by Nicci French
“I’m thirty-five years old. It’s not too late for me. I don’t have to do this. I could leave and become a primary-school teacher. Or I could meet someone and have children. It’s not impossible. Admittedly, a bit unlikely but . . .”
“Stop. What are you saying?”
“I’m taking time off.”
“To do what?”
“I don’t know. Just do nothing except maybe think and sort myself out.”
“Where will you go?”
“Just away, somewhere completely different. That’s why I wanted to see you.” She took a piece of paper from her pocket. “I don’t think I’ve been a good person to you,” she said, her voice tremulous. “I think I was all mixed up. I saw you as some mad kind of rival and I also wanted to be a friend and I wanted you to look into my mind and solve all my problems.”
“What’s on the piece of paper?” Frieda asked.
“That’s just my phone number. It’s from my other phone, my private one, which I hardly ever use. As I say, I’ll be away, maybe walking or hanging out somewhere. But if at some point you need help or you think I could help in some way, someone who’s in the police but on your side—I know you’ve got Karlsson already, so it probably sounds ridiculous—you can call that number and I’ll come and do what I can. Not that you’ll ever want to.”
“Stop putting yourself down,” said Frieda, taking the piece of paper. “And thank you. Walk back with me.”
“If you want to talk about any of this . . .” Frieda was saying, as they entered Saffron Mews. She paused.
A man was standing at her door, looking up at her windows as if trying to decide if anyone was in. He turned at the sound of their footsteps, took a few paces toward them, then stopped awkwardly. He was dressed in thin gray trousers and a white T-shirt and was carrying a paper bag, holding it slightly away from him, as if it was particularly fragile and he didn’t want it to bump against his leg. At first, she didn’t recognize him, and then she did.
“Hello,” he said. “My name’s Daniel Blackstock and—”
“I know who you are. You’re a journalist. Not just a journalist. I saw what you wrote about Petra Burge and about Crawford.”
“Did I get anything wrong?”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
“One minute, please.”
“Didn’t she make herself clear enough?” said Yvette.
“Who are you?” asked Blackstock.
“This is Inspector Yvette Long,” said Frieda.
Nicci French
“Actually, I’m not exactly . . .”
“I have something for you. That’s all.” He sounded angry himself now.
“Something to give me?”
“That’s why I’m here. I didn’t know whether to give it to the police or to you.”
“Then you should probably give it to the police,” said Frieda.
“Don’t you want to see it?”
Frieda looked at the bag he was holding. “What is it?”
Daniel Blackstock drew out a stiff-backed envelope and handed it to her. “You might want to open it inside.”
Frieda ignored him. She lifted the unsealed flap and drew out a glossy A5 photograph. First an inch or so of stone floor slid into view, then the edge of a mattress. On it, first a grubby foot, chipped nail varnish on the toes. Bare legs, one bent and the other straight. The hem of a gray dress. She knew that dress, those legs. She blinked several times to keep her vision clear, then pulled the whole photo into view. Chloë was lying on the mattress, her legs splayed crookedly, her dress up to her thighs so you could see her underwear, one arm folded over her body, the other flung out. That puncture mark, she could see it clearly. Dirty palm. Dirt on her neck, which looked shockingly white in the overexposed shot. And then her niece’s face, pale and slightly swollen, the lips parted, the eyes closed. Bluish lids, that ridiculous haircut, which suddenly made her look like a prisoner. For a few seconds that lasted a long time, Frieda stared down at the photo. She knew that Chloë hadn’t been raped, but this image was designed to make her look like she’d been fucked over and over and was now lying there, used up and wasted, God knew where.
She showed it to Yvette, who flinched. Then she slid it back into the envelope and turned on Daniel Blackstock. “Where did you get this?”
“It was sent to me.”
“Sent? Where?”
“At work. I was there with a colleague when it arrived with the other mail. I just opened it without thinking it was anything special and then—”
“Why you?”
