Day of the Dead

by Nicci French

  Lola looked around. ‘We’re not likely to see Dean Reeve fishing anywhere near here.’

  Frieda’s expression hardened. ‘Don’t joke about it. We’ll just make for the Thames.’

  ‘Is that it?’ said Lola. ‘It doesn’t even look like a stream.’

  They were standing on the little bridge, looking down at the creek. Now, at low tide, it was mainly wet mud, with a few rivulets trickling down towards the Thames, a couple of hundred yards away. They crossed to the other side, away from the river. This stub of the creek looked abandoned and forgotten and shut away, with a builders’ yard on one side, a car park on the other. They gazed down on mud, dumped tyres, rusting shopping trolleys and bikes.

  ‘Is this what’s left of Counter’s Creek?’ said Lola.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frieda. ‘This is the place.’

  Chloë arrived at the pub late and saw Josef sitting in the corner, waving her over. As she sat down, she saw that there was a man with him. He had rings in both ears, a pierced eyebrow, long hair tied in a knot on the top of his head. His short-sleeved Arsenal shirt revealed full tattoo sleeves. His face was lined and weathered.

  ‘This is my friend Stefan,’ said Josef. ‘He help us.’

  ‘I know Stefan,’ said Chloë. ‘You were both bouncers at that party I had.’

  ‘That is right.’

  Chloë and Stefan nodded warily at each other. Josef produced a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it on the table.

  ‘The balcony,’ said Chloë. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about it.’

  The pencil sketch showed it from above and from the side. ‘So the beams go right back into the house,’ she said.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I thought it was going to be simple.’

  ‘Simple, but also strong. And safe.’

  ‘So these are wooden beams.’

  ‘Steel.’

  ‘And wooden decking.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And wooden railings.’

  ‘Which you can make, I think.’

  ‘Of course. It’s what I do. But have you costed this, Josef? This is expensive stuff.’

  ‘Is not problem.’

  ‘What is the cost of the materials? These steel beams?’

  ‘There is no cost.’

  Chloë looked at Josef, then at Stefan and back at Josef. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Wait one minute.’ She went to the bar and bought a pint of Hedgehog bitter and brought it to the table. She took a gulp of the beer. ‘These steel beams,’ she said. ‘This decking. They’re not actually stolen, are they?’

  Josef and Stefan exchanged glances.

  ‘They are leftovers,’ said Josef.

  ‘Leftovers?’

  ‘Leftovers.’

  Chloë looked back at the plans. ‘Just tell me about the railings,’ she said. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t ask about anything else.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Lola was playing her harmonica with gusto. Through the clamour of split notes, Frieda made out the vestiges of a tune. ‘That’s Christmas music.’

  ‘I thought if I practised enough I could play it to people then. It’s only two months away. Do you recognize it?’

  ‘ “Good King Wenceslas”?’

  ‘That’s it! Maybe I picked it because, in a way, it’s like you and me. I mean, you’re like Wenceslas and I’m like the boy who had to follow in his footsteps to keep safe when the snow lay round about. If you see what I mean.’ She gave a long high blast on the harmonica. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think a little goes a long way.’

  Lola looked at her with a hurt expression. ‘At least I’m trying to keep occupied. What am I supposed to do here?’

  ‘You could think of another idea for your dissertation.’

  ‘The original one seems to be going all right. “In the Footsteps of Dr Klein”. Or would that be violating your privacy? Honestly, if you don’t want me to do it, I won’t.’

  ‘To be candid, I’m not really thinking of that at the moment.’

  ‘I’m going to miss the deadline anyway. I think we should go and see a film.’ Lola threw down her harmonica. ‘I don’t care what it is. Where’s the nearest cinema?’

  ‘We’re not going to a cinema.’

  ‘Let’s go to a pub.’

  ‘Lola –’

  ‘I know what that means. Lola. That patient, suffering voice. Lola. Silly Lola.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean that at all.’

  ‘I’ve had it all my life. Oh, it’s just Lola being Lola. Never mind her.’

  ‘All your life?’

