Tuesday's Gone fk-2

by Nicci French

  Number 9 was always busy on a Sunday morning, but two people were just leaving the table in the corner and Frieda took her place there. Marcus was behind the counter, operating the espresso machine, steam hissing from its nozzles. Kerry was picking up plates from tables, delivering full English breakfasts or bowls of porridge. But she stopped when she saw Frieda. ‘Hello, stranger.’

  ‘I’ve been a bit busy. Where’s Katya?’

  Kerry pointed and Frieda saw the little girl at a table near the door that led into their flats, bent over a pad of paper and writing furiously, her tongue on her upper lip. ‘I should be taking her swimming or to the park,’ said Kerry.

  ‘She looks happy enough.’

  ‘She’s writing a story. She’s been at it since half past six this morning. It’s about a girl called Katya whose parents run a café. Cinnamon bagel?’

  ‘Porridge. And fresh orange juice. There’s no hurry.’

  Kerry left and Frieda pulled open her folder. Inside was everything Karlsson had given her on the Robert Poole investigation, and everything she had collected herself, including the Daily Sketch article from yesterday, which she turned face down on the table so that the photograph would be out of sight. She read through it all: the discovery of Robert Poole’s body by the woman from Social Services; the autopsy; the state of Michelle Doyce’s room; Michelle Doyce’s garbled account; the interviews with the people who lived in the house with her; the interviews with Mary Orton, Jasmine Shreeve, the Wyatts and Janet Ferris. She noted the brief, clear statement by Tessa Welles, appended by a paperclip to the copy of Mary Orton’s unexecuted will, and the statements made by Mary Orton’s sons, in which Frieda felt she could hear their aggrieved self-righteousness. She read about the money trail, struggling to make sense of some of the vocabulary but understanding that Robert Poole’s money had been removed by him from his bank account, transferred to another account that had been opened in Poole’s name and then emptied. She looked through the notes about the real Robert Poole, who had died years ago and whose photograph bore no resemblance to that of their victim. She stared at the sketch she had made and the visual produced by the police computers and read her own transcribed notes.

  Her porridge arrived and she sprinkled brown sugar over the top and ate it slowly, not interrupting her work. She made herself go through the Daily Sketch article once more, pausing, brow furrowed, when she came to Janet Ferris’s appearance. Opening her notebook, she read what she had jotted down after seeing Janet: her loneliness, her affection for Poole, which was both romantic and motherly, her sense of duty. She’d put in brackets ‘cat’ after this: the cat had been her inheritance from Robert Poole; caring for it, she was somehow still caring for him.

  Frieda put down her spoon thoughtfully. Depression is a grim and blinding curse: you can’t see outside it. You can’t see hope, or love, or how spring will follow winter. Frieda knew this, better than most, and yet she remained bothered by the cat. When Janet Ferris had decided to take her own life, she hadn’t left food in the bowl for it or opened the window so that it could get out.

  At last she got up, put her jacket on, left money on the table for her breakfast and, calling goodbye, went out into the street. The wind was cool but not unkind. Usually on a Sunday morning, she would read the papers at Number 9, then go to the flower market in Columbia Road. But today she walked instead past Coram Fields and then up towards Islington and to Highbury Corner. She didn’t know if Karlsson would be at home, but even if he wasn’t, the journey gave her time to collect her thoughts. As always, walking was a way of thinking. The houses flowed past her, the pavements pressed against her feet and the wind blew her hair back and filled her lungs.

  At last she arrived at the Victorian semi-detached house where he lived in the lower-ground-floor flat. She had only been there once before, and then he had come to the door with his little daughter wrapped round him like a koala bear. Today he was alone, wearing running shorts and a sweat-drenched top, carrying a bottle of energy drink.

  ‘Do you want to shower first?’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘You mean apart from everything else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Give me five minutes. You’d better come in.’ Frieda went down the steps and into the flat, stepping round a small tricycle and some red wellingtons. ‘Put the kettle on,’ he said, and disappeared.

  She heard the shower running, doors opening and closing. It felt too domestic and intimate and she tried not to look at all the photographs of Karlsson-the-son, Karlsson-the-father, Karlsson-the-friend. She filled the kettle and turned it on, opened cupboards until she found coffee and mugs, watched a blue tit on the bird table outside, pecking at some seed.

  ‘Right.’ He stood beside her in jeans and a grey shirt, his face glowing and hair wet. ‘White, one sugar.’

  ‘You can put your own sugar in. You’re not having the kids today?’

  ‘Later,’ he said brusquely.

  ‘I’ll make it quick, then.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  Frieda paused for a moment. ‘Before I say anything else, I’d better warn you about something.’

  ‘“Warn”,’ said Karlsson. ‘That means it’s not something good.’

  ‘Reuben and Josef were at my place last night. They were trying to be consoling and they were drinking vodka and when they left there was a photographer outside and –’

  ‘No,’ said Karlsson. ‘Let me guess. This is like you and the therapist in that restaurant. The incident that ended with you in a cell.’