“I honestly don’t know. But I guess that’s what happens when you write about a case. People see it as a way of getting publicity or recognition or something.”
Frieda turned the envelope over and saw it was stamped, and had his name, and the address of his workplace in capital letters.
“Who’ve you shown this to?” Yvette asked.
“Lindsay Moran, an intern, saw it: her desk is opposite mine. And then I took it to my editor. No one else.”
“Why have you brought it to me and not gone straight to the police?”
“We’re not all out to screw you over. It obviously has to go to the police, but we thought you should see it first. Even journalists can be decent people. Now she can take it, or is she the bodyguard?” This last he said looking at Yvette.
“No, she’s not the bodyguard.” Yvette flushed with anger. “I’m a friend.”
“I’ve read about Dr. Klein’s friends,” said Blackstock.
“I’m not much of a friend.”
“What do you mean?”
And Yvette launched into an explanation of her relationship to Frieda and how she’d let her down in the past, and this became an explanation of why she was taking a sabbatical. Blackstock, obviously struggling to make sense of Yvette, said mildly that he would do the same if he could afford to. Frieda tried to stop the conversation.
“Yvette, you don’t need to keep explaining yourself.”
“I thought you’d approve of me explaining myself.”
Frieda turned to Blackstock. “You’ve dealt fairly with me over this year. Thank you for this.”
“It’s OK.” He hesitated, then added, “Just say you’ll think of me if you’ve got something to say.”
“I’ll think of you.”
“Think of me and then talk to me.”
“We’ll see.”
When Blackstock was gone, Frieda let herself into her house.
“I need to take this to the station,” said Yvette. “It’s important.”
“In a minute,” said Frieda. “First, could you take that picture out, put it on the table?”
“What for?”
“Please.”
Yvette carefully removed the photo and laid it down. Frieda looked at it. Then she got out her phone and took a picture of it.
“I’m not sure I should be letting you do that,” said Yvette.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I’ll show it to Petra Burge now,” Frieda said.
“You?”
“Blackstock gave it to me. That makes me some kind of witness.”
“And keeps you involved.”
“That too.”
19
Petra Burge sat in an armchair; it seemed to swallow her small frame. She held the photo by its corners, carefully, and stared at it intently. She turned it over. She looked at the envelope with its block capital letters and its franked stamp.
“It was sent from London.”
“Yes.”
“Which tells us nothing.”
“Almost nothing.”
“It was taken when the sun was quite low in the sky. Look at the way the light is falling.”
“Evening, then,” said Frieda.
“Or morning. We have no way of knowing where this is.”
“Maybe somewhere near City Airport.”
Petra looked up at her. “Maybe?
Where does this come from?”
“Chloë heard planes. Very low, very near. Not great jumbo jets, she doesn’t think, and not tiny biplanes. So I thought of City Airport.”
Petra shook her head. “There are a dozen other places.”
“I went there, and I have a strong sense that it was in that area.”
“A strong sense. Is this a sixth sense? Woman’s intuition?”
“A working hypothesis that fits the facts.”
Petra rearranged herself in the chair. “Even if you’re right, this doesn’t give us much to go on.”
“No.”
“But it’s shocking.”
Frieda glanced again at the image of Chloë lying on that grubby mattress; even looking at her like that seemed an act of defilement. “I’ve been waiting for a message,” said Frieda. “And this is it.”
“Was the photograph sent to you?”
“Not directly.”
“It wasn’t sent to you at all. It was sent to a journalist. If it’s a message, what does it say?”
“I don’t know. Do you want some whisky?”
Petra smiled. Smiles usually made people seem younger; hers made her look older. “Why not?”
They drank the whisky sitting in the backyard, as the sun sank in the blue-gray sky. At first they didn’t say anything. Frieda liked it when people didn’t feel the need to speak. She took small, fiery sips and felt something loosen inside her. Anger. Fear.
