by Nicci French
She could see the blood leaving Lola’s face, as if she might be about to faint. She took her hand from the phone. ‘Yes, it’s what I expected. And someone else is dead. I don’t exactly feel triumphant about it. Who is the victim?’
‘There’s been no identification so far. The body was naked. He’s a male, estimated twenty-five to thirty-five. No distinguishing features.’
‘Do you know how he died?’
‘No wounds. There was some bruising on the face and torso but it’s inconclusive.’
‘Did anyone see anything? Was anything caught on CCTV?’
‘Your Dean Reeve, if that’s who it was, chose a good spot. The men who found it were having an early-morning round of golf. The body must have been dumped in the middle of the night. There’s easy access from a track that goes under the bypass next to the railway. Not overlooked, no cameras.’
Frieda didn’t answer.
‘So?’ said Dugdale.
‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘I wasn’t asking for gratitude. I was asking what you’re going to do now. Wait for him to work his way round the rivers?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘This feels different.’
‘Different how?’
‘The other killings were big, they were staged. This one’s smaller, quieter.’
‘A naked body on a golf course doesn’t seem so quiet.’
‘He knew we’d be looking for it, so he didn’t need to make it into a huge spectacle.’
‘So what was he saying?’
‘He was saying: I’m still here.’
‘We know that.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘You should know something.’
‘What?’
‘In a few days, we’re going to go public on our suspect being Dean Reeve. In my view, we should have done so already.’
‘Why now?’
‘It’s the commissioner’s decision.’
‘Because you’ve run out of clues?’
‘Because we feel that the public might be able to help us and because we want them to be vigilant.’
‘Vigilant. Right.’
‘There’s going to be a press frenzy.’
‘I imagine,’ said Frieda, drily.
‘OK. Give me your new address.’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No. I am not giving you our address. I don’t want you to know where we are.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘What do you think? He knew where we were.’
‘Frieda, listen,’ said Dugdale, urgently. ‘You’re in danger, you and the girl.’
‘I know that.’
‘We can help you, but only if you tell me where you are.’
‘I’ve decided,’ said Frieda. ‘It might be the wrong decision but I take full responsibility for it. I’m not telling you.’
‘It’s not just your own life. It’s Lola’s. Think of that.’
‘Do you believe I’m not thinking of that?’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘You won’t tell anyone because you won’t know. I’ll be in touch.’ Frieda put the phone on the table.
Lola was looking at her. ‘He’s done it again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Another person who was alive yesterday or a week ago is now dead because of this.’ Lola covered her mouth with her hand. She closed her eyes and opened them again, round and blue. ‘It just goes on,’ she said. ‘And you’re not letting the police help us, is that right?’
‘I don’t think they were helping, not in the way we need.’
‘So we’re on our own?’
‘We’ve always been on our own.’
FORTY
Five days after the freezers had been found, Quarry went back to the lock-ups. He parked his car and walked up the road, staring restlessly around him as he did so. He’d got nowhere. Every time he reported back to Dugdale, he felt he was disappointing him. He’d been so sure, when they discovered the place where Dean Reeve had stored the bodies, that they’d had a breakthrough. He had allowed himself to imagine how he’d find Reeve and he’d let himself feel an anticipatory triumph, a glow of achievement at public recognition. Then Maggie would view him differently and his daughter would be proud of him.
He lit a cigarette. He was smoking too much, drinking too much Diet Coke and bitter coffee. Over the last two days, officers had interviewed everyone who worked here. A few people recognized Dean Reeve from the photos they’d been handed to look at. He’d been coming here for months; they’d missed him by days.
They’d widened the search and gone door-to-door but with no joy. And, of course, he could be anywhere. There was no reason to suppose that where he kept the bodies was close to where he lived. There were ten million people in London – and Reeve might not even be in London.
Quarry walked over to the lock-up. The lights had been removed and it stood empty and drab. Here, in this small space, four chest freezers had held four bodies, while all around people had been tinkering with their cars, making deliveries.
After a few minutes, Quarry went back to his car and drove off, feeling disconsolate. It was a familiar route by now: the down-at-heel shops, the light-industrial units, the deserted offices, the little flats with smeared windows. It was getting dark. Lights were on in windows. As he passed the building selling second-hand household stuff, including freezers, he saw two men easing a sofa out of the back of a van.
He didn’t know why he stopped. Instinct, said Dugdale later, clapping him on the shoulder. Quarry sauntered up to them. He didn’t pull out his ID. They glanced at him warily and continued hauling the sofa towards the doors.
‘That looks like heavy work,’ he said.
One of them – who looked young, probably a teenager still, and was so painfully thin it was hard to believe he wouldn’t snap under the weight – appeared nonplussed. He probably couldn’t speak English. The other grunted and nodded. They put the sofa on the ground a few yards from the door and stood still, looking at him. Quarry pulled out his packet of cigarettes and offered it to them. Both men took one.
‘Is your boss in?’ asked Quarry.
The older man snorted. ‘He come and go when it suits. None of the lifting for him. Good at taking money, though.’
