Tuesday's Gone

by Nicci French

  ‘All right,’ said Sandy. ‘I’ll keep quiet about what a beautiful day this is and how the daffodils are out and how Waterlow Park has this wonderful position overlooking London. We could go next door to the cemetery, if that suits your mood more.’

  ‘You know me,’ said Frieda. ‘I like cemeteries. But this is good for today. I love this park. I don’t know how Sir Thomas Waterlow earned his money. He probably stole it from someone or inherited it undeservedly. But he gave this park to London and I’m grateful to him for it. And I’m grateful to you.’

  ‘Well, gratitude isn’t exactly –’

  ‘Sssh. I know what you’ve gone through, Sandy, and what you can’t say to me. You’re too much of a gentleman, aren’t you? You came back here and we met again and it was good. No, it was lovely. This should have been the time for us to think about our lives, make decisions, take pleasure in each other. Instead – well, you get to sit beside a hospital bed day after day, watching me sip thin chicken soup out of a straw or pee into a bowl.’

  ‘Thinking you might die.’

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘When I thought you were going to die –’

  ‘I know.’

  They made their way towards the pond. The park was busy and families were scattered along the path. Children were feeding ducks and pigeons and squirrels with nuts and stale bread.

  ‘Look at that,’ said Sandy.

  A small boy was throwing peanuts to a large rat that had emerged on to the grass from beneath a rhododendron bush.

  ‘If you’re going to feed pigeons,’ said Frieda. ‘You might as well feed rats too.’

  ‘Shall we walk up higher?’ said Sandy. ‘There’s a better view.’

  ‘In a minute,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I wanted to come here for symbolic reasons. I didn’t expect you to turn up at the wedding. I thought you’d cut me out of your life. I was very, very happy when I saw you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frieda. ‘Yes, I was happy too.’ It felt such a very long time ago.

  A duck walked along, followed by a line of extremely small ducklings.

  ‘Normally, I would say that was very sweet,’ said Sandy. ‘But I won’t.’ He turned and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Frieda, I don’t know how to put this but I know it’s been appalling beyond words for you and if you ever want to talk …’

  Frieda wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you want me to say that I’m traumatized?’

  ‘Anyone would be.’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll see. Right now, what I mainly feel is sad about Mary Orton. When I close my eyes, I can clearly see her looking up at me. She was looking at me in the last moments of her life and I suppose she was thinking, But you said you were going to protect me. You said it would be all right. I can’t think what else I could have done. I told the police. I dialled the emergency services. I went to her house.’

  ‘You did all you could.’

  ‘She had two sons who abandoned her. She was cheated and she turned to me for help and then she was murdered. Anyway, her two sons have got her money now so at least someone’s happy.’

  ‘This isn’t you talking, Frieda. This isn’t what you’d say to one of your patients.’

  ‘If I said to my patients what I say to myself, most of them would go off and kill themselves.’

  ‘It isn’t what you say to Josef, when he blames himself for Mary Orton’s death.’

  ‘No.’ Her face softened. ‘I tell Josef he did what he could and I should have listened.’

  ‘So it’s one rule for everyone else and a different one for you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Anyone would be affected by what you’ve been through. But it’s not the being stabbed, the nearly dying, is it? When you talk about what happened to you, which isn’t often, it’s Mary Orton you dwell on, and Janet Ferris, even Beth Kersey, who would have killed you – indeed she almost did. And then there’s Alan Dekker and Kathy Ripon. All the people who are gone. And it occurs to me that you feel – how can I put this? – too much about it, or too personally.’ Sandy stopped and looked at Frieda’s fiercely glowing eyes. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Wait,’ she said. She turned away from him, looking out over the park.

  When she turned back her face was paler than ever, her eyes even brighter.

  ‘I have something to tell you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have never said this to anyone.’ She took a deep breath. ‘When I was fifteen years old, my father killed himself.’ She held up a hand to stop Sandy saying anything, or coming closer. ‘He hanged himself in the attic of our house.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Frieda.’

  ‘I found him. I cut him down but, of course, he was already dead. He had been very depressed but I thought I could rescue him. I thought I could make him better. I still have a dream where I get to him in time. Over and over again.’ Her large eyes stared at him. ‘I didn’t get to him in time, though,’ she said. ‘Or to Mary Orton. Or Janet Ferris. Or Kathy Ripon. Or poor Alan. People who trusted me and I let them down.’

  ‘No, my darling.’

  ‘I feel I carry a curse. You shouldn’t come too close to me.’

  ‘You can’t keep me away.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Frieda. For one moment, Sandy thought she would cry. She stepped forward and put one hand against his cheek, staring at him. ‘What are we going to do, Sandy?’

