Day of the Dead

by Nicci French

  Frieda had said it was the endgame. She just wanted it to be over. But after it was over, then what? Who would she be? What would she have done?

  FORTY-THREE

  Dolan had drunk two Red Bulls, eaten a pack of salted peanuts, smoked four cigarettes, and felt both jittery and sleepy. Next time, he would bring a sandwich, a flask of coffee and a large bottle of water, and he would stretch his legs more often. It was too late for that now: it was pouring with rain outside, the kind of rain that would soak him in a few seconds. But the car felt muggy so he opened the window a few inches, and it was at that moment that a small group of men passed him and made their way to the Three Feathers’ entrance, heads lowered, one of them in the middle uselessly holding a small umbrella whose loose spoke flapped, directing water in a spout.

  There were four of them, but it was the one on the left who caught his attention. Quarry had said that the man they were looking out for was big. This man was big, and broad. And Quarry had said he had long dark hair, perhaps tied back in a ponytail. In the light thrown by the pub as they opened its door and went inside, Dolan saw the man’s long, dark hair was roughly pulled back into a ponytail. Quarry had also mentioned tattoos, but for that Dolan would have to go inside and see for himself.

  He got out of the car and jogged towards the pub, feeling the rain run down under his collar. The Three Feathers was crowded, people sitting at tables and standing by the bar. But it was easy to see the man who might be Len: he was head and shoulders taller than anyone else. Dolan edged closer: yes, he had tattoos, snaking out from the long sleeves of his shirt.

  Dolan went to the entrance and pulled out his mobile. ‘I think he’s here,’ he said to Quarry, in a low voice.

  ‘Buy yourself a drink, keep an eye on him, but don’t do anything till I get there. No sign of Reeve?’

  Dolan felt a jolt of panicky excitement: it hadn’t occurred to him that perhaps one of those other men with Len was Dean Reeve.

  ‘He’s with a group. I’ll take a look,’ he said.

  ‘Look but don’t act. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  It took Quarry half an hour. There’d been an accident and the traffic was painfully slow. As he walked into the Three Feathers, he spotted Dolan standing near the bar, nursing a ginger ale.

  ‘Is he still here?’

  ‘In the other room, playing darts. No sign of Reeve.’

  He went through, sat to one side and watched until the end of the game. Then he stepped forward. He was quite tall himself, but he looked slight beside the other man.

  ‘Len?’ he asked.

  The man looked down at him. ‘What do you want?’

  Quarry introduced himself. Most people became shocked or defensive when suddenly confronted with the police. Len seemed utterly indifferent.

  ‘I heard you might be able to help us,’ said Quarry.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘You are Len, then?’

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘Can I have your last name?’

  Len gazed at him impassively, then said, ‘Smith.’

  ‘Smith?’

  ‘It’s a common name.’

  Quarry glanced around at the men who were watching them, feeling a prickle of unease. ‘Can we talk somewhere more private?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘This way, please.’

  For a moment, Len didn’t move and neither did any of the men surrounding them. Then he gave a shrug and went with Quarry out of the pub, Dolan following at a distance. The rain had stopped but it was still damp and blustery. They stood by the side of the pub, near the service entrance and the big metal bins. Len looked at him indifferently.

  Quarry leaned towards him so that he could see his face clearly. He held up the picture of Dean Reeve. ‘Do you recognize this man?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘This isn’t a joke. Do you recognize this man?’

  Len gave a sigh. ‘That’s Barry.’

  Quarry kept his face expressionless: Barry was the name Dean Reeve had used with Geoffrey Kernan, when he had paid him to build the patio.

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Quarry. ‘Just stop. Stop. You’re boring me and you’re wasting my time. This can go two ways. You give me an address and we say goodbye. Or you don’t give me an address and I’ll take you in and I’ll promise to make your life a fucking misery to the utmost of my ability. I’ll start from you giving a false name and go from there.’

  ‘You’re allowed to call yourself what you like,’ said Len, in a newly uneasy tone.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

  He gave an indifferent shrug. ‘He’s got a room above the doner-kebab place on the high street. If he’s still there.’ He gave a short, hacking laugh. ‘Barry doesn’t like to stay in one spot for long. Restless type.’

  ‘Which high street?’

  ‘East Ham. Up from the park.’

  ‘You don’t have a number?’

  ‘It’s above the kebab place. There’s a line of little shops, selling all sorts. Next to the kebab place is a shop selling stuffed animals. They’ve got a big bird in the window.’

  ‘Do you have a mobile number for him?’

  ‘We don’t know each other like that.’

  ‘Nothing else you want to share?’

  ‘No.’

  Quarry pointed. ‘Give your details to young Dolan there. A contact number and an address. And he’ll need you to stay with him for a bit.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You might feel a sudden urge to get in touch with Barry.’

  ‘I told you. I don’t have his number.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Even so. Stay with Dolan, Len.’

  Quarry called Dugdale. ‘We’ve got a possible address.’ And he told him what Len had said. He could hear the excitement in his own voice, making it husky, but Dugdale was his usual calm self.

  ‘Park outside and stay there. Wait for back-up.’