  ‘You’ll call me “sweetheart” next.’ Tears stood in Lola’s eyes. ‘I’m not a child. Don’t talk to me as if I were one. I’ve been ripped out of everything I know and I’m scared and I’m confused and I’m bored and I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. Why shouldn’t we go out? You’ve blown our cover. Why are we safer here than anywhere else? I want to see a film. I want to do something ordinary.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Frieda, gently.

  ‘I don’t want to.’ Lola sniffed hard. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I don’t have a home, but if I do, it’s somewhere that’s not here, where you don’t even have flour in the cupboard. I can’t even make a cake.’ She gave a hiccuping sound, halfway between a giggle and a sob.

  ‘This isn’t going to last long.’

  ‘If we aren’t going out, maybe we can play cards. I brought a pack with me. Oh, don’t tell me you don’t like card games. I knew it.’

  ‘I could teach you how to play chess.’

  ‘Chess?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My dad used to play chess with his friend. He never taught me, though. He said it was too mathematical.’

  Frieda looked at her intently. ‘You could be good at it. But you have to learn to plan several moves ahead, consider all the different possibilities.’

  Lola pulled a face. ‘I’m not playing if it’s going to be a lesson in how to be a better, wiser person.’

  An hour later, when they had put away the chess set and Frieda was standing by the window, gazing out at the water as if she could see faces in it, Lola asked, ‘You’re always staring out of the window. What are you thinking about?’

  Frieda turned. ‘I was thinking about what the four victims have in common. Or, rather, the three – Liz Barron is different. But why did Dean Reeve choose the others, unless it was random?’

  ‘Maybe they just got in his way.’

  ‘Yes. Maybe. But I’m trying to find something that distinguishes them.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Like a birthmark, you mean, or a mysterious scar?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that.’

  ‘Or perhaps they’re all born on a leap year, or have the same birthday.’

  ‘They don’t.’

  ‘Or they were all born in the same tiny village. Or –’

  ‘Lola.’

  Frieda walked across and sat down close to her.

  ‘I know,’ said Lola. ‘You’re going to tell me to shut up.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m interested.’

  ‘But I’m just talking rubbish,’ said Lola.

  ‘Talking rubbish can be good. It can be a way of thinking.’

  ‘All right.’ Lola rubbed her head, like it was helping her to think. ‘There just doesn’t seem to be anything special about them. They do boring sorts of jobs. One of them is married. One of them isn’t. They live in different places. They’re different ages.’

  ‘Start with the first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Geoffrey Kernan was killed in Barking. That’s Dean Reeve’s part of London, or near it, anyway. It’s where he grew up, where he lived. Maybe he killed Kernan for a reason. Maybe Kernan knew him or found out something about him. But then he found out something he could use.’

  Th
ere was a long, long silence.

  ‘I don’t really know what you mean,’ said Lola.

  The silence resumed. It was several minutes before Lola spoke again. ‘He seems really ordinary and dull. The only weird thing was his name.’

  ‘What? Kernan?’

  ‘No. Didn’t you see the report? His middle name. Udo. I read in the paper that his wife said he was very proud of it. He used to say that to most people he was Geoffrey, but there was a hidden, Udo-bit of him. Udo – what kind of name is that, anyway?’

  ‘It’s German,’ said Frieda. ‘He’s probably got a German relative.’

  ‘Like Frieda,’ said Lola.

  ‘Yes, like Frieda,’ and then she stopped. She stared at Lola, unblinking.

  ‘Udo,’ she muttered. ‘Udo.’

  ‘Shall I make tea? And what are we going to have for supper? Not scrambled eggs, or poached eggs or omelettes. Something less snacky and make-do. We could cook a chicken and watch a film on my laptop, something cheerful. Then we can have chicken sandwiches tomorrow, with lots of mayonnaise and some tomatoes, which is my favourite thing. Comfort food.’

  ‘Pass me your computer.’

  Lola slid it across to her and Frieda bent over the keyboard. Lola saw how her eyes glowed darkly; she felt obscurely scared and folded her arms around herself.

