by Nicci French
He gave a shrug. On the screen was a grid showing eighteen female faces.
‘None of them look like her,’ said Rose.
‘They’re random,’ said Tom. ‘They’re not meant to look like her. What I want you to do is to click on the six that feel most like her. You should do it quickly without thinking too hard. Don’t worry. There’s no right or wrong answer. It’s not a test.’
‘What’s the point of this?’
‘It’s just an exercise,’ Frieda told her. ‘I want to see what happens.’
Rose gave a sigh, like someone giving in reluctantly. She put her hand on the mouse and moved the cursor around.
‘None of them are like her,’ she repeated.
‘Choose the ones that are closest,’ said Tom. ‘Or the ones that are least unlike.’
‘All right.’ She clicked the cursor on one face, the narrowest, then on another, then another, until six were highlighted. ‘Is that it?’
‘Now click “done”,’ said Tom.
She did so and the screen refilled with eighteen new faces.
‘What are these?’ Rose asked.
‘These are generated from the six you chose,’ said Tom. ‘Now choose six more.’
She went through the process again, then again and again, over and over. Occasionally she stopped and closed her eyes before continuing. Looking over her shoulder, Frieda could see a change gradually occurring. A crowd of strangers was gradually evolving into a family group whose resemblance grew stronger and stronger. The face became thinner, the cheekbones more prominent, the almond shape of the eyes more pronounced. After twelve generations, the faces didn’t just look like a family but siblings, and after two more generations they were almost identical.
‘Choose one,’ said Tom.
‘They’re almost the same.’ Rose hesitated. The cursor wavered around the screen before landing on one of the faces. ‘That’s it.’
‘That’s the face you saw?’ said Frieda.
‘I didn’t see it. It’s the face I made up in my imagination.’
Now Karlsson came over and looked at the image. ‘What about the hair?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t see the hair. The face I made up was wearing a scarf.’
‘I can do a scarf.’ Tom clicked on a drop-down menu and the face appeared eighteen times with different kinds of scarf. Rose pointed at one.
‘Is that it?’ said Frieda.
‘A bit,’ said Rose. ‘It’s quite like it, I think.’
‘That’s good, Rose,’ said Frieda. ‘You’ve done really well. Thank you very much.’
‘What do you mean I’ve done well?’
‘I know it was hard for you, going back there. That took courage.’
‘I haven’t been back there. I didn’t remember anything. I just pictured a face and then you tried to re-create it. It’s clever but I don’t see how it helps you.’
‘We’ll see. Could you wait outside for a moment?’
Karlsson waited until Rose was safely outside the room and the door was closed. ‘What was that about?’
‘Don’t you trust your own facial-recognition system?’
‘I don’t mean the facial-recognition system. I brought you in here because I thought you might be able to hypnotize her or something. Wave a needle in front of her eyes. I thought you could do some of your psychological stuff and dredge up hidden memories. Instead you got her to make up a face.’
‘I did some research work a few years ago,’ said Frieda. ‘I was working with people who had areas of blindness in their visual field. What we did was show them a collection of dots that were in the area of their visual field that wasn’t functioning. They couldn’t see them, but we asked them to take a guess at the number. In most cases, they would guess right. The input was bypassing their conscious mind but was still being processed. There was no point in going over Rose’s conscious memories. She’s spent her life going over and over them. By now they’ve been hopelessly contaminated even if she did see something. I thought this might be a way of bypassing all that.’
Karlsson looked across at Tom Garret. ‘What do you think? This is all bullshit, right?’
‘You’re talking about blindsight, right?’ Tom asked Frieda.
‘That’s right,’ said Frieda.
‘Bullshit,’ Karlsson repeated. He was clearly very angry.
‘I haven’t heard about it applying to memory,’ Tom said.
‘I thought it was worth a try.’
Karlsson sat in the chair and looked at the screen, at the middle-aged woman in a scarf staring back at him. ‘Did you really?’ His tone was thick with sarcasm. ‘This is just playing stupid fucking games. Blindsight!’
