by Nicci French
‘No.’
More clicking.
‘Shit,’ said Lola. ‘This man in his fifties was stabbed to death on the Tube. A group of kids were picking on an old man and he intervened and one of them pulled out a knife and stabbed him.’
‘That’s very sad. But it’s not what we’re looking for.’
Lola continued talking as she clicked from page to page. ‘I’ve always wondered if I’d get involved. If it works out, then you’re a hero, but if you choose the wrong person and they pull a knife and they try to scare you with it but they nick an artery and then …’
‘Quiet,’ said Frieda.
‘Sorry. I know I talk too much but –’
‘I’ve found something. Hampstead murders.’
‘I read about them. Well, I could hardly miss them. They were everywhere. So why are your murders better than my murders?’
Frieda scanned the article. ‘A car plunged into a shop in Hampstead. The man in the car was already dead.’
‘I know. Horrible.’
‘Then a week later a body was found in a bonfire half a mile away on Hampstead Heath.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lola. ‘I may be missing something. There’s a body found in a canal, a body found in a car and a body found in a fire. Two are near each other but the third isn’t. They don’t seem to have much in common.’
‘You’ve already said one thing,’ said Frieda. ‘Body.’
‘Yes, but you’re looking at murders. It’s not exactly surprising that each of them involves a body.’
‘I mean that in each case a dead body was staged in a particular way.’
‘Is dumping a body in a canal really staging? Isn’t that just one of the things that people do with dead bodies? Bury them. Burn them. Throw them in canals. Sorry. Am I sounding a bit negative? I don’t mean to be.’
‘Not at all. It’s good to ask questions.’ Frieda stood up. ‘I need to go there,’ she said. ‘Are you coming?’
An hour later they emerged from Hampstead Tube station and turned right up Heath Street. They quickly reached the boarded-up shopfront of Mamma Mia, where they stopped.
‘Must have been a bit of a bang,’ said Lola.
Frieda looked up the hill. ‘The car came from up there, rolled down the hill.’
‘As I say,’ said Lola. ‘A bit of a bang.’
‘Are you enjoying it?’ said a woman’s voice, from behind her. Frieda and Lola looked round and saw a woman pushing a buggy. On one side of her was a black Labrador puppy and on the other a very small boy. ‘Has this become a tourist sight now? Shall I take a photograph of you both in front of it?’
When the woman saw Frieda’s face, her expression softened slightly.
‘It’s not quite like that,’ said Frieda. ‘I’ve got a connection with someone who was involved in this.’ She paused. ‘Were you here when it happened?’
‘Yes, I was,’ said the woman, abruptly.
Frieda looked at her, at the two children and at the dog. ‘I read about you,’ she said slowly. ‘In the news reports. Charlotte Beck. You were at the scene, you saved that woman’s life.’
Charlotte Beck shook her head. ‘I can’t really remember the details of it. I just remember coming out of the shop with her blood on me and seeing the man’s face and wondering why they hadn’t covered him up.’
‘Why are you here?’ said Frieda.
‘I’ve been back every single day since it happened. Sometimes twice a day. But Oscar doesn’t mind. You saw it, didn’t you, darling?’
Frieda looked at the little boy, who stared back at her.
‘You can’t imagine what it’s like,’ said Charlotte, ‘when someone is bleeding like that on you. And you’re trying to stop it. I see it when I close my eyes. I even smell it.’
Frieda could imagine what it was like, but she didn’t reply. Instead she took a small notebook from her pocket and wrote on it and tore it off and gave it to Charlotte. ‘I used to talk to people about things like this,’ she said. ‘This man’s a friend of mine and he might be able to help you. In the meantime, try not to come here. You may think it’s a help but it probably isn’t.’
Charlotte looked at the piece of paper, then back at Frieda. ‘What are you actually doing here?’ she asked.
‘It’s complicated. If you feel you need help, call Reuben McGill on this number.’
As Frieda led Lola away up the hill, Charlotte was still staring at the piece of paper.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Lola. ‘Haven’t you seen what you came for?’
‘That wasn’t the important bit.’
‘Two people died. That seems pretty important.’
Frieda didn’t speak until they arrived at the top of the hill, the Whitestone Pond straight ahead of them, a view across London to their right.
‘Nice spot,’ said Lola.
Frieda turned around and looked back down the hill. ‘Take the car out of gear just here, let it start rolling down the hill, step out of the door.’
‘It could have hit anyone,’ said Lola. ‘Innocent children.’
Frieda turned left across the road, Lola hastening after her. They skirted the edge of the pond and crossed the road again onto the small edge of the Heath that dropped down and away from them.
‘There,’ said Frieda.
An area down in the gully was still cordoned off with police tape. A section of it had broken off and was flapping in the wind. Frieda walked briskly down towards it. There were still the remains of a bonfire, black on the turf.
‘It looks like the day after Guy Fawkes night,’ said Lola. She looked across at Frieda. ‘If you wanted to do a fire as some sort of a sign, wouldn’t you put it at the top of the hill where everyone could see it, rather than hiding it down here?’
