by Nicci French
“You hated school. And chemistry. And there were good reasons why you and Jack didn’t stay together.”
“I know.”
“And you like what you’re doing, don’t you?”
“I really do. I don’t know why I’m being gloomy. Everything’s felt a bit odd since that weekend.”
“Your missing weekend?”
“Yes.”
She was still rubbing her finger intently into the wood of the table. Frieda couldn’t see her expression.
“Have you considered talking to someone?”
“What’s there to say? I don’t remember anything. How can I talk to someone about not remembering?”
“What we don’t know—all the gaps and the silences—can be more powerful than what we believe we do know.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do that. It might be helpful. Now, I wanted to ask you something else.”
“Go on.”
“If I’m right and someone’s targeting my family and friends, then it’s probably someone who knows one of us, even if only slightly.”
Chloë lifted her head at last, and fixed her eyes on Frieda. “That’s horrible.”
“This might not be relevant, but can you tell me who you’ve met recently?”
“There’s Klaus, of course.” She gave a faint smile. “The man you met and questioned.”
“It wasn’t him who abducted you. He was with his friend from Germany.”
“That’s good.” Chloë nodded several times. She looked young and solemn.
“Are you still seeing him?”
“I think you frightened him off.”
“Sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter, really. He was easily frightened and I’m not in the mood for anything. Not after what happened.”
“I can understand that. Is there anyone else that you’ve met recently? Someone you don’t really know about.”
Chloë folded her arms across her chest and shivered, though the night was mild. “It feels like I’m accusing someone.”
“Who?”
“There’s a new guy at work. Scottish. He’s called William. William McCollough.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s older than the rest of us. Good at what he does but keeps himself to himself.”
“Right.”
“You really think that it’s someone one of us knows?”
“It’s possible.”
“Where’s it all going to end?”
Chloë’s question was in Frieda’s mind as she walked swiftly toward her house, taking the narrow side streets. She thought of Chloë’s new work colleague who kept himself to himself. She thought of her new patients, the one with post-traumatic stress disorder, the other with commitment problems. She pictured a crowbar smashing into Reuben as he lay on the floor in his pajamas, of Chloë as she’d found her and as she’d been in that photo the journalist had handed her, lying on a mattress somewhere.
So many people. And they were just the very beginning. Once you started becoming suspicious, the stain spread. Where’s it all going to end?
She had had the idea of checking up on all her friends’ new acquaintances and now she saw that it was impossible, absurd.
She bit her lip, hesitating. She didn’t really want to ask Karlsson but she didn’t know who else to turn to. She changed direction and started walking back toward Highbury.
“What are you asking?” Karlsson said, after Frieda stopped talking.
“I’m not sure exactly.”
“Maybe because you don’t want to say it out loud, so I will. You want to investigate your own friends.”
“For their own good.”
“So you’ll need to hire someone.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“I do.”
“They’d have to be good at their job.”
“Like Bruce Stringer was good at his?”
Frieda flinched but held his gaze. “This isn’t about finding Dean. This is nothing to do with Dean, except that he seems to have set someone else off. I’m never going to ask for help with Dean again. Not ever.”
Karlsson nodded. He looked tired, Frieda thought, and subdued.
“Are you going to tell them?”
“No.”
“Murky waters.”
“But will you help me?”
“I always do, don’t I?”
All things come to those who wait. His heart is full. He can feel it beating. I am, I am. And I will be. Every morning when he wakes, every evening when he lies in bed and stares into the darkness.
He thinks of the niece on the mattress. Pushing a needle into the soft flesh in her arm. Powerless bodies. Objects. Nothing had gone wrong. There she was, and the place was seething with people. Easy. People should be more careful. Asking for trouble. Well, here comes trouble. Steering her out of the door when she started feeling faint. Catching her as she fell. Heavier than she looks. But car at the ready and in she goes. Hey-ho, and off they go. Playing nice music. Him and her. Frieda Klein’s niece in his car. A giant giggle had lodged in his throat. His eyes watered with it.
When he had arrived, everything was ready. He laid her down and then he stood back and looked at her. The noise was so loud he couldn’t tell if it was inside or outside his head. His whole body was vibrating.
He thinks of the crowbar hitting Reuben McGill’s stomach. The soft thump. The whimpers from the man as he lay on the floor in his stupid pajamas.
At night he lifts the lid of his laptop and looks at what he’s got, safely stored on the cloud, floating there. His fingers move across the keys. Her face appears; Dean’s. He adds others. Detective Chief Inspector Malcolm Karlsson. Detective Chief Inspector Petra Burge. Detective Constable Don Kaminsky. Commissioner Crawford. Professor Hal Bradshaw.
And that other one, secretly ticking away. Even Dean Reeve doesn’t know about that. Not yet.
27
Dennis Rudkin, private investigator, had his office in Tottenham, above a laundrette and next to a shop selling Italian suits and pointed shoes. Buzzed in over the intercom, Frieda made her way up the unlit stairs and opened the door on to a room that felt threadbare and functional. It was lined with filing cabinets and had a large table by the window on which were two computers, a shredder, two cameras, and multiple piles of papers and folders. On the balding red rug lay a sharp-faced little dog with alert, oversized ears; it didn’t bark at her but it followed her movements with its eyes.
