by Nicci French
‘How will I get in touch? I don’t have your phone number, your email, your address.’
They swapped numbers and he nodded to her. ‘We’ll speak soon.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not over.’
FIFTY
Frieda walked to the station slowly. The day was grey but hot, almost oppressive, and she felt grimy in the clothes she’d worn yesterday. She allowed herself to think of her bath – Josef’s gift to her – waiting in her clean, shaded house, empty at last of all people.
She turned on her mobile and at once messages pinged on to the screen: missed calls, voicemail, texts. Reuben had called six times, Josef even more. Jack had written her a very long text full of abbreviations she couldn’t understand. Sasha had left two texts. Judith Lennox had phoned. There were also several missed calls from Karlsson. When she rang voicemail she heard his voice, grave and anxious, asking her to get in touch as soon as she got his message. She stared down at her phone, almost hearing a clamour of voices insisting she get in touch, scolding her and pleading with her and, worst of all, being in a state of distress about her. She didn’t have the time for any of that now, or the energy or the will. Later.
When she eventually reached her house, letters lay on the doormat and, as she stooped to pick them up, she saw that a couple had been pushed through the letterbox rather than posted.
One was from Reuben; she recognized his writing at once. ‘Where the fuck are you, Frieda?’ he wrote. ‘Ring me NOW.’ He didn’t bother to sign it. The other was from Karlsson, and was more formal: ‘Dear Frieda, I couldn’t get you on your phone so came round on the off-chance. I really would like to see you – as your friend and as someone who is worried about you.’
Frieda grimaced and pushed both notes into her bag. She walked into her house. It felt cool and sheltered, almost like she was walking into a church. It had been so long since she had spent time there alone, gathering her thoughts, sitting in her study-garret, looking out over the lights of London, at the centre of the city but not trapped in its feverish rush, its mess and cruelty. She went from room to room, trying to feel at home again, waiting for a sense of calm to return to her. She felt that she had passed through a storm and her mind was still full of the faces she had dreamed about last night, or lain awake thinking of. All those lost girls.
The flap rattled and the tortoiseshell cat padded across to her and rubbed its body against her leg, purring. She scratched its chin and put some more food into its bowl, though Josef had obviously come in to feed it. She went upstairs, into her gleaming new bathroom, put in the plug and turned on the taps. She saw her reflection briefly in the mirror: hair damp on her forehead, face pale and tense. Sometimes she was a stranger to herself. She turned the taps off and pulled out the plug. She wouldn’t use the bath today. She stepped under the shower instead, washed her hair, scrubbed her body, clipped her nails, but it was no use. A thought hissed in her head. Abruptly, she stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and went into her bedroom. The window was slightly open and the thin curtains flapped in the breeze. She could hear voices outside, and the hum of traffic.
Her mobile buzzed in her pocket and she fished it out, meaning to turn it off at once because she wasn’t ready to deal with the world yet. But it was Karlsson, so she answered.
‘Yes?’
‘Frieda. Thank God. Where are you?’
‘At home. I’ve just come in.’
‘You’ve got to get over here now.’
‘Is it the Lennox case?’
‘No.’ His voice was grim. ‘I’ll tell you when you come.’
‘But –’
‘For once in your life, don’t ask questions.’
Karlsson met her outside. He was pacing up and down the pavement, openly smoking a cigarette. Not a good sign.
‘What is it?’
‘I wanted to get to you before bloody Crawford.’
The commissioner? What on earth –’
‘Is there anything you need to tell me?’
‘What?’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘I was in Birmingham. Why?’
‘Do you have witnesses to that?’
‘Yes. But I don’t understand –’
‘What about your friend, Dr McGill?’
‘Reuben? I have no idea. What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s going on.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. ‘Hal Bradshaw’s house burned down last night. Someone set it on fire.’
‘What? I don’t know what to say. Was anyone inside?’
‘He was at some conference. His wife and daughter were there, but they got out.’
