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

by Nicci French

  She sat in TV studios in the brightness and the heat and told her story; she had it down to a few minutes, a neat chronology of disorder. She heard her calm voice. She did the same for radio. Always a glass of water poured out for her, a spongy microphone just a few inches away from her mouth. Petra Burge was with her. She was being interviewed too – Frieda noted that she spoke well, with authority but was never pompous – and also a woman from the communications department, who held Frieda’s elbow as she led her into cars and out of them. They didn’t give Chloë’s name. She was identified only as a close relative. But they did name Reuben. Morgan Rossiter was at the centre of everything: a young man had been killed simply because he was Frieda Klein’s patient.

  Then they were in a press conference, a room full of reporters and flashing cameras. She saw faces she had seen before. Liz Barron, of course, in the front row, fresh as a daisy and her eyes gleaming; would she never go away? Daniel Blackstock, whom she’d last seen when he’d handed over that photo of Chloë and she’d snapped at him. Gary Hillier from the Chronicle, who was dressed in a black suit as if he had just come from a funeral. Others, faces she had encountered over the years. Out of the corner of her gaze, she saw one she hadn’t been expecting. Walter Levin, quizzical and twinkling and sinister: what was he doing here? Her mood lifted a bit when she saw that Karlsson had also come. He was standing at the back, leaning against the wall, and when their eyes met he didn’t smile but gave her a small nod.

  Petra spoke, first and briefly about the case against Dean Reeve, then about a new and concerning spate of attacks and now a murder, all of which seemed to have been prompted by friendship or acquaintance with Dr Frieda Klein and pointed to a copycat. Here she gestured to Frieda, at her left. Frieda felt all the eyes in the room settle on her. She sat quite still, her hands on the table in front of her. Petra said that although Dean Reeve couldn’t be ruled out as a suspect, the police were working on the hypothesis that this was the work of someone else. She talked about the police investigation and appealed to the public to come forward if they could cast any light. She turned to Frieda and asked her to say a few words.

  Frieda looked at the sea of faces.

  ‘Someone must know something,’ she said. She stopped. The room became very silent, but she didn’t know what to add. Gary Hillier, near the front, was staring at her as though she were a complicated knot that had to be untied. She felt Petra’s hand on her forearm and continued: ‘This person, who has attacked a very ill man, slipped drugs into the drink of a young woman and then abducted her, and now killed someone, apparently because he had come into contact with me, is disturbed and very dangerous. They must be stopped, not just because of what they have done up to now, but what they might do in the future.’

  There were questions, a buzz of raised voices, people asking about Morgan Rossiter and her relationship to him. Liz Barron asked Frieda how she felt, about her emotional state – but Frieda didn’t answer. Nor did she answer the person at the far end of the room about whether she was cursed. There were several questions for Petra about the failure of the police investigation.

  ‘Are you scared?’ someone shouted, as the communications woman called the meeting to a close.

  ‘Yes,’ Frieda replied. She couldn’t see who had spoken. There were too many people. ‘Of course I am. Wouldn’t you be?’

  Part Three

  * * *

  THE BODY BEHIND THE DOOR

  38

  ‘Are you scared?’ asked Daniel Blackstock.

  ‘Yes. Of course I am. Wouldn’t you be?’

  She looked in his direction but he didn’t think she was actually looking at him. Perhaps he could get a one-to-one in a few days’ time. After all, she owed him a favour.

  Then it was over and she was gone, a woman at her elbow steering her from the room, Petra Burge following. Daniel Blackstock stood up and shouldered his canvas bag. On his way out, he bumped into Liz Barron.

  ‘What do you make of all of this?’ she said. Her eyes gleamed. Even her hair looked brighter than usual.

  ‘Awful,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Of course, but –’

  He didn’t wait to hear the end of the sentence. The woman was a pest and she couldn’t write properly either, yet she was one of the Daily News’s star reporters. Life wasn’t fair.

  A fellow crime reporter slapped his back in a comradely fashion. ‘You interviewed her once, didn’t you? Maybe you’ll be next.’

  Daniel Blackstock went out on to the street, into the hot blue morning. At the café opposite, he bought a takeaway coffee that he drank as he slowly made his way through the traffic. He decided to walk all the way to Bank, to allow his thoughts to settle, and as he did so he composed the story in his head. It would certainly be on the front page tomorrow, and then an inside spread, presumably by him as well because he was becoming the Frieda Klein expert. Perhaps he could syndicate it. The foreign press were starting to show interest. He would be busy.

  The first paragraph was the most important. Nothing sensationalist – he didn’t want to write like Liz Barron, an adjective or two in front of every noun. ‘Sombre’: that was how he would describe Frieda Klein as she sat on the platform. And scared, yes, she had said she was scared. Of course she was – how could she not be? – and yet she hadn’t seemed it. He reached the entrance of Bank where he drank the rest of his coffee, then tossed the empty cup into the bin before going down the escalators.