At first she couldn’t see Rudkin. He was almost invisible behind one of the computers, a meager man, who looked, she thought, a bit like his dog and his room. He was wearing a striped shirt with a white collar and had sparse gray hair and the lined face of a smoker.
“Hello,” he said, and shot his hand out between the folders to forcefully grasp hers. It was bony but surprisingly large and strong. “Frieda Klein.”
“Yes.”
“Take a seat.”
Frieda sat.
“Good to meet you. Lots of my clients, I never meet. It’s all done by phone or online.”
“Before we begin, can I ask you what you call yourself?”
Dennis Rudkin frowned, his face wreathed in deep wrinkles. “I’m a private investigator, is that what you mean?”
“I thought nowadays you might be—I don’t know. Consultant in surveillance or something.”
“Most people find me online. That’s what they’ll Google. And they’ll find me. But that’s not how you found me, is it?”
“No. DCI Karlsson recommended you.”
“I’m glad he still remembers me. Now.” He rubbed his long hands together. “How can I help you?”
“I’m not sure what kind of things you normally do,” said Frieda.
“I do a bit of everything,” he said cheerfully. “Not just adultery, if that’s what you’re thinking, looking through bedroom windows. I hardly do any of that. Most of my work is done from here, sitting at my desk with my computer.
In fact, my bread and butter is insurance fraud. That’s how I started out. In my old life, I was a claims investigator for an insurance company.”
“So why did you leave?”
“I got sick of signing off on claims I knew were false. Everybody lies.”
“So you were lying as well.”
His eyebrows shot up. He peered at her over his cluttered desk. “And now I’m not. I find out the truth. And tell it. Coffee?” He gestured at the kettle on top of one of the cabinets.
“No, thank you.”
“So what do you want to find the truth about?”
Frieda tried to keep the explanation as short as possible, but it took some time. The dog stirred on the rug, curled around on itself, let its tail wag briefly. The sun shone in through the window, showing all the smears on the glass.
When she had finished, Rudkin was silent for a long time.
“You’re asking me to investigate your friends’ lives.”
“Wasn’t I being clear?”
“Yes, you were being clear. Do you have their details with you?”
Frieda passed him a piece of paper on which she had written the names and addresses of Chloë, Olivia, Reuben and Jack. Under Chloë’s she had written the name of William McCollough; and under Olivia’s, all the names of the men she had mentioned she had recently dated. She hadn’t included Josef, not yet at least; and she hadn’t included Karlsson.
“You’re not looking for anything in particular.”
“I’m looking for a possible threat.”
“You realize that if I don’t find anything, it doesn’t mean there isn’t anything.”
“I do.”
“It’s a shot in the dark.”
“Yes.”
“And it’ll take a bit of time. I’ll need help.”
“Help?”
“There’s someone I use,” Rudkin said.
“I’m going to warn my friends in advance,” said Frieda. “It seems only fair.”
“No, you’re not.” He stood up and came around his desk, stooping to scratch the dog’s pink belly, then took up position in front of the window, his hands behind his back. Frieda saw he was wearing slippers. “What good’s a secret investigation if it’s not secret? You don’t want to betray your friends, so instead you’re asking them to betray theirs.”
“I take your point,” said Frieda.
Dennis Rudkin lifted himself onto his toes, then lowered himself once more. Behind him, a double-decker bus drew to a grinding halt and Frieda could see the faces of two young women seated at the front, looking in on them.
“Everyone has secrets,” he said.
“I know.”
“You don’t. You think you know.”
“All right, I won’t tell them.” She hesitated. “There’s one other thing.”
“Go on.”
Frieda drew another sheet of paper from her bag but didn’t immediately hand it over. “How discreet are you?” she asked.
“How long do you think I’ve been doing this for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Twenty-seven years. How long do you think I would have lasted if I wasn’t discreet?”
Frieda handed him the paper. “Alex Zavou,” he read. “Morgan Rossiter. Well?”
“I’m a psychotherapist,” said Frieda. “These two men are new patients of mine.”
“You want me to investigate your patients?”
“Yes.”
Rudkin made a little whistling sound between his crooked teeth. “I’ve got to hand it to you,” he said. “You’re cold-blooded. You know what you’re doing?”
“If it were discovered, I’d be struck off. Quite rightly.”
“All right,” he said. “Leave it with me.”
“Thank you.”
“Aren’t you going to ask how much I charge?”
“How much do you charge?”
“Forty-five pounds an hour. And there are going to be a lot of hours. And two of us.”
“All right.”
“Plus VAT.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t care, do you?”
“No.”
“Fill this out,” said Dennis Rudkin. He crossed to the table and plucked a printed form from the top of one of the piles. He crouched and stroked his dog while Frieda wrote down her contact number, then stood up to shake her hand, even more firmly this time.
“I’ll be in touch.”
28
Olivia decided she would be safer with Reuben and Josef in Reuben’s house. It took careful negotiation. Then Frieda had to help her pack. When she arrived, she saw her sister-in-law surrounded by bags and cases, shoes scattered on the floor, clothes arranged in piles.
