by Nicci French
‘It’s nothing big,’ said Karlsson, hastily. ‘It’s something I thought might intrigue you. Professionally. You’d be paid for your time. There’s someone I’d like you to have a word with. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Have a chat with her, tell me what you think. That’s all.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Which way?’ said Karlsson.
Frieda pointed behind him. ‘Through Primrose Hill.’
‘All right. Just give me a moment.’
After he’d given instructions to the driver, Karlsson and Frieda walked along the street and turned into a cul-de-sac that ended at the park. In silence they walked up a hill, then looked down at the zoo and the city beyond it. It was a cold day and, through a break in the clouds, Karlsson could see the Surrey hills, far to the south.
‘You know all about this,’ he said. ‘Tell me something interesting.’
‘Not long ago some foxes got into the penguin enclosure,’ she said. ‘They killed about a dozen of them.’
‘That wasn’t really what I meant.’
‘It’s what came into my mind,’ said Frieda.
‘They should have jumped into the water.’
‘You don’t know what you’re going to do in a crisis,’ said Frieda. ‘Until it happens. So what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’
As they walked down the slope and the view flattened out, Karlsson told Frieda about Michelle Doyce, the house in Deptford and the decaying body that had been found propped up on her sofa, with a comb in his hair and lipstick on his mouth.
‘We thought it might have been natural causes or an accident, but there’s a bone in the neck that only breaks when you’re strangled.’
‘The hyoid bone,’ said Frieda.
‘I thought you were a psychotherapist.’
‘I studied medicine before. As you know.’
‘Anyway, you’re right. Sometimes you’re strangled and the hyoid bone doesn’t break. But if the hyoid bone does break, you’ve been strangled. I think I’ve got it the right way round. The point is, the man was murdered.’
‘Where is this woman?’ said Frieda.
‘She’s back in a psychiatric hospital, which she should never have left. As far as I can make out, she was living with a dead body for five days or more. From the look of it, she was serving him fucking tea and iced buns. Now, she could be the most brilliant actor in the world, but I think she’s insane and she’s not making any sense at all. She probably still killed this man somehow and she’s probably going to spend the rest of her life in the bin but …’ Karlsson paused. ‘I’d like to see what you make of her.’
‘I’m not the right person,’ said Frieda, without even looking round.
‘Aren’t you intrigued?’
‘Not especially. Nor am I properly qualified. I’ve never done abnormal psychiatry. My area is the unhappiness of ordinary people. There are plenty of experts. I could probably dig up some names for you but there must be people you use.’
‘It’s not about examining her,’ said Karlsson. ‘They’re probably doing that at the moment. I want someone to talk to her. We can’t do that. Well, we can do it. It’s just that we don’t know what to say and we don’t understand what she says back to us. That’s what you do.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda, doubtfully.
‘You talk about unhappiness,’ said Karlsson. ‘You know what Yvette said? I mean, DC Long. You remember her, don’t you? She said she thought Michelle was the unhappiest person she’d ever met in her life. I didn’t completely see it myself but that’s what she said. She may not be ordinary but she’s unhappy.’
When Frieda turned to Karlsson this time, it was with a look almost of alarm. ‘What do you think I am? Some kind of misery junkie?’
‘Only in a good way,’ said Karlsson.
‘Tell me something.’
‘What?’
‘Are you all right?’
‘What do you mean, all right?’
‘You seem troubled.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘More than usually so, I mean.’
For a moment Karlsson thought of confiding in her. It would be a relief to tell someone and hear their words of sympathy and advice. But then he felt a flash of irritation: Frieda was a professional listener and he didn’t want to talk to someone whose job it was to listen. He wanted someone who would be on his side, an intimate. He simply smiled and shrugged and said, ‘So, will you do it?’