“The people I love may be in danger simply because I love them,” she said at last.
Petra Burge looked at her over the rim of the tumbler.
“So what are we going to do?” Frieda heard herself use that unaccustomed we and changed it at once. “How am I going to keep them safe?”
Reuben was lying in bed. It was only just past ten o’clock, and he was never one to go to bed early, but he was tired. No, he was more than tired, he was weary and frail and sad and scared, and his bones felt hollow, his eyes hurt, his chest ached. Nausea occupied every part of his body. He was wearing pajamas, something he never used to do, and now he put his hand on his stomach, under the cotton jacket, and felt how thin he had become, with sharp ribs. This was how it must be to be very old, he thought, but he wasn’t old, though when he looked in the mirror he was always taken aback by the change in his appearance. He was ill. Perhaps he was very ill. Perhaps—No, he wouldn’t continue that thought. Frieda kept telling him how the treatment he was having was poisoning his whole body in order to destroy the cancer. That was why he felt so bad: it was the cure, not the cancer.
Well, maybe. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about that, and thought instead about all the things he might never do again. Sleep with a woman, drink vodka all night with Josef, wear his dandyish waistcoat at Christmas and sing loudly, give lectures on impotence and male anxiety to a crowded room. Swim—no, he’d never much liked swimming. His thoughts were getting cloudy, sleep tugging him downwards, when he heard his doorbell ring, then the knocker rapped. He waited for Josef to answer, but remembered he had taken Alexei out for a pizza. The bell rang once more. Reuben sat up and swung his legs out of bed. He went down the stairs, making sure his pajama jacket was properly buttoned, and pulled open the front door.
At first he couldn’t make out who was standing there in the obscurity of the night, and then he saw. A shape in dark clothes, with a stocking over his face. Or perhaps it was a woman, so perhaps it was her face. And holding something. What? A crowbar, perhaps. He wasn’t actually sure he really knew what a crowbar was. It was a word people used. Anyway, holding something designed for hitting. He must look pitiful, standing in his pajamas and staring, his mouth open, air pouring into him, his heart beating too fast. He was all dot and carry one: where had someone used that expression to him? His mother, that was it, many, many years ago. Perhaps it wasn’t the cancer that would kill him after all. He thought all of these things and at the same time he was trying to get the door shut, fumbling, his feet sliding across the gritty floor and onto the doormat.
The door wouldn’t shut. The figure was still there, in the entrance now. In the hall. Everything was very slow and very silent. His breathing; the breathing of the shape next to him. The arm raised high, the metal bar falling and smashing into his shoulder. Now he was on the floor. He seemed to have time to wait for the pain and he knew it would be bad but it was worse. The first blow was to his face and everything was flashing yellow and blue and he tasted blood, choking on it and spitting it out. The second blow was to the torso and he dimly heard something crack. He was crying now, trying to shift away from the blows but he couldn’t move. There was a third blow and a fourth and a fifth until he didn’t know where they were striking, lost in a cloud of pain and he wanted to be unconscious or to be dead just so this would stop. Then finally it did stop and everything hurt and everything was wet and there was a terrible smell and still he wasn’t unconscious and he could hear himself sobbing and he couldn’t see and he couldn’t move.
20
It was Alexei who saw him first. He was pushing at the door that Josef had unlocked, but it had stopped against something. He squeezed through the narrow opening and his feet bumped into whatever was on the floor. Josef was saying something from outside but Alexei couldn’t make out the words. He bent down in the darkness and put his hand on the soft cloth of Reuben’s pajamas, the coldness of an exposed shin, and then something warmer, sticky. He gave a small cry.
Josef pushed the door harder and the shape moved back slightly.
Alexei stood up and felt for the switch. Light flooded the hall. The first thing he saw was his own hand on the switch, red with blood. Then he looked down and saw Reuben’s body, still as a corpse, his bald skull shining whitely and his bashed face almost unrecognizable. He couldn’t move and he couldn’t look away. He stood quite still beside Reuben and at last, for the first time since his mother had died, he started to weep. He wept and he wept and he couldn’t stop.
