by Nicci French
He was sitting in front of the TV, not really watching it, when the phone rang.
‘Have you got a pen?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Philip Sidney.’
Fearby fumbled for a pen.
‘Yes?’
‘Vanessa Dale,’ said the voice, then gave a phone number and made Fearby read it back to him. Fearby started to ask something but the line was already dead.
Frieda poured two whiskies and handed one to Josef. ‘How’s it going?’ she said.
‘The joist is good. It is strong. But now after I take the floor up, I think it is better to do tiles. Tiles on the floor. Then new floor make wall look old and bad. So maybe tiles for the wall as well. You should choose.’
Josef seemed to have forgotten about his glass, so Frieda clinked hers against his to remind him. They both drank.
‘When I asked, “How’s it going?” I was asking about you, not just the bathroom. But I want to say that I’m going to start paying for all of this. You can’t afford it.’
‘Is fine.’
‘It’s not fine. I’ve been thinking about myself too much. I know that you were close to Mary Orton. It was very sad for you, I know, what happened.’
‘I dream of her,’ said Josef. ‘Two times maybe four times. It’s funny.’
‘What do you dream?’
Josef smiled. ‘She was living in Ukraine. In my old home. I tell her I’m surprised to see her living. She talk to me in my own language. Stupid, no?’
‘Yes. Very stupid. But not stupid at all.’
Darling Frieda – It’s too late to phone you. I’ve just checked out the link you sent me. Who is this fucking Hal Bradshaw anyway? Can we do something about this? One of my oldest friends is a lawyer. Should I have a word with her?
But I hope you know how highly you’re regarded by all the people who matter – your friends, your colleagues, your patients. This story is just a vicious charade that makes no difference to that.
I’ve had an idea for the summer – we can hire a longboat on the Canal du Midi. You’d like that. I went on one before and they’re very cosy (some people would find them oppressive; not you. They are a bit like your house, except they move). We could drift along the waterways and stop for picnics and in the evenings go to little brasseries. Of course, in my mind it’s very sunny and you’re wearing a sundress and drinking white wine and you’ve even got a bit of a tan. Say yes! Xxxx
NINETEEN
‘We were all so shocked,’ said the woman sitting opposite Munster and Riley. ‘I can’t quite believe it. I mean, Ruth was so …’ She stopped and searched for a word. Her face screwed up. ‘Down to earth,’ she supplied eventually. ‘Cheerful. Practical. I don’t know – not someone who things like this happen to. I realize how stupid that sounds.’
They were in the low-rise modern building from which Ruth Lennox had worked as a health visitor, sitting in a small room off the open-plan office with her line manager, Nadine Salter.
‘It doesn’t sound stupid, said Chris Munster, after Riley had failed to respond. He looked a bit dazed this morning: his face was creased as if he had only just woken up. ‘It’s what most people say about her. That she was a friendly, straightforward woman. How long had she worked here?’
‘About ten years. Mostly she was out, seeing people, not here in the office.’
‘Can you show us her desk?’
‘Of course.’
They went into the large room, past desks of avidly curious people pretending to work. Ruth Lennox’s desk was scrupulously tidy, which was what Munster and Riley had come to expect – her folders, her notebooks, her work diary, her correspondence and her stationery had been put away in the drawers. Apart from the rather old computer, the only things on the surface were a small jug of pens, a little pot of paper slips and staplers, and a framed photo of her three children.
‘We’re going to have to remove her computer and her correspondence,’ said Munster. ‘For now, we’re just interested in the Wednesday she died. April the sixth. Was she here?’
‘Yes. But just for the half-day. She always had Wednesday afternoon off. We have a general staff meeting in the morning, at about eleven, and then she leaves after that.’
‘So she was in the office that day, not out on visits?’
‘That’s right. She came in at about nine, and left again at midday.’
‘Was there anything different about her that day?’
‘We’ve been talking about that. She was just her normal self.’
‘She didn’t mention anything that was troubling her?’
‘Not at all. We talked about how awful it is for young people trying to find jobs, but just in a general way – her kids are too young for that to worry her. Poor things. And she gave me a recipe.’
‘Did you see her go?’
‘No. But Vicky, over there, was having a cigarette outside. She saw her getting into a cab.’
‘A black taxi?’
‘No. As I said, a cab.’
‘Do you know which firm?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Hang on,’ said Riley.
He walked over to Ruth Lennox’s desk and came back with a small card, which he handed to Munster. ‘This was pinned to her board,’ he said.
Munster looked at the card. C & R Taxis. He showed it to Nadine Salter.
‘Would she travel by cab on her visits?’ he asked.
Her face took on a disapproving expression. ‘Not on our budget.’
C & R Taxis was based in a tiny room with smeary windows next to a betting shop on Camden High Street. An old man was sitting asleep on a sofa. A portly man was sitting at a desk with three phones in front of him and a laptop. He looked up at the two detectives when Munster asked about Ruth Lennox.
