Thursday's Children: A Frieda Klein Novel (Frieda Klein 4)

by Nicci French

  Then she rearranged her three patients of the following day and called her mother, telling her she was going to visit her in the morning, at about ten. A voice in her head told her that she was treating her mother like a child, trying to control her. She agreed with the voice, but ignored it.

  She had two more patients that afternoon, then a longed-for evening at home. She had told Sandy she needed to be alone and, indeed, when she closed the door of her little house and stood in silence, the cat at her ankles purring, she felt a relief so strong it was as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She closed the shutters, lit the fire, boiled a kettle for tea, sat in her armchair by the flames with a book, loving the patter of rain outside and the warmth and comfort within.

  Maddie Capel let herself back into her house, slightly tipsy and fumbling with the key. It was after midnight and she’d been away since the early morning, visiting a friend in Norwich. They had been on a shopping spree, then had a meal in a little French restaurant and drunk rather too much wine, flirted with the waiter and talked about errant husbands and difficult children. At first Maddie had been a bit anxious about going. She didn’t know if she ought to leave Becky alone. But her friend had been insistent that she needed a break, and Becky hadn’t seemed to mind. They had argued about her intention to report the rape to the police, and then about Frieda, and Becky had seemed almost relieved to get her mother out of the house. Maddie had to admit that she felt better, in spite of her headache. It was good to escape sometimes; necessary.

  She left her bags of shopping in the hall. She would put them away before Becky got up in the morning. She didn’t want her daughter to see everything she’d bought: the red shoes and the skirt that was probably too short for her, but who cared?; the cloche hat she’d fallen in love with in the shop but knew now that she would probably never wear.

  There was a faint, unfamiliar smell lingering in the air. In the kitchen she saw from the empty dishwasher that Becky probably hadn’t eaten anything. But, then, she wouldn’t have eaten anything if Maddie had been there, trying to persuade her. Her daughter was a stubborn young woman. Stubborn and angry and wretched. Her friend had reassured her that it would pass. ‘They don’t understand what they put us through,’ she had said.

  The smell was slightly stronger as she went up the stairs. Becky’s bedroom door was shut and the house was very quiet, just the drip of a tap coming from the bathroom. Maddie wasn’t sure why she pushed at the closed door. It swung open with a small creak, then stopped against something. She put her head around the door and for a moment stood gazing into her daughter’s room. She saw the soft toys heaped up on the windowsill, she saw the postcards pinned on the board and the bookshelves and the schoolbooks. And her daughter hanging from the beam, as thin and slack and dead as a person can be. One of her shoes had fallen off. Her eyes were open.

  Maddie screamed. She crumpled to the floor, still screaming, hiding her face from the terror above her. She screamed until a neighbour who had a spare key woke with the noise and let herself in to see what the trouble was. Still she went on screaming, until her voice was hoarse, and until the blue lights and sirens came down the street.

  The following morning, Frieda was up very early and at Liverpool Street station in time for the eight o’clock train, going east against the thick flow of London-bound commuters. She got a cab from the station and well before ten was once more knocking on the door of her mother’s house.

  ‘Well, well,’ said her mother. ‘I should probably say something about buses.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You know – you wait for twenty-three years and two come at once. Except, of course, you’re not two buses, you’re one.’

  ‘Could I have some coffee?’

  ‘As long as you don’t ask me any more questions about what happened here on a night too long ago to remember.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The wine bottle was still in the centre of the hall. The kitchen still gleamed. It looked as if nothing had been moved or touched since Frieda’s visit on Sunday. Juliet Klein made coffee in silence. Outside, the day was grey and damp.

  ‘So,’ she said, putting a mug in front of Frieda. ‘Why have you come back? Did you suddenly realize how much you’ve been missing me?’

  ‘I’ve booked a cab to come and pick us up here at half past ten. You’ve got a hospital appointment at eleven fifteen.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘With Professor Roberta Coleman. She’s organized a brain scan for you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I think it’s necessary.’

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good, because it’s not making me laugh. You’ve come here to take me to hospital because you think there’s something wrong with my brain?’

  ‘Sometimes changes of behaviour are easier for an outsider to notice.’

  ‘Is this some kind of psychological revenge? Because if so …’

  ‘It’s just a precaution,’ said Frieda.

  ‘When your patients come to you saying they’re unhappy, do you send them off for physical examinations?’

  ‘If they need it. Are you unhappy?’

  ‘I wish you’d never come back. David was right. I was better off without you.’ She glared at Frieda, her mouth a tight, straight line. ‘So, what are these changes in my behaviour?’ she asked.

  ‘They sound insignificant.’

  ‘Remember, I was a GP for nearly forty years. You can’t patronize me with your medical knowledge.’

  ‘You drink out of the corner of your mouth. You make sudden facial expressions that I don’t believe you’re aware of.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘I noticed that you haven’t opened your mail for several months.’