‘Can we print it out?’ Frieda asked Tom, pointedly ignoring Karlsson, but he took the sheet of paper as it came out of the printer and waved it in her face.
‘This is so much rubbish. Rose probably just made it up. To be helpful. She’s the helpful kind. She doesn’t want to disappoint us.’
‘Right,’ said Frieda. ‘That’s the most likely.’
‘And if she didn’t make it up, if you really did tap into some memory of the day, this might just be the face of a woman who was out doing her shopping.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And if, and it’s about the biggest fucking if I’ve ever come across, this woman was involved, then what we have is a picture of someone from twenty-two years ago with no suspects to compare it with, no witnesses to ask.’
‘You could show the picture to other people who were around at the time, to see if they remember anything.’
‘And? If they did – which they won’t – what use will that be? Can you bring them in here and put them in a trance and get them to imagine an address?’
‘That’s up to you,’ said Frieda. ‘You’re the detective.’
‘This is what I think.’ Karlsson balled up the print-out and flung it towards the metal bin, but missed.
‘That’s clear, at least,’ said Frieda.
‘You’re just wasting my time.’
‘No. You’re wasting mine, Detective Chief Inspector Karlsson. And wasting it rudely.’
‘You can leave now. Some of us have got real work to do.’
‘Gladly,’ said Frieda. She stooped and picked up the screwed-up paper.
‘What do you want that for?’
‘A souvenir, maybe.’
Rose was outside, sitting on a chair with her hands in her lap, staring into the distance.
‘We’re done,’ said Frieda. ‘And we’re very grateful to you.’
‘I don’t think I helped much.’
‘Who knows? It was worth a try. Are you in a hurry?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ten minutes.’ Frieda took her by the forearm and steered her out of the station. ‘There’s a café down the road.’
She got a pot of tea for two and a muffin in case Rose was hungry, but it lay untouched between them.
‘Have you ever had counselling?’
‘Me? Why? Do you think I need it? Is it that obvious?’
‘I think anyone would need it who had gone through what you went through. Did you never have any help after your sister disappeared?’
Rose shook her head. ‘I talked to a policewoman a bit, when it happened. She was nice.’
‘But nothing else?’
‘No.’
‘You were nine years old. Your sister disappeared from under your nose. You were supposed to be looking after her – at least, that’s what you thought. In my view, a nine-year-old can’t be responsible for someone. She never came back and you’ve felt guilty ever since. You think it was your fault.’
‘It was,’ Rose said, in a whisper. ‘Everyone thought so.’
‘I very much doubt that – but what matters now is that’s what you thought. What you think now. You’re like someone whose psyche has developed around the central overwhelming fact of your loss. But it’s not too late, you know. You can forgive yourself.’
&
nbsp; Rose looked at her and shook her head slowly from side to side, tears gathering in her eyes.
‘Yes, you can. But you need help to do it. I can make sure you don’t have to pay for it. It would take time. Your sister is dead and you need to say goodbye to her and build your own life now.’
‘She haunts me,’ whispered Rose.
‘Does she?’
‘It’s as if I’m never without her. She’s like a little ghost beside me. Always the same age. We’re all getting older, and she’s there, a tiny girl. She was such a worried little thing. So many things scared her – the seaside, spiders, loud noises, cows, the dark, fireworks, going in lifts, crossing the road. The only time she didn’t look anxious was when she was asleep – she used to sleep with her cheek resting against her hands, which she pressed together, as if she was praying. She probably was praying when she fell asleep actually – she was probably begging God to keep the monsters away from her.’
She gave a small laugh and then a wince.
‘It’s all right to laugh about her, and it’s all right to remember the ways in which she wasn’t perfect.’
‘My father’s made her into a saint, you know. Or an angel.’
‘Hard for you.’
‘And my mother doesn’t mention her.’
‘Then it’s time for you to find someone else to talk to about her.’
‘Could I come and talk to you?’
Frieda hesitated. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’ve been involved with your case from the point of view of the police. It would blur the boundaries. But I can recommend someone who I know is good.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So it’s a deal?’
‘All right.’