‘I didn’t know he had a family.’
‘Or you wouldn’t have done it?’ said Karlsson, with a faint smile.
‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘It surprised me as well. I mean that someone would marry him, not that someone would burn his house down.’
‘Don’t say that. Not even as a bad joke. But why have you made me come here to tell me this?’
‘He’s in a bad way, saying wild things. That it was you – or one of your friends.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘He claims that threats have been made against him.’
‘By me?’
‘By people close to you.’
Frieda remembered Reuben and Josef at that dreadful meal, Reuben’s revenge fantasies and the look of hatred on his face, and her heart sank. ‘They wouldn’t,’ she said firmly.
‘It gets worse, Frieda. He’s spoken to the press. He hasn’t gone as far as naming names but it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.’
‘I see.’
‘They’re inside, waiting for you.’ Briefly, he laid a hand on her arm. ‘But I’ll be there as well. You’re not on your own.’
The commissioner – a stocky man with beetling brows and a pink scalp showing through his thinning hair – was a deep shade of red. His uniform looked far too hot for the day. Bradshaw was in jeans and a T-shirt and hadn’t shaved. When Frieda entered the room, he stared at her, then slowly shook his head from side to side, as if he was too full of pity and anger to trust himself to speak.
‘I’m very sorry indeed about what happened,’ said Frieda.
‘Sit down,’ said the commissioner, pointing to a small chair.
‘I’d prefer to stand.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ve been hearing your story from Dr Bradshaw. I’m bewildered, absolutely bewildered, as to why we ever had professional dealings with you.’ Here he turned towards Karlsson. ‘I must say I’m disappointed in you, Mal, turning a blind eye to your friend letting a possible psychopath loose.’
‘But he wasn’t a psychopath,’ said Karlsson, mildly. ‘It was a set-up.’
The commissioner ignored him.
‘Punching a colleague. Attacking a young woman she’d never met before and forcing her to the floor, just because she stood up for her boyfriend. Stalking poor Hal here. Not to mention killing this schizophrenic young woman, of course.’
‘In justified self-defence,’ said Karlsson. ‘Be careful what you say.’
Crawford looked at Frieda. ‘What have you got to say in your defence?’
‘What am I defending myself against? Arson?’
‘Frieda, Frieda,’ murmured Bradshaw. ‘I think you need some professional help. I really do.’
‘I had nothing to do with it.’
‘My wife was in that house,’ said Bradshaw. ‘And my daughter.’
‘Which makes it even worse,’ said Frieda.
‘Where were you?’ said Crawford.
‘I was in Birmingham. And I can put you in touch with someone who can confirm that.’
‘What about your friends?’ asked Bradshaw.
‘What about them?’
‘They’ve taken your side against me.’
‘It is true that I have several friends who think you acted unprofessionall
y and unethically –’
‘That’s rich,’ said the commissioner.
‘– but they wouldn’t do anything like this.’
Karlsson coughed loudly. ‘I think this is getting us nowhere,’ he said. ‘Frieda has an alibi. There’s not a shred of evidence, just Dr Bradshaw’s claims, which some might believe to be motivated by malice. In the meantime, I have an interview to conduct with Mr Lennox, who is being charged with the murder of Zach Greene.’
Bradshaw rose and came close to Frieda. ‘You won’t get away with this,’ he said, in a low voice.
‘Leave her alone,’ said Karlsson.
Frieda walked back home. She tried not to think, just put one foot in front of the other, moving steadily through the thickening crowds, feeling the warmth of the day on her. She needed to steady herself before she was with the Lennox family again. Soon they would have neither mother nor father to turn to.
FIFTY-ONE
‘Are you ready?’ said Karlsson. Yvette nodded. ‘We’ve let him stew long enough and it looks cast-iron to me. You won’t have to do much. Just keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t do anything stupid. Even I couldn’t fuck up this one, though.’
