Sunday Silence

by Nicci French

  Chloë started to sit up and Frieda tried to stop her.

  “No,” said Chloë. “I don’t want to lie down. I need to sit up.”

  “What happened, Chloë? You can tell me.”

  “It’s all dim. Like it’s really far away and long ago. What I remember is it was the end of the week, Friday evening, and I was putting a dress on.”

  “The gray one?”

  “Yes.”

  “The one I found you in.”

  “I guess. I think I was going to this bar in Walthamstow. Porter’s. I was going to meet a couple of friends.”

  “Who?”

  “Dee and Myla. You’ve met them.” Frieda nodded: not long ago, Chloë had invited them both to her house for an impromptu dinner party she’d decided to throw. “And Klaus said he might join us.”

  “Klaus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s Klaus?”

  “Someone I met recently. You know. A guy.”

  “A guy.”

  “He’s fun,” said Chloë, with a hint of her old defiance.

  “So did this Klaus join you?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember. Maybe. It’s a kind of loud blur.”

  “What else can you remember?”

  “Nothing. I don’t remember what happened there or anything. And I don’t remember leaving. From then on it’s like . . . You know when you’ve had a dream and it’s slipped away and you can’t get hold of it? The first real memory is seeing your face, the next day.”

  “Chloë.”

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t the next day. It was on Monday.”

  “Monday. How could it be Monday? That’s—that’s the whole weekend.”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to me?”

  Frieda leaned forward and took Chloë’s pale startled face in her hands. “You have to be honest with me. You can spend a weekend injecting drugs and it’s like lost time. You can admit that to me. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Chloë’s face crinkled up. She suddenly looked terribly young. “Injecting drugs? You know me and needles. I couldn’t do that.”

  “But you went out on Friday,” said Frieda. “And we found you on Monday. That’s three nights and two whole days. Where were you?”

  “Is that possible?”

  “You said it’s like a dream,” said Frieda. “Can you remember anything about it? Anything at all?”

  “I don’t know,” said Chloë, sounding tired again. “It’s like in a fog. There’s something about a car. I think. Jolting. It makes me feel a bit sick. And there are sounds but I can’t see anything. Is that possible?”

  “Yes. That’s possible.” Frieda took out her phone and dialed a number.

  “Karlsson?” she said. “You need to get here.”

  14

  Karlsson sat on a wooden chair by the bed. Fat tears were rolling down Chloë’s cheeks. She seemed like a little child, thought Frieda. Even her face, rubbed clean of grime and makeup, looked rounder and softer. Frieda saw her lips were chapped and she had grazes on her shoulder.

  “I’ve got a headache,” Chloë said.

  “I’m sure you have.” Karlsson was grave.

  “And I feel sick. As if I’ve been poisoned.”

  “Which you have been.”

  “What happened?” Chloë looked from Frieda to Karlsson as if they could magically give her the answer.

  “We don’t know,” said Frieda. “But we’re going to find out.”

  “Someone injected you with a large amount of phenobarbital,” said Karlsson.

  “It wasn’t me,” said Chloë. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Frieda took her hand and held it for a moment.

  “How could they do that? I was in a bar. People would see.”

  “Presumably they’d slip something into your drink first,” said Karlsson. “Rohypnol, maybe.”

  “There was no trace of that,” said Frieda.

  “There wouldn’t be after three days.”

  “Why?” Chloë clutched tighter at Frieda’s hand. “I wasn’t raped. I wasn’t robbed. Why did they do it?”

  “Sometimes these creeps just like to watch.” Karlsson’s expression was grim. “They choose a woman, and they look at her losing control. They have power over her without doing anything at all.”

  “It was three nights,” said Frieda. “Two days.”

  He nodded.

  “What kind of looking is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Dee and Myla,” Frieda said to Chloë. “I want to talk to them.”

  “They’re on my phone.”

  Frieda took the canvas bag that had been beside Chloë at the Hardy Tree and opened it. Inside there was a comb, a wallet with a ten-pound note and an Oyster card, and also Chloë’s mobile phone. Karlsson took it from her and turned it on.

  “Nothing over the missing days,” he said. “Until she called you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Karlsson shrugged. “They took out the SIM card, presumably. A phone can be tracked, even when it’s turned off—but not when there’s no SIM card. Then the phone’s just a lump of useless plastic.”

  “So whoever did this knows what he’s doing.”

  “Everyone knows that about phones.”

  “I didn’t.” Frieda turned to Chloë. “I want to speak to Klaus as well.”

  “Klaus is nice.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “I know he’s nice.”

  “Then he won’t mind me speaking to him.”

  “I guess.” Chloë closed her eyes. “OK, then. Call him too. I don’t care.”

  “Is there anything else you can remember?”

  But no answer came from Chloë except a very faint snore. Karlsson stood up and moved away from the bed; he had a slight limp still although his cast had been removed months ago. Frieda pulled the duvet up higher. She drew the curtains. Then she and Karlsson left the room.