Chapter Twenty-five
In eight days’ time, it would be the shortest day of the year. The clinic would close until the beginning of the next year. Patients had to put their troubles on hold. And when they returned, Reuben would probably be there to meet them, if she told Paz he was fit to resume his duties. So here she was on a Sunday afternoon, walking towards his house, ostensibly to return some of the folders he’d left in his room, but he wouldn’t be fooled by that for very long. This was Reuben, after all, with his cool, appraising eye and his mocking smile.
Before she could lift her hand to knock, the door flew open and Josef charged through it, in his arms a pile of jagged planks. He swept past her on his way to the overflowing skip that, she now saw, stood on the road. He hurled his burden into it and returned, rubbing his dusty palms together.
‘What are you doing here? It’s Sunday.’
‘Sunday, Monday, who knows the day?’
‘I do. So does Reuben. I hope.’
‘Come in. He is on the kitchen floor.’
Frieda stepped in through the front door, not knowing what to expect after her last visit. She couldn’t restrain a gasp. It was obvious that Josef had been working here for some time. It wasn’t just that the stench of a life abandoned had gone, and in its place was an astringent smell of turpentine and paint, or that bottles, cans and crusted plates had been cleared away and curtains opened. The hall was painted. The kitchen was in the process of being dismantled – cupboards had been ripped out and a new frame to a door into the garden was in place. Outside, on the narrow strip of lawn, the remains of a bonfire smoked. And sure enough, there was Reuben, lying on the floor, halfway under a new porcelain sink.
Frieda was so surprised that for a moment she simply stood and stared at him, with his lovely linen shirt riding up over his stomach and his head quite out of sight.
‘Is that really you in there?’ she said at last.
The feet in their purple socks twitched and the body wriggled forward. Reuben’s face slid out of the sink unit and into view. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ he said.
‘You’ve been caught in the act. DIY? And on a Sunday afternoon. You’ll be washing your car next.’
He sat up, pulled down his shirt. ‘Not really DIY. Not as such. You know me: left to my own devices, I can’t even be bothered to replace a light bulb. I’m just helping Josef out.’
‘I should think so. Getting him to work on a weekend. Are you paying him double?’
‘I’m not paying him at all.’
‘Reuben?’
‘Reuben is my landlord,’ said Josef. ‘He gives me a roof and in return…’
‘He fixes it,’ supplied Reuben, getting to his feet, staggering slightly. Both men laughed, glancing at Frieda to see her reaction. It was a joke they’d obviously rehearsed.
‘You’ve moved in?’
Josef pointed towards the fridge, and Frieda saw a dog-eared photograph attached to it with a magnet: a dark-haired woman seated on a chair, with two small boys formally posed on either side of her. ‘My wife, my sons.’
Frieda looked back at Josef. He put a hand over his heart and waited.
‘You are a lucky man,’ she said.
He took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and handed one to Reuben, taking one himself. Reuben produced his lighter and lit them both. Frieda felt irritated. There was something about the two of them, some furtive triumph and naughtiness, as if they were two small boys and she was the bossy grown-up.
‘Tea, Frieda?’ asked Reuben.
‘Yes, please. Though you could at least offer me some of that vodka you’ve hidden under the sink.’
The two men looked at each other.
‘You’re here to spy on me,’ Reuben said. ‘See if I’m fit for duty.’
‘Are you?’
‘It’s the death of the father,’ said Reuben. ‘What you’ve always wanted.’
‘What I want is for the father to come back to work when he’s ready, and not before.’
‘It’s Sunday. I can drink on a Sunday and still go to work on a Monday. I can drink on a Monday and still go to work on a Monday for that matter. You’re not my handler.’
‘I make tea,’ said Josef, uneasily.
‘I don’t want tea,’ said Reuben. ‘English people always think tea makes everything better.’
‘I am not English,’ said Josef.
‘I didn’t particularly want to come here,’ said Frieda.
‘Then why come? Because you were told to? You were sent? What? By the eager young Paz? That doesn’t sound much like the Frieda Klein I know. The Frieda Klein who does what she pleases.’ He dropped his cigarette on to the floor and ground it out with his heel. Josef stooped and picked it up, carrying it carefully in his palm to the rubbish bin where he deposited it.