Quarry nodded sympathetically. ‘Do you live near here?’ he asked.
The man looked suspicious. ‘You police, right? I saw you when you came before.’
‘I’ve no problem with you,’ said Quarry. ‘Have you been here long?’
‘Two years me. Him.’ He jerked a shoulder towards the young man. ‘Three, four weeks. Still homesick.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Quarry. ‘You live near here?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m just interested. Like I said, I’m not here to cause trouble.’
‘Not just near. We live in this shithole. Down the stairs. No windows. Seven of us.’
‘That’s tough.’
He sat on the sofa and the older man sat beside him; the younger one turned his back to them, smoking his cigarette greedily, sucking the smoke in. Quarry pulled out the photo of Dean Reeve and handed it across. ‘Your boss said he hadn’t seen this man.’
The man made a derisive sound. ‘Fucking liar.’
Quarry felt a spike of excitement. ‘You recognize him, then?’
‘Sure.’
‘He was here?’
‘Sure,’ the man said again.
‘He bought freezers from you?’
‘Three, four. Came twice.’
‘When was this?’
The man shrugged. ‘A month. Two month.’
‘Did he pay in cash?’
‘Only cash here.’ He spread his hands. ‘And no questions.’
‘How did he take them away?’
‘Van. We helped lift them.’
‘What was the van like?’
‘Like?’
‘What colour?’
‘White?’ It was a question.
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p; ‘You didn’t see the registration number, did you?’ The man gave him a blank look. ‘Did he tell you his name?’
‘Why would he?’
‘No. OK. Or where he lived?’
A slow shake of the head. The young man finished his cigarette and let it drop to the floor. Although it was cool, he was wearing a thin T-shirt; he looked cold and hungry.
‘It’s important,’ said Quarry. ‘Very. Is there nothing you can tell me?’
‘Sorry. Perhaps the other man would know.’
‘Other man?’
‘His friend.’
Quarry took a deep breath and spoke calmly. ‘He was with someone else?’
‘Len.’
‘With someone called Len?’
‘I think.’
‘Len what?’
He shrugged once more. ‘He come here with bikes. I see him often.’
‘Len sells bikes?’
‘Yeah. Cheap.’
‘Stolen,’ said Quarry, and regretted it. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about this Len? Do you know where he lives?’
‘No.’
‘Does he come here with a car?’
‘Van. Grey van. Or white. Dirty.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Big. Very big. Long hair like this.’ He lifted both hands and drew them back around his face.
‘Ponytail.’
‘Tattoos on arms.’
‘What kind of tattoos?’
‘Just tattoos. Many.’
‘Right.’
The young man turned and bent towards his friend, muttering something in a language Quarry didn’t recognize, low and fast. ‘What’s he saying?’
‘Saying we should go now.’
‘Wait.’ Quarry drew out his wallet and took out a twenty-pound note. He handed it to them with the packet of cigarettes. ‘One more thing. This Len, when does he come?’
‘Whenever.’
‘Has he come recently?’
‘A few days ago.’
‘Would your boss know how to find him?’
The man sighed and looked at Quarry as if he was a foolish child. ‘He know nothing, he say nothing.’
‘But he might have a name, an address.’
The man shrugged a third time. Then he added, as an afterthought, ‘I saw him in pub.’
‘You saw Len?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which pub?’
‘Three Feathers.’
‘Where?’
‘Near here. On the big road.’
‘You saw him once.’
‘A few times.’
Quarry stood up. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He handed over a second note.
‘You don’t tell boss I say this.’
‘Don’t worry.’ He nodded at them both.
The Three Feathers reminded Quarry of pubs his granddad had taken him to when he was a little boy. He’d had to sit outside with a packet of crisps and a Coke, but when the door flapped open he’d glimpsed the enticing world inside. It was like that. All that was missing now was the fog of cigarette smoke. There was no freshly cooked food, no seasoned wooden floors. There was lino and an autographed photo of Bobby Moore and a fruit machine and a chalk sign promising a stripper on Tuesday nights. A man and a woman in their sixties were sitting at a table with pints of beer.
Quarry walked to the bar. A young woman was sitting in the back looking at her phone. She had blonde hair, shaved on the sides of her head so that the pink of her scalp showed through. She had piercings in her ears, eyebrows, nose and lower lip. She had sleeve tattoos and tattoos on her neck and little dotted tattoos on her cheeks. Quarry ordered a cup of tea and it arrived the colour of mahogany.
‘Quiet in here,’ he said.
The woman didn’t reply.
‘There’s a friend of mine comes in here,’ he said. ‘He’s called Len.’
‘You don’t have to give your name to buy a drink,’ said the woman.
‘That’s a good one,’ said Quarry. ‘You’ve got a sense of humour.’
He flipped open his ID, laid it on the bar, then placed the photo of Dean Reeve beside it.
‘I want to know whether you’ve seen this man. That’s all. Take a look.’
The woman leaned over the bar, looking at the photo, so close that he could smell her perfume: it was like sweet, burned rubber.