  As they went downstairs, they could hear Olivia talking very loudly on the phone, her voice occasionally breaking into a high wail. She was walking agitatedly from kitchen to living room and back, gesturing with her free hand.

  “Can we go somewhere private?” asked Karlsson.

  Frieda pulled open the door to what Olivia called her study but which was clearly the junk room. It was full of empty wine boxes, old newspapers and magazines, piles of unsorted bank statements, clothes that Olivia didn’t want anymore.

  “We should call Petra Burge,” said Karlsson, as soon as the door was shut.

  “Let’s say the name out loud. We think Dean took Chloë.”

  “As you pointed out upstairs, this wasn’t just some asshole slipping a drug into Chloë’s drink. She went missing for the whole weekend. She wasn’t raped. What was it for?”

  Frieda’s face was bleak. She didn’t reply.

  “And look at where she was found. Somewhere you know. A graveyard. It’s like a predator circling, picking people off.”

  Frieda put her head into her hands, and spoke through the lattice of her fingers. “So now Dean is targeting someone I love. Someone I’ve taken care of all her life.”

  “It could be just to taunt you, now that the investigation has failed.”

  Frieda raised her head and nodded. Her expression was somber. “I need to talk to Chloë’s friends. And this Klaus.”

  “And we need to find out where she was.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For saying ‘we.’”

  Karlsson’s face softened briefly. “She couldn’t have been lying by that tree all weekend,” he continued.

  “She doesn’t remember anything—except a car, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps some memory will return.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’ll talk to Petra.”

  “They’ve just spent six months not finding Dean.”

  “She needs to kno
w.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Listen, I’m supposed to be going away with my kids for a couple of days.”

  “Why do you sound like that’s a bad thing?”

  “I’d like to be around to make sure Chloë’s OK, see if you need me.”

  “Karlsson, your kids need you. We’ll be fine. And, actually, what could you do?”

  “Nothing, probably. But you’ve got to take care.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  15

  Frieda met Dee and Myla the next day at the café off Shoreditch High Street where Dee worked. It was quite small and filled with bearded young men, and women in round glasses. There was also an enormous dog standing passively in the center of the room.

  They were both there when she arrived, sitting at a wooden table near the window drinking herbal tea. Dee was small, with cropped dark hair and a bony, mobile face. Myla was taller, with a secretive air. Frieda remembered her as someone who rarely spoke.

  “Can I get you something?” asked Dee.

  “It’s OK. I know you’ll need to get back to work soon.”

  “What do you want to talk to us about?” asked Myla, abruptly. “Is something wrong?”

  “As I said on the phone, it’s about Chloë.”

  Dee leaned forward. “Is she OK?”

  “You were with her on Friday night.”

  “Only for a bit. Why?”

  “Someone slipped her a drug,” said Frieda.

  “On Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit,” said Dee. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s woozy and sick.”

  “Has she been examined?” asked Myla. She was staring at Frieda fixedly.

  “There were no signs of sexual assault,” said Frieda. “Or any assault.”

  “So what happened?” said Dee. “Where was she?”

  “She was left in a churchyard near St. Pancras.”

  “St. Pancras? That’s miles away. How did she get there?”

  “You think we were there when it happened?” asked Myla.

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me something.”

  “We should have looked out for her,” said Dee.

  “Can you tell me what you remember about that night, and the last time you saw her?”

  Dee ran her fingers through her hair. “We met at Porter’s in Walthamstow. Do you know it?”

  “No.”

  A young man came over and put a plate in front of Myla. “Avocado, black beans and sourdough bread,” he said. “Enjoy.”

  “It was about eight, eight thirty,” said Dee. “Right?”

  Myla nodded.

  “We got there first and then Chloë arrived about fifteen minutes later. She seemed fine. I mean, she can be rather moody.”

  “I know.”

  “She was great, chatting away.”

  “What did she have to drink?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Beer,” said Myla. “Just a half.”

  “And she didn’t seem drunk or high?”

  “No. She said this new man might be joining us. Claude.”

  “Klaus,” said Myla. With concentration, she cut a triangle off the sourdough and pushed some avocado and beans onto it, then lifted it to her mouth.

  “Right, Klaus. She said he was nice. She seemed excited.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then a few more people arrived we knew and—I don’t know. Chloë drifted away.”

  “Did Klaus arrive?”

  “I can’t say. When I noticed she wasn’t there, I thought she must be with him. It never occurred to me that anything had happened. God, poor Chloë. Is she angry with us?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What creep would do that?”

  “That’s the question.”

  “You think it was this Claude?”

  “Klaus,” said Myla.

  “I have no idea. But the thing is, it’s not just that evening Chloë can’t remember. She can’t remember anything about the entire weekend.”

  “No memory at all?”

  “Just a few very blurry ones. So I want you to think hard about who you saw her talking with.”

  “Two days. Where was she?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “This is sick.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be much help,” said Dee, screwing up her face, pressing her fingers into her temples. “I don’t think I saw her with anyone in particular. I just realized at some point she wasn’t there.”

