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

by Nicci French

  ‘They wouldn’t be in the wash, anything like that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So we’re missing a soft toy that Becky often had on her bed at night and her pyjama trousers.’

  ‘And I can’t find the T-shirt she often wore at night either. It used to belong to her father and she was attached to it. It’s white with a red circle on the chest.’

  She stood up and walked over to the bed, sat on it and looked around the room with eyes that had become like a camera, taking everything in. ‘Hang on. Her mouth guard. To stop her grinding her teeth in her sleep. Where’s that? She had it on her bedside table but, look, the box is empty.’

  ‘In the bathroom, perhaps?’

  Maddie shook her head but went to look, returning empty-handed.

  ‘Could she have been wearing it when she died?’ asked Frieda.

  ‘You don’t wear a mouth guard when you hang yourself,’ said Maddie.

  ‘Exactly. These are all night things.’

  Maddie stood up abruptly and started rummaging through the jewellery box. ‘She wasn’t wearing her horseshoe pendant. I remember noticing that. She used to wear it all the time. I didn’t really take much notice then. It seemed meaningless compared to everything else. But it isn’t here either.’

  ‘Did she wear it in bed?’

  ‘Yes. In bed, in the bath. She hardly ever took it off.’

  ‘All right. I think that Becky must have taken off every single thing she was wearing on the night of her rape,’ said Frieda, slowly. ‘Even her mouth guard and her pendant.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because everything was contaminated. She took them off and stuffed them into a bag because she couldn’t bear to see them or have them anywhere near her. But later she would have realized they were evidence.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  ‘DNA,’ said Frieda. ‘Semen. Hair. It’s almost impossible for there to be no trace.’

  Maddie made a little sound and put her fist against her mouth.

  ‘So she didn’t throw it away but took it to Vanessa’s.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Perhaps she thought you’d discover it,’ said Frieda, gently. ‘And, given everything that had passed between you, she preferred that you didn’t. But she collected it again, the day before she died. And the question is: where is it now? Who did she see that evening, Maddie? Do you know?’

  ‘I know she met up briefly with a group of her school friends, down by the playground – it’s a sort of gathering place for the Braxton youth. But I’m not sure who was there and who wasn’t.’

  ‘Was anyone here?’

  ‘Greg,’ said Maddie. ‘He came for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Greg Hollesley?’

  Maddie nodded, her cheeks burning.

  ‘Anyone else you can remember her seeing?’

  ‘Eva popped round for a bit. She wanted semolina for some shortbread she was making and the shops were closed.’

  ‘Becky was killed because she had decided to go to the police.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maddie whispered.

  ‘Your daughter was a brave young woman.’

  ‘We have to find him,’ said Maddie. ‘Can we?’

  34

  Frieda and Josef left the next morning. When Frieda told Eva that she was going back to London for a couple of days, she felt as if she were leaving home all over again. Eva looked shocked and upset, then turned to Josef. ‘Will you be driving Frieda back again? For the reunion?’

  ‘I think.’

  ‘Well,’ she said brightly, and held out her hand to him, as if he were a taxi driver who had come to collect Frieda. ‘Goodbye, then.’

  ‘Hey.’ Josef pulled her to him and gave her a hug. When they moved apart, Eva wiped one eye with a sleeve.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘it’s not really a goodbye, is it?’

  The plan was to drive back into London, open the mail, check that the cat was all right, contact patients. She would clear the decks, then return to Braxton, to her mother and to the reunion. But as soon as she stepped through her front door she saw an envelope with familiar writing on top of the pile of letters on the mat. She picked it up. It didn’t have a stamp. Sandy must have pushed it through the letterbox himself, today, after the mail had been delivered.

  She tore open the envelope and read the few lines written inside. She felt an instant pang of guilt. She’d barely thought of him in the previous days, during her journey into the past. She picked up the phone and dialled his number. There was a very brief conversation. An hour later Frieda was standing at the top of Parliament Hill and saw Sandy walking up the path towards her from the Hampstead side. Frieda felt she couldn’t just stare at him as he approached her so she gazed down at the blurry city in front of her. When she turned towards him, he was almost on her. He looked older, his face newly lined. They didn’t kiss or shake hands.

