by Nicci French
Frieda looked at her watch. It was time to go. In forty-five minutes’ time she would be sitting in her red chair, listening to Joe Franklin, watching him intently, attending to him, drawing him out. She felt a small shiver go through her. It was as if the people on Robert Poole’s lists had been his patients, needing his help.
She had lights behind her eyes and a claw in her stomach, sharp and dragging weals of pain through her. Her head was thundering. It wasn’t exactly pain: it was more like a painful sound, a boom of dread that rose and fell, came nearer and then receded but only to gather strength again. She needed to think clearly, but how could she do that when her skull was thick with this loud, savage gale? She used to take pills when she felt like this. One large orange capsule with a tumbler of water to wash it down. Her mother had put it in front of her in the morning and stood there until she was sure she had swallowed it. But she didn’t have pills any more; it had been a long time, she couldn’t remember how long. All of that was in the fog of the past she had left behind her. He had shown her that drugs were just another way of keeping her tame and docile, muffling her anger, which was righteous and alive. ‘You need purpose, not pills.’ And he had laid a hand on her forehead, like a kind doctor or a father soothing his sick child. ‘And you have me now,’ he had said. ‘Always remember that.’
But she didn’t have him. He hadn’t come and she was here alone in this dampness and cramp and cold, the wind outside as bitter as the wind rushing through her head. Thoughts clamouring and jumbled. Hungry too. Potatoes eaten. Gas all finished. This morning she had stirred a stock cube into cold water, then drunk its salty undissolved granules. It had made her want to gag. Her lip had healed, more or less, but when she looked in the little mirror the puckered scar looked like a sneer. He wouldn’t like that. And she thought she was beginning to smell, though she still tried to rub the hard nub of soap into her skin and into her clothes as well, which hung in sodden trails round the cabin. Nothing dried properly.
How long had it been? She took her calendar of trees and held it up to the narrow window, squinting at it. Most of January, and more than half of February, but she seemed to have stopped crossing off the days. Perhaps it was already March. Perhaps spring was coming, yellow daffodils and opening buds, warmth in the sun. She didn’t think so. It didn’t feel like spring.
But it was too long, even if it was still February. Twenty-eight clear, twenty-nine in each leap year. Was it a leap year? You could ask a man to marry you. But you couldn’t ask if he wasn’t there. Alone. Alone in a world full of cruel strangers and people with deceiving smiles. What had he said? ‘I will always return. If I don’t come, you’ll know that they’ve got me.’ Kissing her forehead, brave. She had to be brave too. She had to continue without him, and do the things he wanted to do. She was the fuse and he had lit her; she was the bomb and he had set her ticking. That was all that was left now.
Twenty-seven
In the last two weeks, Joe Franklin had been in a far better state than he had been in for months, even years: he wore jeans and an ironed shirt; his laces weren’t trailing; his fingernails were clean and cut; his hair was brushed; his face was freshly shaved. Usually, he sat forward in his chair, hunched over himself, his head held in his hands and often obscured by them, but today he had sat back, his head lolling against the chair rest, like a convalescent who was weak but with the sense of life trickling back into him. He even smiled twice, once when he spoke of licking out a cake bowl when he was little, and once when he told her that a friend was coming round that evening and they were going to eat sea urchins together: ‘Did you know you could eat sea urchins?’ Frieda hadn’t known. She noticed the way his face changed and softened when pain ebbed out of it. He looked years younger.
Her final session of the morning was with a middle-aged man called Gordon, who spoke in whispers through his fingers, as if he was ashamed of himself. He was trapped by his own frantic insecurities, by the knots he’d tied himself into, and Frieda’s job was slowly, carefully, to go into his world and bring him back out. Sometimes she felt as if she was building a castle one grain of sand at a time.