Frieda entered the cobbled mews and approached her home – a narrow house squashed between a flat and a garage – with a familiar feeling of relief. She found the key and opened the door, taking off her coat to hang it on the hook in the hall, removing her boots and sliding her feet into the slippers that waited. Every morning when she left she would lay a fire ready for her return, and now she went into the living room, turned on the standard lamp and knelt down by the hearth. She struck a match and held it against the balled newspaper, watching the flames curl up and gradually catch the kindling. It was a matter of pride to her to use only one match, and she waited to make sure the fire had caught before going into the kitchen and filling the kettle. The light on the answering machine was winking and she pressed the ‘play’ button, then turned to take down a mug from the cupboard.
‘Hello, Frieda,’ said a voice, and she stood ambushed and absolutely still, her hand pressed hard against her stomach. ‘You haven’t answered my emails so I thought I’d ring. I need to say …’
Frieda pressed the ‘off’ button. The voice ceased mid-sentence and she stared at the machine as if it might suddenly come to life again. After a few moments, she went to the sink and ran the water cold, then splashed her face. She made a pot of tea, waited for it to brew, then poured herself a large mug and took it to the living room where she sat in her chair by the fire, which was burning steadily but not yet giving out true heat. Outside, the drizzle strengthened to steady rain. Sandy: the man she had allowed herself to love and who had gone away a year and a month ago. Sometimes there were days, even weeks, when she didn’t think of him at all, but still the sound of his voice made her stomach churn and her heart beat faster. Yet she hadn’t answered his emails. Mostly she hadn’t even read them. She had deleted them as soon as they appeared and then made sure she emptied the trash folder on her computer so she wouldn’t be tempted to retrieve them. He had asked her to go to America with him, and she had refused; she had asked him to stay, and he had said he couldn’t. What was there left to discuss?
Eventually she went back into the kitchen and listened to the rest of the message. It wasn’t long: Sandy simply said he needed to talk to her and wanted to see her again. He didn’t tell her he loved her, or missed her, or wanted her back; but he said there was ‘unfinished business’ between them and his voice sounded strained and hesitant. Frieda imagined him speaking the words – the way he frowned when he concentrated; the furrow between his eyebrows; the shape of his mouth. Then she erased the message and went back to the fire.
Later that day Karlsson also listened to a message on his voicemail that sent a sharp pain through him. He had to sit down and wait to recover.
He had just come back to his ground-floor Highbury flat after having dinner with a friend from university and his wife. They saw each other rarely, perhaps once a year, and each time the gap between them seemed to grow wider. Like Karlsson, Alec had studied law at Cambridge, but where Karlsson had joined the Met, Alec had kept on track and was now a senior partner in a law firm. His wife, Maria, was a lecturer in politics; she was tiny, sardonic and endlessly energetic. They had three children who had been up when Karlsson arrived, bearing a bottle of wine and a tired bunch of flowers. He had sat in the living room with this apparently perfect family, the children in their pyjamas, the youngest still in nappies, and had felt melancholy wash over him: he was an underpaid and overworked detective. His wife had left him and now lived with another man. His two children were growing up without him to tuck them into their beds at night or teach them how to ride a bike, kick a ball, sw
im their first length of the local pool with their faces almost submerged under the turquoise water.
Now he listened to the message his wife had left on his mobile.
‘Mal? It’s Julie. We need to talk.’ He could tell from her slightly slurred words that she’d been drinking. ‘You can’t just think this will go away if you ignore it and it’s not fair on me. Call when you get this. It doesn’t matter what time.’
Karlsson went into his kitchen and pulled out a bottle of whisky. He’d drunk several glasses of wine already but felt clear-headed. He poured himself a generous slug and added a splash of water. Then he picked up the phone again.
‘Hello?’ She had definitely had several drinks: there was a wobble to her voice.
‘I got your message. Can’t this conversation wait until morning? It’s nearly midnight, we’re both tired …’
‘Speak for yourself.’
He swallowed his anger. ‘I’m tired. And I don’t want us to have an argument about this. We should think about what’s best for Mikey and Bella and not rush into things.’
‘You know what, Mal? I’m sick to death of thinking about what’s best for Mikey and Bella. I’ve spent my adult life thinking about what’s best for you, what’s best for them, being understanding about your work, your shifts, putting everyone first. It’s my turn.’