‘Put your hand on the grass,’ said Frieda.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just do it.’
Lola knelt down and touched the grass. ‘It’s wet.’
‘Let’s walk back up to the road,’ said Frieda.
When they got to the pond, Frieda stood looking around.
‘So are you going to tell me?’ said Lola.
‘What?’
‘Well, for example, me having to touch the ground. What was that about?’
‘Rivers,’ said Frieda. ‘Up here, where he let the car go, is where the River Fleet starts. It flows down through the Heath and then underground through London to the river at Blackfriars.’
‘You mean Fleet as in Fleet Street?’
Frieda smiled. ‘Yes. It goes past Fleet Street. And that dampness in the gully – that’s where the River Westbourne starts, somewhere down in that damp hollow. It goes through Kilburn and Hyde Park and Chelsea, down to the river at Chelsea Bridge.’
‘You think that’s why he put the bodies there?’
‘Yes.’
‘To get your attention?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
Frieda turned and crossed the road and they walked back down Heath Street towards the Tube station.
‘Do you mind if I ask a question?’ said Lola.
‘Anything.’
‘Why did he choose the people he chose? I don’t mean Liz Barron, I mean the other two.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you think he chose them for a reason?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Just one more thing. You think that this Dean Reeve put a dead body on the source of the River Fleet, right? And another dead body on the source of the River Westbourne, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why did he put a second body on the Westbourne? Why one on one and two on the other?’
Frieda stopped suddenly and looked at Lola with a curious expression. ‘Now that’s a really good question,’ she said. ‘And I’ve no idea what the answer is. But there’s a bigger question.’
‘What?’
But Frieda didn’t answer. She was striding ahead, so that Lola struggled to keep up with he
r. She had a stitch and her boots were pinching her feet. She’d had enough of walking, of staring at pipes and canals and boarded-up shops, of being hungry and cold and lost, of the whole psychogeography thing.
‘Can’t we have coffee first?’ Lola said. ‘Get warm. And that’s another thing. I’m hungry. My blood sugar’s low.’
‘It’s not far.’
‘I’ve got blisters. Can’t you slow down a bit?’
NINETEEN
DCI Selby, in charge of the investigation into the murder of Liz Barron, squinted in puzzlement at the letter that had been delivered to the station earlier that day. It had no stamp on it and was hand-written, but its message was clear enough.
He sighed and picked up the phone. When he was put through to Bill Dugdale he came straight to the point. ‘It’s Matt Selby here. I’ve had an anonymous letter. It says that the person who killed Liz Barron was Dean Reeve.’
‘What the fuck?’
‘I know.’
‘But why are you telling me?’
‘This is the thing –’ Selby’s tone was almost apologetic ‘– it also says that Dean Reeve is behind your Hampstead murders.’
There was a pause. Selby could hear a snorting sound at the other end of the line.
‘It’s crap, right?’ said Dugdale.
‘Probably.’
Both men were silent for a few seconds, then Dugdale said, ‘We get mad letters like that all the time.’
‘Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.’
‘I’d better take a look.’ Dugdale sounded tired and gloomy.
‘Someone’s scanning it in right now.’
Dugdale ended the call and leaned back in his chair. He needed coffee. He needed something to eat. He needed a shower and a walk in the country. Anything but this. He remembered something Karlsson had said and made another call.
‘Dan? You met Liz Barron.’
‘Did I?’
The words were too loud and then Quarry gave several hacking coughs that sounded artificial to Dugdale. He frowned at the phone. ‘Yes, you did.’
‘Oh, yes, she was with Karlsson. Met is putting it a bit strongly.’
‘It seems to me that when a high-profile journalist you recently encountered is found murdered, you would remember it a bit more clearly.’
‘I do remember,’ said Quarry. He gave his cough once more. ‘I just –’ He stopped.
‘You should have mentioned it.’
‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’
‘You should have mentioned it,’ Dugdale repeated. ‘You don’t get to decide what’s relevant.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Dugdale squeezed the top of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and shut his eyes. ‘One more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘OK.’
‘I just got a call from Matt Selby, who’s in charge of the Liz Barron murder. He’s got a letter – likely a crank letter, mind – that says she was killed by Dean Reeve.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Quite. But this letter also says Reeve killed our two.’ He heard Quarry’s excited intake of breath and frowned. ‘I said it was probably nothing.’
Half an hour later, there was a knock and Phelps put his head around Dugdale’s door.
‘Yes?’
‘Something you might be interested in.’ The words were casual but Phelps looked excited. There were small blotches on his pale, thin cheeks.
‘Take a seat. What is it?’
‘Your man went missing on September the twenty-ninth.’
‘He was reported missing then. He was last seen on September the twenty-sixth.’
‘OK. So I’ve been going through the computer.’
‘Yes.’
‘The last searches were done on October the first and second.’
‘What?’
‘I said –’
‘I know what you said.’ Dugdale rose from his chair, suddenly not tired any longer. ‘Get me Quarry. And a car.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Sarah Kernan. She was wearing grey trousers and a jumper that was far too big for her. Dugdale guessed it had belonged to her husband: over the years, he had become used to bereaved people wearing their loved one’s clothes.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I don’t either. Who knew his passwords?’
