by Nicci French
“I’m the one who needs protection. That’s why I’m on my own right now, meeting nobody. What can I do if Moss says things like that about me?”
“It’s just one man’s opinion,” says Bradshaw.
“Ah! So it was Moss.”
“I didn’t say that,” says Bradshaw. “And it doesn’t matter.”
“Moss. He shouldn’t be saying things like that.”
TWENTY
Frieda tried to see her friend Sasha once a week. She had been suffering from severe depression. She was vulnerable. Frieda had been concerned about her. But Sasha couldn’t always manage it, and Frieda felt she couldn’t impose herself. This Saturday morning, when they were sitting in Frieda’s living room drinking tea, was the first they had seen of each other for almost a month. Six months earlier she had been briefly in a psychiatric ward, heavily medicated. Frieda tried not to make her feel she was being scrutinized, spied on, but she couldn’t help checking her out. It had been an assessment she had been used to making in her early days as a doctor. Look at the condition of the hair, fingernails, state of cleanliness and neatness, signs of agitation.
Sasha wouldn’t have looked well to someone meeting her for the first time. Her long blonde hair was unkempt, her eyes were dark with tiredness. She fidgeted constantly, rotating the mug of tea on the table, pushing her hand through her hair. Outside it was rainy and windy, and every time the water gusted against the window, Sasha flinched as if it hurt her. But Frieda was reassured. Sasha was better than she had been. More responsive, more alert.
“You should have brought Ethan,” said Frieda.
“Oh, you don’t want a four-year-old running around your house smashing things up.”
“One of the main rules in life,” said Frieda, “is that you should never own anything that you would mind a four-year-old smashing up.”
“He’d find something,” said Sasha. “But it’s not that. I’m doing well with him. Except sometimes I can feel people looking at me: is she safe with him? Is she going to lash out at him or forget to feed him? And I’m back at work, for a couple of days a week.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s tiring. And Ethan’s tiring. So to sit here and be just us . . .” She looked up. “It’s all right, you know.”
“What’s all right?”
“I haven’t left Ethan home alone. I’ve hired this woman, Mariana. I hand over almost my entire salary to her and she helps with Ethan. And things. So you don’t need to worry about him.”
“I wasn’t worried. How are your therapy sessions going with Thelma, by the way?”
“I think she disapproves of me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“I would if I were her. What I wish is that it was like the old days, that I could just talk to you.”
“You can talk to me,” said Frieda. “You’re talking to me now.”
Sasha put both her hands on the table and drummed her fingers, as if she were playing it, like a piano. “I suppose you can’t go to a therapist if one of your problems is that you almost destroyed their life and got them killed.”
“You never did anything wrong,” said Frieda. “Nothing at all. It wasn’t you who nearly killed me. The reason I’m not your therapist is because I’m your friend. It’s good to see someone from outside your life. You look better, Sasha, you really do.”
“I don’t know whether it’s me or the pills. I feel out of my head.”
“What are you taking?”
Sasha rummaged in her pocket and produced a brown plastic bottle and handed it to Frieda. “It’s funny,” she said. “I studied SSRIs when I was a post-grad. I was always a bit dubious about them. I never know whether they’re working or whether it’s a placebo effect. Whatever it is, after the last terrible year, I’ll take it. I’ll take anything.”
As Frieda started to reply, she was interrupted by the doorbell. The two women looked at each other.
“If you’ve organized a surprise party,” said Sasha, “I’m not really in the mood.”
Frieda got up. “That’s another good thing,” she said. “You’re getting your sarcasm back.”
She opened the door. A shock hit her like a dull throbbing. Two uniformed police officers and a man in a suit were standing in the doorway.
“Dr. Frieda Klein?” said the man in the suit.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I am.”
“My name’s Detective Chief Inspector Waite.”
“Do I know you?”
“Know me? Why would you ask that?”
“I’ve met a lot of policemen,” said Frieda. “Over the years.”
“You’re a doctor,” Waite began.
“I trained as a doctor. I’m a psychotherapist.”
“You’re a psychotherapist,” said Waite. “And you see so many police officers that you have trouble keeping track of them?”
“That’s right.”
“We’ll probably get to that in due course.”
“I’m sorry,” said Frieda. “Has something happened?”
“Can we come in?”
“If there’s something you want to tell me, I’d rather you just told me.”
“We want to talk to you. It would be better inside.”
“I don’t know why you’re being mysterious.”
“Please,” said the detective, and stepped forward, so he was almost against her.
Frieda felt as if he was trying to physically intimidate her and her instinctive impulse was to push back. But she didn’t. She knew it would probably just lead to more trouble. “All right.”
She stepped aside and the three officers walked down the hall and into the living room, which they seemed to fill. Sasha looked up in alarm. “What’s going on?
“I don’t know.”
Waite looked at Sasha. “Could you give us a moment?”