When it was over, she went and opened her window for a few minutes and leaned out, inhaling the cold damp air, letting the wind blow through her. There was still no work on the building site, but she saw that some kids had made a den out of the planks they’d collected, and as she watched, three young boys ran across to it and inserted themselves through an opening in the wonky structure. She remembered that it was half-term: Chloë had told her very firmly that they were having no chemistry lessons this week; she was on holiday.
She closed the window again and wrote her notes on the last session, but before she had finished, the phone rang. It was Josef. ‘Where are you?’ she said.
‘With the woman,’ he said. ‘Mrs Orton. Doing the house. Fixing here and there.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Can you come?’
‘Is there a problem?’
Josef replied, but the line was bad or he was speaking quietly so Frieda couldn’t make out what he was saying.
‘Can you speak louder?’ she said. ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying.’
‘Better if you come,’ said Josef. ‘You can come now?’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘You can come now?’
Frieda gave up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can come now.’
The door was opened by a man Frieda didn’t recognize. He was in his fifties, with thinning short grey hair, and was dressed in grey corduroy trousers and a checked shirt. He looked at her with a frown.
‘I’m Robin Orton,’ he said, and led her through. In the kitchen, Mary was sitting at the table with another, slightly older, man. He was also casually dressed, with black jeans and a navy blue sweater zipped up to the neck. Slightly older, slightly bulkier, slightly balder. To Frieda it looked like dress-down day at an office where the employees would have been happier in their normal suits. ‘This is my brother, Jeremy,’ said Robin.
‘Please, sit down,’ said Jeremy.
Frieda sat at the table, now feeling as though she’d arrived at an unexpected job interview.
‘Hello, Frieda,’ said Mary Orton, with a nervous smile. ‘I’ve just made some coffee. Would you like some?’
Frieda nodded and the old woman filled a cup, put it on a saucer and placed it in front of her.
‘And some cake as well? I remember how much you liked it.’
‘Yes, that’d be lovely,’ said Frieda. ‘A small piece. A bit smaller than that.’ She took a sip of cool coffee, conscious that she was being scrutinized by three pairs of eyes. ‘Josef Morozov asked me to come,’ she said.
Jeremy folded his arms. He was evidently the elder brother, the one in charge. ‘Yes, we talked to him. I’m sorry. Can we go back to basics? Can you explain to us exactly what your involvement with our mother is?’
Frieda paused. That was a surprisingly difficult question. ‘A man who was working for your mother has been murdered.’ She looked at Mary Orton. She felt awkward talking about her as if she wasn’t present. ‘I was involved in interviewing Mrs Orton.’
‘Mary, please,’ said Mary Orton.
‘Are you a police officer?’ asked Jeremy.
‘No. I’m doing some work with them. As a sort of consultant.’
‘Do you have some identification?’
‘Identifying me as what?’
‘As officially working with the police.’
Frieda spoke as calmly as she could. ‘No, I don’t. If you have any questions, I can give you a number to call. As it happens, I’m only here because Josef rang me. I assumed there was some sort of problem.’
‘There’s all sorts of problems,’ said Jeremy. ‘We’ll get on to that. But, first, this man Josef, he’s here on your recommendation. Is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is this an official service as part of your police work?’
Frieda fr
owned. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Your mother had water leaking through the roof. Josef’s a friend of mine. He’s good and he’s trustworthy. If you have a problem with him being here, just tell me or him.’
The brothers exchanged looks. Robin had been standing to one side. Now he came across and sat at the table. Suddenly Frieda felt surrounded.
‘We’ve been having a family conference,’ Robin said. ‘We’re not happy about what’s been happening with our mother.’
‘Hang on.’ Frieda put down her coffee cup. ‘I was phoned by Josef. Where is he?’
‘He’s up in the loft,’ said Jeremy. ‘You can go and see him if you want.’
‘I’ll see him in a minute,’ said Frieda. ‘But if you’ve got some problem with him being here, just let us know. As far as I’m concerned, he’s doing Mary a favour. If you don’t see it that way, say so and we’ll go.’
‘I wasn’t saying that.’
‘Why did he ring me?’