  ‘This feels like the sort of place where spies meet,’ said Sandy. ‘Neutral territory, away from any surveillance.’

  ‘It’s somewhere we never came together,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I’m sure you can tell me something interesting about it,’ said Sandy. ‘Is there an underground river here? Like the Walbrook, where you left me, the river you said was struggling to get free. Is this the spot where a famous murder was committed?’

  Frieda looked at the angry face. Was this the man she’d loved? Was this what they’d come to? ‘I’m very sorry about all of this,’ she said.

  ‘Which bit? In particular.’

  Frieda wanted to say, Don’t. Please, for everything that we’ve been to each other, let’s not do this. But she couldn’t. ‘I’m sorry it was so sudden,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I’ve hurt you so badly after everything you’ve done for me and been to me. And I’m sorry that I’ve disappeared and that I haven’t been getting back to you.’

  ‘Oh, that. I was thinking more of how when you were in terrible trouble, when you’d almost been stabbed to death, I gave up everything and moved back to England. How we made a commitment to each other and then how you suddenly ended it, just like that, with nothing leading to it, no warning, no discussion.’

  ‘I owe you more than I can say. If I’ve done you wrong –’

  ‘If?’ said Sandy, bitterly.

  ‘I feel terrible about that and I’m truly sorry. But it would have been worse just to have continued.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this. Do you think it’s a coincidence that this has happened when you’ve gone back to the terrible trauma in your past?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘So how’s that going? Have you found him yet?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you about that.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Sandy. ‘I’m out of the inner circle now, am I?’ Frieda didn’t answer. ‘You can’t do this, Frieda. You can’t just use me like this and toss me away.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  Sandy started to speak and stopped. He was making a visible effort to control himself.

  ‘What we need to do … what you need to do, is to get through this, do what you need to do in your home town, deal with whatever ghosts there are in your past, and then we can talk. We can get through this.’

  At this, Frieda took his hand and looked him fully in the eye. ‘Sandy, I want to say this clearly: no. We are finished. It’s over.’

  Suddenly a desperate expression appeared on Sandy’s face. ‘Frieda, you’ve got to tell me, is it something I did? Something I did without realizing it?’

  Frieda waited before speaking. Explanations were what she did, but this she found almost impossible to explain, yet she was utterly sure of it.

  ‘What I asked myself,’ she said, ‘is whether you and I should spend the rest of our lives together, and when I answered no to that, nothing else mattered.’

  ‘That can’t be true,’ said Sandy, and Frieda saw a flash of suspicion and anger. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me? Is it someone else? Is it Karlsso
n? Or that builder? It’s better if you tell me, because I’ll find out.’

  Sandy must have seen something in Frieda’s face because he took a step backwards.

  ‘And then what?’ asked Frieda. She took a deep breath. She had promised herself, absolutely promised, that she wouldn’t get angry with Sandy because that would just be a way of letting herself off the hook, but at that moment it took an effort of will. ‘You should go back to the States,’ she said.

  ‘You won’t get rid of me that easily,’ he said. ‘I’m still part of your life.’

  ‘Oh, Sandy. Let all of this go. Let me go.’

  It ended badly, with Sandy walking angrily away. As Frieda made her way down the hill, her phone rang. It was Reuben.

  ‘Are you in London?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Have you talked to Sasha? She’s been trying to reach you.’

  ‘I’ve been away.’

  ‘Away?’ said Reuben. ‘Haven’t you heard? Phones still work at a distance.’

  ‘It’s been complicated.’

  ‘Go and see Sasha.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s your friend.’

  ‘I’ll call soon.’

  ‘No, go and see her. And not in a few days. Now. This minute.’