“It’s all right.” Sasha stood up. “I was just going.”
“You don’t need to go,” said Frieda.
“It’s probably best,” said Waite.
“What do you mean?” said Frieda. “What’s all this about?”
“Shall I call Karlsson?” asked Sasha.
“Who’s Karlsson?”
“Why do you need to know?” asked Frieda.
“He’s a detective,” said Sasha. “And he’s a friend of Frieda’s.”
“It’s all right.” Frieda put a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll ring you later.”
Frieda looked at Sasha with concern as she put on her jacket, fumbling with the zip as if it was an unfamiliar design. When she was done, she came over and hugged Frieda. “Are you involved with something?”
“I don’t know,” said Frieda.
“I thought you were done with all this.”
“It keeps coming back.”
Sasha let herself out, looking small and vulnerable.
“Is something up with your friend?” asked Waite.
“Yes.”
“Mind if we sit down?”
The two uniformed officers took two of the chairs and put them against the wall, side by side, and sat on them. Waite sat at the table and gestured for Frieda to sit opposite him.
“Pretty house,” he said. “Psychiatrists must be richer than policemen.”
“Fifteen years ago this street was derelict.”
“Nice one. Prime central London location. Good call.”
“You had something to say.” Frieda was making an effort to sound calm.
“I looked your name up. I thought there might be a speeding fine, a court appearance. But you’ve been a busy lady.”
“I think you’ve got this the wrong way around. If you’ve got something to tell me, then tell me. If you’ve got a question, then ask it.”
Waite leaned forward, his elbows on her table. She could see his face in high definition. His dark hair was pushed back against his head, but it was thin over his scalp. It was really time for him to cut it short, to stop pretending he wasn’t
going bald. “You know a woman called Erin Brack.”
Frieda paused. She hadn’t been expecting this. “Was that a statement or a question?”
Waite frowned, looked across at the two officers, then back at Frieda. “You know, usually when I meet respectable members of the public, such as yourself, they’re eager to cooperate. They want to be good citizens. All right. Put a question mark at the end of the sentence. Do you know a woman called Erin Brack?”
“I’ve met her twice.”
“In what context?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be a bad citizen, or whatever it is you call it, but this isn’t how it works. If you’re investigating a crime, you need to tell me what it is. You can’t just ask vague questions.”
“Because of what? Because you might give yourself away?”
“Because it’s how the legal system works.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
“Force of circumstances,” said Frieda. “It wasn’t my own choice.”
“You mean when you were on the run?” said Waite. “Or the various crime scenes you’ve been found at?”
“Yes. Those. So if you want me to answer questions, you need to tell me what this is about.”
“All right, Dr. Klein. Yesterday there was a fire at the house owned by Erin Brack.”
“What kind of fire?”
Waite continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “When the fire was put out, a body was found. It was the owner, Erin Brack.”
Frieda stared at Waite. “She’s dead?”
“Oh, yes.”
She put both her hands on the table in front of her and looked down at them for a few moments before asking, “Was the fire an accident?”
“Investigations are in progress, but we don’t think so. And when we looked at her phone records, there were calls—repeated and of some duration—over the last few days.”
“Yes, she called me.”
“What about?”
For a moment Frieda couldn’t even speak. She thought of poor, clumsy, hopeless, obsessed Erin Brack. What was it she had wanted from life? And what had happened to her? Frieda forced herself to answer. “She kept a blog. You can read what she said there.”
“We know about her blog. That was the first place we looked. But we want to hear it from you. What did you talk about during those calls?”
Frieda found it difficult to think clearly about this, although she didn’t quite understand why. She had barely known Erin Brack, and she had found her troubling and irritating. The idea that anything could happen to her had never occurred to her.
“I don’t think I can answer any of your questions,” she said slowly.
“What?”
“You heard me.” Frieda looked at Waite’s changed expression with a detached sort of interest. She could see that it might have appeared frightening, if she had cared about it at all.
“This isn’t like . . .” Waite stopped. He seemed to have trouble searching for what it was that it wasn’t like. “Like something optional. We’re police. We’re questioning you.”
Frieda took a small notebook from her pocket. She wrote on a page, ripped it out and handed it to Waite. He looked at it. “Who’s this?”
“Call him,” said Frieda. “He’ll explain.”
“What’s this? Phone a friend?”
“Just call that number.”
“If you don’t answer our questions, I’m going to arrest you.”
“What for?”
“Perverting the course of justice. We can add that to your file.”
“Just call the number. Then you can decide if you want to arrest me.”
Waite stood up and glared down at her. The other two officers stood up as well.
“I’ve got a better idea. We’ll put you in a cell. Then I’ll think about calling this number.” He nodded at the officers. “Take her. If she does anything, cuff her. We’ll call it resisting arrest.”