He nodded at her and they walked into the interview room. Russell Lennox was sitting at a table and next to him was his solicitor, a middle-aged woman in a dark suit. She was called Anne Beste. Karlsson didn’t know her but he didn’t give her much consideration. What could she do? Yvette started the recording machine, then stepped away from the table and stood to one side, leaning back against the wall. Karlsson reminded Lennox that he was still under caution, then opened the file and carefully went through the forensic evidence from Zach Greene’s flat. As he talked, he glanced from time to time at Lennox and Anne Beste to see the effect he was having. Lennox’s wearily impassive expression was unchanged. Anne Beste listened intently with a frown of concentration and occasionally looked sideways at her client. They never spoke.
When he had finished, Karlsson closed the file quietly. ‘Can you give me some innocent explanation for the traces you seem to have left at the scene of the murder?’ Russell Lennox shrugged. ‘Sorry, you have to say something. For the benefit of the machine.’
‘Do I have to explain it?’ said Lennox. ‘I thought you had to make the case against me.’
‘I think we’re doing that pretty well,’ said Karlsson. ‘One more question: have you any evidence about your whereabouts on the day of the murder?’
‘No,’ said Lennox. ‘I’ve told you already.’
‘Yes, you have.’ Karlsson paused for a moment. Then, when he spoke, it was in a calm, almost soothing tone. ‘Look, Mr Lennox, I know what you’ve been through, but haven’t you put your family through enough? Your children need to put this behind them and move on.’
Lennox didn’t speak, just stared at the table.
‘All right,’ said Karlsson. ‘Let me tell you – both of you – what is going to happen. We’re going to leave the room now, Mr Lennox, and give you five minutes to discuss various issues with your solicitor. Then I’m going to come back into this room and you will be charged with the murder of Zachary Greene. I need to caution you clearly that you don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. But what I’d really like to say to you is we all, but especially you, and even more especially your family, need to lay this to rest.’
When they were outside, Karlsson looked at Yvette and smiled grimly.
‘Does it matter what he says?’ she asked.
‘It’ll go a bit more quickly if he confesses,’ said Karlsson. ‘But it’s not that big a deal.’
‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Let’s just wait.’
After a couple of awkward minutes, Karlsson looked at his watch, then knocked on the door and stepped inside. Anne Beste held up her hand.
‘We need more time.’
Karlsson stepped back outside and closed the door. ‘What the hell’s that about?’ Had something gone wrong? Could they have made some mistake?
It was more like ten minutes when they were both back in the room. Anne Beste was briskly tapping the surface of the table with the fingers of her left hand. She glanced at Lennox and he gave the smallest of nods.
‘Mr Lennox is willing to admit to the manslaughter of Zachary Greene.’
Karlsson looked at Lennox. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘I went to see him,’ said Lennox. ‘After Judith told me. I had to. I was desperate. I was just going to talk to him, but we started arguing and I lost control. And then he was dead.’
Karlsson sighed. ‘You fucking idiot. Do you realize what you’ve done?’
Lennox barely seemed to hear him. ‘What about the children?’ he said.
Yvette started to say something, but Karlsson stopped her with a look.
‘Do you know where they are?’ Karlsson asked.
Lennox leaned back in his chair. His face was dark with misery. ‘They’re all staying in that therapist woman’s house.’
‘With Frieda?’ said Karlsson. ‘What are they doing there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Mr Lennox,’ said Yvette. ‘You do understand, don’t you, that this isn’t over?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There have been two murders – Zach Greene’s, to which you’ve confessed.’
‘Manslaughter,’ put in Anne Beste.
‘And your wife’s.’
Lennox lifted his eyes to her, then dropped them.
‘My client has co-operated and now he has nothing further to say,’ said Anne Beste.
Karlsson rose. ‘We’ll talk again tomorrow. As my colleague here says, this isn’t over, Mr Lennox.’