  Frieda had intended to return to London for a day or two almost incognito, seeing nobody. She walked down to Highgate Road and caught a taxi over to Stoke Newington. As soon as Sasha opened the door, Frieda knew why Reuben had called. Sasha’s skin was always pale but now it looked almost grey, her eyes dead, her hair matted. Sasha was her friend, but Frieda had met her as a patient who was then suffering from the abusive treatment of her previous therapist. She had been in a bad way but now she looked worse. Her shoulders were slumped, she moved slowly, she didn’t even seem to fully recognize Frieda.

  ‘Where’s Frank?’ Frieda asked.

  ‘Away,’ said Sasha. ‘A case.’

  ‘Does he know you’re like this?’

  ‘He’s working.’

  ‘Where’s Ethan?’ Frieda asked, with a sense of alarm. But Ethan was in a baby bouncer hanging from the door frame of the kitchen, grubby but fine. Frieda gathered together everything she could think of, nappies, feeding bottles, the buggy, some of Ethan’s clothes, then called a cab, bundled them all inside and took them back to her house. Sasha just allowed everything to happen, as if she were half asleep. Frieda laid her on her sofa, then made a simple meal of rice and mashed carrots for Ethan before she bathed him. He simply stared wide-eyed and solemn and accepting. She put a nappy on him (she had to look at the instructions on the side of the box) and laid him in her own bed, banking him up with pillows so that he wouldn’t roll off. He was asleep within a couple of minutes, his two hands clasped beneath his cheek.

  Then she turned to Sasha and did almost the same as she had done for Sasha’s little son. She led her up to the bathroom and ran a new bath, then took Sasha’s clothes off, made her get in and helped her friend wash herself. Then she dried her and dressed her in some of her own clothes, which were too big for her. She took her back down to the sofa, then ran out of the house, worried about leaving her for even a few minutes. She bought some bread and butter and milk. Back home she made tea and toast with jam and fed it to Sasha piece by piece, and made her drink the warm liquid.

  ‘I can’t,’ Sasha said finally.

  ‘You don’t need to say anything.’

  ‘I don’t know what it is. It just came over me so suddenly and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was like a wave.’

  Sasha’s speech was slurred, almost as if she were drunk.

  ‘This happens,’ said Frieda. ‘It’s difficult being a mother. But you’ll get through it. We will.’

  Later, Frieda led Sasha upstairs and put her into the bed beside Ethan. She couldn’t think what else to do, so she lay down on the bed beside her friend. For some time Frieda thought Sasha was asleep but suddenly she spoke.

  ‘What’ll I do?’ she said. ‘What’ll I do?’

  ‘I’m going away tomorrow,’ said Frieda. ‘Back to Braxton. Just for a few days. But I’ll find someone to look after you.’

  Frieda saw that tears were running down Sasha’s face. ‘Can’t you take me with you?’ She sounded like a small child.

  Frieda stroked her hair. ‘Not this time, my darling,’ she said. ‘Not this time.’

  Chloë arrived just before Frieda left. She looked self-consciously solemn and excited, and also apprehensive. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ she asked, as if she was volunteering for a dangerous military operation.

  ‘Just keep an eye on Sasha. Make sure she eats and has enough to drink. A doctor friend of mine is coming to see her mid-morning and Reuben says he’ll drop by as well. I’ve left plenty of food in the fridge. Make sure Ethan’s all right.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about babies! They scare me. They always scream and turn purple when I pick them up and once one was sick down my neck. And I can’t change nappies, Frieda. Don’t ask me to do that.’

  ‘You probably can, if you put your mind to it. But I don’t think you’ll have to. Sasha will be here. If he cries, comfort him. If he’s hungry, give him food.’

  ‘What food? What do babies eat anyway?’

  ‘I’ve put plenty of jars of baby food on the table, or you could always mash up a banana or something. I’ve made up several bottles of milk that are in the fridge.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Chloë.

  ‘You’ll be fine. You can do your revision and make cups of tea for both of you. I just don’t want Sasha to be alone at the moment. Frank’s away but I’ve talked to him. He’ll be back in a couple of days.’

