Day of the Dead: A Frieda Klein Novel (8)

by Nicci French

  When Frieda closed the front door, Lola lay down on the beige carpet and pulled her knees up to her chin. She stayed like that for several minutes, balled tightly and rocking slightly. Small moans escaped her. Everything hurt: her head and her heart and her stomach and her eyes. She felt as if she was turning inside out so that all the soft and hidden parts of herself were exposed.

  Then she got up, although it seemed impossible that she could stand on her two feet. She looked dazedly around her, then down at the money still crumpled in her hand. She pulled on her jacket, put the key in its pocket and left the house. The sun went in and out of the clouds and the wind blew in gusts, swirling leaves around her feet. She walked across the square to Euston Road and found a shop that was little more than a booth and bought a pay-as-you-go phone, using one of the twenty-pound notes that Frieda had given her.

  She didn’t quite know why, but she didn’t want to make the call there on the street surrounded by people. They would be able to hear her even though they would have no way of understanding what she was saying.

  She walked back to the square and stood under the plane trees by the tennis court. Despite the cold, two women were playing, hitting the ball in high loops and giggling at each other. For a brief moment, she watched them. How would it feel, to be carefree like that?

  Then she took out her phone and dialled the number she knew by heart. There was a click as it was answered. She screwed up her eyes. She could hear someone breathing. Just breathing. But she remembered his face so clearly, the way he had smiled, that it was like he could see her. She thought she would be sick, and her body felt poisonous with the horror of what she was doing.

  ‘She’s gone for a walk … Just now. A few minutes ago … The place where your brother was found. I mean your brother’s body … She said it was where it all began … All right.’ Lola waited. ‘I’ve done all I can. Will you leave me alone? Will you leave my family alone? … Hello? Hello?’

  There was nobody there. Lola dropped the phone into a rubbish bin and walked back to the house on her rubbery legs and let herself in. She shut the door but didn’t bother to draw the security bolts, then went into the living room and sat on the sofa.

  Pushing her hand into her pocket she drew out the piece of paper Frieda had given her. DCI Karlsson; a phone number. Frieda had said he would help her. But that was because Frieda didn’t know what she had done. She could never ask him for anything.

  She dropped the piece of paper to the floor, leaned her head on her hands and shut her eyes as tightly as possible, but she could still see Dean’s face, his smile. And she could see Jess, staring up at her as the life ebbed away. And then she could see Frieda, her dark, bright eyes, and that was almost worse than anything. She could almost feel her hand stroking her cheek and her soft, clear voice. She pressed her fingertips against her throbbing eyes. What should she do now? What should she ever do?

  ‘What have I done?’ she said in a whisper.

  For a moment, she imagined rushing to the place to tell Frieda it was a trap – but she didn’t even know where the place was, just that it was where Dean had killed his brother, Alan, and, anyway, his words came to her: Your mum and dad, Dave and Carol. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to them, would you? If you don’t help, do you know what will happen? Of course you don’t know. Not until I’ve shown you. Watch carefully. And night after night, in her waking dreams and in her nightmares, she had watched as he had drawn the knife across Jess’s throat. She leaned further forward, pressed her fingers harder against her eyelids, and still she saw Dean’s smile, and she saw Frieda’s dark and watching eyes. Seconds ticked past. Minutes.

  At last Keegan answered his phone.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘I know. I’ve got twenty-two missed calls from you. I’m on holiday – you’re lucky I answered this one.’

  ‘You know where Frieda Klein is.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been calling to say?’

  ‘I need to see her.’

  There was a brief silence. Karlsson could hear that Keegan was walking. ‘If I did know,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘She’s in danger.’

  ‘When Frieda comes to me, it’s because I’m the only person she can trust.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Karlsson, violently. ‘She’s going to get killed if we don’t do anything.’

  ‘You know there was a leak.’

  ‘Maybe there was, maybe there wasn’t. I don’t know about that, I’m talking to you as her friend. You have to tell me. Please.’

  Another long pause and the sound of voices.

  ‘All right.’

  As Quarry came into Dugdale’s office and sat down, he was aware of his boss looking at him appraisingly. Quarry’s face was bruised on one side and he had a plaster on his left cheek. The ribs felt worse. They hurt when he twisted or moved his arms. Or sat down.

  ‘Are you all right to work?’

  ‘I won’t be much use in a fight,’ said Quarry. ‘But I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘You might want to talk to someone eventually. It does something to you, being attacked like that.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘And I’m fine,’ said Quarry, a bit more loudly.

  ‘All right. I’ve got the soft and cuddly bit out of the way.’

  Quarry suddenly felt a lurch in his stomach.

  ‘Dean Reeve found out where Frieda Klein was hiding,’ Dugdale continued. ‘We knew and Frieda Klein knew and Frieda Klein didn’t tell him.’

  Quarry slowly shook his head. ‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Dugdale. ‘Going over and over it in my mind. I was sure that it couldn’t be us. It couldn’t be my department. Not in this case. Not the Dean Reeve case. Not with the world watching. And then I thought of you and Liz Barron and I remembered that you met her.’

