Sunday Morning Coming Down: A Frieda Klein Novel (7)

by Nicci French

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Hillier. He was looking at her intently, in a way that Frieda didn’t like.

  ‘What we all want, I assume,’ said Frieda, ‘is to catch a murderer. I just hope that you’ll all say that.’

  ‘That goes without saying,’ said Liz Barron.

  ‘I think the things that go without saying often need saying.’

  ‘On that subject,’ Barron continued, ‘do you think you have a reputation for being a difficult woman?’

  The press officer stood up and coughed and said maybe she should draw proceedings to a close.

  ‘Is it all right if I have a photo with you?’ Liz Barron asked.

  Frieda was so surprised that she couldn’t speak but the press officer said of course, and came over and took Liz Barron’s phone, and then Gary Hillier and Daniel Blackstock wanted a photograph as well and then they had a group photograph. Frieda felt as if she were in a strange dream that involved being at a terrible party she couldn’t leave. But finally it was over. Once the journalists were gone, Frieda looked across at Petra Burge. ‘Enough?’ she said.

  ‘Just about.’

  The next morning, the pieces appeared. She glanced at them online, but couldn’t bring herself to read them. Liz Barron had called her an ‘ice queen’ and had said she was locked in a ‘dance of death’ with Dean Reeve. She had talked to the psychological profiler Hal Bradshaw, who said that in his extensive experience of Dr Klein she showed the danger of being a celebrity psychotherapist. Crime-solving was a science, he had said, not an appearance on a talent show. Gary Hillier called her ‘impressive’ and Daniel Blackstock called her ‘bleak’. There were pages of photographs – of her, of Dean Reeve, of her with friends and family, photos that she hadn’t even known existed. Where had they got them from? The phone rang so often – how did they all have her number? – that she turned it to silent. Texts pinged on to the screen. Her email inbox filled up with messages. Would she speak on this programme, give an interview for that one, write her own account, provide a comment at least for a dozen newspapers. She deleted all the requests but they kept on coming.

  She left the flat early with Fran Bolton, walking out on to Hampstead Heath in the cold wind and the rain, then through Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park in silence. They arrived at her consulting room and Bolton said she would stay outside. Frieda walked to the window and looked out at the vast building site, where the miniature figures of men in hard hats drove diggers across the cratered space. She collected the files she had wanted, and the telephone numbers of patients she would have to call to cancel their appointments, but she didn’t leave at once. Instead, she sat for a while in her red chair, her hands on the armrests, looking across at the empty chair opposite. When would she see patients again? When would she return to her old life, her old self?

  8

  The police car turned into Saffron Mews, as it did every morning at around eleven. Two female officers got out and let themselves into Frieda’s house. One of them picked up the bundle of mail on the mat.

  ‘So, are you going to see him again?’

  ‘I’m waiting for him to get in touch.’

  ‘But do you like him?’

  They put the mail on the table.

  ‘I don’t know what we’re meant to be looking for.’

  ‘If one of them starts ticking, we’ll make a run for it.’

  ‘That’s not funny. Anyway, it’s just the same as every day. Bills and junk and …’ She stopped and held up an envelope. Frieda’s name and the address were written in a large childlike script. ‘Think we should call someone?’

  ‘This is a letter addressed to you.’

  Petra picked up a transparent plastic evidence bag and dangled it in front of Frieda.

  ‘Why have you got it?’

  ‘We’re checking your mail, obviously, and we want your permission to open it.’

  ‘Do you need it?’

  ‘It’s a grey area.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Petra Burge took latex gloves from her pocket and removed the envelope from the bag. With great concentration she cut the envelope open along the bottom edge and removed a single folded piece of paper. She opened it and smoothed it flat. She read it, then rotated it. Frieda leaned over:

  4 Bush Terrace

  Dear Frieda,

  That’s what you get for coming after me.

  Daniel Glasher

  ‘Friend of yours?’ said Petra.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who is he?’