  ‘Some punches were exchanged.’

  ‘What is it with you people? Was he hurt?’

  ‘He was a bit knocked about.’

  ‘Well, it was two against one. Or was it three against one?’

  ‘I came out and stopped it.’

  ‘That might get you a reduced sentence. Did he call the police?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘I don’t think so. I just wanted to warn you.’

  ‘We’ll have to see what happens. What’s the immigration status of your Polish friend?’

  ‘He’s Ukrainian. And I don’t know.’

  ‘Try to keep him out of it. If he’s charged, he’ll probably be deported.’ Karlsson smiled thinly. ‘Any other crimes to report?’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’

  Karlsson’s expression turned serious. ‘Yesterday must have been very distressing.’

  ‘I’ve spent this morning reading through the file.’

  ‘Instead of sleeping in, which is what you really need.’

  ‘I took the cat, you know.’

  ‘Yvette told me.’

  ‘When Janet Ferris killed herself, she didn’t feed it or leave the window open. Before you say it, I know she was of unsound mind, but it doesn’t feel right to me.’ Karlsson waited and Frieda drew a deep breath. ‘I am not sure that she killed herself.’

  ‘You saw her, Frieda.’

  ‘I think she was killed.’

  ‘If I was your therapist –’

  ‘Why do people keep saying that to me?’

  ‘– I would say that perhaps you need to believe she didn’t take her own life because then you wouldn’t feel so responsible for her death.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that, of course.’

  ‘You’re upset, this has been a traumatic experience. But tell me, why on earth would anyone kill Janet Ferris?’

  ‘She died after the article came out in the paper.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Karlsson. ‘And you know what that does to you.’

  Frieda took the folder out of her bag, pulled out the Daily Sketch and pointed to the paragraph. ‘She says here that Robert Poole told her things, confided in her. If whoever killed him read that, they’d be worried. Wouldn’t they?’

  Karlsson sighed heavily. ‘I don’t know, Frieda. I don’t know what they’d think. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  �
��If someone killed Janet, I want to help find them.’

  Karlsson put his mug down. ‘Think about it, Frieda. Dean hanged himself, and you think he’s still alive. Janet Ferris killed herself and you think someone murdered her. Do you see a pattern?’

  ‘Two events don’t make a pattern.’

  Frieda glared at him and got up abruptly, the chair scraping the tiles.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ he asked. ‘You haven’t touched your coffee.’

  ‘Now I’ve seen you, I’m going to Margate.’

  Margate was where Dean and Terry had gone on holiday each summer, for ten days, taking his mother June until she’d needed too much care. Frieda had read that in Joanna’s book, An Innocent In Hell. She had noted down the places they liked to visit: the beach, of course, and the old funfair with its wooden rollercoaster. The shell grotto, the arcades. Joanna had written that Dean always bought humbugs from the old-fashioned sweetshop. Dean and his mother June had a sweet tooth: Frieda remembered the doughnuts he always used to bring to June Reeve, in their greasy brown-paper bag.

  It was windy and wet when she arrived in the town. Not many people were on the streets, and the beach was practically empty, bits of paper and plastic blowing across it. She pulled her coat tighter around her and, putting her head down, walked swiftly to the B&B Joanna had mentioned, which was set back from the beach, with a sea view only from its top floor.

  The man who came to the door had a livid birthmark covering one side of his face and was wearing a dressing-gown over his clothes. Frieda could hear the television in the next room, and smell meat frying.

  ‘We’re not open. It’s out of season.’

  ‘I was hoping you could help me.’ Frieda had thought about what she was going to say, and decided it was best to be straightforward. ‘I wanted to ask you about Dean Reeve.’

  A strange expression crossed both halves of the man’s divided face, furtive and assessing.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Dr Klein,’ said Frieda, hoping the medical tag would be enough. ‘Is it true that Dean Reeve stayed here?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m wanting that to get around. Might put people off. Then again, it might encourage them.’

  ‘How often did he come?’

  ‘Ten years,’ he said promptly. ‘Every July. Him and his wife and his old mother.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Must have been the July before … before he died.’

  ‘Not after?’

  ‘How could it be after?’

  ‘This might sound like a strange question, but you haven’t met his brother, have you? They look – looked – identical.’

  The man peered at her. ‘Why would I meet his brother?’

  ‘I thought he might have come here. Out of interest. His name is Alan Dekker.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘You’ve never even seen someone who reminded you of Dean?’

  The man shook his head. ‘The thing is, he was always all right with me. Helped me mend the shower. I always thought there was something wrong with her, though.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘The old woman.’

  ‘But his brother never came?’

  ‘I told you.’

  Frieda went through the town to the shell grotto that Joanna had written about so enthusiastically – an underground labyrinth whose every inch was lined with shells, in patterns and stripes and studded spirals. It made her feel slightly nauseous. But Dean had loved it here, said Joanna. He’d been obsessed with it. So she asked the woman at the desk, selling little boxes made of shells and postcards featuring shells, the same questions she had asked the man who ran the B&B.

  ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ answered the young woman. She had an Australian accent.

  Frieda took a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. ‘That’s the man I’m talking about.’

  The girl smoothed it out and held it close to her face, then away from her, frowning. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Course I’m not. Hundreds of people come through here. He could have done. I wouldn’t remember.’

  Frieda walked back along the beach. The tide was coming in, little waves licking their way up the shore. An old man was the only other person she could see: he had a small, scruffy dog running round and round him, trying to get him to play, and every so often he stooped down very slowly, as if his back was creaking, and picked up a stick to throw for it. Frieda stared out across the grey, wrinkled sea and, for a moment, wished she was on a boat out there, alone and surrounded by water and sky.

  Thirty-seven

  Frieda had a meeting at the clinic. She arrived there early to go through her paperwork and catch up. Paz was on the phone, talking to someone; her job at the Warehouse seemed to consist of long and animated conversations with anyone who happened to call. Now she was waving her hands in the air, gesticulating to whoever was on the other end, her bangles clattering on her wrist, her long earrings swinging. She waved and made incomprehensible signs as Frieda passed. Reuben was in his room, but his patient hadn’t arrived yet and Frieda put her head round the door.

  ‘How are your knuckles?’ she said.

  ‘We were just looking out for you,’ he said.

  Frieda closed the door. ‘Defending my honour? What if he’d been carrying a knife? What if he’d fallen more heavily and hit his head?’

  ‘We were doing what friends do.’

  ‘You were drunk. Or on the way to being drunk.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘How’s the cat?’ he asked. He was sucking a mint. He was back on the cigarettes, she thought; him and Karlsson both.

  ‘He woke me up at three by biting my toe. Also he’s eaten my jasmine plant and pissed in one of my shoes. Do you know anything about housetraining a cat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve asked Josef to put a cat flap in my door.’

  ‘Good idea. There’s a woman in your office.’

  ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’

  ‘She looks a bit odd, like a toad.’

  Frieda walked down the corridor and opened her door. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the woman who was sitting on the chair, her short legs curled under her, wearing a mustard-yellow scarf wrapped round her grey hair.

  ‘Hello, Dr Klein.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Or can I call you Frieda?’

  ‘Whatever.’ She looked more closely and suddenly she knew. ‘You’re Thelma Scott, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry I was slow to recognize you. When I last saw you, you were sitting in judgement over my treatment of Alan Dekker. You’ll understand that I found the hearing rather intimidating.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Frieda suddenly felt so weary and dispirited she could hardly bring herself to speak. ‘What is it now,’ she asked. ‘Is there a new complaint?’

  Thelma took a tabloid from her bag. ‘Have you read today’s paper?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t read newspapers.’

  Thelma put reading glasses on and opened it. ‘“Shrink in street brawl”,’ she read. ‘There’s a picture of the photographer. It probably looks worse than it really is. “Friends of controversial therapist Dr Frieda Klein set on press photographer, Guy Durrant …” Well, I don’t need to read the whole article out.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘I suppose the report is broadly accurate.’

  Frieda took the paper from Thelma’s hands and looked at it. The story was written by Liz Barron again. She handed the paper back. ‘Broadly,’ she said.

  ‘Who were the friends?’ said Thelma.

  ‘I’ve just come out of the office of one of them,’ said Frieda, pointing behind her.

  ‘Reuben?’ said Thelma. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What do you
mean?’

  ‘I don’t pay much attention to gossip,’ said Thelma, ‘but I heard a story about you a year or two ago. It involved a colleague of mine and a fight in a restaurant in Kensington. It was probably exaggerated.’

  ‘I ended up in a police cell,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I notice he didn’t press charges. There was probably a reason for that.’

  ‘Yes, there was. Look, is this some disciplinary issue?’

  Thelma looked puzzled. ‘If you mean, do I endorse public fighting by accredited psychotherapists – or even between accredited psychotherapists – then the answer is no.’ Thelma stood up. She was several inches shorter than Frieda. ‘I came because I was worried about the pressure on you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but this really isn’t the best time, Dr Scott.’

  ‘I just wanted to make sure you were clear about the BPC hearing. You weren’t reprimanded. You weren’t censured. I hope you understand that.’

  ‘You came all the way here to tell me so? Thank you. That’s a kind gesture.’

  Thelma studied her closely. ‘I’ve looked you up,’ she said. ‘I’ve read some of your work. It’s not entirely a battle, you against the rest of the world.’

  ‘I know. I’ve got a few people with me. I mean in my battle against the rest of the world.’

  Thelma pushed a hand into the pocket of her donkey jacket and pulled out Underground tickets and then a business card. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘If you need someone to talk to some time.’

  ‘Frieda thinks Janet Ferris was murdered,’ said Karlsson. ‘Might have been murdered.’

  Yvette took the coffees from a tray and passed them around the table. She looked at Jake Newton, who had spent the last couple of days assessing human-resource management. ‘Did you want one?’ she said.