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

by Nicci French

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Frieda, but cautiously. She wasn’t sure she liked the way her two worlds were connecting.

  ‘He told me he did your bathroom.’

  ‘Yes. He …’ She paused for a moment. There were many ways in which she could continue the sentence. He had done it without asking. And removed the old bath. And damaged the pipework so that she was without a functioning bath for weeks. Eva and Josef gazed at her expectantly. ‘It was a very good job. Josef is someone you can rely on. At least, I find myself relying on him.’

  ‘You’ll probably curse me for stealing him from you,’ said Eva.

  ‘He’s a free agent.’

  ‘No,’ said Josef. ‘No stealing.’

  On the way to Thornbury, Josef told Frieda about what he’d seen in his quick survey of Eva’s house. The cracks in the outer wall, the damp, the missing roof tiles, the peeling window frames, the exposed wires. ‘Everywhere you look,’ he said, ‘you see the bad things. If you have million pounds, you could spend million pounds easy.’

  ‘Josef, I don’t think Eva has a million pounds.’

  ‘We talk. We make plan.’

  ‘Make sure you see the money upfront.’

  Josef’s expression turned stern. ‘Frieda, you be the detective and I be the builder.’

  ‘I’m not being the detective.’

  ‘What are you being?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s a darkness in my past. I need to find out what happened.’

  Thornbury was near the coast but not actually on it. Josef drove past caravan parks and streets of red-brick council housing, an industrial estate. It felt like a town composed entirely of outskirts but with no centre. They stopped twice to ask people and were directed into a new housing development that had evidently been built on fields at the edge of the town. Frieda knocked at number forty-eight and a large woman opened the door. She seemed to be in her early sixties, dark hair tied up in a bun, and her clothes were just one size too tight for her, as if her obesity had been sudden and unexpected. Frieda felt a tug of recognition: there was something vaguely familiar about her, although she couldn’t put her finger on it. She had an expression of concern, as if Frieda’s appearance alarmed her.

  ‘I was hoping to see Stuart Faulkner.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I was given the address by an old colleague of Mr Faulkner’s.’

  ‘Which colleague?’

  ‘Tom Helmsley.’

  ‘I know Tom,’ said the woman, still wary. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I met your husband many years ago. I need to ask him something. Is he at home?’

  ‘He’s gone to the supermarket.’

  ‘I’ll go and see him there. What does he look like?’

  ‘Ordinary. But I thought you’d met him.’

  ‘Briefly, long ago. I’ll see if I can find him.’

  Almost reluctantly, Faulkner’s wife gave Frieda directions to Thornbury’s retail park. When they got there Josef dropped Frieda off and went to the auto-part store.

  It was a quiet day in the supermarket. Faulkner proved easy to find. There were a number of late-middle-aged men but they were all with their wives, a few steps behind, disconsolate, almost embarrassed to be there in the middle of the day. But there was one man alone, tall, distinguished, short grey hair, grey trousers and a green windcheater. He was at the till with his laden trolley. Frieda walked over and introduced herself. After a few suspicious questions, Faulkner led her to the supermarket café. It was almost full – women with children, women with other women, elderly couples.

  ‘They do a nice lunch,’ said Faulkner. ‘In the summer you can sit outside.’ They both looked through the giant plate-glass window at the parking area surrounded by other stores: pets, bicycles, DIY, furniture.

  ‘It’s not exactly the Mediterranean,’ Faulkner admitted, ‘but you get good value.’

  Frieda bought a black coffee for herself, a cappuccino and a cinnamon Danish pastry for Faulkner. He peeled off part of the pastry and dipped it into his coffee.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Frieda.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘To see you doing the household shopping.’

  ‘You met Lorna?’

  ‘Your wife? She told me you were here.’

  ‘Didn’t you recognize her?’

  ‘No. Have I met her before?’

  ‘She taught biology at your school.’

  ‘At Braxton High?’

  ‘Yes. Under her maiden name, Miss Hopley.’

  ‘Miss Hopley. Of course.’ She had been thin then. Thin and cross.

  ‘She’s not well now.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘She was always anxious, ever since we met. In the last few years it’s got worse. Depression. She’s got a diagnosis. She retired early. Now she doesn’t really like leaving the house.’

  ‘Is she getting treatment?’

  ‘Are you some kind of doctor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She takes pills. They make her fatter. I don’t know if they make her better.’

  ‘It must be difficult for you.’

  ‘I’m retired now as well. I’ve got the time to look after her. But we’re not here to talk about my wife, are we, Frieda Klein?’

  ‘You say that as if you know who I am.’

  ‘I remember you, if that’s what you mean.’

  Frieda needed a moment to gather her thoughts. This was a surprise. ‘It was more than twenty years ago. I was expecting you’d have forgotten all about it.’

  ‘Our cases aren’t just numbers. They’re real names, real faces. I remember them all.’

  ‘I’ve just read through the file.’

  Faulkner frowned. ‘Who gave you that?’

  ‘Is it a problem?’

  ‘It’s unexpected.’