  ‘Give me a moment.’ She took out her phone and rang Josef.

  ‘Frieda?’

  ‘Do you know Daniel Glasher?’ There was a pause so long that Frieda thought they’d been cut off. ‘Hello? Josef?’

  ‘Danny. Yes. I work with him. Not now. Before.’

  ‘Was he the one who met Dean Reeve?’

  ‘Yes. I tell you before.’

  ‘Have you talked to him recently?’

  ‘He move away. What has happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I know.’ Frieda put the phone back in her pocket. ‘Dean worked with Josef in Hampstead, a big house that was gutted and rebuilt. This man, Danny Glasher, was there as well. He’s an electrician, and he was the one who apparently gave Bruce Stringer helpful information, just before Stringer was murdered.’

  ‘Why would this electrician threaten you?’

  ‘He’s not threatening me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You can even see it in the writing. Look at the “B” in Bush. Look at it all, the shakiness of it, the trembling. He wrote out the words, but they weren’t his. Dean Reeve dictated that letter.’

  Petra Burge frowned and looked at it more closely. ‘That doesn’t make sense. Why would Reeve show himself like that?’

  ‘Because it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘And if you’re writing a threatening letter, why put an address on it?’

  ‘Because he wants me – or you – to go there.’

  ‘You think it’s some sort of trap?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll find this Bush Terrace and take a team there now.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  Petra looked at her with disapproval. ‘This isn’t an Open Day.’

  Bush Terrace was on an estate in Brent that was only forty years old but already looked as if it had been prepared for demolition. Half of the houses were boarded up. The police officers arrived in two cars and a van, blocking off the entrance to the street and approaching the house – armed, helmeted – in a wary formation. Three of the officers carried a heavy steel ram.

  Petra Burge rang the bell. There was no reply. She nodded and the officers swung the battering ram, which went right through the flimsy front door. One of them kicked away the splintered wood. They ran inside, boots rattling on the lino, then soft on the fitted carpet. Officers disappeared into different rooms and there were shouts of ‘Clear’.

  She walked through to the kitchen. The house looked like a slum. The walls were damaged; a broken window had been covered with cardboard but it was neat. The ill-matched cups and plates and glasses had been washed up and neatly arranged on the draining board. The tap was dripping irritatingly. Petra Burge put out her hand to turn it off, then thought better of it.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked round. An officer had pulled off his helmet. His face was white. ‘There’s something you should see. It’s in the garage.’

  She was led through the house into the garage that filled half of the ground floor. There was no car. At the back was a chest freezer, open, humming. She walked across to it. It was filled with bulky, heavy-duty plastic sheeting, but through it she could see a face, looking up.

  Frieda was in Olivia’s kitchen, drinking tea. Chloë had just left after a heated exchange with her mother, but Frieda’s friend Sasha was with her, Ethan on her lap, dreamily fiddling with her collar. Sasha had just finished telling Frieda that she and her son were going to be living wi
th her father for the next six months, while she put her life in some kind of order. Fran Bolton was in the living room. Frieda could hear Olivia moving furniture around upstairs. Outside, the hard, cold rain fell; the light was dim as dusk. She longed to be in her little house, beside the fire, just her cat for company.

  Her mobile rang and she saw it was Petra. ‘Hello.’

  ‘He’s come into the open. We’ll get him now.’

  Part Two

  * * *

  THE LOST WEEKEND

  9

  Frieda opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the yard. The day was warm and windless; the cat lay in a pool of sunlight, its tail twitching in its dreams. It hadn’t rained for weeks. She turned back to look at the house, which very slowly was beginning to feel like her home once more. Josef had painted every room, accepting only vodka as payment. He had laid a whole new floor in her living room, and she’d bought a richly patterned rug to put over the place where Stringer’s corpse had lain.

  She heard water running in the bathroom and went back indoors and up the stairs.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she called through the door.

