Day of the Dead

by Nicci French

  ‘I don’t know what happened. I’ll find out.’

  ‘Do that.’ She put the phone back in her pocket.

  When they stepped out of the taxi at Mile End, Lola was in a daze.

  ‘How are you?’ Frieda asked.

  Lola looked around her, then down at the bag she was still carrying.

  ‘I brought my clothes with me,’ she said. And then she leaned forward and vomited on the pavement, again and again, apologizing all the while.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Frieda took a tissue, wiped Lola’s mouth and put an arm round her. ‘It’s all right,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not all right. It’ll never be all right again.’

  ‘There’s been a leak,’ said Dugdale, gazing round the room at the men and women in front of him. His voice, normally so calm, was quivering with rage. He bunched his fists and said again, louder, ‘A leak. In any circumstances, it would be unacceptable. In this particular one, it is monstrous. Do you hear me? Dean Reeve found out where Frieda Klein and Lola Hayes were hiding. Who knew their whereabouts? We did – or a few of us. Has anyone got anything to say?’

  The room was thick with silence. Not a breath could be heard.

  ‘We are police officers. Our job is to keep people safe, to protect people from harm.’ He folded his arms across his chest and glared. ‘Has anyone talked to the press?’

  Again, silence. A chair creaked.

  ‘Or told anyone anything about this case that was not public?’

  ‘We wouldn’t do that,’ said Quarry, but without much conviction. He knew that people did do that.

  ‘I’ll be in my office for an hour. If anyone has anything to tell me, that’s where they’ll find me.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘Take my arm,’ said Frieda.

  Lola put her arm through Frieda’s and Frieda could feel her whole body trembling. She led her along the road, then turned through a gap in the iron railing, leaving behind the bustle of people. There was grass and gravestones all around them and ahead a grey church.

  ‘This is St Dunstan’s,’ she said, steering Lola towards its entrance, and now they were in a cool gloom, with the dry smell of wood and candles. ‘The bells here are the ones in “Oranges and Lemons” – the bells of Stepney. There’s been a place of worship on this site for over a thousand years. Sit down.’

  Lola sank onto the wooden pew. Frieda put her hand into the Gap shopping bag and drew out the grey hoodie. She unzipped it and wrapped it round Lola’s shoulders. ‘I’m going to make a phone call,’ she said. ‘You just stay put.’

  Lola nodded and bent over, putting her face into her hands as though she was praying. Frieda walked back towards the entrance. She fished her mobile from her pocket and made a call.

  Half an hour later, she and Lola were standing in St Pancras station, near the Eurostar’s departures gate. People moved in a steady line past them, some in suits and carrying briefcases, others dragging wheelie bags or with rucksacks on their shoulders. A tiny child fell over at Frieda’s feet and lay on his back, staring up at her with bright surprise until his mother scooped him up.

  Frieda led Lola into a vegetarian café. She ordered two teas and a bowl of bean sprouts, a Greek salad and two bread rolls.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Lola. ‘In the circumstances.’

  ‘I normally say that you shouldn’t force people to eat. But you need to eat. Go on.’

  Frieda watched while Lola took a few tentative forkfuls of salad.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said finally.

  ‘You tried,’ said Frieda. ‘That’s something.’

  ‘Are we here for a reason?’ said Lola.

  ‘We’re meeting someone.’ Frieda looked at her watch. ‘But not quite yet.’

  They were sitting at a table by the window and Lola gazed at the crowds walking past, parties of schoolchildren, anxious tourists pulling their wheeled cases. But Frieda was paying no attention to any of it. Instead she just seemed to be staring at the wall in front of her. Then she turned; Lola wasn’t sure whether Frieda was looking directly at her, scrutinizing her, or at something behind her head.

  ‘So what are we doing?’ asked Lola. ‘Are we just waiting for the next thing Dean Reeve will do?’

  ‘Have you got any other ideas?’

