Dark Saturday

by Nicci French

  “Like I said, it was just a small item and we were looking at a local angle.”

  “Did she say anything about the case that wasn’t in the piece?”

  “She said she was in possession of important evidence but she didn’t say what it was. But you must know that.”

  “Do you have any idea of what she meant by “important evidence”?” Frieda stopped abruptly. She frowned across at Blythe. “What do you mean, I must know that?”

  “From your colleague.”

  “I don’t understand. Which colleague?”

  Blythe looked at her in puzzlement. “One of your lot came before.”

  “My lot?”

  “Someone came in. I wasn’t here. He spoke to one of my colleagues and looked through my notes. I could have saved him the trouble: there wasn’t anything, just ramblings and insinuations. He said he was looking into the case.”

  “What do you mean “looking into”? Was he a policeman, a journalist, a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t meet him. I was out of the office.”

  “Who did he speak to?”

  “I think he talked to Sally or Dawn.”

  “Can you put me in touch with them?”

  He looked amused. “I think I can manage that. Follow me.”

  Blythe led her along a corridor into an office where two young women, who were about Chloë’s age, were drinking coffee. One was dressed in jeans and a black sweater, the other in a onesie, elaborately patterned with a design that looked like wallpaper. Blythe introduced them and explained who Frieda was. The first was Dawn, the second Sally.

  “Derek said a man came in to ask about the Erin Brack interview.”

  There was a silence.

  “Erin Brack?” said Dawn.

  “The fire,” said Blythe.

  “I vaguely remember,” said Sally. “I think.”

  “The man?”

  “The fire. Was that the tire dump?”

  “No, the house in Thamesmead,” said Blythe.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Frieda. “A man came in to see Derek about the interview. He says he talked to one of you.”

  The two women looked at each other.

  “Was it that man with curly red hair?” said Dawn.

  “That was about cycle paths,” said Sally.

  “Did he have a shaved head?” said Dawn, looking at Frieda.

  “I don’t know anything. That’s why I’m asking you. Do many people come in?”

  “Loads,” said Sally. “They’re always bloody complaining.”

  “Or doing some campaign,” said Dawn.

  “Or trying to get us to cover some stupid thing,” said Sally.

  “This is really, really important,” said Frieda. “It’s about a murder. Anything you can remember would be crucial.”

  “Are you sure it’s a man?” said Dawn.

  “Derek said it was,” said Frieda.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Derek. “Or, at least, I didn’t mean it. I thought Sally had said it was a man.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Sally.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Dawn.

  “What?” said Frieda.

  “You’re a psychiatrist. You could hypnotize us into remembering.”

  Frieda gave up. She took their numbers and left.

  There was a fire in the tiny grate, giving out no heat. Outside the rain dripped from gutters, and the sky was low and dark. Walter Levin sat at his desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up. He had a cafetière of coffee in front of him and a slice of cake, which looked homemade, on a plate. It was all very cozy, thought Frieda, as she closed the door behind her.

  He looked up at her. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Frieda sat down opposite him, told him what she knew and outlined her scenario: that Aidan had been killed earlier in the evening and brought to the house; that Deborah had not been there, but Justine Walsh had, presumably because of her worries about Shelley, so they’d had to kill her as well; that Deborah was killed later; that Rory was just collateral damage. He listened, his chin propped on his steepled fingers. “That sounds possible,” he said.

  “There’s one other thing.”

  Frieda told him about her visit to Derek Blythe. When she had finished, Levin simply looked puzzled. “And?” he said.

  “It wasn’t you, was it?”

  “I don’t understand. How could it be me? I haven’t even heard of this man. And if I had heard about him, what possible interest would I have in talking to him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I mean rationally.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have to think rationally.”

  “So people tell me.”

  “You sound a bit frustrated.”

  “I am, a bit.”

  “The question remains simple: who would kill an entire family?”

  “A member of that family,” said Frieda, reluctantly. “But it wasn’t Hannah.”

  “So who else?”

  “There’s the father, Seamus Docherty. I don’t know what I think about him. And then there is Deborah’s lover, the father of the child she aborted.”

  “Whose identity you do not know.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you can’t discover who that is.”

  “I don’t think I can. I’ve reached a dead end.”

  “So perhaps you’re looking at it in the wrong way.”

  “Can you suggest the right way?”

  “Not immediately.”

  “Then I’m done.” She rose to her feet.

  “Am I no longer under suspicion?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “I’m going away,” said Maria Dreyfus.

  “Are you? How long for?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to Spain to stay with a friend I used to be very close to but then lost touch with. She had her busy life and I had mine. And then I thought I’d visit places I’ve always meant to see but never got round to, like the Alhambra, and Córdoba. Just me, on my own. It’s been decades since I traveled alone.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’m a bit scared. But in a good way. I’ve put myself on hold for too long and I don’t even know if it’s still there.”

  Frieda looked at her intently. “But you’re coming back?”

  “I’m going away, not running away.”

  “I hope it goes well for you.”

  “Thank you. Is it still all right if I come to see you when I return?”