  ‘No, I’m fucking not.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘If you want.’

  Frieda pushed the door open. Reuben was bent over the sink, splashing water on his face and then his bald, shockingly white skull. ‘Were you very sick?’ she asked him. She was still taken aback by how much he had changed in the last months. His face was thin and slack; his lovely thick hair, the hair he used to be so proud of, wearing it over his collar like a student, was all gone. He looked smaller and older; his beautiful clothes hung off him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s go downstairs. I have to go very soon to this meeting, but I’ll make you some tea. I’ve ordered you a cab to take you home.’

  ‘I hate bloody tea. Strong black coffee.’ He glared at her. ‘And maybe a cigarette.’

  ‘When you’ve just been sick?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘All right. I suppose you and Josef will soon be back to your old habits.’

  He frowned. ‘I haven’t heard from him for days. He’s not returning calls. Maybe he thinks I’m infectious.’

  ‘He’s probably on a job.’

  Reuben descended the stairs slowly, theatrically, an ill man playing at being an ill man. He raised his eyebrows to Frieda as he passed, and in a flash she remembered him as he’d been when they’d first met – so raffish and handsome and young.

  Half an hour later, Frieda arrived at the police station and was shown into a large room whose Venetian blinds were all closed against the sun. She had become familiar with this room, and rooms like it, over the months: the long table, the jug of water, the high metal trolley pushed into one corner with teacups on it, a small pile of plates. Overheated in the winter and in the summer, close and with a smell of air-freshener and furniture polish.

  Several officers she recognized were already there, pulling out chairs. DC Don Kaminsky was among them, tall and bulky. He looked awkward when he saw her and made a show of being busy, emphatically pushing papers into a folder, intently scrutinizing his phone, making strange grimaces. She saw that Fran Bolton was also there, in the corner. When she met Frieda’s eye, she gave a small wave. Frieda took a seat and sat in silence, waiting for what she already knew was to come.

  She didn’t have to wait long. The door swung open and Petra Burge came into the room, small and thin, dressed in baggy black trousers and a loose-fitting blue T-shirt that made her look like she’d borrowed the clothes from an older sister. Her face was pale, the freckles blotchy. She was followed by several men in suits, who looked grim and serious, and behind them all Commissioner Crawford. He didn’t glance at Frieda, or at anyone, but sat at the far end of the table. Someone asked him if he’d like any water but he simply shook his head. Frieda saw his jaw muscles clench and unclench. He seemed broader and pinker than ever, his sparse hair cut to stubble and his cheeks freshly shaved. There was a tiny spot of blood near his ear, where he must have cut himself. He wouldn’t like it if he knew that she was pitying him.

  When they were all seated, an uneasy silence fell over the room. Petra Burge gazed around the table. She met Frieda’s gaze but didn’t smile. She started to speak but was immediately interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Frieda looked around and saw Karlsson and Yvette Long walking in. They were both out of breath.

  ‘Are we late?’ Karlsson said.

  They pulled up chairs and sat beside Frieda.

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Neither did I.’ Petra didn’t seem glad to see them.

  ‘We thought you might need some support.’ Karlsson poured himself a glass of water.

  ‘It’s like coming to watch a bullfight,’ said Crawford.

  ‘Who’s the bull?’ asked Karlsson.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Frieda noticed that the commissioner was speaking more quietly than usual. He seemed tired.

  ‘Are we ready to start?’ Petra looked around and the room fell silent. ‘Six months ago, Bruce Stringer was murdered and his body placed under the floorboards of Dr Klein’s house. Shortly after that, Daniel Patrick Glasher was also found dead. Murdered. We all know this. It seems overwhelmingly likely that the murderer of both was Dean Reeve. Dr Klein has been saying for some time that Reeve was alive but up until now this was disputed by the authorities.’