  ‘We could wait for the police to catch him.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for years.’ Frieda reached a hand out and put it on Lola’s. ‘You can go away,’ she said. ‘I can arrange it.’

  Lola gave a shudder. ‘I couldn’t,’ she said. ‘He’d find me.’

  ‘Even after what you’ve been through?’ said Frieda. ‘What you’ve seen?’

  ‘Especially after that.’

  Frieda took a pen from her pocket and opened up a paper napkin and started drawing on it.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Lola. ‘We almost get caught, we almost die and you’re all calm again.’ She looked at what Frieda was drawing. She recognized the shape of the radiating spokes. ‘Your rivers again?’

  ‘We’ve been talking about what we’re going to do. The real question is what he’s going to do. He almost got to us, but he didn’t. He had a plan. He improvised. None of it quite worked out. So the question is: what’s he going to do now?’

  Lola stared dully at her. Frieda took out her phone and dialled.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you for a while,’ said Dugdale, at the other end. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I’ve had a thought. Do you know Beverley Brook?’

  ‘Should I know her?’

  ‘It’s not a woman. It’s a stream that flows through Richmond Park.’

  ‘I didn’t know it. I’m more East London. So?’

  ‘Reeve is working his way through the hidden rivers, like spokes on a wheel. I think the next one may be Beverley Brook.’

  ‘Working his way through them,’ said Dugdale. ‘That’s one way of putting it. You mean killing people.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘So what do you expect us to do? Keep it under surveillance?’

  ‘It’s too long for that. It goes through Wimbledon and Richmond and Putney.’

  ‘So why are you telling me?’

  ‘So you’ll look out for something. You may see something that doesn’t get in the papers.’

  ‘Murders always get in the papers.’

  ‘It may not be a murder. It may not be anything. I’m just guessing.’

  ‘I’ll keep a lookout. One more thing, do you have anywhere to stay?’

  ‘I’m about to find out.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me where?’

  Frieda looked across at Lola. Their glances met. ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘Not yet. There was a leak.’

  ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Not yet,’ she repeated. ‘Please let me know if you hear anything.’ She ended the call.

  ‘Beverley Brook?’ asked Lola.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Is it named after a woman called Beverley?’

  ‘I’ve just had this conversation with Dugdale. It’s not named after a woman called Beverley. It used to have beavers. A long time ago.’

  ‘What are the police going to do?’

  ‘That’s up to them. They know about the rivers and the name-day theory. The trouble is, it’s like trying to mould water into a shape, or to hold fog in a cupped hand.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Every day is a different saint’s day. Dean isn’t targeting a particular kind of person. He’s picking people off by name and waiting for their day to fall. It’s a horrible thought, but perfectly feasible, that he has already killed others and is waiting to make that known.’

  ‘So the police can’t go to Beverley Brook and wait?’

  ‘They don’t know how long they would be there for. Days. Weeks. Waiting for something that might never happen.’

  ‘So what do we do?’
/>
  ‘Frieda,’ said a familiar voice behind her, and she turned.

  Walter Levin was dressed in a pin-stripe suit and a tie that looked as though it had been knitted with grubby string. His shoes glowed like new conkers. His eyes behind the thick glasses were like pebbles out of water.

  ‘Thank you for this,’ she said.

  ‘It’s better than talking on the phone, given what’s happened.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. Lola, this is Walter Levin.’

  He gripped Lola’s hand so hard she gave a small yelp.

  Frieda looked at her. ‘I need to talk to Mr Levin about something. Is it all right if we leave you for a moment?’

  Lola nodded.

  ‘I need the toilet,’ she said.

  Frieda pointed to the back of the café, then took a twenty-pound note and put it on the table. She got up and she and Levin walked out onto the concourse. His jovial manner disappeared.

  ‘Have you been compromised?’ he asked.

  ‘Dean Reeve knew where we were.’

  ‘Do you know how he found out?’