‘You mean it’s Bob’s turn.’ Bob was his wife’s partner. They lived together in Brighton, and when the divorce came through, they planned to marry, so Karlsson supposed he was really Bella and Mikey’s step-father. He took them to school each morning on his way to work, and he read stories to them each evening. Karlsson had seen photographs of Bella beaming on his solid shoulders, and Mikey had told him how Bob had taught him to play French cricket on the beach. Apparently he might buy them a dog. Now Bob had been offered a job in Madrid, and Julie wanted to move the family out there – ‘just for a couple of years’.
‘Madrid’s not Australia,’ she was saying. ‘You can fly there in a couple of hours.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘And think what a wonderful experience it would be for them.’
‘Children need their father,’ Karlsson said, wincing at the platitude.
‘They’d still have you. That won’t change. And they could have holidays with you. It won’t be for a couple of months anyway – you can spend lots of time with them until they go.’
I’m losing them, thought Karlsson, staring at the phone he clutched in his hand. First they moved to Brighton, now they’ll go all the way to Spain. I’ll be a stranger. They’ll hang back when they see me, hide behind Julie, get homesick when they’re in my home. ‘I can refuse,’ he said. ‘I still have joint custody.’
‘You can stop us going. Or try to. Is that what you want?’
‘Of course not. But do you want me to barely see them?’
‘No.’ Julie sighed heavily. He heard her suppress a yawn. ‘But tell me what we’re going to do, Mal. We can’t really compromise on this.’
‘I don’t know.’ Karlsson, however, was already sure that he was going to agree. He felt trapped in the sort of argument they’d had when they were together. He felt defeated and lonely.
The knife had its own special drawer, where it lay wrapped in plastic, with the whetstone. Sometimes she lifted it out and laid it on the table in front of her, studying the dull gleam of its long blade, perhaps touching its edge cautiously to feel the fresh sharpness. It sent a shiver of excitement and dread through her, something almost sexual. She never used it for cooking: she had a blunt kitchen knife for that. She kept it ready. One day it would have its use.
Now she lifted the hatch cautiously; it used to creak but she had poured a few drops of cooking oil on to its hinges so it levered open quietly. The wind blew directly into her face, cold and carrying a few drops of rain. It was very dark on the river. There was no moon tonight and no stars. The lamps on the barges that lined the bank, those that were occupied, had been extinguished and only a few lights in the distance glimmered. She pulled herself out and stared around. On the marshes, a long way off, someone had lit a fire. The orange flames flickered against the sky. She squinted but could not make out any figures beside it, black cut-out shapes. She was alone. Water slapped very gently against the side of the boat. When she had first come here, she had been unsettled by the sound and the slight, occasional motion, but now she was used to it. It was like the blood inside her body. She was used to the night sounds as well – the wind in the trees and in the thick rushes that sounded sometimes like a moan, the rustle of rodents from the bank, the sudden shriek of the owls. There were foxes here, and fat rats with long, thick tails. Herons and white swans that looked at her with their wicked eyes. Mangy cats. She had had a cat once, with a white tip to its tail and silky ears; it used to wash itself so fastidiously and purr like a steady motor. But that was a long time ago, in another life, and she was another person now.
Very cautiously, she stepped into the cockpit of the boat and from there on to the path. She was wearing dark clothes – navy tracksuit trousers and a thick grey hoody – so even if someone was looking, they probably wouldn’t see her. She was always careful. The important thing was never to let your guard down or think you were safe. She walked slowly along the track, feeling her body unstiffen. She had to keep fit and strong, but it was hard when you were cooped up all day. She did press-ups inside sometimes, and two or three times a day she did twenty pull-ups, using the rim of the slightly open hatch as a bar and counting out loud so that she didn’t cheat. Her arms were strong, but she didn’t think she would be able to run far or fast. Sometimes when she woke at night, her chest felt tight and it was hard to breathe. She wanted to call out for help but she knew she mustn’t.