  ‘Sir, I wouldn’t …’

  ‘Quiet,’ said Dugdale, in a voice that was itself so calm that it gave Quarry a chill. ‘I’m just going to say this. You are going to tell me now any and all dealings you have had with the press during this case. If I believe you have been holding anything back, I will suspend you and put you under investigation and we’ll check your calls and see who you’ve been talking to.’

  Sweat prickled on Quarry’s forehead. ‘I told you I met Liz Barron when I interviewed Karlsson.’

  ‘No, I told you and you confirmed it. And?’

  ‘She said she would be interested in any information I could give her. I considered it. I probably would have talked to her. But then she was murdered.’

  ‘Did money pass hands?’

  ‘No.’

  And it hadn’t, but only because of her death: it was what she had promised and what he had wanted. Guilt and shame washed through him. His mouth felt dry and it was all he could do to keep on meeting Dugdale’s gaze.

  ‘And then another journalist saw her notes and phoned me. She wanted to meet. I didn’t exactly say no but we haven’t met and we haven’t talked.’

  There was a long pause. Dugdale glanced away, then back at Quarry.

  ‘You can see how it looks,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t tell her anything. You have to believe me.’

  ‘I couldn’t trust you then, but I can trust you now. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Then who? It wasn’t Frieda, it wasn’t you. And you were in contact with a journalist.’

  Quarry thought frantically. He felt like he was fighting for his life. ‘Klein could have told her friends.’

  ‘She went into hiding to protect her friends,’ said Dugdale. ‘The whole point was to leave them out of it.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘There is someone else,’ said Quarry, slowly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl. Lola Hayes.’

  Dugdale lifted his hand an
d, very slowly, rubbed the side of his face. ‘Could it be her?’ he said. ‘Could it?’

  ‘She’s the only person left.’

  ‘But why? Why would she do that?’

  ‘Maybe Reeve got some kind of hold over her. Klein was with her to protect her. She might have misjudged her.’

  Dugdale jabbed his finger at Quarry. ‘If you’re fucking me around, Dan, if you’re putting the blame on this girl to protect yourself …’

  ‘I swear it. I swear it by anything.’

  ‘Stop it. I’ll consider it. I don’t have a choice. But if you’re right, if it’s her, then Dean Reeve knows what she’s going to do and we don’t. So have you got a plan for that?’

  They looked at each other again. They didn’t have a plan.

  ‘All right,’ said the commissioner wearily to Dugdale. ‘I think the time has come.’

  ‘To go public?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She picked up the phone.

  Karlsson and Yvette strode rapidly along the streets. They didn’t speak until they reached the house. Then Karlsson nodded at her.

  ‘This is it,’ he said.

  ‘The curtains are closed upstairs.’

  Karlsson knocked, then knocked again. Nothing.

  ‘What next?’ asked Yvette.

  He didn’t answer, simply put his shoulder to the door and gave a violent push, then another. The door didn’t give. He lifted his foot, with its elegant shoe, and smashed it against the lock. Yvette heard a splintering sound and the door swung open. They stepped into the hall.

  ‘You go upstairs,’ said Karlsson. ‘I’ll take the ground floor.’

  He went into the living room and almost didn’t see her, was about to go into the kitchen when he noticed a scrap of paper on the floor. Picking it up, he saw his own name was written on it, in Frieda’s unmistakable handwriting. And as he stared at it, he heard a faint sound behind him. He turned. There was a figure huddled up behind the armchair, almost out of sight. He glimpsed a pale face and terrified eyes. Her fists were held against her mouth, like she was stopping herself crying out. He yanked the chair away and she pushed herself further back against the wall, as if she was hoping it would open up and swallow her.

  ‘Lola,’ he said gently, as if she was a startled horse. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe now.’

  ‘Who are you?’ It was a croak.

  He held out a hand to help her up. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Karlsson. I’m a friend of Frieda’s.’

  ‘I know. She said you would help me.’

  And at this the young woman began to cry bitterly, sobs shaking her whole frame. Yvette, entering the room, put an arm round her to keep her upright.

  ‘I need to know where she is. Has she been here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She’s gone.’ And the sobs increased. Yvette manoeuvred her over to the sofa and sat her down.

  ‘When did she go?’ Karlsson crouched down beside Lola. ‘This is urgent. You need to tell me at once.’

  She raised her face, tear-stained and swollen with sobbing, her eyes red-rimmed and cold sores on the edge of her mouth. ‘About half an hour ago,’ she managed to say.

  ‘When is she coming back?’

  ‘I don’t know. Never.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  Lola shook her head from side to side and then buried it in her hands again.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t understand anything.’

  ‘Later, you can tell me everything. I promise. Now, you just need to tell me what you know about Frieda. I’m here to help her. Did she tell you where she was going?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Lola sat up. She pushed her hair behind her ears and took a deep, shuddering breath. He saw a new expression on her face, as if she was coming to a decision. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you.’

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Lola had said Frieda was going to walk there, and although Karlsson knew how swiftly she walked, it gave him time. She was only forty minutes or so ahead of him. He left Yvette with Lola, though she protested, wanting to come with him, and ran onto the main thoroughfare, waving at cabs until one stopped.