“You should think of it like staying with someone for a few days,” said Frieda. “Not moving house.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Olivia. “I’m not nine years old. This isn’t like going somewhere for a sleepover. I’m taking only what I need in order to live a very stripped-down and deprived version of my pathetic apology for a life.”
So Frieda ordered a large taxi, the sort designed for a small sports team, and she and the grumbling driver helped Olivia load it up. As they did so, Chloë came out of the house, carrying another of Olivia’s bags.
“You’ll keep the house tidy,” said Olivia.
“And stay alive,” Chloë said, rolling her eyes at Frieda. “Jack will be here, most of the time. I won’t go anywhere on my own. I won’t go and hang around in bars so someone can drop a tab in my drink. I won’t let any strange men pick me up.” She looked back at Olivia. “You have to remember that too.”
“Just let me know if you notice anything,” said Frieda.
“Ladies, I’m on a meter, you know.” The cab driver’s voice was loud and grumpy.
“I know, I know,” said Olivia.
“You never said you were moving house.”
“Because I’m not moving.”
“You ought to have hired a van for all of this.”
“Am I paying you for your advice as well?” asked Olivia.
Frieda thought there was going to be an argument or even a fight, but she managed to calm things down between them. Olivia sat in the front seat and Frieda squeezed into the middle, surrounded by cardboard boxes and potted plants. She saw that the pots were spilling soil onto the seats.
They were met by Josef and his son. Alexei had had his hair cut very short, like soft velvet. He looked subdued, forlorn, and kept close to his father, his shadow. And Josef, Frieda saw, couldn’t stop himself touching him—laying a broad, calloused hand on his shoulder, on the top of his shorn head—as if to make sure he was real and solid. Alexei had lived through an ugly war, thought Frieda, had lost his mother, and now he was in the middle of this.
She asked after Reuben.
“Sleeping.” Josef gave a shake of the head. “He sleeps, he wakes, I give him drink. I make him soup, good soup for the health. He sleeps again.”
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“You’re looking after Reuben, you’re looking after Alexei. Can you manage to work?”
Josef gave a shrug. His anxious brown eyes settled on Alexei. Then he turned back to Frieda and tapped himself on the chest, like a door. “This is my time,” he said.
He turned to Olivia, taking in her wildness, and gave a small bow but she scarcely noticed him. She turned to the car and dragged a flowery bag from it, murmuring something to herself. Frieda noticed she had on only one dangling earring; she thought now was not the time to point it out.
They quickly emptied the car, Josef loading himself up so that he almost disappeared beneath the luggage, Olivia watching them. Frieda gave the driver an extra thirty pounds to clean the mud off the seat (“Banditry,” said Olivia. “Absolute banditry”) while Josef explained that Alexei was moving in with him to free up a bedroom for Olivia.
“That’s so good of you,” said Frieda, glancing at Olivia.
>
“When I was his age,” said Olivia, “I’d been sent away to school.”
“I bring coffee and cake,” said Josef. “This your home now. Please.”
Olivia looked around the front room, which was dominated by her luggage. “For a start, this needs to be got upstairs.”
“Olivia,” said Frieda, warningly.
“What?” Olivia opened her eyes very wide, gazing at Frieda and then at Alexei. “Am I supposed to carry all of that myself, then?”
“That’s not the point.”
“You don’t seem to understand how scared I am.”
“It’s because you’re scared that you’re here, where you can feel safe.”
“Safe?” said Olivia. “What do you mean by safe? My daughter has been kidnapped and God knows what was done to her. Reuben has been attacked in his own home. Now you bring me to the same home. Are we safe or are we just a bigger target?”
Josef came in bearing a tray with mugs of coffee and cake. “Take bags up?” he said.
“Yes,” said Olivia, then glanced at Frieda. “Please,” she added. “Thank you, Josef. Thank you all.” Fat tears started to roll down her cheeks.
Not wanting to leave the house, Josef had started work on Reuben’s garden and had enlisted Alexei in the project. He thought it would be good for him.
“And after that?” Frieda asked.
“After?”
“The summer’s nearly over, Josef. Alexei needs to go to school.”
“What to do?” Josef spread his arms wide in a gesture of despair. “How he go to school, Frieda? I am not—” He stopped, his face wrinkling in the effort of finding the word. “Official. Everything cash. So Alexei not official.”
“Have you asked for advice?”
“As soon as I say we are here, we are a problem.”
“You can’t go on hiding, especially with Alexei.”
“Maybe.” Josef was dubious. “I think on it.” His face brightened. “Gardening is good.”
The little strip of lawn had to be dug up, the rubbly earth turned and re-turned, the plants that were already there bagged in their own compost, and then the paving stones lifted and used to make a structure of beds that would be filled with soil. It was heavy work but Alexei, who was scrawny but surprisingly strong, did it without any protest, as if he were used to laboring and expected it. It was hot, and he took off his T-shirt and silently, patiently struck the fork into the baked ground. Olivia took tall glasses of elderflower cordial out to him, filled with clinking ice, and he drained them silently before settling back to his toil.