  “Of course.”

  “In here, I can talk about things and think about things and feel things that are impossible to talk about or think about or feel anywhere else. It’s my safe and secret place.”

  INTERLUDE THIRTEEN

  After group therapy, Dr. Styles approaches Hannah. “How are you?” she asks. “Is there anything you want to talk to me about?”

  Hannah doesn’t reply.

  “Hannah. I wonder if we couldn’t give you a bit more freedom. You could mix more. See people.”

  Dr. Styles doesn’t notice a shape behind her, in the doorway. By the time she turns around, it has gone.

  Aggie finds them in a group, smoking, out under a tree in the garden, unsupervised.

  “Tonight,” she says.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Frieda was told that Hannah wasn’t available for a routine visit and was sent away. She called Levin on her mobile, told him, and he said he would look into it. Five minutes later he rang back and said he couldn’t help.

  “You can help when you want to help,” said Frieda.

  “I’ve tried the official channels.”

  “What about the unofficial channels?”

  “I think that’s more your department.”

  Frieda rang Professor Andrew Berryman.

  “So, what do you want from me?” he said.

  “Why should I want something?”

  “Nice as it would be if you were ringing up to chat and get toget
her, I think you’re after something.”

  “Chelsworth isn’t a prison. It’s an NHS hospital.”

  “That’s right. The clue is in the name. Chelsworth Hospital.”

  “We’re doctors. We should be able to visit a patient, even if they’re in solitary confinement.”

  There was a pause on the line.

  “I suppose that’s technically true, except Hannah isn’t your patient. But you’re telling me this why?”

  “I was thinking about who might know someone at Chelsworth. Or know someone who knows someone. And you’re a neurological researcher.”

  “All right, I get it. I’m not very flattered but I get it. The short answer is that I don’t know anyone at Chelsworth.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Wait, though. Let me think for a second.” Frieda counted slowly in her head. She got to eight. “I’ll see,” said Berryman. “There’s a couple of people who might have contacts. I can’t promise anything but I’ll try.”

  “It’s also very urgent.”

  “Did you hear the bit about not promising anything?”

  The following day, Frieda and Berryman were sitting at Reception when a man emerged from behind a swing door. He had a shaved head and an artfully shaped reddish-brown beard. He wore blue linen trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He walked forward. “Dr. Berryman?”

  Berryman stood up, shook his hand and introduced Frieda.

  “I’m Dr. Charles Stamoran. I gather you worked with Onslow.” He spoke eagerly to Berryman as if Frieda wasn’t present.

  “A couple of years ago.”

  “Maybe you saw my paper on minimally conscious states.”

  “I heard about it,” Berryman said cautiously.

  “It’s a promising field.”

  “Very much so.”

  “So you want to visit Hannah Docherty?”

  “We’d be grateful. We’ve seen her before.”

  “Yes, I know. She’s been put in a different part of the hospital. Have you signed in?”

  Frieda and Berryman held up their plastic-covered passes. Stamoran led them back through the swing door into what might have been a corridor in any hospital, pictures of the Alps on the wall and posters for quiz nights and film shows. But they turned a couple of corners and then it stopped feeling like a hospital and started feeling like a prison. Stamoran knocked on a heavy door of metal bars. A security guard came forward, inspected their passes and opened the door, with the scraping and banging that, to Frieda, always sounded like a caricature of a prison door. They followed Stamoran down a set of stairs. They were in a corridor with a row of doors. Another guard was sitting at the far end.

  “They’re here for Docherty,” said Stamoran.

  The guard was tall, pale, with graying red hair and a strange grin of welcome. “Something up?” he said.

  “Why is she here?” asked Frieda.

  “Don’t ask me,” said the guard. “Why are you here?” He had a rural accent that took her back to where she’d grown up, and he addressed Berryman, as if he were the one in charge.

  Berryman looked at Frieda. “Good question,” he said.

  “If you could just let us in,” said Frieda.

  “I’m the one with the keys.” The guard bared his teeth in a smile once more. He slid back the metal plate over the grille in the door and peered through. “Away from the door,” he said sharply. “There’s a good girl.”

  It took two keys to open the door, which swung inwards. Hannah was backed into one of the corners. The room was white, brightly painted. There was a bed, a lavatory, a washbowl and nothing else. She was dressed in gray tracksuit trousers, a maroon sweatshirt and white trainers. Berryman and Frieda stepped into the cell. When Stamoran made as if to follow them, Frieda stopped him with a look. “If you could just give us a moment,” she said.

  He shrugged and stepped back outside. The door was pushed shut but there was no sound of a key turning in the lock. Frieda looked at Hannah. Her eyes seemed red and inflamed but that might just have been the brightness of the light in the cell. Around one of them was a circular purple and yellow bruise. She had a large plaster on one cheekbone. Her lip was split and swollen. There were dried bloodstains round one nostril. There were bruises on the backs of both hands and on the knuckles, red and purple, and mottled marks around her neck as though someone had squeezed it. When she opened her mouth, Frieda could see two teeth were newly missing.