‘Ruth Lennox? Last Wednesday?’ He scrolled down his computer screen with a deft, stubby finger. ‘Yeah, we took her last Wednesday. Ahmed drove her. Where to?’
They waited for him to say that Ahmed had driven Ruth Lennox home to Margaretting Street. He didn’t.
‘Shawcross Street, SE17, number thirty-seven. No, we didn’t collect her.’ One of the phones rang loudly. ‘I should get that.’
Out in the street, Munster and Riley looked at each other.
‘Shawcross Street,’ Munster said.
The road they needed was one-way, so they parked beside an enormous block of flats, built in the thirties. It was being prepared for demolition and the windows and doors were sealed with sheet metal.
‘I wonder what Ruth Lennox was doing round here,’ said Munster, climbing out of the car.
‘Isn’t that what a health visitor does?’ said Riley. ‘Visit people?’
‘This isn’t her patch.’
They walked round the corner into Shawcross Street. At one end there was a row of large, semi-detached Victorian houses, but thirty-seven wasn’t one of these. It was a fifties-style, flat-fronted, dilapidated building, with metal-framed windows, that had been divided into three flats, although the top flat looked empty. One of its windows was smashed and a tatty red curtain blew out of it.
Munster rang the bottom bell and waited. Then he rang the middle one. Just as they were turning to go, the entrance door opened and a small, dark-skinned woman peered out suspiciously. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
Chris Munster held up his ID. ‘Could we come in?’
She stood aside and let them into the communal hallway.
‘We want to check on the residents of this building. Do you live here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. With my husband, who’s in bed, and my two sons, who are at school, if that’s what you were going to ask. What is this?’
‘Is your husband ill?’ asked Riley.
‘He lost his job.’ The woman glared, her face tight. ‘He’s on disability. I’ve got all the forms.’
‘We don’t care about that,’ said Munster. ‘Do you know a woman called Ruth Lenno
x?’
‘I’ve never heard of her. Why?’
‘She came to this address last Wednesday.’
He took the photograph of Ruth out of his pocket and held it out. ‘Do you recognize her?’
She examined the picture, wrinkling her face. ‘I don’t take much notice of people who come and go,’ she said.
‘She’s been the victim of a crime. We think she came here on the day she died.’
‘Died? What are you suggesting?’
‘Nothing. Really nothing. We just want to find out if she was here that day, and why.’
‘Well, she wasn’t in our place at any rate. I don’t know any Ruth Lennox. I don’t know this woman.’ She jabbed the photo. ‘And we’re law-abiding citizens, which can be hard enough these days.’
‘Do you know who lives in the other flats?’
‘There’s nobody above. They moved out months ago. And I don’t know about downstairs.’
‘But somebody lives there?’
‘I wouldn’t say lives. Somebody rents it but I don’t see them.’
‘Them?’
‘Them. Him. Her. I don’t know.’ She relented. ‘I hear a radio sometimes. During the day.’
‘Thank you. And last Wednesday, did you see anyone there?’
‘No. But I wasn’t looking.’
‘Perhaps your husband might have seen something if he’s here during the day?’
She looked from one face to the other, then gave a small, weary shrug. ‘He sleeps a lot, or sort of sleeps, because of his pills.’
‘No. That’s all right. Can you tell me who your landlord is?’
‘You don’t see him round here.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Mr Reader. Michael Reader. Maybe you’ve heard of him. You see his boards up everywhere. His grandfather bought up loads of these houses after the war. He’s the real criminal.’
TWENTY
Duncan Bailey lived in Romford, in a concrete, brutalist apartment block. It was built on a grand scale, with chilly corridors and high ceilings, large windows that overlooked a tumble of buildings and tangled ribbons of roads.
Frieda knew that he would be there, because after some thought she had rung his mobile and made an appointment to see him. He hadn’t sounded flustered, or even surprised, but relaxed and almost amused, and he had agreed to see her at half past five that afternoon, when he returned from the library. He was a psychology graduate student at Cardinal College where Hal Bradshaw was a visiting lecturer.
She walked up the stairs to the third floor, then along the broad corridor. Would Bailey think she was out for revenge? No, it wasn’t for revenge that Frieda was there but something odder, more formless. She couldn’t see it, couldn’t hear it, couldn’t smell or touch it, but some vague and shadowy shape shifted and stirred in her mind.
Duncan Bailey was an unusually small young man. He seemed out of place and almost comical in the cavernous living room. He had light brown hair and a neat goatee, lively blue eyes, a thin and mobile face. His manner was genial and mischievous. It was hard to tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ said Frieda.
‘No problem. I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. It’s about the experiment we both took part in.’
‘No hard feelings, I hope,’ he said, with a smile.
‘Why would there be?’
‘Some people might feel they’d been humiliated. But it’s all in the cause of science. Anyway, Dr Bradshaw said you might not see it that way.’