  ‘Roast chicken with garlic bread,’ she murmured to herself. Her head was throbbing.

  Frieda typed in names and found the website she wanted. ‘Yes,’ she said, after a long pause during which Lola wanted to scream.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come and see.’

  Together they looked at the calendar on the screen, a square for each day and several names in each square.

  ‘This shows name days,’ said Frieda. ‘We’re looking at October.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Sssh. Look. October the third. Do you see?’

  ‘Ewald,’ read Lola. ‘Paulina. Bianca. Oh.’ She stopped, then said, ‘Udo.’

  ‘Yes. And the body of Geoffrey Udo Kernan was found on October the third. Now look at October the sixth, when the body of Gerald Hebb was found.’

  ‘Bruno, Adalbero, Melanie, Brunhild, Gerald.’

  ‘And on the tenth there’s Samuel for Lee Samuels.’

  ‘What about Liz Barron? Are we meant to look for an Elizabeth name day? Or a Barron?’

  ‘That was different. That was what he does to people who go after him. Or think they understand him.’

  ‘You seem to understand him,’ said Lola. ‘And you’re going after him.’

  Frieda looked at her. Lola always found that direct gaze almost unbearable. ‘You think I’m going after him?’ she said. ‘How can I possibly?’

  ‘But what does it mean, then? I don’t get it. Is it just, I don’t know, a way of showing off?’

  ‘There’s another name to look at.’

  ‘What other name? There hasn’t been anyone else.’

  ‘Look ahead. At October the nineteenth.’

  Lola read the names out: ‘Isaac. Paul.’ And then she saw.

  ‘That’s right. Frieda. My name day.’

  ‘October the nineteenth. That’s the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. No! We have to go to the police. We have to go now. This minute. We should have gone before. Please.’

  Lola stood up and actually tried to tug at Frieda, but Frieda simply smiled at her and disengaged herself. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘How can it possibly be OK? This has gone far enough. You’re mad.’

  ‘This is the message I’ve been waiting for. Now at last I can act.’

  ‘Act? How can you act? What can you do? All you can –’ Lola stopped and her mouth hung open in shock. ‘Oh, no, Frieda. Don’t tell me. You can’t.’

  ‘October the nineteenth at Counter’s Creek. That’s what he’s telling me.’

  ‘You’re crazy. I can’t listen to this. I should never have listened. No.’ Lola put her hands to her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. She looked like a terrified toddler, thought Frieda.

  She stood and crossed to her, putting her hands on Lola’s shoulders. Lola let her arms drop and opened her eyes.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ said Frieda, in a soft voice. ‘Dean has murdered four people in order to give me this message. Four lives wiped out. You think I shouldn’t go because I don’t want to lose mine?’

  ‘Of course I think that. Any sane person would. The police can catch him. Tell them everything you’ve worked out and let them do their job. You can hide until it’s over.’

  ‘It won’t be over until I end it.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you at all. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to have found you. I want to be doing a boring dissertation on recent advances in DNA fingerprinting and drinking with my friends and getting irritated because I’ve dyed my favourite white shirt pink in the wash.’

  ‘You did find me.’

  ‘Please don’t go to Counter’s Creek. Please, Frieda.’

  Frieda took her hands off Lola’s shoulders and took a step back. ‘People have been killed because of me. Do you think I value my life so highly that I can let that go on happening? Do you think I’m prepared to put people in danger, people who are strangers and also people I love, just because I’m scared?’

  ‘But I don’t think you are scared,’ said Lola. ‘I think you’ve got a death wish.’

  ‘I don’t have a death wish.’

  ‘You don’t have a life wish.’

  ‘I have a niece,’ said Frieda, and as she spoke she saw Chloë’s face in her mind: stubborn, angry, needy. ‘She’s about your age. We’ve been through many things together. Not long ago a Dean-Reeve copycat drugged and abducted her.’

  ‘I read about that.’

  ‘Yes. When that happened, when I understood that because of me she had been put in danger, I knew that I would do anything to stop him. There has been too much damage, too much loss. I have no intention of dying, but I’m not scared of it. I am scared of being the cause of other people’s death.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I will not.’ Frieda lifted up clenched fists, then let them fall. ‘Do you hear me? This has to end. I have to end it.’