  ‘Detective Klein. That falls into a different category.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  ‘It probably makes you think I’m depressed – while my tea-drinking and face-making makes you wonder if I have a brain tumour.’

  ‘It’s worth checking.’

  She put her coffee down on the side. ‘I don’t think I want to drink this in front of you. You’ll be scrutinizing the way my mouth works, or doesn’t.’

  ‘Will you come to the hospital?’

  ‘Why not? A nice morning out with my daughter.’

  It was hard for Frieda not to respond ironically to her mother’s incessant irony.

  ‘Good,’ was all that she said. ‘You should take off anything metal. That way you’ll probably be allowed to stay in your own clothes. I’ve brought some earplugs with me. It gets noisy in the MRI machine.’

  Thank you, Doctor.’ The tone was brittle but, just for a moment, Juliet Klein looked anxious.

  ‘The cab will be here any minute.’

  Frieda sat in the waiting room and read her book until her mother returned from her scan.

  ‘All right?’ she asked.

  ‘Slightly unnerving,’ her mother replied.

  ‘When will you get the results?’

  ‘They’ll send them to my doctor in a day or two.’

  ‘That’s quick. You’ll let me know?’

  Juliet Klein tipped her head to one side and regarded her daughter. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But you can go home now.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I think I’ll do some shopping since I’m here. No need for you to hang around. I’m not dying yet.’

  They looked at each other. Frieda nodded and lifted her hand in farewell, then walked from the room.

  While she waited for a taxi to take her to the station, she turned on her mobile. She hadn’t checked her messages since yesterday afternoon. Two texts pinged on to the screen. The first was from Becky, sent the evening before in acknowledgement of Frieda’s email of the previous day. Thanks! it said, and there was a smiley face beside the word. The second was from Maddie, sent two hours ago. Frieda opened it.

  Se
e what you’ve done. I hope you’re satisfied.

  The air chilled around her. She stood quite still for a moment, frowning, and was about to call Maddie when she changed her mind. Instead she went to Google and entered Becky’s name, staring fixedly at the screen until the words appeared.

  Even before she clicked on the story, she knew it was bad. ‘Teenage Girl Found Dead At Her Home,’ she read. The full story appeared, by a local reporter. She scrolled down, taking in the bare facts: Rebecca Capel, aged fifteen, had been found dead at her home in the early hours of the morning by her mother, Mrs Madeleine Capel. There were no suspicious circumstances; Detective Craigie confirmed that the police were not looking for anyone else. The family were devastated by the tragedy. The head of Becky’s school, Briony Loftus, said she had been a bright, popular and talented student whom everyone would miss.

  A taxi arrived and Frieda climbed into it. ‘To the police station,’ she said.

  ‘The one on Wolsey Road?’

  ‘If that’s the main one, yes.’

  Detective Inspector Craigie was in her early thirties, thin and strong, with dark curly hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head and heavy dark brows that gave her a forbidding look.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re in charge of Rebecca Capel’s case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Dr Frieda Klein. I have information about her death.’

  ‘Well.’ DI Craigie raised her eyebrows. ‘There will be an inquest, of course, but I’m not sure how you can help in what is a very tragic death. The case is closed.’

  ‘The case needs to be reopened.’

  Craigie looked at her for several seconds. ‘Very well. I’ll find a room for us and you can tell me what’s bothering you.’

  But there wasn’t a room available. They were in the process of redecorating, she explained. So in the end she led Frieda outside, into an unexpected patch of green at the back of the station. It was in need of tending. There were thick brambles along the wall.

  ‘It’s where people come to have a cigarette,’ Craigie explained. ‘Have a seat.’ She gestured at the shabby wooden bench.

  But Frieda remained standing and so did the detective.

  ‘Becky didn’t kill herself.’

  ‘It’s difficult when a young person chooses to take their own life. Hard to come to terms with.’

  ‘Becky did not take her own life.’

  ‘Becky’s mother mentioned you, Dr Klein.’

  ‘I saw Becky as a therapist, but Maddie’s probably told you that. She must also have told you that Becky had been raped and that she was very distressed.’

  ‘Mrs Capel expressed some doubt about that. But there was no doubt about her fragile emotional state.’

  ‘There is no doubt about the rape.’

  ‘But she didn’t report it?’

  ‘She was going to.’

  Craigie looked dubious. ‘What makes you think there was anything suspicious about her death?’

  ‘I spoke to her on Sunday and she seemed better.’

  ‘That’s not her mother’s opinion. But go on.’

  ‘She told me she had decided to go to the police to report her rape, and that she had also decided to see a therapist on a proper basis. She asked me to recommend someone, which I did, yesterday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Both those decisions are dynamic, assertive, forward-looking. They are not the decisions of a girl who is suicidal.’

  ‘I’m sure you understand things like this better than I do. But, from what I’ve been told, Becky was very upset by her parents’ divorce. She was anorexic, she was self-harming, she had got into trouble at school, she was truanting. Her mother says that she suspects she was using drugs. She claims to have been raped.’ She held up her hands to ward off any protest. ‘I’m not saying she wasn’t. I’m simply stating the facts as I know them. According to her mother, she was vulnerable and hysterical.’

