an empty interview room and shut the door, gesturing to a chair. ‘Well?’
‘Look somewhere else. You asked what it meant.’
‘I think,’ said Petra, slowly, ‘that I know what you’re going to say.’
‘There are two parts of the message. The first is that the person who took Alexei is Dean.’
‘Yes. And the second?’
Frieda fixed her gaze on the DCI. ‘He’s telling me he didn’t kidnap Chloë or attack Reuben.’
Petra nodded slowly. ‘Why would he bother to do that? Why would he care?’
‘I don’t know. Out of professional pride, maybe. Sometimes I feel he wants me to know things. That’s why what happened to Chloë and Reuben didn’t fit. When he killed Stringer and Glasher, it had a logic to it, and it was aimed at me.’
‘When you talk about Dean Reeve …’ Petra began.
‘What?’
‘You sound different. Like you understand each other.’
‘Don’t try to analyse me. Somehow I got tangled with Reeve’s life and got into his head. I only want him caught. Nothing else.’
‘All right. But let’s look at all the possibilities.’
‘What are they?’
Petra thought for a moment. ‘That Dean is lying,’ she said, ‘and that he was responsible for the two other crimes.’
‘No,’ said Frieda.
‘It’s possible. Or second, these could be two unconnected incidents. Your niece could have crossed paths with a pervert.’
‘She wasn’t sexually assaulted.’
‘That proves nothing. There are people who get off on the control, on just looking.’
‘And why would he send a photograph to a journalist reporting on the Reeve murders?’
‘That’s a better point,’ Petra conceded. ‘But the attack on Dr McGill could have been a robbery gone wrong.’
‘Nothing was stolen.’
‘That’s why I used the phrase “gone wrong”. And the third possibility is that there’s someone else out there.’
‘Yes. Doing what?’
‘Murders attract people, like flies to shit.’
‘You mean someone is copying Dean?’
‘That’s the possibility, yes, a copycat. All the roads lead to you.’
Frieda stood up and went to the window. She put a hand against it, as if to make sure there really was glass between her and the world. Then she turned back to Petra Burge and said, in a quiet, clear voice, ‘That’s not right. They lead to my friends.’
‘It’s all about you.’
‘I’m not the one being attacked.’
‘For the moment.’
‘You need to protect them. Now.’
‘Your friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘All your friends?’
‘You’ve seen what can happen. Reuben could have died. Chloë …’ She stopped. The image of her niece lying on a stained mattress, her legs apart, filled her mind.
‘How many friends do you have?’
‘Chloë and Reuben are already at risk. There’s Chloë’s mother, Olivia. I would say my friend Sasha and her little boy, Ethan, but she’s living with her father for a few months and miles away, so she’s probably safe. There’s Josef and his son. And my young friend Jack Dargan.’
‘And you.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s not feasible.’
‘Is it about money?’
‘It’s about a proper and professional use of limited resources and, yes, it’s also about money. It wouldn’t have been possible anyway, but now we’re cutting our budget by a quarter and that’s just the start. We can’t do the things we’re already doing.’
‘People are in danger.’
‘I’m not the one you need to persuade.’
‘You’re not even going to try?’
‘Listen, if you’re right, and we did get protection for all these people – which isn’t possible anyway – then this person can simply pick on someone else, widen the circle of your friends. Protect those six and another group comes under threat. It’s just not feasible, whichever way you look at it.’
‘So that’s it.’
‘Not at all. There is an investigation into the abduction of Chloë, another into the attack on Dr McGill, and a further one into the abduction of Alexei Morozov. That’s how we can protect your friends. We can catch who is doing this.’
‘I see.’
Petra looked at her warily. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m not sure. But something. They’re my friends.’
As Frieda was walking home, her phone rang. She looked at it. It was Paz, the administrator at the Warehouse. She answered the call.
‘I’ve got two new patients for you,’ Paz said.
‘What?’
‘You said you were taking new patients again. In fact, you said the more the better.’
Frieda paused, almost stunned. It was the worst, most impossible time. But she suddenly felt: if not now, when? If she waited for life to be normal, she would never again practise as a therapist.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Put them in touch with me.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Paz.
‘I’m sorry. Thank you,’ said Frieda, feeling anything but grateful.
The way stands clear and it was Dean Reeve who made it so. Dean Reeve who came like a ghost in winter and who put a body under her floorboards, so that now the whole world is looking at her.
When the whole world is looking, he can look too. Nobody will see him. He can be as invisible as smoke under a door. Like Dean Reeve himself. The name sends a tingle through him, a small electric nudge of pleasure: they will be linked. Dean Reeve and him.
They won’t find Dean Reeve. Nobody ever finds Dean Reeve. But now he can walk in Dean Reeve’s path. He can act in his name. No one will know that there are two of them.
Except, of course, Dean Reeve will know. What happened with the boy shows he knows. It’s like a duet. Reeve has answered and he will answer back.
24
‘This is quite like old times,’ said Reuben.
His ribs were broken, his face was bruised and thin, there was a purple gash on the back of his bald skull and he walked with a painful limp, but he had put on a fresh shirt that Josef had ironed for him and was wearing his favourite brightly coloured waistcoat. He had opened three bottles of red wine and lined them up along the dresser. Josef had poured vodka into shot glasses. He had spent the afternoon preparing a vast Ukrainian meal. Alexei lay in bed, sleeping fitfully; occasionally he would wake and call out for his mother. Matir, ma. Josef would run up the stairs, hold hi
s hand and whisper to him, crooning words he had used when Alexei was a baby, then return to the kitchen, which was full of steam, the smell of potato cakes, barley broth with dumplings and a spicy lamb stew.
‘We must have candles,’ said Josef. ‘Many candles.’
‘It’s still light outside.’
‘Candles to make special.’
So Reuben lit candles along the table he had laid. He felt frail; his body ached. Every so often, he let himself remember the stockinged face at the door, the metal bar thumping into his prone body. But this felt good: the safety of friends gathering, of spicy food cooking on the hob, the sound of Josef’s knife cutting through vegetables, wine breathing in bottles, and now candles lit upon the table. Chaos was held at bay for a while.
Chloë arrived straight from the joiner’s workshop wearing her work clothes, sawdust in her hair. Jack, bearing blue cheese, tawny hair in peaks. Olivia, with a bottle of wine and already slightly tipsy, a tell-tale flush in her cheeks, long earrings dangling, lips bright with lipstick, exuberantly hugging everyone. Reuben could tell she was ready to cry.
‘Where’s Frieda?’ she asked.
‘I’m sure she’ll be here soon,’ he said.
And she was, coming into the room quietly, so they barely noticed she was among them. She and Josef went upstairs to see Alexei and then they all gathered together in the kitchen. Josef handed round shot glasses of vodka and they drank before taking their places. Alexei came downstairs and sat between Josef and Reuben, his cheeks flushed, his eyes darting now this way and now that. The pots of food lined the table, and Josef presided over them in his apron, anxious and proud.
‘This is nice,’ said Olivia. ‘So many carbs! But lovely and comforting after everything that’s happened.’ She gave an emotional hiccup and ladled herself some broth with dumplings. ‘Reuben and Chloë and Alexei.’ She leaned towards him, earrings swinging, hair falling in small cascades from its knot. ‘Little darling!’
Alexei stared at her in a kind of fearful surprise.
‘I wanted us all to be together,’ said Frieda, ‘because there’s something I need to say.’