  “Myla?”

  Myla shook her head from side to side, slowly. “Like Dee said, she was there and then at some point she wasn’t.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Sorry.”

  “It can’t be helped. Thank you for your time.”

  “It happened to me once.” Myla spoke curtly. Her face was expressionless.

  “You had a drug slipped to you in your drink?”

  “Yes. They got him in the end. It turned out he’d done it to lots of women. He was the barman. He was there under our noses.”

  “You never said.” Dee was staring at her.

  “I can’t be sure,” said Myla to Frieda, “but I have a vague sense that I did see Chloë talking to a man. I thought it was Klaus. But only because she said someone called Klaus might be coming to meet her. So when she was gone, I didn’t give it another thought.”

  “You can’t describe him?”

  “Not at all.”

  “If you do remember anything . . .”

  “Of course.” Myla prodded the last of her breakfast, her face somber. “A whole lost weekend. It makes no sense.”

  Dee went back behind the counter. At the door of the café, Frieda turned to Myla. “Were you raped?”

  “I was.”

  “I’m very sorry. Have you talked to anyone about it?”

  “Should I?”

  “I think so.”

  Myla held Frieda’s gaze. “What about you? Would you, if you were me?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know. You just don’t seem the type.”

  It was lunch hour and Karlsson was told that Petra Burge had gone for a run.

  “She does it almost every day,” said the officer. “Rain or shine. Even when she’s been up all night.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Karlsson went outside into the heat of the day. He felt restless, impatient. On an impulse he went into the newsagent across the road and bought a bottle of water, a packet of ten cigarettes—although he’d promised his children he’d given up—a lighter and a newspaper. He sat on a low wall a few yards from the station and lit the cigarette, then opened the paper. He skimmed through the news stories, the sports and business sections, then tried to solve a crossword puzzle.

  Frowning, he stared into the distance. In the glare of the sun, he made out a skinny figure running toward him: black shorts and lime green shirt, thin white legs. He looked at Petra Burge as she came, her stride regular, her head up, moving with an ease that made it look simple. He ran himself, or had done before he broke his leg, but she was something else. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stood up.

  She stopped beside him, barely out of breath, though there was a sheen of perspiration on her face and her hair was damp. “Trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  She sat on the wall beside him; he held out the bottle of water and she took a swig. “Is it Frieda?”

  “Partly.”

  “Do I have time for a shower?”

  “Of course.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  “Why did you come to tell me this? Why didn’t Frieda come?”

  Karlsson faced Petra Burge across the desk. She seemed angry. She was leaning forward, her fingers gripping the edge, her shoulders tense, her mouth in a tight line. He saw again how thin she was, but not frail. She radiated a kind of nervous energy. He couldn’t work out he
r age. In some ways she looked like a teenager, with her edgy haircut and her skinny jeans. Even though the day was hot, she had changed into a long-sleeved black shirt. But her face had lines in it and he noticed a small tuft of gray at her temple.

  “She’s a bit occupied,” he replied.

  “Let me guess. She’s out playing detective.”

  “I think she’s talking to some people.”

  Burge sat back in her chair. “I promised to find Dean Reeve and I failed. I’m no further in solving the case than I was. In fact, I’m further off. It’s all gone cold.” She pushed a paper across the desk to Karlsson. “Look at this. This is what I was thinking about when I was running.”

  On the front page were the photos of Frieda, Commissioner Crawford and herself. The journalist clearly laid out the details of the story that had led to Crawford’s resignation.

  “Look,” said Petra Burge, and jabbed her finger at a sentence halfway down the page. “It says here that DCI Burge’s reputation has suffered a serious blow.”

  “We all have cases like this,” said Karlsson. “They’re the ones that keep us awake at night. This one’s yours. The one that got away.”

  “I keep trying to work out what I did wrong, what I should have done differently. He’s still fucking out there.”

  “So what will you do with this?”

  “You think it’s Dean?”

  “Everything points to it.”

  “You reckon he’s that brazen? That reckless? Showing us all he’s one step ahead.”

  Karlsson rubbed his face with the tips of his fingers. His leg ached where it had been broken. “Everything with Dean is some sort of a message. That’s what Frieda says.”

  “What Frieda says. Who cares what Frieda says?” Burge rapped her desk angrily. “We just need to find him.”

  16

  Frieda saw two patients, then walked from her consulting room to Islington, where she went down onto the canal path. There were joggers, and children on scooters, dog-walkers, cyclists, all out in the warm weather. The ground was hard underfoot after weeks without rain; the leaves on the trees were limp. Soon it would be autumn. What a year it had been, starting with the darkness and pain of the Hannah Docherty case, straight into the horror of finding Bruce Stringer’s body under the floorboards. Then the last six months of a case going cold. And now, when it had felt like it was over, Chloë: Chloë left under the Hardy Tree. It was like a picture she couldn’t read.