Reuben had a side room in the hospital. When he first woke in it, he didn’t know where he was. The strip light flickered above him, the walls were white, the window small and showing only a patch of blue sky. The sounds he could hear might have been inside his own head: an echoing tap of footsteps, small insistent beeps, intermittent cries that reminded him of being a child. He closed his eyes and for a moment everything was blank, and then into that blank memories flowed. A man in a stocking mask; a crowbar cracking against his head, thumping into his body. He remembered staring at the floor on which he lay. Above all, he remembered the horrible silence in which everything had happened.
So he hadn’t died, after all. This was a hospital. He opened his eyes and now there was a blurred face. He squinted until it came into focus.
“Frieda,” he said. His voice was thick. It hurt to speak. His head hurt and his body ached as if he’d fallen from a great height.
“Reuben.”
“Fuck,” he managed.
He saw her smile, but her face was terrible.
There were doctors. Nurses. Police officers. There was nothing he could tell them, just a door opening and a figure, faceless. Josef came with vodka in a plastic bottle. Alexei came and stared at him with his huge brown eyes and Reuben tried to smile at him but his face was swollen. Jack brought cheese and the crossword, which together they failed to do. Olivia brought flowers and made a terrific fuss when she was told flowers weren’t allowed in the hospital, and Chloë had to lead her away.
After two days, Frieda took him home and he lay in bed, hearing the sounds of the house below him. He felt very weak, like a baby, and sometimes there was a comfort in that: he could just let himself be looked after. But sometimes he would cry, and Josef would soak a flannel in warm water and wipe his forehead with it. At other times he felt sick and Josef would sit by the bed holding a plastic washing-up bowl. When Reuben fell asleep, Josef would lay his large, calloused hand on his friend’s naked skull and feel his pulse beating there.
Frieda stood in Re
uben’s garden with a cup of coffee. She looked at the way the sun fell through the leaves of his apple tree, but what she was really seeing was Reuben’s swollen face on the pillow and the way he looked scared and old. Then she became aware of a noise behind her and, turning, she saw Alexei.
“Hello,” she said, and smiled at him.
Alexei didn’t answer but took a few shuffling steps toward her, a slight figure, with his huge eyes staring at her. He opened his mouth as if he would speak, but no sound came out. She saw how tired he looked and how anxious.
“What is it?” she asked.
Alexei didn’t say anything, but slid his small hand into hers, and the two of them stood like that for several minutes, hand in hand in the garden.
“You should go out, Josef,” Frieda said.
“No, no. Reuben need me. I stay here with him.”
“Alexei needs you too. He’s been hanging around here like a small ghost since it happened. He’s frightened and lonely. Take him for a walk.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
So Josef walked with Alexei out onto Primrose Hill and into the sunshine. As he walked, he talked, even though Alexei didn’t reply. He still wasn’t entirely used to the relief he felt at speaking his own language. He felt like someone who had been holding his breath under water, suddenly surfacing and breathing air again.
Just now, in his first days back in England, even with everything else that was happening, all the fear and terror of it, the experience of being with Alexei was almost too much for Josef. He felt happy and sad and scared and tender all at once. He felt shy, protective, full of guilt for the past, and anxiety and hope for the future. He thought of Dima, still in Ukraine, and something heavy shifted in his chest. His wife, his ex-wife, was dead. His elder son was far away. His younger son was with him, but mute and mysterious, a code he hadn’t yet deciphered.
Alexei was wearing new trainers, new jeans, a new T-shirt. He was tugging at his father’s hand, and Josef pointed at the city that felt almost like it was at their feet.
“You see that crane?” He was speaking in their native language, trying to take his son’s mind off Reuben’s attack. “You can count them from the left. It’s the third.”