‘How you run your own life is up to you, Reuben. You can drink vodka all day long and trash your house, that’s fine. But you’re a doctor. Your job is to cure. Some of the people who come to the clinic are very vulnerable, very frail, and they put their trust in us. You’re not coming back to work until you can be trusted not to abuse your power. And I don’t care how angry you feel with me.’
‘I feel angry all right.’
‘You feel self-pity. Ingrid’s left you and you think you’ve been treated badly by your colleagues. But Ingrid left because you’ve been serially unfaithful for years, and your colleagues have responded in the only possible way to your behaviour at the clinic. That’s why you’re angry. Because you know you’re in the wrong.’
Reuben opened his mouth to reply, then suddenly stopped. He groaned, lit another cigarette and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘You don’t leave a man a place to hide, do you, Frieda?’
‘Do you want a place to hide?’
‘Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone?’ He pushed his hands through his hair, which had grown past his shoulders during his enforced leave, so that he looked even more like a poet after a rough night. ‘No one likes to feel shamed.’
Frieda sat down opposite him. ‘Talking of which,’ she said, ‘I’ve done some things that I want to tell you about.’
He smiled at her ruefully. ‘Is this your quid pro quo to make me feel better? Swapping shame?’
‘I
want to talk something through,’ said Frieda. ‘If that’s all right.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Reuben. ‘It’s just completely unexpected.’
On the following Tuesday, Alan told Frieda a story. He didn’t speak in his normal way, correcting himself and going backwards and forwards in time, remembering things that he’d left out. He talked fluently, with few pauses, and there was a shape and coherence to his narrative. Frieda thought he must have practised it several times, going over and over it in his head before coming to her, removing all the uncertainties and contradictions.
‘Yesterday morning,’ he said, once he’d crossed and re-crossed his legs, rubbed his hands up his trouser legs, coughed several times in preparation. ‘Yesterday morning I had to go and check on a planning application. Although I’m on leave, I still drop in occasionally to sort things out in the department. There are certain things only I know about. It was over in Hackney, a converted office block near the Eastway. You know the area?’
‘It’s not really my part of London,’ said Frieda.
‘Things are a bit chaotic there with all the Olympic construction. It’s like a new city being jerry-built on top of the wreckage of an old one. And they can’t push the completion date back, so they’re just throwing more and more people at it. Anyway, after I’d finished there, I went for a walk. It was cold, but I felt like some fresh air, just to get my head clear. To be honest, going in to work at the moment makes me feel a bit rattled.
‘I walked along the canal, then turned off it and walked into Victoria Park. It felt like an escape, going somewhere different. There were quite a few people in the park, but no one was hanging about. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry: heads down, walking quickly, everyone with somewhere to go to except me, or that was how it seemed to me. I wasn’t really watching them, though. I sat on a bench for a bit, next to the bowling green. I was thinking about the last few weeks and wondering what lay ahead of me. I was quite tired. I’m always tired nowadays. Things were a bit blurred. I could see some of the cranes over towards Stratford and the Lee Valley Park. I got up and walked along between the ponds. There’s a bandstand there and a fountain. Everything looked abandoned and shut down for winter. I came out the other side, crossed the road and started looking into the windows of the shops. I looked at an antiques place – well, antiques is probably a bit of a grand word for it. Odds and ends mostly. I used to buy a lot of old furniture. I thought I had an eye for it. It pisses Carrie off. She wants me to get rid of the stuff I’ve got, not get anything new. But still, I like to look, see what prices people are asking. Anyway, there were some funny old places there. There was a hardware shop with mops and buckets and a strange clothes shop that sold the sort of stuff that old women wear, cardigans and tweed coats. You’re wondering why I’m telling you this, aren’t you?’ Frieda didn’t respond. ‘I was standing outside another bric-à-brac shop, full of stuff you couldn’t imagine anyone buying or selling. I remember, I was staring at a stuffed owl that was perched on a sort of fake tree branch and I was half wondering whether Carrie would allow another dead bird into the house.