  ‘It was arranged for me. You’ll remember that I reported a serious sexual assault. I was interviewed by two young officers. Detective Constable Tom Helmsley and Detective Constable Kevin Locke. You weren’t directly involved. What is clear, though, is that you took an interest at some point. You read through the statements, underlining, making notes, and then you stopped the inquiry. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Faulkner dipped another piece of pastry into his coffee and ate it. ‘I suppose you’re going to ask me why.’

  ‘I was going to get around to that. But first I was curious about why you took an interest in the case in the first place.’

  ‘It was my job.’

  ‘But these were just the very preliminary interviews. It seemed a strange moment for you suddenly to read through the file.’

  Faulkner scratched his left cheek as if he’d felt a sudden itch. ‘I was doing a favour,’ he said. ‘I knew … well, I knew your parents.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was asked – by them – to have a look.’

  ‘You couldn’t have been asked by them.’ Her voice was harsh. ‘My father died before it happened.’

  ‘Of course. By her, then.’

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You knew my mother?’

  ‘Well, I knew both of them – before that unfortunate accident.’

  ‘Before my father killed himself.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you know them?’

  ‘Braxton’s a small world. I met your mother at a council event, I think. We knew each other.’

  ‘Did you know me?’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. Did you ever meet me?’

  ‘I – I think I saw you. Yes.’ He was speaking slowly and carefully, as if feeling his way along a ledge.

  ‘I don’t remember you.’

  ‘I don’t think we actually met. But when this happened, it was natural for your mother to contact me to help her out.’

  ‘Lucky me,’ said Frieda. ‘Having a friend on the force. You stepped in and called a halt.’

  ‘I thou
ght it was the best thing. For everybody.’

  ‘Based on what?’

  ‘I would have to look at the file again but, from what I recall, there was no evidence of any kind.’

  ‘Apart from my report.’

  ‘Apart from your report. And even there, you provided no description.’

  ‘It was in the dark.’

  ‘You waited several days to come forward.’

  ‘I was terrified.’

  ‘You seem to have recovered.’

  Frieda had to overcome a strong impulse to pick up her coffee and throw it over the retired detective. ‘I’m fine,’ she said finally, in a quiet voice. ‘But I’m not sure you’re the one to make the judgement.’

  ‘I thought you’d left the area.’

  ‘Yes, I had. But I’m back. For a while, at least.’

  ‘Digging up the past?’

  ‘It’s not past, that’s the thing. Anyway, I’ve other business. My mother’s not well. But maybe you know that.’

  ‘We’ve lost touch. But none of us is getting any younger.’

  Frieda shook her head. ‘It’s not that. She’s got a brain tumour. She’s dying.’

  Faulkner started to say something but he still had some pastry in his mouth and he began to cough. It almost looked dangerous. By the time he had recovered himself, his face had gone a flaming red. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ he stammered. ‘She’s really dying?’

  ‘She’s really dying.’

  ‘Tell her … Send her my best wishes.’

  Frieda looked Faulkner full in the face. Had she ever seen him all those years ago? Surely she would remember. In her mind she tried to strip away the signs of age, the streaked grey in the hair, the lines around his eyes and mouth. She felt an impulse to get away so she could calm herself down and think about all of this.

  ‘You know,’ she began, ‘that my mother didn’t believe me. She had a habit of not believing me, but in this case she didn’t believe me in a really big way.’

  ‘Your mother –’ He stopped himself and began again. ‘I’m sure that your mother always had your best interests at heart.’

  ‘That’s one theory,’ said Frieda. She had been playing with the coffee spoon, flipping it around between her fingers, and now she laid it down on the table. ‘Thank you, Mr Faulkner, for seeing me.’ She got up. ‘By the way, do you still go to Braxton? To visit old friends, that sort of thing?’

  ‘From time to time.’

  ‘I heard you took early retirement. Do you mind telling me why?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a sensitive subject. But I’m sure when you ask around, people will tell you.’

  Outside, when Josef saw Frieda, he slammed down the open bonnet of his van and wiped his hands with his rag. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we should see your mother.’

  ‘That’s a very good idea.’

  28

  Her mother was sitting in the living room, her feet in slippers, her hands in fingerless mittens decorated with little robins, and her face bare of its usual impeccable makeup. Her hair wasn’t tied back in its normal loose bun at the nape of her neck, but hung loose and unwashed, making her seem both younger and older than she was. She wasn’t alone.

  ‘Hello, Frieda,’ said David, looking up from the depths of the armchair, where he was occupied with the crossword.

  ‘David – I didn’t know you were here.’

  ‘Where else would I be, once I knew our mother was dying?’

  Juliet gave an artificial cough. ‘The last time I checked,’ she said, ‘I was still alive.’ She put a finger on her wrist, then nodded. ‘Yes, as I thought. There is a pulse.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your companion?’ asked David.

  ‘This is Josef. You remember Josef, don’t you?’ she asked Juliet. She still hadn’t decided on what to call her (Juliet, Mother, Mum?) so had settled on not calling her anything.