  ‘I’m thinking about that. In the meantime, I know that I need to be careful about who knows where I’m living.’

  ‘I hope you feel you can trust me.’

  ‘About this, at least.’

  Levin looked amused. ‘Did you leave anything behind?’

  Frieda shook her head. ‘Nothing important. I took my laptop and my phone and my wallet with me. There’s nothing else except clothes and toiletries and a bit of food in the fridge. They need to be taken away before the owners return. And there are four cats that have to be fed.’

  He smiled. ‘Jude will love that little job. She’s always complaining she doesn’t get out enough.’

  Frieda handed over the keys and told him the address. ‘Once you’ve taken our things away, the front-door one has to be returned to my niece Chloë so she can give it back to her flatmate.’

  ‘Leave that to us.’

  ‘Do you need her address?’

  ‘I have her address.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘You forget, we’ve been friends for quite a long time now.’

  ‘Friends,’ Frieda said dubiously. ‘So where are we to go?’

  ‘I’ve written it down.’ He patted his many pockets experimentally, then produced a white card. ‘Jock Keegan will be there at five with the keys.’

  ‘Where are the owners?’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about them.’ He looked up at the large clock. ‘And I’ve got a train to catch.’

  The two of them walked back towards the café. They saw Lola before she saw them.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Levin asked.

  ‘Did you read the report?’

  ‘I know that she found the body of her friend. She narrowly escaped Dean Reeve. Not everyone can deal with something like that.’

  ‘What’s the alternative to dealing with it?’

  ‘I mean that she might become a liability. To you.’

  Frieda looked sharply at him. ‘A liability? What does that mean?’

  ‘I mean that something can always be arranged. To help you.’

  ‘And her?’

  ‘That goes without saying.’

  ‘She’s refusing to leave me just at the moment. Perhaps that will change. But thank you.’

  He looked at Frieda with an expression of concern. ‘You were lucky this time,’ he said. ‘Resourceful, of course. And well prepared. But he’ll learn from that.’

  ‘So it mustn’t happen again.’

  He held out his hand but Frieda shook her head. ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This is the last time we’ll ever meet.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ said Levin. ‘It sounds morbid.’

  ‘However things turn out, I’m finished with all of this.’

  ‘You mean the police stuff?’

  ‘Yes, I mean the police stuff. So, I wanted to know: why me? Why did you choose to help me, or make use of me, or however you’d put it?’

  Levin looked around. ‘I feel this is the sort of thing we should be talking about over drinks in front of a fire, not in a crowded station.’

  ‘That’s all right. I didn’t think you’d answer.’

  ‘No, Frieda. I’ll answer.’ Levin’s expression changed to one she rarely saw. Hard, shrewd, a little chilling. A glimpse of the real man. ‘Some years ago I was having a drink in Whitehall.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘I believe it was actually in front of a log fire. And the man I was talking to, a man whose judgement I respect, said there was someone who might interest me. It was you, of course, and, as it happens, your involvement in the Dean Reeve case. We looked into you, and the tragic suicide of your father …’

  ‘If you’re going to say something like “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger”, then …’

  ‘It’s not entirely inapplicable in this case,’ continued Levin. ‘There was the trouble you ran into as a teenager, leaving home. I talked to various people in your past. It was quite remarkable. I started to follow your progress and I thought, That’s the sort of person I should recruit.’

  ‘But you didn’t recruit me. You used me.’

  ‘That’s harsh, Frieda. I hope that we helped each other.’

  Frieda held the keys up. ‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.’

  Levin smiled. ‘You don’t,’ he said. ‘Even when you try to. Now …’ he paused for a moment ‘… I’m not a person who hugs or kisses on both cheeks, so I’m just going to shake your hand, but I hope you realize it represents, connotes, a genuine regard.’

  He held out his hand gravely and Frieda shook it, but then Levin didn’t let go. ‘On the issue of recruitment …’ he began.