  “Back in solitary,” said Berryman, almost to himself. “And look at the state of her.”

  “What’s been happening, Hannah?” asked Frieda.

  She just shook her head. It was more like a twitch, as if she was trying to dislodge something. Frieda stepped closer but Hannah tried, impossibly, to squeeze herself further into the corner, so she stopped.

  “I hoped we could talk.” Frieda spoke softly. “I hoped we could help each other.”

  Hannah gave no sign of having heard. She continued moving her head from side to side. Now Frieda moved slowly closer, as if she were approaching a terrified wild animal. When she was just inches away she put up her hands and held Hannah’s head with them. “It’s all right. You’re safe with us.”

  “It’s no good,” said Berryman. “She’s entirely nonresponsive. You can see it in the eyes.”

  “She can respond in different ways.” Frieda took her hands from Hannah’s head and stepped back. “Hannah, can you show us your tattoos? All of them.”

  Now Hannah raised her head and looked at Berryman, then back at Frieda.

  “Go on,” said Frieda. “It’ll be all right.”

  Hannah took a few shuffling steps forward until she was in the middle of the room. She reached down, took hold of the edge of her sweatshirt and, wincing from the pain in her ribs, pulled it over her head. Underneath, she had a floppy blue T-shirt. She took that off in the same way. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this,” said Berryman. He turned so that he was looking into an opposite corner.

  “We’re both doctors,” said Frieda.

  “We’re not doing this as doctors.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  Hannah kicked off her trainers, pulled down her trousers and stepped out of them. She was wearing only gray socks and faded white knickers. She reached for the waistband of the knickers.

  “That’s all right,” said Berryman, who had turned his head. Hannah stopped. “Unless you think we’re likely to miss a crucial tattoo.”

  Hannah stood in the center of the room. The harsh light illuminated her from above, emphasizing her extreme pallor, her injuries, and the blue and black, red and green garishness of the tattoos. They were everywhere, even on her bruised ribs, her breasts: her pale brown nipples were the centers of intricate lines. Frieda walked round her, observing her from every angle. She saw that there were cigarette burns on Hannah’s shoulders and thighs.

  “I don’t like this,” said Berryman. “It feels like the Victorian age where doctors displayed patients like freaks.”

  “You’re talking about Hannah as if she wasn’t here.” She looked at Hannah, who met her gaze properly for the first time. “Thank you for showing us these. They’re beautiful.” She looked round at Berryman. “Tell me what you see.”

  Berryman walked closer to Hannah and faced her directly. “We’re looking at you because we want to help you. Do you understand?”

  Hannah looked away but it didn’t seem like a refusal, so Berryman shifted his attention from her face to her body. “There’s a dragon, surrounded by flames. I guess that figure there”—he pointed at her upper back—“is the devil or some sort of demon. Complemented by a skull on the other side. And a butterfly and some Chinese lettering. I’d always worry about having one of those. You have to take it on trust and hope it isn’t something crazy.”

  “Those are your family,” said Frieda, pointing to the three wonky crosses. “You and Rory and the fetus who was never born.
Around that shape are teardrops or almonds or I thought they may represent the pomegranate seeds that condemned Persephone to the underworld. And on your stomach, you’ve got a coiled snake. And on your breasts an abstract pattern, like a spider’s web or a dreamcatcher. What were they for, Hannah? What do they mean to you?”

  Berryman picked up Hannah’s clothes and handed them to her. “Thank you for that,” he said.

  She pulled them on.

  “I’ll be back,” Frieda said to her. “Soon.”

  As they stepped out of the cell, and the door was shut and locked, Frieda and Berryman looked at each other.

  “She didn’t do those tattoos herself,” Frieda said.

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a psychotherapist. You’re a doctor. You’ve just seen that damaged girl, locked in solitary confinement, away from people, away from the outside world. And you’re thinking of, what? Evidence? Clues? Doesn’t Hannah Docherty just need help?”

  “Showing that she didn’t kill her family looks like the best we can do for her.”

  “I think it may be a bit late.”

  “But it might help her to get somewhere safer, more comforting.”

  Berryman paused. His expression was bleak. “All right,” he said finally. “Clearly she couldn’t tattoo a dragon on her own back. So what?”

  Frieda turned to the warder. “Hannah’s tattoos look professional. Someone in here must have done them.”

  The warder looked wary. “Tattooing’s against the rules. They do it anyway. No stopping them.”

  “I don’t care about the rules. The woman who did it. Is she still here?”

  “Why would you want to know that?”

  “We need to see her. And, by the way, when is Hannah getting out of solitary?”

  “She should be out already. The paperwork got lost.”

  “Please find it,” said Frieda.

  “It’s for her own good.”

  “Does it look like that?”

  Kaz Hoolihan was seventy but she looked much older. She was gaunt, and half her teeth were gone, so that she whistled and wheezed while she talked. Her hair was so thin that the scalp was plainly visible. When the warder led them to her, she was sitting on a bench outside, smoking a roll-up.