  Juliet frowned. Her eyes seemed cloudy. ‘The man from the council,’ she announced at last, triumphantly. ‘Pest control.’

  ‘Do you have mice?’ David frowned and glanced around, as though he expected to see them scuttling across the carpet.

  ‘No, Josef is my friend.’

  ‘I was here and make soup,’ said Josef, encouragingly.

  ‘How are you?’ Frieda asked her mother.

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the doctor.’

  ‘Hardly.’ David gave a snort. ‘Unless you want to talk about your past and all its secrets.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Frieda, ‘there was something I wanted to ask you about.’

  ‘Perhaps a sandwich for good health,’ said Josef. ‘And later Frieda can wash your hair. Yes?’

  ‘Maybe we can be alone for a few minutes,’ continued Frieda.

  ‘I have nothing to hide from Ivan,’ said Juliet, peevishly.

  ‘Except I’m David.’

  ‘If you want me to recognize you, you should come more often.’

  ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘Can we have a couple of minutes alone?’ Frieda asked again.

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ said Juliet. ‘Just say whatever you want. I would like a sandwich. No crusts.’

  ‘No crusts,’ said Josef. ‘Very good.’ He left the room.

  Frieda took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to ask you about Stuart Faulkner.’

  For a moment the expression on her mother’s face didn’t alter. But then it gradually seemed to loosen and crumble. ‘What?’ she said at last.

  ‘Stuart Faulkner.’

  David laid down his paper and sat up straighter in his chair.

  ‘What about him?’ Juliet managed.

  ‘You used to know him.’

  ‘I used to know a lot of people.’

  ‘He was a police officer.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And you contacted him after I was raped.’

  ‘What? What?’ David stood up. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Don’t swear,’ Juliet said crossly. ‘It’s a bee in Frieda’s bonnet.’

  ‘You asked him to get the case dismissed.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I’m dying. Is this the way you treat a dying woman?’

  ‘You told him you didn’t believe me and he helped get the case thrown out.’

  ‘If I did, you should be grateful to me. That’s all I’m going to say.’

  ‘Rape?’ said David. ‘You were raped?’

  ‘She said she was raped. It’s different,’ said Juliet.

  ‘Why wasn’t I told about this?’

  ‘Because it didn’t concern you,’ said Frieda. ‘You and Ivan were at boarding school, remember? We were that sort of family.’

  David didn’t reply. He looked so desolate that Frieda almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  ‘Why did Stuart Faulkner help you?’ Frieda said.

  ‘I think I should lie down,’ said Juliet. ‘I have a tumour in my brain, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Police officers aren’t usually so obliging to vague acquaintances, people they’ve met at a local council event.’

  ‘Will someone please answer me?’ David spoke loudly but neither Frieda nor Juliet paid him any attention.

  ‘You were having an affair with him, weren’t you?’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘You were having an affair with him and you asked him to intervene on your behalf.’

  ‘Someone needed to protect you from yourself.’

  ‘It began before Dad killed himself.’ It wasn’t a question but a statement. Everything had become clear-edged to Frieda. For a blinding moment she saw her father’s face: he was gazing at her with his beseeching eyes.

  ‘Jesus,’ said David. He was walking up and down the room with heavy footsteps. ‘Family reunions.’

  Juliet lifted her head and glared at her daughter. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said. ‘Don’t you dare blame
me for your father’s death. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live with someone who’s depressed? Who sucks the joy out of your life as well as his own? Do you have any notion of what my life was like year after year, trying to hold everything together? What if I was having an affair with Stuart?’

  ‘This can’t be happening.’ David stopped in his pacing and faced the two of them, his handsome face contorted with rage. ‘I’ve been here for fifteen minutes and I’ve discovered that my sister claims to have been raped and my mother was …’ He couldn’t even say the words. ‘No wonder I don’t come and see you more often.’

  He left the room, slamming the door hard behind him. Frieda felt suddenly and immensely weary. ‘I don’t think I am blaming you, really,’ she said to her mother. ‘Though, of course, it makes everything even more complicated. I’m just trying to work out what happened in this house all those years ago.’

  ‘I thought you were delusional. I wanted to smooth things over.’

  ‘Smooth things over.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was raped.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’

  ‘You still don’t believe me.’

  ‘What does it matter? It was twenty-three years ago.’

  ‘It matters.’

  ‘Only because you let it.’

  A thought struck Frieda, and it was like a window opening in her mind. She squatted beside her mother and looked into her face. ‘He was here that night, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Stuart Faulkner was here the night I was raped.’

  ‘I don’t feel very well. I want you to go away and leave me in peace.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘It makes no difference to anything.’

  ‘It makes a difference to me.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe he was here?’

  ‘Yes Maybe he came round for a bit.’

  ‘Sandwich,’ announced Josef, entering the room with a plate that he held out in front of him, like an offering. ‘Goat cheese and little tomatoes and salad leaves and spice paste I found in cupboard. I also threw away all rotting things from fridge. Is good?’

  Juliet didn’t reply.

  ‘It’s perfect, Josef,’ said Frieda. ‘Thank you.’