  Frieda pulled her hand free. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘You’d be good at it,’ he said. ‘You’d find it challenging, stimulating.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frieda. ‘It’s like a drug. Which is why I have to stop.’

  Levin shook his head sadly. ‘I thought so. But I feel I haven’t done enough.’

  ‘You’ve done plenty,’ said Frieda. ‘The last bit I have to do on my own.’

  ‘I was afraid of that. So I’ve provided you with a place to stay, I’ve failed to recruit you, we’ve shaken hands. There’s nothing more to be said.’

  He rapped on the window of the café. Lola looked round and Levin gave a little wave, then walked away and was quickly swallowed in the stream of people. Frieda rejoined Lola inside.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Lola.

  Frieda thought for a moment. ‘That’s a difficult question to answer. He did me a favour once and I think I did one or two for him. Be careful when someone does you a favour. You never know where it will lead.’

  ‘Why did he look at me like that?’

  ‘How did he look at you?’

  ‘Like I was something he was about to dissect in a laboratory.’

  ‘That’s his normal manner. Now, there’s something I want to say to you.’

  Lola shrank back, looking at her with a scared expression. ‘What? You sound angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry, but I am very serious. I don’t think you’re being rational, Lola. You’re clinging to me like a child clings to its mother, but I’m not your mother and you’re not a child. I’m no longer your place of safety.’

  ‘No.’ Lola looked at Frieda like a tragic child, her eyes and her mouth round, tears rolling once more down her cheeks. ‘I’ll be all right. I won’t collapse. I’ll help you and do everything you say, but you mustn’t send me away. I won’t go. Frieda?’

  Frieda looked at her for several seconds, and then she nodded. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. If that’s the way you want it. But you are to do as I say.’

  ‘I will.’ Lola took a deep, shuddering breath, wiped her cheeks with her sleeve, then asked, ‘Where are we going now?’

  Frieda loo
ked at the address written in neat copperplate on the card that Levin had pressed into her hands.

  ‘Eighteen A Rivingdale Terrace,’ she said. ‘NW1.’ She frowned. ‘I know where that is.’

  ‘What? Is it somewhere horrible?’

  ‘I think you’ll never have lived anywhere like this before.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Frieda and Lola went first to a camping shop on Euston Road where they bought yet another couple of cheap sleeping bags because they didn’t know what there would be in the new place. Then they walked along the canal and up towards Regent’s Park. The wind blew leaves along the ground and the air was full of scraps of yellow, red and brown. Frieda thought of the message that Dean had sent her, not so long ago: We are leaves on a tree. Autumn is coming.

  Lola, walking fast to keep up, lurched between silence and sudden torrents of speech.

  ‘I could do with a cigarette,’ she said at one point. ‘I’m not really a smoker. Just at parties, you know. But now I suddenly want to be smoking, smoking really hard, the way my friend Lily does. It makes her cheeks go hollow. I want to be like that.’

  ‘Perhaps because smoking can be a way of getting through the time, when you don’t know how to endure things,’ said Frieda. ‘For a few minutes, that’s what you’re doing: you’re smoking a cigarette.’

  ‘I’d probably just feel dizzy. Why are we going here?’

  ‘This is Rivingdale Terrace.’

  ‘This! Wow!’ For a moment, she sounded like the old, guileless Lola.

  The stately white buildings were set back from the road behind iron railings, many with tall pillars and long terraces.

  ‘It looks like a palace,’ said Lola. ‘Who lives here?’

  ‘Apparently nobody,’ said Frieda. ‘Somebody far away probably owns it as an investment.’

  ‘Some of the windows are the size of a small house.’

  Jock Keegan was coming from the opposite direction, in the threadbare suit he had worn all the time Frieda had known him, his hair like stubble, his shoulders broad. Frieda saw how he walked heavily, trudging along beside the grand façade with his eyes on the road in front of him.

  ‘Frieda,’ he said, as he reached them. ‘And this is your friend.’