She walked past the other boats moored to the side by thick ropes. Most of them were empty from one week to the next, and some were falling apart, their paint blistering and wood rotting. Some had people on board; they had plants on their flat roofs, and bikes that lay on their sides with the spokes whirring when the wind blew. Even in the dark, she knew which boats were inhabited. It was her job to be vigilant. When they had first come here, it had been exciting, a mixture of hiding and setting up home. It was their safe place, he had said: no one else would know they were there, and whatever happened, they could retreat here and wait until danger had passed. But then he had left, returning only for a few days every month. At first she had wondered how she would pass her days when she was alone, but it was surprising how much there was to do. The boat had to be kept clean, for a start, and that wasn’t easy because it was old and had been long abandoned before they’d found it. There were damp patches on its sides and water leaked in through the floor, round the sides of the shower and toilet, and up through the boards in the kitchen area. The windows were narrow rectangles that no one could see through from the outside. The doorway was always kept closed, and when she washed her clothes in the tiny sink with the tablets of soap he bought her, then laid them out over chairs and the table to dry, the air smelt thick and slightly festering.
Once there had been space, comfort, light flooding in through large windows, and roses on the lawn. She remembered, as in a dream, clean sheets and soft clothes. Now she lived with the dark, enclosed space; the long winter nights, when it was so cold her breath smoked and ice formed on the inside of the little windows; the candles guttering secretly when she didn’t even dare use the dynamo torch he had given her; the fear, an ache in her stomach. Yes, you could even get used to fear. You could turn fear into something that was strong and useful and dangerous.
She turned back. The drops of rain were increasing and she didn’t want to get too wet. The winter had been so cold and so long. For weeks, the paths had been hard with ice or covered with thick snow. She had felt like an animal in its burrow, watching flakes fall outside the windows. Waiting, always waiting.
Sliding back down the hatch, she pulled it shut after her and locked it. She filled the little tin kettle
with just enough water for one teabag and put it on the stove, turning the knob on and lighting the ring with one match. But she could tell that they were running out of gas: the flame was weak and blue. Soon she wouldn’t be able to cook the potatoes that were in the basket under the outside seat, or fill a hot-water bottle to take the edge off the cold that seemed to enter her bones. Perhaps he would bring another canister when he came. And surely he would come soon. She had faith.
Seven
‘You’re joking.’ Reuben sat back in his chair, looking delighted.
Frieda scowled. ‘I’m just going to spend a few minutes with her.’
‘It’s the thin end of the wedge.’
‘I don’t think so. Karlsson said he wanted me to see if I could make sense of what she was saying.’
‘You told me you were never going to get involved with police work again, under any circumstances.’
‘I know. And I’m not going to. Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘As if you know me better than I know myself. It’s irritating. I hope you don’t look at your patients like that.’
‘I know you’re intrigued.’
Frieda was about to protest, but stopped herself because, of course, Reuben was right. ‘Perhaps I should just have said no,’ she said slowly. ‘I thought I was going to, and then I heard myself agreeing.’
They were sitting in Reuben’s office at the clinic, where Frieda worked part-time and on whose board she sat. The Warehouse had been Reuben’s creation and had made him famous as a therapist. Frieda still hadn’t got used to the changed appearance of his room. For years – ever since she had known him when he was her mentor and she a young student – Reuben had worked in chaos, papers strewn everywhere, piles of books collapsing around his chair, ashtrays and plant pots overflowing with half-smoked cigarettes. Now everything was in a state of determined order: there was an in-tray with a few papers in it, the books were on their shelves, there wasn’t a cigarette stub in sight. And Reuben himself had changed as well. Gone was the look of an ageing rock star. Now he was wearing a plain navy suit over a white shirt, his face was shaved, his greying hair was no longer down to his collar. He looked trim: a few months ago he had shocked everyone by joining a gym. Worse still, he went there every morning before work. Frieda had noticed that his suit trousers had to be held up with a belt. What was more, he ate green salads at lunch and carried a bottle of water around with him from which every so often he would ostentatiously drink. She couldn’t help feeling he was playing a part and that he was pleased with the impression he was creating.
