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

by Nicci French

‘Wanted …’ And again her words became unintelligible.

  ‘What’s she saying?’ David leaned forward. ‘What are you saying, Ma?’

  ‘I think she’s saying she wanted a different life.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Juliet Klein. Her face was very small and pinched on the pillow. Her eyes glittered at them. Her breath rasped as if her chest was rusty and broken.

  A nurse came into the cubicle and bent over the bed. She put the oxygen mask over Juliet Klein’s mouth but the dying woman pulled it away, the elastic snapping on her cheeks. She tore her fingers from Frieda’s grasp.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. I won’t. I won’t. No.’

  She closed her eyes and after a moment was still. Her breath snagged in her throat. Frieda watched her intently. Her angry, unhappy, ironic, stubborn mother was leaving them.

  ‘Is she dead?’ asked David, after a pause.

  ‘No,’ said Frieda.

  She wasn’t dead but she didn’t open her eyes again or speak, and then, at last, her breathing stopped.

  ‘Now is she dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So with her dying breath she told us she wished she’d never been a mother.’

  ‘You probably already knew that.’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Actually, I feel good. I always thought it was just me she didn’t like. It’s rather a relief to know it was all of us.’

  There was a pause. Frieda was about to stand up and fetch the nurse when David spoke again, in a quiet voice. ‘That – that thing you say happened to you …’

  ‘The rape,’ said Frieda. ‘It has a name.’

  ‘Yes. Well. Are you – I mean, what’s going on with that?’

  Frieda looked at her mother, who had never believed her story and who now never would. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, David.’

  ‘That’s probably for the best.’ He sounded relieved. ‘I mean, it’s all in the past and sometimes you just have to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  Wake up those dogs, thought Frieda. Set them loose on the world.

  40

  After an hour of silences and muttered information, Frieda had the sense of being at a party where the hosts were still friendly and hospitable but really starting to wonder whether it wasn’t time to go. So she left. The hospital wasn’t designed for walking out of. Frieda made her way through a car park and along little driveways until she reached the main road. Her mother had died. Her father was dead and her mother was dead. She was an orphan. The hard fact of it was like a package in her mind that she very deliberately stowed away. Later she would retrieve and unwrap it but not now, not yet. That would be an obstacle.

  Even when she had been by her mother’s bed, holding her hand, she had been thinking also of that voice out of the dark, that voice beside her in Regent’s Park. You know, and yet you have nothing. Sweetheart. Frieda thought of what she had gone through so often with her patients. You had to acknowledge the past and then you had to let it go. She had once seen an eighty-year-old woman who was still arguing with her father as if she were an angry teenager, a father who had been dead for forty years. But this wasn’t the past.

  She took out her phone and made a call. ‘Are you at home?’

  ‘No. But I can be.’

  A little more than an hour later Frieda was walking along the seafront. She turned up the path and rang the bell. When Chas opened the door, he looked over her shoulder with a frown. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Bus, train, cab.’

  ‘I didn’t know that was even possible. Do you want some coffee?’

  The thought of going into Chas’s house, standing on his rugs, surrounded by his paintings, repulsed her.

  ‘We can walk along by the sea.’

  ‘It really isn’t the weather for it.’

  ‘Then put a coat on.’

  Chas disappeared and re-emerged, wearing a long, bulky fawn overcoat, a navy blue scarf and a brown trilby hat. They crossed the road and they were on the pebbles. They turned north with rows of coloured beach huts on their left and the grey, foaming North Sea on their right. Chas pointed at one of the beach huts. ‘That’s ours,’ he said. ‘For the price of that you could buy a five-bedroom house up in the north. If you wanted one.’

  Frieda pushed her hands into her pockets. The wind was blowing from the north, so cold that it made her face ache. She turned to Chas. ‘You knew,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Vanessa knew. And you knew.’

  ‘What are you talking about now?’

  ‘It’s the only thing that made sense. It always struck a wrong note that Ewan so accurately remembered the concert.’

  ‘Is this the Thursday’s Children concert? Back in ’eighty-nine?’

  ‘Yes, we’re still talking about that concert. When we remember real things, it’s a mess, all in the wrong order, pieces missing, pieces forgotten. Police know that and therapists know that. But Ewan remembered it all in the right order, just the way we remember made-up stories.’

  ‘Ewan was always the obsessive type.’

  ‘Still covering for him?’ said Frieda, almost in fascination. ‘You and Vanessa placed him there all the way through. You gave him his alibi.’

  ‘Frieda, this was all a long time ago –’

  ‘Stop. There are things you can say, but don’t just insult me.’

  Chas turned away briefly. Frieda could see the edge of his jaw flexing. But when he turned back to face her, he seemed entirely calm. ‘If you’re making some kind of accusation,’ he said, ‘which you seem to be, then you need to talk to the police. But if you’re going to pursue this …’

  Frieda looked at the sea. A white-haired old woman was throwing a stick into the waves. A black dog, a Labrador, plunged in, disappeared into the breakers and came out again triumphantly, the stick clutched in its jaws. ‘Then what?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know what you want from me.’