INTERLUDE SIX
Jimmy Moss is in ward four, one of the “safe” wards, preparing a bed. He’s bent over, pulling a stubborn, tight sheet over a corner of the mattress. He doesn’t hear them and he doesn’t see them. A blow to the back of the head and he sinks to his knees, a blow to the kidney and he folds over on the floor. Something strikes his knee and he hears it as well as feels it, a splintering sound. It doesn’t seem connected to him. His face is next, blackness and blood and fragments in his mouth. Then silence and pain rolling toward him, like black storm clouds.
TWENTY-ONE
There was a clattering of bolts. Even the white cell door sounded angry as it opened. Frieda was lying on the bed, her back against the brick wall. Jock Keegan stepped into the cell. He looked around as if he was appraising it, comparing it with other cells he had known.
“I’m sorry,” said Frieda. “I asked them to phone Levin.”
“If you think I’m going to be amused somehow by all of this, then you’re wrong.”
“I don’t find it amusing in any way. And I’m sorry. As I said, I asked them to ring Levin.”
“They did ring Levin. But I didn’t think it was the best use of his time to come all the way down to wherever the hell this is.”
“Thamesmead,” said Frieda.
“Whatever it’s called, it took me an hour to get here.”
“I hoped it would just take a phone call to sort out.”
“Just a phone call?” He gestured helplessly, throwing out his hands. “I said from the start that I didn’t know what it was all about. “She’s got a gift,” Levin said. “It’ll be discreet,” Levin said. “She can do a bit of work for us on the quiet.”’
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I’ve read your file. There are career criminals I’ve dealt with who’ve spent less time in police custody than you have.”
“I asked for Levin because I thought he could sort this out. If you can’t, just say so and I’ll think of something.”
“I don’t know why you’re not wanting to cooperate in a murder investigation.”
Frieda looked around. “Is there surveillance in here?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Keegan. But he walked forward, sat on the bed next to Frieda, and when he spoke to her it was in a whisper, their faces just a couple of inches apart. “What?”
“Erin Brack had material on the case,” said Frieda. “I think that’s why she was killed.”
“That sounds important,” said Keegan. “The sort of thing the police need to know.”
“I’ve got it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I collected it from her the day before she died.”
“What is it, this material?”
“It’s just stuff she raided from bins. I haven’t gone through it properly.”
Keegan looked cross and thoughtful at the same time. “How do you know that there’s any important evidence there?”
“I thought there was a small chance there might be. I wasn’t sure. But I am now.”
“How come?”
“Because Erin Brack was killed. She wrote in her blog that I had got in touch with her. She said she had evidence that she was giving me. And then she was killed and her house set on fire.”
“So tell the police.”
Frieda shook her head. “Right now, it looks as if all Erin Brack’s evidence has been destroyed. I was going to collect it in a few days’ time, and she made that clear in her blog. No one knows I’ve got it. That’s good. If I tell the police, it will get out. It always does. In two days it’ll be in the newspapers.”
“That sounds very cynical.”
“It’s happened to me before. I just need some time,” said Frieda. “A few days. I need the police off my back. So what should I do?”
Keegan stood up and walked around the cell. Then he visibly made up his mind. “All right,” he said.
DCI Waite sat opposite Frieda. Between them, to her left, was the digital recording device. On its fascia was a little screen.
On it, Frieda saw herself, filmed over Waite’s shoulder, looking at the screen.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Waite. “It’s for your own protection.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“So, I understand that you are now willing to make a statement.”
“Yes.”
“Why the change of mind?”
“I’m sorry. I was shocked to hear of Erin Brack’s death. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Like post-traumatic stress?” He didn’t disguise his sarcasm.
“Something like that.”
“What was the nature of your relationship with Erin Brack?”
“Murder investigations were a sort of hobby with her. She knew that I was interested in the Hannah Docherty case.”
“Interested in what way?”
“I’m a psychotherapist. I went to see Hannah to assess her psychological state.”
“Which was?”
“Poor. She’s spent extended periods in solitary confinement.”
“What happened between you and Erin Brack?”
“Not much. She wanted to talk about the case. There was little I could say.”
“She wrote on her blog that she was working with you.”
“That was an exaggeration. I met her twice. Briefly.”
“She rang you repeatedly. What did you talk about?”
“There’s a glamour about these big murder cases. People want to be a part of it. It’s almost like celebrity.”
“Did she tell you anything significant?”
“No.”
“Did she give you anything significant?”
“She talked about doing so. And then she died.”
“She was murdered. Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to do that?”
“No.”
“You were both involved in a murder investigation.”
“Neither of us was. And we weren’t involved with each other. Poor Erin Brack was obsessed, eccentric, a bit lonely, and she wasn’t a threat to anyone at all.”
There was a long pause. Then Waite leaned forward and pressed a button on the recorder. Frieda saw her own face on the screen. It looked remote, passive, detached.