‘Well, when I arrived I was surprised to find him here. I asked him about his plans, about costs and estimates. I should tell you, Miss Klein, that I’m a company accountant and I know about this sort of thing.’
‘When Josef first came here, water was coming through the roof,’ said Frieda. ‘You should be grateful that your mother was able to get someone so quickly.’
‘This is really a side issue,’ said Jeremy. ‘When I found this man here, what I really wanted to know was who had arranged it and in general what’s been going on with my mother.’
‘And what’s your view,’ asked Frieda, ‘about what’s been going on?’
‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ said Jeremy. ‘I come down from time to time to go through my mother’s affairs, to help her with her accounts.’
Frieda looked at the photographs on the dresser. She remembered Mary Orton talking about her grandchildren, about how the photographs were old, how the children would be more grown-up now. ‘When did you last go through your mother’s accounts?’ she asked.
‘Some time ago,’ said Jeremy. ‘Six months. Before the summer holidays, I think. I live in Manchester. Robin’s in Cardiff. We’ve both got families. We come when we can.’
‘So, last July?’ She looked at him. ‘Seven months ago.’
‘Yes. Or June, maybe. But that’s not the point. The point is that my mother has been the victim of a crime and I want to establish whether it’s being properly investigated.’
‘What crime are you talking about?’ asked Frieda.
The two brothers glanced at each other again.
‘Are you kidding? said Robin. ‘This man Robert Poole stole more than a hundred and fifty thousand pounds from her. He also faked the work he was doing.’
Frieda looked at their mother. She was reminded of sitting with Michelle Doyce, of her case being discussed as if she wasn’t there. ‘I’m not sure that this is the time or the place to be discussing this,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ Jeremy’s voice rose slightly. ‘We’ve discovered a theft. You’re from the police. We want to know what’s being done about it.’
‘I’m not the person you want,’ said Frieda. ‘You need to talk to the police directly.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’ said Jeremy.
‘I’m here because I was asked to come.’
‘My mother said you were the person she talked to, that you were the person who went through her accounts and found out about the theft. What’s your involvement?’
‘My involvement is that I help out when I can in certain areas of my expertise.’
‘Which are?’
‘I’m a psychotherapist.’
Jeremy looked incredulous. ‘A psychotherapist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who recommends builders?’
Frieda took another deep breath. She addressed her reply to Mary. ‘I recommended Josef. If there’s been any problem with his work or with him, please just tell me.’
‘Oh, no, no,’ said Mary Orton. ‘He’s been awfully good. I like having him in the house. He’s been telling me about his family back in Ukraine. He’s having a difficult time, poor man.’
‘Of course,’ said Robin, ‘she hasn’t exactly been up in the attic checking his work.’
‘You can go up to the attic,’ said Frieda. ‘And if you’ve any complaints, just tell me about them.’
‘We’ll be checking,’ said Jeremy.
‘Did you ever meet Robert Poole?’ asked Frieda.
‘No,’ said Jeremy. ‘I told you we haven’t been down here since before last summer.’
‘No,’ said Frieda. ‘You said you hadn’t checked her accounts since then. I thought you might have brought the children for the occasional weekend, half-term in London, something like that.’
‘We live a long way from London.’
‘What about you?’ Frieda asked Robin.
‘I’ve been occupied.’ Robin’s face had turned red.
‘And Christmas?’ Frieda said softly. ‘What happened at Christmas?’
‘They have very busy Christmases,’ Mary Orton said hastily. ‘Jeremy always goes skiing, don’t you, dear? And Robin …’ Her voice trailed away. She picked at the cuff of her jersey.
There was a small silence. Frieda turned back to the brothers. ‘So you never happened to bump into him?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know the work was going on?’
‘Why should we?’
Frieda gave a little shrug. ‘I just thought that if your mother was having major building work done, you might have talked about it on the phone.’
‘Well, we didn’t,’ said Jeremy. ‘I can tell you that if we had, we’d have both been down here to make sure it was being done properly.’