‘That’s Len, is it?’ she said.
‘No. Len’s his friend. Have you seen him?’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
‘Maybe? Is that yes or no?’
‘It’s an I-don’t-know. He’s ordinary-looking. There’s loads like him.’
‘OK. Do you know anyone called Len? Very big, ponytail, tattoos.’
‘I know someone like that,’ she replied grudgingly.
‘Called Len?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Does he come in here often?’
‘I’ve seen him a few times, I think. I’m not always here.’
‘When was he last here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Three days? A week?’
‘A few days.’
He picked up the ID and the photo and gave her his card. ‘If you see him, give me a call.’
Outside, he phoned Dugdale and told him what had happened. ‘We should put someone in there,’ he said. ‘In case Len shows up. He must be easy to spot – he’s a big guy with tattoos and a ponytail. Or even Reeve.’
‘They can sit outside in a car. But that’s good work.’
FORTY-ONE
Frieda looked across at Lola, who was lying on the large living-room sofa looking up at the ceiling. Her hair was matted, her skin pale, her stare almost blank.
‘I don’t want to sound like your mother,’ said Frieda.
‘Then don’t.’
‘But we’ve got equipment here. You could lift some weights or have a go on the exercise bicycle. Raising your heart rate would make you feel better.’
‘It’s a myth,’ said Lola, dully. ‘They did research on it. They took a group of depressed people and some of them exercised and some of them didn’t and there was no difference between them.’
‘Or you could read a book or draw something.’
‘You’re right,’ said Lola.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You sound like my mother.’
‘Or if you want to talk, you can say anything you like. You’re frightened. Of course you’re frightened. But I’m going to protect you.’
‘Will you protect me the way you protected your boyfriend?’ Lola looked round at Frieda to observe the effect of what she had said. But Frieda’s expression hadn’t changed.
‘It wasn’t my job to protect him,’ said Frieda, calmly. ‘We’d separated by then.’
‘How much do you think it would cost to buy this place? Five million?’
‘More. Much more.’
‘I’m in a place worth five million pounds or ten million pounds. It’s got its own gym and I feel like I’m in prison. I can suddenly understand why people kill themselves in their cells. I know you think I’m just like a bored child on a rainy day.’
‘I don’t think that.’
‘Anyway, you’ve taken my phone away and you get to go online and go on Facebook and chat with your friends.’
‘I’m not on Facebook and I’m not chatting with my friends.’
‘So what are you doing?’
‘I’m looking at a map of the London rivers.’
‘Oh, your fucking London rivers.’ She noticed that Frieda was frowning. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m looking at the map and I think there’s something.’
‘What do you mean, something?’
‘I feel like I’ve made a mistake.’
‘What do you mean? You said he would leave a body in Beverley Brook and he did. You were right.’
‘Yes,’ said Frieda, slowly. ‘I was right.’
Lola lay back on her sof
a. Frieda took a piece of paper and a pen and, as she had done before, drew a simple map of the rivers. First she drew the curving sweep of the Thames. Then she started at the north-west and drew the Fleet, then, moving west, she drew the Tyburn, the Westbourne, Counter’s Creek. South of the river, to the west, she drew Beverley Brook. Moving to the east she drew the Wandle, a river she knew all too well. Now she hesitated. Instead of continuing east, to the Falcon and the Effra, she moved her pen above the Thames again, to the west of Counter’s Creek, and drew a spindly little line down towards the Thames at Hammersmith. Stamford Brook. She had forgotten that one. But what did that mean? Could it be that Stamford Brook was too insignificant for Dean Reeve to bother with? Or could there be a body somewhere that hadn’t been found yet?
Frieda heard a voice. It wasn’t Lola’s voice. It was a voice from inside her head: ‘What does it matter?’ the voice said. ‘You predicted what Dean Reeve would do and you were right. What is there to worry about?’
But there was something missing and there was something to worry about. Gradually the thought she had been carrying for days now took proper shape, like a blurred image, becoming clear and hard and cold.
‘I hear the rats,’ said Lola.
‘Where do you hear them?’
‘I don’t know where. I just hear the scuttling and the scratching. They may be under the floor or in the walls or in the ceiling. At night I shut my eyes and I can still see them with their fur and their teeth and their red eyes and their thick tails. People drive past this house and it looks white and beautiful and elegant and inside it’s rotting and falling apart and rat-infested.’
Frieda walked across, sat next to Lola on the sofa and put a hand on her brow.
‘I haven’t got a fever or anything, if that’s what you think.’
Frieda looked at her closely, as if she were a patient. Frieda was a therapist. Her patients talked and she listened and she tried to help them find a way through their distress, their destructive thoughts and habits. But she also knew that there were limits to talk. Some patients were like a house on fire. There was no point in thinking about the decoration or the arrangement of the rooms. You had to put the fire out. Those patients might need anti-psychotic drugs just to numb them against the psychological pain for a few hours or days. They might need time in a psychiatric ward because they couldn’t function in the outside world. Frieda could clearly see that at this moment Lola wouldn’t be healed by talk.