Day of the Dead

by Nicci French

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘Having someone from outside the police making suggestions.’

  ‘Why would that be irritating? We always welcome input. Just as I’m sure you welcome advice from me about how to conduct your psychological work.’

  ‘Obviously you’re free to ignore everything I’ve said.’

  ‘We’ll consider your views,’ said Dugdale, evenly. ‘As we consider all relevant opinions.’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘Of course it’s up to me. To us.’ Dugdale frowned. ‘There’s something you should know,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘When we looked at Kernan’s computer, we found searches that were made after his death. For DCI Karlsson.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was barely a word, more like a sigh; her eyes were very dark.

  ‘It seems likely that Dean Reeve wanted us to find them.’

  ‘Yes. He wants you all to know he’s playing with us.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘Karlsson? He’s worrying about you.’

  ‘Well.’ She took a step back, half turned away. ‘I want to help and I will do anything that I can. But you mustn’t try to follow me, and you won’t be able to find me – because if you can, so can he.’ She fixed her gaze on Dugdale. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Dugdale. ‘It’s not as simple as that. What is it you’re actually doing?’

  ‘Is that a question I’m required to answer?’

  ‘I’m a police officer leading a murder investigation in which you are involved. I think you have a responsibility to cooperate.’

  ‘I’m here. I’ve answered your questions. As for the rest of it, I thought I told you. I’m moving around so that Dean Reeve can’t get at me.’

  ‘And then what? Or are you going to stay in hiding for ever?’

  ‘It won’t be for ever. You can see from the information I gave to you that I don’t want him to find me, but I want to find him. I have to find him and I will.’

  ‘Dr Klein, you must understand that you need to make yourself available to the inquiry. At all times.’

  ‘I can phone you.’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way. You are a material witness. I need to know where you are and I need a number where I can reach you.’

  ‘I have a problem with that,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Oh, do you? And what might that be?’

  ‘I’ve found that when I give information to the police it has a way of being leaked.’ Dugdale’s expression darkened even more. ‘Don’t pretend to be offended. I’ve seen too many of my secrets turn up in the newspapers.’

  ‘I’m not pretending. My team do not leak.’

  Frieda thought for a long time before answering. ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘One more thing.’

  ‘Are you bargaining with me?’

  ‘I’m thinking of that fiasco down in Chelsea. If you’re planning anything like that, you need to let me know in advance.’

  Dan Quarry came into the room and started saying something, but when he caught sight of Frieda and Dugdale staring at each other he stopped and backed out of the room.

  ‘Look at my face, Dr Klein. This is the face of someone who is known as tolerant and easy-going. You’re testing it. You’re testing it to the limit.’ When he spoke, it was as if he were choking, as if he were suppressing a violent emotion. ‘What I will agree to is, if you cooperate, which means letting me know, at all times, where you can be reached, then I will …’ He stopped and took a few breaths. ‘I will keep you informed.’

  Frieda took her little notebook from her pocket, wrote the phone number and the address on it, tore it out and handed it to Dugdale. ‘We need to deal with Dean Reeve,’ Frieda said. ‘We don’t need to be best friends.’

  ‘Neither of those seems very likely just now,’ said Dugdale.

  Reuben sat opposite Jonah Martin’s partner, Maiko. She was small and slender. She bent over, weeping silently, and her long hair, black and silky, hid her face. Her hands were on her full stomach, protective.

  ‘When’s the baby due?’ he asked.

  She raised her face. ‘Six weeks’ time,’ she whispered. ‘He was so happy. We were so happy.’

  ‘I know,’ said Reuben. ‘He shone with it.’

  ‘And now,’ she whispered, ‘now it’s over. It’s over. Why?’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Lola was roaming through the rooms of the flat. Outside, rain fell from a dull sky, dimpling the canal. Today it had never got properly light, and soon it would be dark again. She felt restless and irritable and trapped. She went to the fridge and opened it and found a carton of eggs and four tomatoes; she bit into one and juice spurted out, staining the T-shirt she was wearing. She took her harmonica out of her pocket and played a half-hearted few notes on it. She picked up Frieda’s sketchbook and flicked through the pencil drawings: the cranes they could see out of their window, the glass of water, the bulb of garlic. Opening up her computer, she played a game of Tetris and then looked on Facebook, although it was horrible to read posts from friends and not join in, not even to like something. Her fingers itched as she scrolled down the comments; her eyes filled with tears.

  She saw she had a direct message and she clicked on it: it was from Jess. ‘There’s something I need to tell you urgently. Wherever you are, come to the flat as soon as you get this. Don’t tell anyone. I’m waiting. Please hurry.’

  Lola frowned. She was about to reply but remembered Frieda’s warnings and thought better of it. Jess was a very mellow person: if she said something was urgent, then it was. She made up her mind, and before Frieda could come back and tell her not to, she had put on her jacket, laced up her shoes and left the flat.

  Karlsson was sitting on the sofa, eating a takeaway and watching the early-evening news on television. He had had a long day and was tired, and the news didn’t do anything to lift his spirits. Sometimes it seemed that chaos and violence were swallowing everything he had once taken for granted. He picked up the remote, and at that moment, his doorbell rang.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, peering out into the gloom.