  ‘That’s not true. Becky wasn’t hysterical. She was remarkably resilient.’

  ‘Your impressions aren’t evidence.’

  ‘How did she do it?’ asked Frieda, thinking of the thin, anguished girl, who had sat in her room and wept so bitterly.

  ‘I can’t tell you that. There’s going to be an inquest.’

  ‘She sent me a text yesterday evening. Look.’ Frieda pulled out her phone.

  ‘It’s very common, as you must know, for people to feel guilty or in denial when someone they know kills themselves.’

  ‘That is not what this is about.’

  ‘I’m sure you had good intentions, but Mrs Capel says you encouraged her daughter in her fantasies and wouldn’t let her move on from her distress. I know it must be difficult to lose a patient, but there it is.’

  16

  Frieda went straight to see Karlsson at his house. It seemed the only thing to do. He made a pot of coffee, then didn’t get round to pouring it. It gradually got cold, forgotten, while Frieda sat at the table and told him the whole story. When she had finished, there was a long silence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Frieda. ‘You must feel like you’re trapped. I came and told you the story before and now I’ve told it again. You’re probably wondering what I’m expecting of you.’

  ‘I was just trying to see it from the local police’s point of view. I can understand why they aren’t proceeding. From where they sit, it’s far from clear that there ever was a rape committed. On the other hand, there’s no doubt that this was a troubled young woman with a history of self-harm.’

  ‘You’re just repeating what they said.’

  ‘I’m trying to say that there isn’t an obvious way forward from here.’

  ‘I didn’t come to ask for your permission.’

  At that Karlsson couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘I don’t recall you ever asking for my permission, even when you bloody well ought to have done. So why are you here? Not that you aren’t always welcome, of course, but if you’re not asking for my permission, what are you asking for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘When I look back, I feel I’ve mainly caused you trouble.’

  ‘What you’ve mainly done is help. There have been occasional hiccups on the way, but they’ve usually been worse for you than for me.’

  ‘How are relations between you and the commissioner?’

  Karlsson shook his head. ‘Not good. But they were bad before I met you. It’s probably more your area than mine. I think I’m the son he’s always been a bit disappointed with.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d be the right therapist for him. But what I was trying to say is that I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I do know that I’ll need help. I don’t know what kind. I also want to say that I’m not asking you to believe me. And I won’t ask you to do anything stupid.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

  ‘It felt wrong to me even to begin to think about embarking on something like this without telling you.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ said Karlsson. ‘Because you haven’t always done that. So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to go back to Braxton and spend time there. It’s the thing I swore to myself I’d never do.’

  Karlsson hesitated. What Frieda was saying made him uneasy. ‘If you need help, you have only to tell me and I’ll see what I can do.’ Frieda got up to leave. ‘And if you get any crazy ideas, tell me in advance so I can talk you out of them. Or at least come along with you.’

  Frieda touched his hand with hers. ‘I will,’ she said.

  The next day, Karlsson had meetings, a case review; he supervised the interview of a witness to a robbery who seemed to remember nothing whatever about what he was supposed to have witnessed. He told old George Lofting that in three months’ time he would no longer be a police officer. He called a halt to the refurbishments in the canteen. All the time, somewhere in the back of his mind, he was thinking of what Frieda had told him. It was
a little piece of grit in his shoe, an annoying scratchiness he couldn’t rid himself of.

  Back home, he tried to Skype the children but they were out. He made himself a bowl of pasta and ate it with several glasses of red wine. He was just washing up when there was a knock at the door. He was sure it was Frieda. He was wrong. At first, he didn’t recognize the tall, rangy, middle-aged man in the dark suit, the white open-necked shirt.

  ‘Sandy,’ said Karlsson. It was almost a question. ‘Is Frieda with you?’

  Sandy didn’t return Karlsson’s smile. ‘She doesn’t know I’m here,’ he said.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  Karlsson led Sandy through to the kitchen. He was glad he’d cleared up, so it didn’t look too much like the symptom of a tired middle-aged man missing his children. He picked up his glass of wine. ‘There’s more in the bottle, if you’d like.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Sandy.

  ‘I can make tea or coffee.’

  ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

  ‘I’m guessing this must be something important.’

  ‘Frieda came to see you yesterday.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She wanted your advice.’

  ‘Not exactly advice.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  Karlsson took a sip of his wine. ‘Can we go through to the living room and sit down?’ he said. ‘This feels a bit strange, like we’re standing waiting for a lift to arrive.’

  ‘All right.’

  When they were sitting opposite each other, Karlsson on a wooden chair, Sandy perched at the end of the sofa, Karlsson felt even more awkward.

  ‘Look,’ he began, ‘I don’t like talking about Frieda behind her back.’ He looked down into his drink. ‘It’s no good keeping secrets from her. She’ll find out.’