  Frieda looked back at the dog, which jumped into the sea again and then again. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘there’s a part of me that wants simply to look you in the eye and ask you what you were thinking. But I know what you were thinking.’

  ‘You know nothing about me.’

  ‘I know something about you. But that’s not why I’m here. You can believe what you need to believe. People generally do. But I came here to tell you this. It may have seemed funny when you were sixteen, that a boy put a mask on and raped a girl to teach her a lesson …’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Just listen to this and I’ll go. Ewan came to see me in London. He acknowledged what he’d done, but he said I had nothing on him, which is about right.’

  ‘I don’t know why you feel the need to tell me this.’

  Something peculiar was happening to his face. His habitually bland, amused expression kept breaking up and re-forming. It was as if Frieda was seeing another Chas behind the mask, someone not so in control, not so self-satisfied.

  ‘If you’re going to be in a state of denial, I want to be clear about what it is you’re denying. I don’t know how well you’ve kept up with Ewan.’

  ‘We occupy different worlds now.’

  ‘In 1991, he raped Sarah May. But something went wrong and he killed her.’

  ‘And you know this how?’

  ‘Ewan has an instinct for girls on the edge, the isolated ones, the ones who won’t be believed. Like Becky Capel.’

  ‘Which was suicide.’

  ‘Becky started to find the strength to stand up for herself. I’m partly to blame for that. Unfortunately the person she turned to was the person who had spotted her vulnerability in the first place.’

  ‘Ewan?’

  ‘No. Vanessa.’

  ‘You’re telling me that Ewan raped Becky and Vanessa covered for him as she had covered for him in the past? That they were
acting as a team?’

  ‘She was always good at looking the other way, not seeing what she wasn’t meant to see, not knowing what she wasn’t meant to know. The human mind is good at that.’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned away from her and stared out at the great grey waters.

  ‘When Ewan knew I was back in Braxton and that I wasn’t going away, he had the idea of framing Lewis and Max.’

  ‘Are the police investigating this?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘You can do the right thing.’

  Chas’s cheeks were flushed now. Frieda couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or shame or just the cold wind.

  ‘And what’s that, Frieda?’

  ‘You can tell the police everything you know. Ewan is a rapist and a murderer and he could, probably will, do it again.’

  ‘He knows you’re watching him. He’s not likely to do anything again.’

  ‘That’s what you’re relying on?’

  ‘What you’ve said about me isn’t right,’ he said, but in a different tone, almost thoughtfully.

  ‘You could make amends,’ she said softly. ‘It is in your power.’

  Again Chas turned away to study the sea, his hands thrust into his pockets and his shoulders hunched. After a long time, he turned back.

  ‘Tell me what to do,’ he said quietly, almost in a whisper.

  Then Frieda’s phone rang.

  ‘Wait,’ she said urgently. ‘Let me take this and then I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Is that Frieda Klein?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Craigie. We’ve already met. Where are you?’

  ‘Why do you need to know?’

  She repeated the question and Frieda gave her Chas’s address.

  ‘Stay there. I’m sending a car for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We need to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘You were the one who called me.’

  ‘We’ll discuss it when you get here.’

  There was a pause after Frieda rang off. Then Chas spoke. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will tell the police.’

  Frieda stepped forward and took his arm. ‘That is the right thing to do,’ she said. ‘And it’s also a good, brave, hard thing to do. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for myself.’

  ‘I have to go to the station. I’ve no idea why. Do you want to come with me and get it over with?’

  ‘No. Not quite yet. Give me a bit of time to compose myself.’ He gave a bitter smile.

  ‘I’ll call you later this evening. All right?’ She was anxious that he would think better of his pledge and he sensed it.

  ‘I won’t back out, Frieda.’

  ‘OK.’ She hesitated. ‘You don’t need to hang around for me here.’

  ‘I should get back to work. Do you want to wait at my house?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  So he left, and for half an hour she walked up and down the beach until she saw a police car arrive. There were two uniformed officers who said they had come to take her to the police station. She asked them what this was about and they said she would be told when they arrived.

  ‘What if I don’t want to come?’

  They looked at her as if she had said something rude. ‘Why wouldn’t you want to come, Dr Klein?’

  It all seemed too much trouble, so Frieda just got into the back of the car and nothing was said to her the whole way to the police station. The two officers seemed constrained even when talking to each other. They drove into a car park and one of the officers led her to a back entrance, which looked almost unused, then up a staircase, littered with empty cardboard boxes. The officer left her in a bare, windowless interview room. After a few minutes DI Craigie came in. She was accompanied by another detective, a bulky man with unevenly cut hair. She introduced him as Detective Constable Pearce. As they sat down opposite Frieda, both of them looked at her with curiosity. But there was no small talk, not even a greeting.