  Dugdale stood on the step, a bulky shape in the murky light. The wind swirled leaves about his feet. He was wearing a tatty raincoat and his greying hair was damp from the rain. ‘Sorry to disturb your evening,’ he said.

  ‘It isn’t much of one. Come in.’

  He opened the door wider and gestured him inside. ‘Can I offer you anything? A hot drink? Whisky?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to the whisky.’

  Karlsson turned off the television, cleared away the remains of his meal, and gestured at the chair. He poured them both whisky. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I met Frieda Klein today,’ Dugdale said bluntly.

  Karlsson froze, then slowly replaced the tumbler on the table. He thought he might drop it. ‘How? Is she all right?’

  ‘She came to see me. This afternoon. She had information for me. And as for how she is, I don’t know how to answer that. She’s hard to read, isn’t she?’

  Karlsson nodded.

  ‘She has a theory,’ he continued, and handed Karlsson Frieda’s letter.

  For several minutes, neither man spoke. Dugdale nursed his whisky and Karlsson read the letter with fierce concentration, hunched in his seat and shadows falling on his face. At last he folded the letter and passed it back to Dugdale and took a sip of his drink. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It makes sense, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. I have to say that it takes me out of my depth.’ He gave Karlsson a smile. ‘I’m not going to announce that publicly.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m old-fashioned. I look at evidence, follow clues, conduct interviews. This – hidden rivers and name days and a man who’s supposed to be dead stalking a woman he loves and hates and wants to possess and destroy – this is a whole new territory.’

  ‘I know,’ said Kar
lsson. ‘I felt the same when I first came across Dean Reeve, years ago.’

  ‘Klein says we need to concentrate on the first murder.’

  ‘Then that’s what you should do.’

  ‘You really trust her, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s playing a dangerous game. She’s looking for Dean Reeve and he’s looking for her, and at some point one of them is going to find the other.’ Dugdale gave a shrug of bafflement.

  ‘We have to get there first,’ said Karlsson.

  ‘ “There”,’ said Dugdale. ‘Wherever that is.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dugdale called Quarry in. He briefly summarized his conversations with Frieda and Karlsson. ‘What do you think?’ he said, after he had finished.

  Quarry pulled a face. ‘She’s probably been traumatized,’ he said. ‘By all she’s gone through. People get obsessed.’

  ‘Still. If we were to follow her advice and take another hard look at Kernan, where are the gaps? Klein said that he was different from others. He’s from Reeve’s territory. So what have we missed?’

  ‘We could look at the people in his company,’ said Quarry. ‘Dig into their backgrounds a bit more.’

  ‘Where’s their office?’

  ‘Up in Whipps Cross.’

  Dugdale shook his head. ‘Too far.’

  ‘Are we doing all of this because a therapist has a theory?’ said Quarry.

  ‘Have you got a theory?’

  ‘I’m just making enquiries and looking at evidence. The way you always say we should.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could make some more enquiries about Geoffrey Kernan.’

  ‘Is it about checking the things we’ve already checked?’ said Quarry.

  His tone was so close to sarcasm that Dugdale gave him a suspicious look. ‘We may get around to that. If I decide it’s necessary. But what are the things we didn’t look at? Where did we draw a blank?’

  ‘Kernan’s satnav. As I told you, some of the people weren’t in, so we don’t know why he went there.’

  ‘I thought you were going to chase those up.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Dugdale breathed deeply. ‘Where were they?’

  ‘All over the place. One was up near Coventry.’

  ‘What about closer to home?’

  ‘You know, there’s a problem with checking his satnav.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Because it’s the one in his own car. But when he died, he wasn’t in his own car. That’s the car we should be interested in.’

  ‘No, we should be interested in that as well. If you can find out where it was kept between being stolen and set loose down Heath Street then that will be most helpful. But at the moment we’re interested in Kernan.’

  ‘Because Frieda Klein says so?’

  ‘Because it seems like a positive line of enquiry.’

  ‘What if we’re wasting our time?’

  Dugdale leaned back in his chair. ‘You know, at the end of every investigation you realize that ninety per cent of it, sometimes ninety-nine per cent of it was pointless. Banging on the wrong doors, talking to people who have nothing to say. What’s your better way of doing it?’

  ‘I’ll get my notes,’ said Quarry. ‘Shall we talk about it later?’

  ‘Now’s good,’ said Dugdale, icily.

  Quarry left the room and within two minutes was back with a file. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have rechecked these addresses.’

  ‘Sorry doesn’t get it done, Dan. Just give me the information.’

  Quarry looked at the file. His hands were shaking. He had to steady himself. ‘The closest to Kernan’s address was a furniture store less than a mile away. He bought a set of shelves. I checked the receipt. The shelves are standing in their living room.’

  ‘That’s no use. What else is there?’

  ‘There’s a house in West Ham where nobody answered the door.’