  Now that he knew where she was, he felt that every second counted, although perhaps Frieda was simply walking and thinking and the danger still stood far off. It was his sense that he was near her that was a torment – the gap between here and there. For the first time in all these weeks of waiting and watching and wanting, he knew where she was. The sudden hope made time into an agony and the sense of urgency something almost physical, pressing down on him, making his chest hurt. Getting out of the centre of London was painfully slow, cars and vans and buses clogging every road. Perhaps he should have gone on the Underground, or called for back-up and gone with blue lights flashing. But he knew he had to be stealthy and arrive unnoticed. He sat tense and still in the back of the cab. Every so often he thought of Lola, twitchy and blotchy with terror, and with some other emotion as well – but what? He pushed away the thought and sat forward, willing the cab through the snarled-up traffic.

  And now at last they were past the worst of it and edging forward. He looked at his watch. He tried not to imagine seeing Frieda, because that would make it all the more distressing if he didn’t. And he tried not to imagine her in danger. It did no good to torment himself. Instead, he focused on the moment he was in: the twenty-pound note in his fist, ready to pass to the driver as he jumped from the cab; the plans he made in his head for when they arrived. He would make sure they stopped well before they reached the spot. He would be unobtrusive and, after all, no one would be expecting him.

  Frieda walked steadily through the familiar streets. She didn’t need to think of where she was going: her feet led her. The day was hazy, shapes looming at her, roofs and spires, tall cranes and the tops of buildings vague in the heavy grey air. The plane trees had lost most of their leaves and she could see smoke rising out of some of the chimneys. It was 1 November: the Day of the Dead, she thought. A day to remember those who have gone, to walk with them awhile, abide with them and then let them go.

  And as she walked, she felt them beside her, all those shadows: people she had loved and people she had harmed; people who had harmed her. Her mother, who had never wanted to be a mother. Her father, who all his life had carried a weight of malignant sadness and then one day had been unable to bear it and killed himself. Sandy, the man she had once loved, who had once loved her, and whose body had been found floating in the Thames. And then those others over the years, so many of them, who had been sucked into the black hole that was Dean Reeve. She could see their faces, young faces and old ones, and she could feel them beside her, inside her, some angry and some sad, some crying out for help and some at peace. All the ghosts she carried with her; and the ghost of her younger self, eager and just starting out, but the road had led to here, to now. So many dead people, a great crowd of them at her side. They walked with her; she walked with them. Would it be such a bad thing to join them? To be dead with them?

  You have to forgive yourself. Who had said that to her? Probably Reuben, she thought. Or perhaps she herself had said it to patients over the years. You have to forgive yourself.

  Did she? Perhaps there would be time for such questions later, after this was over. She knew it would be over soon. She knew it was the endgame at last, the day of the dead. She thought of that phrase. People misunderstood it. They thought of it as something scary and ghoulish, with skulls and zombies. But really it was about the dead as our companions, our friends, still alive in our memories and in our hearts. Frieda had never really understood a fear of death, still less a fear of being dead. It was just an absence, a non-being, the bit of being asleep where you’re not dreaming.

  It was the living we should be afraid of. For Frieda, the dead were beyo
nd harming us, except in our minds. We should think of them with love or regret or remorse or simple sadness, but we shouldn’t fear them or let them harm us. Over and over again that was what she had tried to convey to her patients. But the living were something else. For seven years now she had known, whatever else she knew, wherever she was, whatever she was doing, that Dean Reeve was thinking of her. He had planned and brutalized and killed in a trail that led to her, and now every step was taking her closer to the end of that trail. To him.

  Karlsson got out of the cab and handed over the money, waving away the change. He glanced around him: a soft drizzle was beginning to fall and there was barely anyone about. Frieda wouldn’t be here yet. He had time. He walked to the edge of the water that lay still in the windless air.

  He knew why Frieda would come here. He looked at the iron bell and brown water, and at the row of great cranes, their tops swallowed by the mist. Then he found himself a position where he wouldn’t be seen and wrapped his coat closer about him. Now he was looking in the direction that she would come from. He settled back to wait.

  Chloë and Jack sat on Frieda’s new balcony, drinking coffee. They had just planted several small lavender bushes in terracotta pots.

  ‘It feels like it’s waiting to rain,’ said Chloë.

  ‘I know. It’s the kind of day that never quite gets light.’ Jack shivered and buttoned up his jacket.

  The cat came out of the door and wound its way between them, pushing its head first against their legs, asking for attention. They could hear the low rumble of its purr. Chloë ran her hand along its body.

  ‘I wonder where Frieda is now,’ she said.

  Karlsson was cold and wet. He glanced at his watch: it had been more than an hour and still Frieda hadn’t come. He went over in his mind what Lola had told him, but knew he had the right place. Then his mobile buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out. It was Bill Dugdale.

  ‘Bill?’ He kept his voice low.

  ‘I tried you at work but they told me you were on annual leave.’

  ‘Yes. What is it? Any news?’

  ‘Not as such. Where are you?’