  She swallowed and took a drink from the tumbler of water in front of her. Frieda saw how thin her hands were. Their nails were painted dark blue.

  ‘As you all know, we have been running a major investigation. This has involved several police forces, public appeals, forensic analysis, going door to door, checking CCTV footage.’

  Now she turned and looked directly at Frieda. ‘We’ve had reports of sightings that have remained unconfirmed. There were some CCTV images that were inconclusive.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing,’ said Crawford.

  ‘The investigation has not progressed the way we hoped,’ Petra continued. ‘We’re not closing the case.’

  Frieda nodded at her. ‘I know that murder cases are never closed. They just wind down and get gradually forgotten about.’

  ‘As I said, we’re not closing the case but we’re reallocating some of the resources.’

  ‘Are you still going to be working on it?’

  ‘I will be available as necessary.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no.’

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you. There are no leads. We are not hopeful. I’m sorry.’

  Petra Burge turned back to the glum men and women round the table. ‘Any questions?’ No one spoke. ‘Right. Commissioner Crawford wants to say something.’

  Crawford gave a dry cough and ran a finger round the inside of his collar. ‘In half an hour,’ he said, ‘I am giving a press conference. DCI Burge’s investigation has been thoroughly professional. But it doesn’t look good. There have been questions asked inside and outside the force. There have been insinuations that I resisted the investigation at an earlier stage.’

  Frieda didn’t dare glance across at Karlsson and Yvette. Both of them were all too aware of the truth behind those insinuations. She just hoped Yvette wouldn’t say anything, or mutter anything, or give a cough that could be interpreted as sarcasm.

  ‘Criticisms could be made of certain policy judgements,’ Crawford continued. ‘And now we have failed to solve this high-profile case. I’ve always believed that part of the job of being commissioner is to take responsibility. The buck stops here. I am today offering my resignation, which will take effect immediately.’

  No one said anything. People lowered their eyes. The man who sat next to Crawford briefly patted him on the shoulder, but lightly, as though he might set off an explosion. The commissioner rose to his feet. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s been an honour to serve with y
ou.’

  A murmur ran round the room. Everyone stood. As he reached the door, Frieda went over to him.

  ‘I suppose you feel vindicated,’ he said.

  ‘I was going to say that I was sorry.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t see why this had to happen.’

  ‘Really?’ said Crawford, with a sardonic expression. ‘Maybe you should ask your friend Walter Levin about it.’

  ‘Why? What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘How should I know?’ said Crawford. ‘I’m just a simple policeman. Or ex-policeman.’ He nodded at Karlsson. ‘Try to stop her being killed, Mal. Right, I’ve got one last press conference to go to.’

  Frieda, Karlsson and Yvette watched him leave.

  ‘Wanker,’ said Yvette.

  ‘Don’t.’ Karlsson frowned reprovingly at her.

  ‘Why not? He’s done nothing but fuck you around for years.’

  ‘I suspect we might miss him when he’s gone.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Yvette. ‘Maybe I’m just tired of it all.’

  ‘Take your exam first,’ said Karlsson. ‘Bank your promotion. Then you can get tired.’ He turned to Frieda with an expression of concern. ‘I’m extremely sorry about all of this.’

  When Frieda got home, the first thing she did was to ring the Warehouse, a therapeutic clinic she worked for sometimes and that referred people to her.

  ‘I’m going to start taking on new patients,’ she said. ‘The sooner the better, the more the better. I’ve been treading water for too long, waiting for something that was never going to happen. Now I want to fill up my life again.’

  10

  Frieda walked back to her house, taking small roads, avoiding the snarl and fumes of traffic. The wind was still strong, carrying drops of rain; litter and branches covered the pavements.

  As she turned into the mews, she recognized a familiar figure standing at her door in his old canvas jacket, his hair shaggier than usual, a bag slung over his shoulder and a large battered case at his feet. And then she saw there was someone at his side, a thin shape in a coat that was far too large.