  ‘Something’s up,’ said Frieda. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You made an accusation against Ewan Shaw,’ said Craigie.

  ‘He raped at least three women,’ said Frieda. ‘Including me. He killed two of the women: Rebecca Capel and Sarah May. He also attempted to kill Max Temple.’

  Craigie and Pearce exchanged looks.

  ‘Does anybody share this view?’ Craigie asked.

  ‘What does that matter?’

  ‘Have you convinced anyone else of this?’

  ‘I don’t see the point of the question.’

  Craigie flapped her hands in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Does anybody else know what you know? Or believe what you believe?’

  Frieda thought for a moment. ‘Ewan Shaw’s wife, Vanessa, knows about it. I’m not sure of the full extent. When you called me I was talking to someone I knew when I was growing up here, a man called Chas Latimer. He knew about the original rape. I mean when Ewan raped me. I think he’ll confirm this.’

  ‘What about Ewan Shaw’s knowledge of all this?’

  ‘Clearly he knows what he did.’

  ‘I mean about what you know.’

  ‘He knows.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He came to see me in London.’

  Both of the detectives sat up with a start. ‘He did what?’ said Craigie.

  ‘He tracked me down in London and followed me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He told me I had nothing on him. That he was safe.’

  ‘That he was safe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He used that word?’

  Frieda paused for a moment. ‘What are we talking about here?’ she said. ‘Why are you asking these questions?’

  ‘Did he say he was safe?’

  ‘I don’t remember him using that exact word.’

  ‘So why did you say it?’

  ‘I think it conveyed in a fair way what he was trying to get across.’

  ‘And how did it make you feel?’

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘How did it make you feel?’

  ‘That’s a difficult question to answer.’

  ‘Did you think he was taunting you?’

  Frieda thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think that was part of it.’

  Craigie leaned across the table, her elbows resting on the top. Frieda recognized the body language: confrontational, intimidatory.

  ‘You accused Ewan Shaw of raping you,’ Craigie said. ‘Do you feel he was demonstrating his power over you?’

  ‘I think he felt he was, which is a different thing.’

  ‘And that made you feel angry?’

  ‘I think he’s a mixture of self-pity and rage, which is a dangerous combination.’

  ‘Did you feel angry?’

  ‘Yes. And other things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Determined that he would never do it again.’

  ‘I see. And what did you want to do about that?’

  ‘What I wanted – and what I want – is to get him. Since the police don’t seem very interested in doing anything about him.’

  ‘You wanted to get him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘I want to stop him.’

  ‘I see. How did your meeting with Ewan Shaw end?’

  ‘Inconclusively.’

  ‘What did you do after the meeting?’

  ‘What do you mean? Immediately after?’

  ‘Just tell us what you did between then and now.’

  ‘I went to see a friend of mine, a detective in the Met, and talked things over with him.’

  ‘Was he sympathetic?’

  ‘I wasn’t looking for sympathy. Then I went home.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that you were the
re last night?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frieda, thinking of Sandy’s visit. ‘Then very early this morning I came back up here to go to the hospital.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘My mother was terminally ill. She died earlier today.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Craigie. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I went straight from the hospital to see Chas Latimer. And then I was driven here.’

  Craigie sat back in her chair. ‘You were in the hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Pearce, under his breath. ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’

  Craigie shot him an angry glance and turned back to Frieda. ‘With family members?’

  ‘One of my brothers was there.’

  ‘Can you tell us when you arrived?’

  ‘I caught the first train out of Liverpool Street, just before six this morning. I arrived at the hospital at about seven thirty, I suppose. And I was there until early afternoon – I’m not sure what time, but I’m sure you can find out from my brother or the nurses. Or CCTV.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Pearce said again, louder this time. ‘This is a farce.’

  ‘I went straight from the hospital to Chas’s house, which is where you picked me up.’ She saw the way they were staring at her. ‘Are you going to tell me why you brought me here?’

  The two detectives exchanged glances.

  ‘You know the obelisk just outside Braxton?’ Craigie asked.

  ‘The witch monument?’ said Frieda. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Ewan Shaw’s body was found there at just after seven thirty this morning.’

  ‘His body?’ said Frieda, slowly. ‘Do you mean his dead body?’

  ‘That’s right. He failed to return home last night and this morning his body was found by an old woman walking her dog. She’s currently in hospital herself. She didn’t react well to it.’

  Frieda felt almost dizzy with the shock of it. She thought back to Ewan’s tone at the end of their meeting. ‘Did he kill himself?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Craigie. ‘His throat had been cut. It was all very clever. It was certainly premeditated. It was done in a place with no CCTV. And at the same time, we can rule out financial motivation. His wallet was still in his pocket, with a hundred and twenty pounds in cash inside. And then there were extensive injuries suggesting a prolonged assault. Injuries that might have been motivated by a sense of anger or revenge. Do you have any comment to make about that?’