  ‘Are the occupants away?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He had gone very red.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There was a house in Creek Street. I talked to some people who lived there but they said they didn’t know Kernan or recognize his picture.’

  ‘He might just have been dropping someone off, or collecting someone.’

  ‘They didn’t seem like the kind of people Kernan would know. Or even work with.’

  ‘All right,’ said Dugdale. ‘Go to the West Ham house first. Then swing by the other one, see if you can find anything out. Go this evening. Then you might find them at home.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve got a sort of arrangement this evening. Seeing my kid.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ said Dugdale. ‘Can’t you cancel your own arrangements?’

  Quarry thought of the conversation he was about to have with his wife. ‘That’s all right,’ he said.

  The door of the house in West Ham was opened by a middle-aged man in shorts and a sweatshirt. He was a colleague of Kernan’s. They weren’t friends but they had been to a conference together and Kernan had come to the house to collect him.

  ‘How was his mood?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the man. ‘He talked about sales figures and about his home-improvement plans. I didn’t pay much attention.’

  ‘You’re a salesman, aren’t you?’ said Quarry.

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t talk about it. Not when I don’t have to.’

  ‘Does that mean you didn’t like Kernan?’

  ‘It means that he was someone in the same company who I didn’t know very well.’

  Back in the car, Quarry scribbled a few notes. The man hadn’t liked Kernan. And Kernan had talked about DIY to him, so that gave him a motive. Quarry smiled to himself. He wouldn’t repeat that to Dugdale. He was pretty sure Dugdale wouldn’t find it funny. But there had been nothing in the interview that made Quarry think he could have killed Kernan.

  When he got out of the car in front of the little clump of houses on Creek Street, he was immediately hit by the sour smell from the waste site. He stepped back reflexively as a huge, rusty lorry thundered past. Who the hell would choose to live here? People who don’t have a choice.

  He walked up to the house and rapped hard on the door. It opened, revealing the man he had met before. He was wearing the same grubby T-shirt.

  ‘Remember me?’ said Quarry.

  The man sniffed. Quarry held up the picture. The man shook his head.

  ‘But he came here,’ said Quarry.

  ‘If he did, I didn’t see him.’

  Quarry nodded slowly. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Dobrinin.’

  ‘First name?’

  ‘Jan.’

  ‘The thing is, Jan, this is serious. That photograph I showed you. He was murdered. Now, we don’t care about you and we don’t care about the people who live in the house. Maybe you’re paid in cash. Not my concern. Maybe you deal a bit of weed. I couldn’t care less. Maybe you’re all here illegally. Good luck to you. But if you don’t help me, I can make a call …’ He stopped. ‘No. Let’s make it three calls. Three calls and various people will arrive and they will go through everything and they will ask about everything and they’ll want the receipts and you will be fucked. But I don’t want to do any of that.’

  Jan blinked rapidly. ‘You show me the photo. I don’t know.’ His voice was almost pleading. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘All right,’ said Quarry. ‘Let’s reframe the question. That might make things easier. We know that this man came to this address. We have proof. You say you don’t know him. Explain that to me in a way I can understand.’

  ‘What proof?’

  ‘Geoffrey Kernan’s satnav said he came here. It had this postcode. Perhaps you can comment on that.’

  ‘The postcode isn’t just this house. These houses have the same postcode.’

  ‘But there’s nobody living in them.’

  ‘Th
ere could be squatters.’

  ‘There’s no sign of that, but we’ll check.’

  ‘And there’s the lock-ups. Vans keep knocking on the door trying to deliver parcels to us. It’s a pain in the fucking arse.’

  Quarry narrowed his eyes. ‘What lock-ups?’

  Jan gestured to the right. ‘That alley leads round the back. There’s lock-ups there.’

  Quarry didn’t say anything. He just left Jan on the doorstep and walked round the side of the house.

  ‘Stupid,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Stupid.’

  Behind the houses there was a small tarmac track with a row of eight lock-up garages on the opposite side from the houses. It was dark now but one of them was open with a car half out, bonnet raised, and an indistinct figure leaning into it. As the detective approached, the person looked up and revealed himself as a man, dark-haired, dark-skinned with a bushy beard. He was wearing navy-blue dungarees and a white T-shirt and his hands were stained with oil.

  ‘You rent this?’ asked Quarry, showing his identification. The man nodded. Quarry showed him the photograph of Kernan. ‘Recognize him?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘He drove here about three weeks ago, maybe a month.’

  ‘Never seen him.’

  Quarry took a step back and looked around. This had to be the place. It had to be. Then a thought occurred to him. He took a different picture from his pocket and showed it to the man. He looked more closely at it. Then took it from him and held it almost against his face. ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  Quarry was so taken aback that for a moment he couldn’t think what to ask. His skin tingled. ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. A week maybe. Maybe longer.’

  ‘Does he rent one of these?’

  ‘I don’t know but he was using the one at the end.’

  ‘Do you know what he’s using it for?’

  ‘I guess he’s storing something.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Because that’s what they’re for. And one of the times he was here he had a van. I was working on my car. I had to move it out of the way so he could get past.’