  ‘So you’re just going to go there? Do you have a gun?’

  ‘Of course I don’t have a gun.’

  ‘Can you get one? You must know people who could help you with that. Do you know how to use one?’

  ‘Lola, I’m not going to get a gun.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s your plan?’

  Chloë and Jack were sitting in an Italian restaurant eating spaghetti and drinking red wine; once they’d been lovers and now they were learning to be friends.

  Josef and Reuben were in Reuben’s house. Josef was cooking a Ukrainian lamb dish, a bottle of vodka at his elbow; he was humming something under his breath. Reuben, wearing his Moroccan dressing-gown and with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, was reading a book about contemporary forms of mourning. Every so often, he raised his head and stared into space, thinking. Upstairs, Josef’s son Alexei was playing a computer game with a new friend, the first child he’d invited back since he had started school.

  Chloë’s mother Olivia – Frieda’s sister-in-law – was on a first date with a man she had met on the bus a few days previously; she watched him as he stood at the bar, loudly ordering drinks, and wondered what on earth she was doing there, what on earth she was doing with her life.

  Karlsson was reading to his daughter Bella, who leaned her head on his shoulder as he turned the pages. Her hair tickled his cheek and he could feel her warmth. He would have been happy except Frieda was gone. He wondered where she was now, what she was thinking.

  It was dark and clouds obscured the moon. The wind blew in gusts. The tide rose in the Thames and soon water covered the mud of Counter’s Creek. Small waves slapped against the bank.r />
  TWENTY-FOUR

  Frieda looked at her watch. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘You know the day,’ said Lola. ‘At least you think you know the day. But you don’t know what time you’re meant to go there.’

  ‘I’ll just go there and wait.’

  ‘Can I come?’ said Lola.

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I could stay at a safe distance.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a safe distance.’

  ‘Can’t I help in some way?’

  ‘You can stay here.’

  ‘And what? Wait to hear about it on the news?’

  ‘You’ve got the phone I gave you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll be back or I’ll phone you.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘If you haven’t heard anything …’ Frieda thought. ‘By the time it gets dark, phone the police. Or better still –’ She took a notepad from her paper, wrote on it and tore out the page, handing it to Lola. ‘Ring Malcolm Karlsson. He’s a detective. And he’s a friend. He’ll think of something.’

  ‘Why not ring him now?’

  ‘Enough,’ said Frieda. ‘Just do as I say.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Lola. She started to cry, large tears that rolled smoothly down her cheeks. ‘Don’t go, Frieda.’

  ‘Remember what I told you about Karlsson.’

  Frieda would have liked to walk but for once she decided the distance was too great and that it would take too long. Instead she walked to the main road and hailed a taxi.

  DCI Dugdale was rechecking a set of witness statements when a young female officer came into his office without knocking. She was out of breath.

  ‘There’s a call for you,’ she said.

  ‘What’s it about?’ he said, without looking up.

  ‘It’s about the murders.’

  He tossed the file aside. ‘There are a thousand calls about the murders.’

  ‘You’ll want to take this one.’

  During the long drive across London, Frieda didn’t look out of the window. She barely even thought. She just sat with her eyes closed and felt a sort of calm, a finality. The traffic was heavy through Hyde Park and Kensington, and Frieda looked at her watch once or twice, but it didn’t matter much. It would wait. He would wait. She directed the taxi to drop her on the King’s Road, just a short walk up from the Chelsea Embankment. She walked down to the river and leaned for a few minutes on the railings, looking down at the water. The tide was coming in, with fierce currents and swirls. A tourist boat passed. Two small children standing at the stern of the boat gazed directly across the water at Frieda and waved. She waved back and they laughed. She turned and walked along the embankment with the river on her left, then turned away from the river, following Lots Road along the side of the creek. She reached the spot where she had stood with Lola. Now what? She knew the place, she knew the day, but she didn’t know the exact time. It was just a matter of waiting.