  ‘Can I ask Jack round? He’s got little nephews and nieces.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because I trust you.’

  Chloë’s cheeks became pink. ‘All right, then.’

  35

  A young man in a grey suit walked on to the stage and tapped the microphone. It sounded like the beat of a bass drum, which then turned into a spiralling howl. People in the hall put their hands to their ears.

  ‘Could someone do something about that?’ he said. He took a small pile of index cards from his pocket and looked at the top one. ‘I’m Tom Cooke. I’m the headmaster of Braxton High School and I’d like to welcome you all back.’

  Frieda heard a voice, so close to her ear that it almost tickled.

  ‘He looks more like the head prefect.’

  She looked round. It was Chas, standing at her shoulder, leaning in towards her. There was a terrifyingly thin blonde woman just behind him, wearing a purple silk dress and makeup that was a formal mask over her strained face. Her shoulders were knobbly and her arms all sinew and bone. Chas’s wife, thought Frieda.

  The headmaster looked down at his index cards. ‘“Born to serve”,’ he said. ‘As you all know, that is the motto of Braxton High School. Someone once said to me that it sounded like the motto of a tennis academy.’ He paused, leaving space for a laugh that didn’t come. He swallowed, too close to the microphone, so it sounded like water in a pipe. ‘But you here, you old Braxtonians, are living proof of our motto. Among you I’ve been told that there are people who have made their mark in business and in the retail sector, in the law and insurance and in the City. We’ve got a potter and someone who can repair your boiler. I might give him a call myself.’ There was a pause for a laugh that, once more, didn’t come. ‘I’ve even been told that there may be a psychiatrist here tonight, so mind what you say to your neighbour.’

  ‘Your fame precedes you,’ Chas murmured.

  ‘I’m not a psychiatrist,’ Frieda said.

  ‘I don’t think they know the difference out here.’

  Tom Cooke moved gradually through his pile of index cards. He talked of the refurbishment of the science building, of the challenges of the school’s new academy status; he informed them about a special exhibition illustrating the school’
s history on display in the corridors, and he pointed out the location of the pay bar and the fire exits.

  ‘In conclusion,’ he said, ‘I hope you’ll all think of joining the Friends of Braxton High School and ensuring that we continue the school’s great traditions and, in the words of our motto, continue to serve a new generation.’

  There was another silence, then a sprinkling of applause as he walked away from the microphone. Immediately, the atmosphere changed. The lights dimmed, and the murmur of conversation grew louder.

  ‘This is my wife, Clara,’ said Chas.

  Frieda put out her hand and Clara gripped it in her cold thin fingers. ‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said. ‘And I gather you came to our house.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Frieda.

  Clara leaned forward, her large eyes glittering. ‘It’s a gilded cage.’ She gave a high laugh and turned away unsteadily on her spindly heels. She was clearly already drunk.

  Chas looked after her and shrugged. ‘I don’t know why she insisted on coming,’ he said. ‘It’ll only make her jealous all over again.’

  ‘Should she be?’

  ‘Women hate men to have a past.’

  ‘I think it’s more often the other way round.’

  ‘What’s your past?’

  ‘Frieda Klein.’ Frieda turned round. Two women were staring at her with amazed expressions and both gave a little scream of greeting. ‘Frieda bloody Klein,’ said one. ‘You are literally the last person I thought would ever come to a school reunion. Paula and I were talking last night and the one thing we agreed was that you wouldn’t be here.’

  Paula, Frieda said to herself. Paula. The name meant nothing to her. She couldn’t remember the faces either. But it didn’t matter because the two women then caught sight of Chas, gave another little scream and hugged him. Chas glanced over their shoulders at Frieda with amused helplessness. She saw how he gave each woman a kiss just a little too close to her mouth. Frieda took the chance to slip away, jostled by crowds of men who had started drinking before they arrived, and women who’d spent too much time thinking about what they should wear to a reunion. How did they want to appear and who was it they wanted to be when they met all their friends and pseudo-friends from the past?