‘I’m sure I mentioned it,’ said Mary Orton, faintly.
‘No, you didn’t, Ma,’ said Robin.
Frieda turned to her. ‘When we talked before, you said your husband died a long time ago. How long have you lived alone?’
‘Dad died five years ago,’ said Jeremy. ‘He’s over there on the sideboard.’ He smiled at Frieda’s puzzled expression. ‘In that wooden thing. The thing that looks like a coffee pot. Funny thing to have in the kitchen.’
‘I talk to him sometimes,’ said Mary Orton.
‘You want to watch what you say with her around.’ Robin gestured at Frieda. ‘She may not approve of an old woman talking to a box of ashes.’
‘Why wouldn’t I approve?’
‘It probably doesn’t give good financial advice either,’ said Jeremy. ‘On the subject of which, how are the police dealing with this robbery?’
‘You do understand that this is a murder inquiry?’ said Frieda.
‘And you’ll understand,’ answered Jeremy, ‘that we’re a little more concerned about the small matter of robbery. What we want to hear from you is when our mother will be getting her money back.’
Frieda was tempted to tell the two brothers that all the money was gone from Robert Poole’s account, and that Robert Poole was a stolen identity and that it wasn’t necessarily certain that the money had been stolen anyway. But she stopped herself. ‘I’m afraid I can’t talk about what’s happening with the inquiry. I don’t know the details myself. You’ll have to approach the officer in charge.’ She felt grim amusement at the idea of Karlsson having to deal with the brothers Orton.
‘You don’t sound very sympathetic,’ said Jeremy.
‘I’m doing what I can,’ said Frieda. ‘This is not a competition but at least I helped to stop the water coming through the roof.’
‘What do you think it’s like to find that your mother is being cheated of her life savings?’ Jeremy actually jabbed his finger at her as he spoke.
‘Well …’
‘It wasn’t a real question,’ he continued. ‘I have to say that it doesn’t feel to me as if you’re treating this like a real crime.’
‘I’m not a detective,’ said Frieda.
‘You seem to be behaving li
ke one. You seem pretty calm about this man taking our mother’s money.’
‘It’s not really my –’
‘And,’ he interrupted, his colour rising, ‘that’s not all he was doing. Was it, Ma?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Please,’ said Mary Orton. ‘Please don’t.’
‘He was also trying to get her to change her will, to leave a third of everything to him.’
‘What?’
‘No, Jeremy,’ said Mary Orton. ‘I didn’t … I couldn’t …’ She had gone very red. Tears were running from the corners of her eyes.
‘That’s all right, Ma.’ Jeremy patted her hand as if she were an old dog. ‘It wasn’t your fault. The man was controlling you. You didn’t know what you were doing.’
‘Mary,’ said Frieda, ‘are you comfortable talking about this?’ Mary Orton nodded but didn’t speak. Frieda looked at Jeremy. ‘Please explain. About the will.’
‘I told you. I was going through Ma’s papers. I found letters from a solicitor. They were about drafting a new will. Ma has the house and her portfolio, so it was quite a big deal. Fortunately she saw the light.’
‘Mary changed her mind?’
‘No,’ said Jeremy. ‘The solicitor didn’t go through with it. Raised objections. She probably smelt a rat. I wish someone had done that a bit earlier. Now, getting a poor old woman to change a will in favour of someone she barely knows, is that a crime?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘Have you met her?’
‘I read the letters. And I asked Ma about her. She was taken advantage of.’
Frieda wanted to say, ‘Your mother is in the room.’ Jeremy Orton was treating the old woman as if she were slightly stupid and didn’t understand English properly. But pointing this out would only humiliate her even more. ‘Can I see the letters?’ she asked instead.
She was addressing Mary Orton, but Jeremy nodded at his brother, who took a file from his bag and handed it across to Frieda. She opened it and flicked through the official-looking letters. One was an invoice. She felt someone close to her: Robin was reading the letter over her shoulder.