  ‘We’re going to give ourselves time.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you’ll still go back to the States and I’ll still be here?’

  ‘Yes. But it won’t be the same.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of Waterlow Park. Because of our night-time river walk. Because you’ve shown me how water can flow underground without drying up and disappearing. Because I know you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frieda very softly. ‘You know me.’

  ‘Hello!’

  Sandy and Frieda both looked around. A little girl was standing next to Frieda, clutching a small bunch of daffodils with her two hands. She offered them to Frieda, stretching her arms out and standing on tiptoe. Frieda took them. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. Even though the movement hurt her, she bent over so that her face was closer to the child’s. ‘They’re beautiful.’

  ‘It wasn’t your time,’ said the little girl.

  ‘What?’ said Frieda. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It wasn’t your time.’ The little girl frowned with concentration, as if she was standing in front of her class at school. ‘It. Wasn’t. Your. Time.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  She looked alarmed. Frieda thought she might run away. Sandy knelt down and spoke to her in a soft voice. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.

  ‘Ginny.’

  ‘That’s a nice name. Ginny, why did you say that?’

  ‘’Cause he told me to.’

  ‘Who?’ said Sandy.

  ‘The man.’

  Sandy looked up at Frieda, then back at the little girl. ‘Can you point to him?’

  She looked around. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said, “Give that woman these flowers and say …”’ She paused. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Ginny!’ a voice called. ‘Ginny!’

  The little girl ran back along the path to her mother.

  ‘Well, what was that about?’ said Sandy.

  ‘He’s watching me,’ said Frieda, in a voice hardly louder than a whisper.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dean,’ she said. ‘Dean Reeve. He’s here. He’s been here all along. I’ve felt him. It was him. I know it was.’ She turned to Sandy with a fierce expression. ‘I couldn’t have cut Beth’s throat. I couldn’t have ripped her belt off to tie it round my leg. He saved me. Dean Reeve saved my life.’

  She waited for him to tell her she was paranoid, crazy, but he didn’t
. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because he wants to be the person who has the power to destroy me.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  She shrugged. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘I said “we”.’

  ‘I know. Thank you.’

  Sandy put his arms around her and she leaned against him. For a moment they didn’t speak.

  ‘So, shall we walk up the hill together?’

  Frieda shook her head. ‘We should leave now,’ she said. ‘It’s getting dark. The day’s gone.’

  Look out for the latest gripping instalment in the Frieda Klein series

  Read an extract now …

  One

  There was no sign that anything was wrong. It was just an ordinary terraced house on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon in April. It had a long, narrow garden, like all the other houses in the road. The one to its left had been neglected for many years. It was overgrown with nettles and brambles; at the far end there was a plastic sandpit full of sludgy water and a child-sized goal that had been tipped over. The garden on the other side was paved and gravelled, with plants in terracotta pots and chairs that the owners folded up in winter and stored in their shed, a barbecue under a black tarpaulin that would be wheeled into the centre of the patio for the summer months.

  But this particular garden had a lawn, just cut for the first time this year. White blossom shone on an old, twisted apple. The roses and shrubs in the borders had been pruned back so hard that they were like sticks. There were ranks of orange tulips near the kitchen door. There was a single trainer with its laces still done up under the window, empty flower pots, a bird table with a few seeds scattered on its flat surface, a couple of empty beer bottles by the boot-scraper.

  The cat walked up the garden, taking its time and pausing by the door, head lifted as if waiting for something. Then it deftly inserted itself through the cat flap and entered the kitchen, with its tiled floor, its table – big enough for six or more people – and its Welsh dresser, which was really too large for the room and was cluttered with china and odds-and-ends: tubes of dried-out glue, bills in their envelopes, a cookery book opened at a recipe for monkfish with preserved lemon, a balled pair of socks, a five-pound note, a small hairbrush. Pans hung from a steel rail above the cooker. There was a basket of vegetables near the sink, a dozen more cookery books on a small shelf, a vase of flowers that were beginning to droop on the windowsill, a school textbook open spine-down on the table. On the wall was a whiteboard with a ‘to-do’ list in red felt pen. There was a half-eaten piece of toast, cold, on a plate on one of the surfaces, and a cup of tea beside it.

  The cat dipped its head delicately into its bowl on the floor and ate one or two granules of dried cat food, wiped its paw over the side of its face, then continued through the house, out of the kitchen, whose door was always open, past the little lavatory to the left, up the two steps. It sidestepped a broken glass bowl and walked around the leather shoulder-bag lying in the hallway. The bag was upended, its contents scattered over the oak floorboards. Lipstick and face-powder, an opened pack of tissues, car keys, a hairbrush, a small blue diary with a pen attached to it, a packet of paracetamol, a spiral-bound notebook. A bit further on, a black wallet splayed open, a few membership cards dotted around it (AA, British Museum). A framed print from an old Van Gogh exhibition was tipped to one side on the cream wall, and on the floor, its frame cracked, lay a large family portrait: a man, a woman, three children, with broad smiles.