‘He should know,’ said Frieda. ‘But, as I understand it, you all had to pretend to be the same case study, describe the same symptoms, is that right?’
‘Dr Bradshaw said we could go off script as much as we wanted as long as we smuggled in the vital ingredients.’
‘So, things like the story about cutting the father’s hair: that was in your story too?’
‘Yes. Did you like it?’
‘Did Dr Bradshaw create the case study himself?’
‘He signed off on it, but it was put together by one of the other researchers. We never met as a group. I came into it rather late, as a favour.’
‘Who were they?’
‘You want me to give you their names?’
‘Out of interest.’
‘So you can visit them too?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re going to a lot of effort. Romford seems a long way to come just to ask a simple question. I would have told you over the phone. Especially after you’ve been so ill.’
Frieda didn’t say anything, just looked at him.
‘Don’t you want to know which one I went to see?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘It was your friend.’
Poor Reuben, thought Frieda. He wouldn’t have stood a chance with someone like Duncan Bailey.
‘James Rundell.’ He looked at her enquiringly, head cocked to one side. ‘I can see why someone would want to punch him.’
Frieda suppressed a smile at the thought of James Rundell meeting this sharp, cynical, bright-eyed young man.
‘But you can’t just go around thinking you can control people,’ Duncan Bailey continued. ‘I mean, it’s very nice to meet you, of course, but someone more sensitive than me might be intimidated by your visit, Dr Klein. Do you see what I mean?’
‘I just want the names.’
Bailey thought for a moment. ‘Why not? They’ll be in the psychology journal soon enough. Shall I write them down for you? I can give you their addresses if that would help. Save you going to any trouble.’ He uncurled himself from his chair with the agility of a cat and padded lightly across the room.
Five and a half hours later, Frieda was on a plane. The last-minute flight had been eyewateringly expensive; she was going for a ridiculously short time; above all, she was scared of flying and for nearly a decade had avoided it. She sat in an aisle seat and ordered a tomato juice. The woman next to her snored gently. Frieda sat upright, burning with fear: because she was flying, because Dean Reeve was still alive, because she knew what it felt like to die, because she was so gladshe would be seeing Sandy and because caring so much was dangerous. It was safer to be alone.
When Fearby phoned Vanessa Dale, she said she’d moved away years earlier. Now she lived in Leeds. She worked in a chemist’s. Fearby said that was fine. He could come and see her. Did she have a break? Oh, and one other thing. Did she have a photograph of herself? From that time? Could she bring it with her?
He met her outside on the pavement and walked with her to a coffee shop a few doors along. He ordered tea for himself and for her a kind of coffee with an exotic name. Although it was the smallest size, the foamy concoction looked enough for four people. Vanessa Dale was dressed in a dark red skirt over thick tights, ankle boots and a brightly patterned shirt. He noticed she had a badge with her name on just above her left breast. He took out his pen and his notebook. You think you’ll remember things, but you don’t. That was why he wrote everything down, transcribed it, put the date beside each entry.
‘Thank you for taking the time,’ he said.
‘That’s all right,’ she said.
‘Did you manage to find an old picture?’
She opened her purse and took out two passport pictures, snipped from a set of four. He looked at it, then at her. The older Vanessa was plumper in the face, the hair long and dark. ‘Can I keep this?’ he said.
‘I’m not bothered,’ she said.
‘Someone rang me,’ said Fearby. ‘Someone from the police. He said that you contacted them on the thirteenth of July 2004. Is that right?’
‘I did contact the police once, years ago. I don’t remember the date.’
‘Why did you ring them?’
‘Someone gave me a fright. I called the police about it.’
‘Could you tell me what happened?’
Vanessa looked su
spicious. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I told you, I’m writing a story. But your name won’t come into it.’
‘It seems stupid now,’ said Vanessa, ‘but it was really creepy. I was walking back from the shops near where my parents lived. There was a bit of scrubland. There’s a Tesco’s there now. And a car pulled up. A man asked for directions. He got out of the car and then he made a grab at me. He got me round the throat. I hit out and screamed at him, then ran away. My mum made me phone the police. A couple of them came round and talked to me about it. That was it.’
‘And it didn’t feature in the trial.’
‘What trial?’
‘The trial of George Conley.’
She looked blank.
‘Do you remember the murder of Hazel Barton?’
‘No.’
Fearby thought for a moment. Was this just another wrong turn? ‘What do you remember about your attack?’
‘It was years ago.’
‘But a man tried to kidnap you,’ said Fearby. ‘It must have been a memorable experience.’
‘It was really weird,’ said Vanessa. ‘When it happened it was like a dream. You know when you have a really scary dream and then you wake up and you can hardly remember anything about it? I remember a man in a suit.’
‘Was he old? Young?’
‘I don’t know. He wasn’t a teenager. And he wasn’t an old man. He was quite strong.’
‘Big? Little?’
‘Sort of average. Maybe a bit bigger than me. But I’m not sure.’