  Frieda lay in bed, knowing she wouldn’t sleep. She heard cars in the distance and, later, a fox. It was still raining, but less heavily. Usually she liked the sound of wind and rain, especially when she was in her own little house in the darkness. It wasn’t so far from here; she could walk there in a few minutes. She closed her eyes and let herself imagine opening the blue door, stepping into the hall that smelt of beeswax polish, into the living room, where the fire would be laid and the shutters closed against the night. Everything in its proper place. A pot of basil on the kitchen windowsill, and in her garret study a pencil sharpened and lying on the pad of grainy paper. The cat would be curled on a chair, or at the bottom of her bed, and it would open one yellow eye, then shut it again. The longing for home ached in her.

  She heard a sound, a kind of groan. It was Lola, on the other side of the wall, also unable to sleep. Poor, lost Lola, she thought, sucked into the maelstrom. But it would be over soon. We are all just leaves on a tree … and autumn is coming.

  Quarry found the kebab shop all right. It was just as Len had described it. But it was difficult to park outside. There was a bus stop, double yellow lines, a traffic light. Of course, he was a police detective. He could flash his badge and park anywhere but he would need to explain. It would be obtrusive.

  Instead he parked the car off the high street in a residential road and walked back. He positioned himself opposite. The kebab shop was busy, with teenagers clustered around the counter. He looked above the shop at the flat. The windows were dark. On the right-hand side there was a charity shop, closed at this time, but with a stuffed squirrel visible in the window. On the left-hand side there was a mini-mart, fruit and vegetables laid on stalls on the pavement. Next to that, sportswear and then household goods, both closed for the night. After that a small cobbled alley. Quarry walked across the road and showed Reeve’s picture in the kebab shop and the mini-mart. Everybody just shook thei
r heads.

  When he emerged from the mini-mart, he saw Dugdale on the other side of the road, in a dark coat, hands in the pockets. He crossed to join his boss and they walked along the road a few yards, then stopped in a doorway.

  ‘Well?’ said Dugdale.

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Quarry.

  ‘You trust your source?’

  ‘He identified Reeve, he identified this place.’

  ‘Anyone home?’

  ‘The lights are off.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘We could keep a watch. Wait for him to arrive.’

  Dugdale frowned. He didn’t look happy. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He could have moved on. It could be a dead end.’ Quarry could see Dugdale chewing his lower lip, thinking hard. ‘I’m sorry but we don’t have the time. I’m calling a squad out. We’ll knock the door down. Maybe we’ll find something. He might even be at home.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Is there a back way?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Nip round and have a look. No point in letting him just walk away. If there is, we can post some guys round there just in case.’

  Quarry went back across the road towards the little alley he had seen earlier. There was a small van parked there and behind it two large metal bins. He walked past them and saw that there was indeed a narrow, unlit road that ran along the back of the shops. Quarry guessed that in the past it would have been a place for horses or for coal deliveries. It looked almost abandoned. There was some cracked paving at first but then the ground became rough dirt. He counted the buildings as he passed them. The first was the hardware shop, then the mini-mart, with piles of overflowing bin bags. There was a smell of decaying food. After that the kebab shop.

  Yes, thought Quarry, they would need a couple of men round here. He reached for his phone and just when it was far too late he was aware of a movement at the periphery of his vision. When the blow came, he didn’t so much feel it as see it. Everything went white and there was a red flashing and pulsing. He didn’t seem to be falling. Instead the ground came up to meet him and he felt the dirt prickling against his cheek and his nose. He could even taste it. It was in his mouth and on his tongue. Then there was another blow but he didn’t even know where on his body this was all happening. And he thought, as he lay there and tasted blood in his mouth, that this was Dean Reeve. Dean Reeve was here with him, standing over him and kicking him. He could have caught him, could have been a hero, but now Reeve would get away and the killings would continue and he was just the fool who hadn’t seen it coming and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. He heard himself groan. Is this it? he wondered. Is this what it’s like to die? It didn’t seem very much to be afraid of. He knew he couldn’t do anything to protect himself. His body didn’t seem to belong to him any more. It wasn’t up to him. He just had to wait for it all to be over. None of it felt real.

  Gradually it started to feel real again. Now there was pain and the pain systematically resolved itself. It came into focus. It located itself in very particular parts of his body: the right side of his face and his chest and his leg. And the dirt in his mouth made him cough and spit. Even now, though, he couldn’t move and he could barely think. He tried to reach for his phone but it was impossible and he sank back. After some time he was aware of lights in the darkness and he felt himself being touched and prodded. He tried to speak in response but all he managed was a groan.

  Ten minutes later everything was clearer. He was sitting on a gurney in an ambulance in intense white light. He felt a whole spectrum of pain: aches and flashes and spasms. A paramedic was dabbing at his cheek with something that made Quarry want to cry out. He wiped tears away from his eyes and saw that Dugdale was sitting opposite him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, in a thick, swollen voice. His tongue felt slow and too large for his mouth. ‘So sorry. Didn’t see him.’