  The cat picked its way through the debris and walked into the living room at the front of the house. An arm lay outstretched in the doorway; the hand was plump and firm with nails cut short and a gold band on the fourth finger. The cat sniffed at it, then gave the wrist a cursory lick. It half climbed on to the body, in its sky-blue blouse and its black work trousers, digging its claws purringly into the soft stomach. Wanting attention, it nuzzled against the head of warm brown hair that was greying now and tied back in a loose knot. There were small gold studs in the ear lobes. There was a thin chain and locket round the neck. The skin smelt of roses and something else. The cat rubbed its body against the face and arched its back.

  After a while, it gave up and went to sit on the armchair to wash itself, for its coat was matted now and sticky.

  Dora Lennox walked slowly back from school. She was tired. It was Wednesday and she had double science last lesson, then swing band in the after-school club. She played the saxophone – badly, splitting notes, but the music teacher didn’t seem fussy. She had only agreed to go because her friend Cam had persuaded her, but now Cam didn’t seem to be her friend any more, and whispered and giggled with other girls who didn’t have braces, weren’t skinny and shy but bold and curvy, with black lacy bras and shiny lips and bright eyes.

  Dora’s rucksack, heavy with books, bumped on her back; her music case swung against her shin; and the plastic carrier bag – bulging with cooking utensils and a tin of scorched scones that she’d made in food tech that morning – was splitting. She was glad to see their car parked near the house. It meant her mother was home. She didn’t like coming back to an empty house, with all the lights off and a grey hush to every room. Her mother put life into things: the dishwasher rumbling, maybe a cake in the oven or at least a tin of biscuits laid out ready for her, the kettle boiling for tea, a sense of ordered bustle that Dora found comforting.

  As she opened the gate and walked up the short, tiled garden path, she saw that the front door was open. Had she arrived just after her mother? Or her brother, Ted? She could hear a sound as well, a pulsing electronic sound. As she got closer she saw that the small frosted-glass window, just to the side of the door, was broken. There was a hole in the glass and it bulged inwards. As she stood looking at the strange sight, she felt something on her leg and looked down. The cat was rubbing against her, and Dora noticed that she had left a rusty stain on her new jeans. She stepped into the house, letting her bags slide to the floor. There were shards of glass from the window on the hall floor. That would need to be fixed. At least it hadn’t been her. It was probably Ted. He broke things all the time: mugs, glasses, windows. Anything fragile. She could smell something as well. Something burning.

  ‘Mum, I’m home!’ she called.

  There was more mess on the on the floor – the big family photograph, her mother’s bag, bits and pieces strewn around. It was as if a storm had blown through the house, dislodging objects and tossing them. Dora briefly saw her reflection in the mirror that hung above the table: small white face, thin brown plaits. She walked through to the kitchen where the smell was strongest. She opened the door of the oven and smoke poured out like a hot breath, making her cough. She took an oven glove, lifted the baking tray from the top shelf and put it on top of the stove. There were six charred shrunken black discs on the tray. Utterly ruined. Her mother sometimes made biscuits for after school. Dora closed the door and switched off the gas. Yes, that was it. The oven had been left on and the biscuits had burned. The alarm and the smoke had scared Mimi and she had run around breaking things. But why had the biscuits burned?

  She called out again. She saw the fist on the floor in the doorway, fingers slightly curled, but still she went on calling, not moving. ‘Mum. I’m home.’

  She walked back out into the hall, still calling. The door to the front room was slightly open. She saw something inside, pushed against the door and stepped into the room.

  ‘Mum?’

  At first, stupidly, she saw splashes of red paint on the far wall and the sofa and great daubs of it on the floor. Then her hand flew to her mouth and she heard a small moan coming up her throat, then widening out in the terrible room, becoming a shriek that went on and on and wouldn’t stop. She put her hands against her ears to block out the sound but now it was inside her. Not paint, but blood, streams of blood and then a dark, dark lake near the thing lying at her feet. An arm out-flung, a watch on the wrist that still told the time, a comfortable body in a blue shirt and black trouse
rs, one shoe half off. All that she knew. But the face wasn’t a face any longer, because one of its eyes was gone and its mouth was shattered and shouted noiselessly at her through a spit of broken teeth. One entire side of the head was caved in and blistered with blood and gristle and bone, as if someone had tried to destroy it.

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