  He was so familiar with this route that he could recite the names in his sleep. Shadwell, Limehouse, Westferry, Poplar, Blackwall, East India … He knew how quickly London unravelled into a landscape of crumbling warehouses and vast, half-finished building sites. He got off at West Silvertown, just a few minutes from home – and just a few minutes from that other place, too: his secret place.

  He heard the screeching of a horn, again and again. He looked around. It was like he had been woken up. He was in the middle of North Woolwich Road, a white van halted just a few metres from him, a man leaning out of the window, shouting, swearing. Blackstock didn’t trouble to reply but continued across the road.

  Almost as soon as he reached the pavement, his phone rang. He looked at it. It was his editor from the paper. Or one of his editors. There were so many of them and they kept changing. But they all had one thing in common: they could tell him what to do and he had to do it. This was Brian.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘I’ve been at the press conference.’

  ‘What press conference?’

  ‘The Frieda Klein case.’

  ‘Is it still going on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So where are you?’

  ‘I’m on my way home to write it up.’

  ‘Going home? What century are you in? What about the other stories you’re working on? Are they going to write themselves?’

  Daniel Blackstock listened with a kind of fascination to the other Daniel Blackstock, the one other people saw, the public one, the pretend one, the unreal one, as he mumbled on the phone and said that he was progressing with the other stories and that he was really sorry he wasn’t in the office but he could make progress on them at home and he would be in early tomorrow. Daniel Blackstock didn’t like the Daniel Blackstock he was listening to. It would be horrible to really be like that.

  When the phone call was finished, he let out a breath. If they only knew who he was, what he could do, what he had done. The familiar streets looked different to him today, clearer colours, more sharply in focus. He could picture the room, his secret place.

  A plane passed over his head, soaring up from City Airport. He felt as if it was welcoming him home.

  ‘Was everything all right?’

  Daniel Blackstock looked across the table at his wife. All right? What did she mean? Oh, yes, the meal. She had been talking about her day and he hadn’t been paying attention. It was as if the radio had been left on in the next room. He had murmured something occasionally and nod
ded but this was something that needed some sort of an answer. He looked down at his plate, at the remains of his meal. He could hardly remember eating it. The bone of a lamb chop, some mashed potato, greens. What could you say about something like that?

  ‘Fine.’

  He looked across at his wife. Lee Blackstock, née Bass. When she came home she always changed from her work clothes into something she considered suitable for leisure. This evening she was wearing a flowery shirt and a light blue cardigan. She noticed him looking at her and a pink colour appeared on her pale face. Pale face, dull hair, pale eyes. ‘How was your day?’ she said.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Do you want me to go through it detail by detail?’

  ‘I’m just interested.’

  ‘I went to the Frieda Klein press conference.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lee. ‘Frieda Klein.’

  ‘What does that mean? “Oh. Frieda Klein,” ’ he said, imitating her.

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘You must have meant something or why did you say it?’

  ‘It’s just that it’s a case you’re interested in, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m not “interested” in it. It’s my job.’

  ‘I just want to know about your work.’

  She reminded him of a yapping little dog that was snapping at his ankles. He wanted to kick her away. He wanted to shut her up. Looking at her eager face, he knew it was unfair, but it was impossible for her to understand. It was impossible for anyone to understand. He barely understood it himself. There was so much happening in his head. He needed to get things straight. He stood up. ‘I’ve got to work,’ he said.

  ‘But we’re eating.’

  ‘This is urgent.’

  ‘I thought …’ she began, and stopped when she saw the expression on his face.

  ‘You want to know about my work?’ he said. ‘Then I’ll tell you. They’re looking at every office, every paper clip, every job. This is the sort of story that could make someone famous and I’ve got it. And I need some space.’

  ‘I just want to help.’

  ‘Right now you can help by leaving me alone and not bothering me with questions.’

  He got up and left his wife sitting at the table with the half-finished supper. He walked up the stairs to his little office at the back. He had kept the room as simple as possible. His computer sat on the desk under the window, which looked out on the small, concreted yard and beyond that the wall and the house in the next street. Only one window was visible, the frosted glass of what must be a bathroom. Sometimes he saw a blurry shape moving behind it.

  Apart from the desk, the only items of furniture were an office chair and a brown veneer filing cabinet. There were no pictures on the wall. Once, Lee had asked whether she couldn’t put some up. She had never asked again. There was nothing on the desk apart from the computer. Nothing was allowed to be there that wasn’t being used. Not even a pen. Files were put back in the cabinet, pens and spare ink cartridges in the drawer.

  He sat in the chair and stared at the blank screen of his computer without seeing it. What he was really seeing was the picture in his mind of a young woman, unconscious, lying on the floor. He had been careful not to leave any trace on her but he remembered the smell of her and the warmth. He had pressed his face against the soft fold under her jawline. There was nothing sexual about it. Nothing at all. She had been completely in his power. He could have undressed her, done what he liked. He hadn’t even been tempted. That would have been pitiful. He wasn’t going down that road – not even now, when it would have been so easy.