FIFTY-TWO
Frieda opened her door to find Karlsson, Yvette and a woman she didn’t recognize outside. The woman forced her way inside. Ted and Judith, Dora and Chloë were sitting around the table in the living room, with mugs and plates and phones and a laptop.
‘Oh, my darlings, my poor, poor darlings,’ said Louise. The three Lennoxes shrank from her, but she didn’t seem to notice. Chloë put a hand on Ted’s shoulder.
‘What’s going on?’ Frieda asked Karlsson, who murmured a quick explanation to her. When she heard, she looked round at the young people. Her face became stern.
‘We want to stay here.’ Judith turned to Frieda. ‘Please? Please, Frieda.’
‘They’re quite welcome,’ Frieda said to Karlsson. ‘If I can do anything to help.’
Louise put her hands on her hips, as if willing to square up to her. ‘No. Absolutely not. They’re coming home with me. That’s what they need. Children, say thank you to this woman for everything she’s done.’ She looked back at Frieda with a fierce expression. ‘They need to be with their family,’ she said, in a sort of stage whisper. Then she turned back to the children. ‘Now, we’re going back to our house, I mean my house, and this policewoman is coming with us.’
‘No!’ said Chloë. ‘Frieda, can’t you stop this?’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘But it’s horrible and –’
‘Chloë, quiet now.’
Karlsson turned to Yvette. ‘Are you going to be all right dealing with this? It’ll be difficult.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Yvette had paled. ‘That’s what female police officers are for, isn’t it? To do the emotional stuff.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Karlsson.
There was a chaos of bags being picked up and jackets looked for and Chloë being hugged and the three Lennoxes making their way out to Louise’s car. They got inside. It was a tight fit, with Yvette sitting in the front seat. Ted’s face stared out through the window.
‘This doesn’t feel right,’ said Frieda.
‘It’s the beginning of the rest of their lives,’ said Karlsson. ‘They’d better get used to it. Sorry. That came out wrong. But what can we do? Th
ey’ve lost their mother, and now they’re losing their father, for the time being at least. They need a family. You can’t be that for them.’
‘But it’s important how they hear about their father,’ said Frieda. ‘And how they’re listened to afterwards.’
‘You don’t think Yvette can handle it? All right. You don’t need to answer that. You’d probably be the person to do it.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I can’t ask you,’ said Karlsson. ‘I’m sorry. Yvette may fuck it up. She probably will. But she’ll do her very best, and at least she’s on the payroll.’ He frowned. ‘Can I have a word?’
Frieda glanced at Chloë.
‘What?’ Chloë’s voice was high and harsh.
‘I’m going to have to tell you something in a minute,’ said Frieda. ‘It’s about Ted and Judith’s father. But, first, Karlsson and I are going out for a few minutes. Is that all right?’
‘No! It isn’t all right. They’re my friends and I have a right to –’
‘Chloë.’ Frieda spoke in a quiet, warning tone that silenced her niece. She pulled on a jacket and stepped outside.
‘You don’t mind walking?’ she said.
‘I’m used to it,’ said Karlsson.
Frieda led the way out of the cobbled mews and turned right. When they reached Tottenham Court Road, they stood for a moment and watched the buses and cars careering past them.
‘You know,’ said Frieda, ‘that if you move from the countryside to a big city like London, you increase your chance of developing schizophrenia by five or six times.’
‘Why?’ said Karlsson.
‘Nobody knows. But look at all this. It makes sense, doesn’t it? If we abolished cities and went back to living in villages, we’d reduce the incidence of the disease by a third at a stroke.’
‘That sounds a bit drastic.’
Frieda turned south, then took a small quiet road off to the right.
‘I missed you today,’ said Karlsson.
‘But you saw me today. Remember? With Hal Bradshaw and your commissioner.’
‘Oh, that,’ Karlsson said dismissively. ‘That was just a farce. No, when Lennox confessed, I actually expected to see you standing there with your beady-eyed expression.’