  Dugdale shook his head helplessly. ‘No, Dan. It’s me. It’s my fault. I had him,’ he said. ‘I had him and I let him go.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  ‘Is Reuben McGill in?’ asked Karlsson.

  The woman gazed up at him from her desk, which was more like a shrine, heaped with dried flowers and strange ornaments. She had curly dark hair piled on top of her head, red lips, long earrings dangling from her lobes. ‘Reuben. He’s in but if you want to make an appointment with him you have to …’ She came to a halt. ‘I know you.’

  ‘That’s right. And you’re Paz.’

  She frowned at him. ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘No.’

  Karlsson had woken that morning early, before it was light. He had dressed and sat in his kitchen drinking coffee and looking out at his garden, where the trees were shaking leaves from their branches. It was his day off and he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was restless, anxious, with an ache in his chest that didn’t ease and that he had become familiar with over the past weeks. He was thinking about Frieda. He felt sure she was in great danger and it was a torment to him that he could do nothing to help her. So, on an impulse, he had walked to the Warehouse to see Reuben, knowing all the while that it was probably for nothing.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Paz, and she disappeared up the corridor, her high heels clicking on the boards. When she came back, she gave him a nod. ‘He’s waiting,’ she said.

  Reuben stood up as Karlsson entered, and they shook hands across his desk.

  ‘Any news?’ Reuben asked, before Karlsson had a chance to say anything.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, let me guess.’ Reuben gestured at a chair and sat himself. ‘You want to know if I know anything. Like last time you came to see me.’

  ‘Yes.’ Karlsson looked away, at the tall bookcase crammed with textbooks. He let his eyes settle on one with the title Anticipatory Mourning. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he added. He felt unexpectedly and horribly sad and it was hard for him to speak.

  ‘I don’t.’ Reuben ran a hand through his hair, newly grown back.

  He looked so much older than a year ago, thought Karlsson, with new creases in his face. ‘Would you tell me if you did?’

  Reuben looked at him through narrowed eyes, then spoke without his habitual irony. ‘If I thought it would help. Because, of course, what you’re feeling is what we’re all feeling. She’s out there and she’s in danger and we can’t protect her from it, but must simply wait.’

  ‘What about Josef?’ said Karlsson, standing up.

  ‘Do you mean does Josef know anything?’

  ‘She confided in him when she was in hiding from the police.’

  ‘You asked me this before. She did, and he didn’t breathe a word,’ said Reuben. ‘Josef can keep Frieda’s secrets, even after a bottle of vodka.’

  ‘Do you think he knows something?’

  ‘He hasn’t said anything to me.’

  ‘Maybe I should go and talk to him.’

  ‘Good luck with that. You’ll find him at Frieda’s house.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s made her a roof terrace, or maybe it’s a large balcony.’

  ‘A roof terrace?’

  ‘Him and Chloë. He went there this morning with some pots. Who knows what Frieda would make of it.’

  ‘Will,’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What Frieda will make of it.’

  ‘That’s what I meant.’

  They shook hands again. Reuben gave Karlsson a nod. ‘It’s hard,’ he said.

  Karlsson stood outside Frieda’s door for several moments before knocking. It was infinitely strange to be there. In spite of himself, his heart beat harder when the door opened, and he felt a surge of absurd disappointment when it was Josef’s face he saw, not Frieda’s.

  ‘What wrong?’ Josef said.

  ‘Nothing. Reuben said I’d find you here. Can I come in?’

  Josef opened the door wider and Karlsson stepped inside, inhaling the familiar smell of the hall. He could see into the living room, where
there was a fire laid in the grate and a vase of crimson dahlias on the mantelpiece. Everything lay waiting for Frieda’s return.

  ‘Reuben said you’d built a roof terrace.’

  Josef’s face brightened. ‘For her surprise, yes. You want to see? Follow.’

  They went up the stairs together, and out onto the balcony. There were several large terracotta pots and two hefty bags of compost to one side.

  ‘What you think?’

  Karlsson looked at the new structure, then out at the view of London; he looked into Josef’s deep brown eyes. He tried to imagine Frieda coming home at last to find her precious space had been transformed in her absence. ‘She’ll love it,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Chloë making a chair to go just here.’ He gestured with his broad hands. ‘And a small table. Soon we go to garden centre for plants.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Lots of plants.’ Josef smiled. ‘Then Frieda come back.’

  Karlsson waited a moment before speaking. ‘Josef,’ he said. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where’s Frieda?’

  ‘I not know.’ Josef widened his eyes, overacting sincerity. ‘I know nothing.’

  ‘I need to find her.’ He waited but Josef said nothing, just stared at him with his sad brown eyes. ‘I’m convinced she’s in danger and I can help her.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  On his way out Karlsson met Chloë. She was carrying a plastic pot with a spindly sapling in it, more like an unpromising twig with three or four leaves attached to it.

  ‘It’s a miniature apple tree,’ she said.

  ‘For the roof terrace.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve just been up there with Josef.’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have done it,’ said Chloë, wrinkling her nose doubtfully. ‘Frieda hates surprises. It was just – well, something. While we wait.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Karlsson, gently, and then added, on an impulse: ‘You haven’t seen her, have you?’