  Next he saw a middle-aged man, helpless under his blows. That had been unsatisfactory. It was important but it had been rushed and anxious. There was too much that could have gone wrong. He could have been seen. Even so, it had brought him close to her. Daniel Blackstock had read about the man in the papers: he was a friend of Frieda’s. A father figure. Probably more than a father figure.

  They were both becoming fuzzy in his mind, although he had the photograph of the niece, which was something. But Morgan Rossiter was clear. As soon as Daniel Blackstock thought of him, he was back there in his flat. He could see the look of puzzlement that came with the first blow and then the fading of the light in his eyes as they went from the windows into a man’s soul to just stuff, blobs of slime. I did that, Daniel Blackstock thought, I really did that. I made that change in the world.

  And the other one – but that was unfinished business.

  Another face came into his mind. Frieda Klein’s. When he had first met her, met her properly, close up and face to face, he had felt his pulse race so that he could barely think, let alone ask coherent questions. Somehow he had managed it. Now, looking back, he remembered in fragments and flashes: the way she talked, low and clear, with the faintest trace of an accent he couldn’t place. Her smooth, long-fingered hands; her sharp cheekbones; a wisp of hair across her face, which she had swept away; she had bitten her lower lip, perhaps out of impatience. Above all, he remembered her eyes, dark and bright, and how occasionally they would settle on him with an attention that made him think she must know. She must know.

  Behind it all there was another, dimmer, figure. Daniel Blackstock only knew Dean Reeve’s face from one picture, the image they always used in the newspapers. It must be an old passport photo. Dean Reeve stares straight at you. There’s no smile. Smiles aren’t allowed in passport pictures. But, as with Frieda, Daniel Blackstock had the sense that they were looking at him, understanding him. Except in this case he wanted to be seen and understood. That he had been one of the first journalists on the scene when Bruce Stringer’s body was found felt like fate. Once he had learned what had actually happened inside Frieda Klein’s house he almost wanted to laugh and applaud. It was so clever and so funny. What a way to send a message. By contrast, his own messages were scrawled notes. But he was learning.

  Suddenly the office felt stuffy and constricting. He needed to get out. He walked down the stairs and put his jacket on. As he opened the front door, his wife emerged from the sitting room. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going out to get some milk.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘I can get milk on my own.’

  Outside he felt free. He walked past the place but didn’t go in, though he could feel it tugging at him, like a magnet. Then he went northwards to the Victoria Dock and looked across the water. Suddenly it all felt right. He had researched Dean Reeve’s life. If he crossed the bridge it would be just a short walk into Canning Town to where Dean Reeve had lived when he was living in our world. He was one of the few who would understand the way Daniel Blackstock was feeling now. He closed his eyes and played over and over again that moment when the life had gone from Morgan Rossiter, like a light fading. Everything else – the research, the spying on Frieda and her friends, the kidnapping, the assault – all that had been trivial and scrappy. Now he had taken the step into a new world. It was like what they said about losing your virginity. Except that losing his virginity hadn’t been much of a deal for Daniel Blackstock: a fumbling when he was fifteen years old, and the world hadn’t changed at all. But it was different now. He had joined the club: people who have killed. Dean Reeve might already know about him. He would probably be amused and flattered. And this was only the beginning.

  Daniel Blackstock looked around him. A group of people were sitting at a table outside the coffee shop. One was showing the others something on her phone and they were all laughing. If they noticed him at all, he would probably seem insignificant. If only they knew. That was a part of his power, to be able to do what he had done and not feel the need to tell anyone. He could put up with his treatment at work, the disrespect. None of that mattered to him. He knew who he was.

  He looked in the direction of where Dean Reeve had lived. He could almost feel it on his face, like sunshine. With reluctance, he turned away and walked slowly back
to his house.

  ‘Did you get the milk?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘It’s all right. We’ve got a full carton.’

  ‘Were you trying to catch me out?’

  Lee’s face went very pale. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  He walked back up to his office. He had an article to write but he didn’t begin it right away. He needed to think. That hadn’t been very good. He had been caught out telling a stupid, completely unnecessary lie. Or would Lee believe that he’d gone out to get the milk and forgotten it? He was going to have to think seriously about his wife. Was she going to be a liability? Was it possible that she had noticed anything strange about him? He felt different. Did he look different?

  At least there was no reason to think anyone would discover that room with the mattress on the floor. And he had nothing to worry about in his office. There was nothing in his files apart from the notes and cuttings and press releases that any journalist would have. His computer was a different matter. So he protected it with a password. It had been long before but now he made it longer. It was twenty-two characters long. It consisted of the maiden names of his two grandmothers, the postcode of the house he had lived in at college and finally, most important, the date on which he was going to kill Frieda Klein.

  39

  The next day, the paper wanted him to write about the planned garden bridge over the Thames (the case for and the case against) and also do a quick telephone interview with a local entrepreneur who had made his fortune from scrap metal and had now set up a charity. Daniel Blackstock, standing in his little office and staring out of the window at the concrete yard, had difficulty controlling his voice.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ he said, ‘that it’s more important to follow up the Frieda Klein story?’