‘Well, anyone who went into his study,’ she said. ‘He kept the notebook with them in on his desk. I told him that was stupid but he was stubborn like that.’
‘October the first and second were a Saturday and Sunday. Wouldn’t you be at home then?’
‘I work at a garden centre,’ said Sarah Kernan. ‘They’re our busiest days. I work from eight till six.’
‘Do you have secure locks?’
‘I double-lock the door, if that’s what you mean.’ She gazed at him, her eyes dark with fear. ‘Front and back. And the windows are locked. We had a break-in ten years ago and since then I’ve been extra careful.’
‘Who else has a key?’
‘A key?’
‘Yes.’
‘My son,’ she said.
‘Who was at university?’
‘Yes. And my neighbour has a spare.’
‘Your neighbour?’
‘Eleanor Prentice. She’s in her late seventies and recently widowed. She comes and waters the plants if we’re away.’
‘No one else?’
‘No. Oh, maybe my sister does. I gave her one ages ago to use in emergency, but there haven’t been any emergencies.’ She gave a stifled sob.
Quarry was taking notes. He looked up, his eyes bright. ‘Who did your patio?’
‘The patio?’ Her voice cracked.
‘Yes. The last time we were here you mentioned that a man was doing it.’
She looked at Quarry dully, but didn’t answer.
‘This man. Did he have a key?’ Dugdale leaned towards her. ‘Mrs Kernan?’
‘I think so.’ The words came out muffled. ‘I think Geoff might have given him one.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Barry,’ said Sarah Kernan. Her voice had thickened; she sounded as though she was about to weep.
‘Barry who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Think.’
‘I don’t think I ever knew his last name.’
‘Do you have his contact details?’
‘No. Geoff found him.’
‘How did he find him?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe there was a flier put through our door. But you don’t think Barry had anything to do with this?’
‘I’m not leaping to any conclusions,’ said Dugdale, ‘but we need to find out who was using your husband’s computer after he disappeared. How long has this Barry been working for you?’
‘Three weeks?’ said Sarah Kernan, doubtfully. ‘Or it could be less than that. He didn’t come every day, just when he had spare time. It drove Geoff crazy.’ Her voice had weakened. She blew her nose.
‘Did you meet him?’
‘A few times.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He was just ordinary.’
‘White?’
‘Yes.’
‘Accent?’
‘English. London, I think.’
‘Young? Old?’
‘Neither. My age, maybe. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.’
‘Colour of hair? Of eyes?’
‘His hair was very short, almost shaved. Grey, perhaps?’ She made it into a question.
‘Eyes?’
‘Eyes? I’ve no idea. I mean, he was just working on the patio.’
Dugdale gave a nod to Quarry, who had been tapping on his phone, and Quarry leaned towards her, holding out an image on the small screen. He could feel Dugdale beside him, very still. He could feel his own heart hammering in his chest.
‘Is this Barry, Mrs Kernan?’ His voice was quiet but there was a crackle of excitement in it.
Sarah Kernan looked at the photo. Without prompting, Quarry used his forefinger and thumb to zoom in.
‘I don’t know. It might be. Who is he?’ she whispered.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ said Dugdale, briskly, before Quarry could answer. ‘But I think we need to get your locks changed.’
‘Jesus,’ hissed Quarry, under his breath, as they left the kitchen ‘Fuck. Dean Reeve.’
‘Don’t get too excited.’
‘Dean Reeve. And three murders. This is huge.’
Dugdale nodded glumly. ‘The media’s going to go mad. Forget about sleep for a while. Tell your wife not to expect you home.’ If he saw Quarry wince he showed no sign of it. ‘I’m going to call Matt Selby.’
Quarry checked the Kernans’ neighbours, showing them a photograph of Dean Reeve that had been altered, so that his hair was cropped short, and asking if they recognized him. Several did, including Eleanor Prentice, the widow in her seventies who lived next door and had several times chatted to him over the fence. One couple seemed to recall a flier he had put through their door as well, but it was weeks ago and they would have thrown it in the recycling bin.
‘Widen the search,’ said Dugdale, though he had no hope of Reeve being traced this easily. ‘And we’re going to need more officers.’
Karlsson had almost got used to his feeling of distress. When he was working, when his two children were staying for the weekend, when he was with friends or alone in his flat, he was in its shadow. The only person he could have talked to about this was Frieda; she would have sat quietly and listened, her dark eyes fixed on him, hearing even the things he couldn’t say out loud. But, of course, it was Frieda he was anxious about. She had disappeared. Her phone was dead. Her shutters were closed. And now Dugdale had called to say that Dean Reeve was behind the three murders and the feeling of distress had thickened into dread. ‘This is becoming big,’ Dugdale said. ‘There’ll be media. Lots of it. But I guess you’ve been through that before.’
‘You don’t get used to it,’ said Karlsson.
‘And there’s another thing.’
‘What?’
‘Those computer searches. That was Dean Reeve.’
‘I see.’
‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me? Anything that might help the inquiry?’