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

by Nicci French

  ‘Is it all right if we walk? I think better when I walk.’

  ‘If you reckon you’ll be safe from me because of being in a public place, then you’re wrong. I don’t know whether to punch you or to arrest you for interfering with a police inquiry.’

  ‘Please,’ said Frieda. ‘Shall we go this way?’

  They set off through the park, away from the museum. It was a sunny morning and there were children running around on the grass kicking a ball.

  ‘Any reason for meeting here?’ said Petra.

  ‘A hundred and fifty years ago this was marshland – streams and mud – and then it was drained and banked.’

  ‘I’m sorry I asked.’

  ‘It’s a strange area. It was outside the old city. So it attracted people who didn’t fit in, vagrants, circus performers, prostitutes, criminals.’

  ‘I know that. I grew up along here, just off the Elephant and Castle.’

  ‘There used to be preachers here. Women who had visions. Demonstrations. Anything that wasn’t allowed inside the city walls.’

  They walked in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘So you’re not here to apologize,’ said Petra.

  ‘I gave that interview for a reason.’

  ‘And was it necessary to disrespect the people who’re trying to protect you?’

  ‘You know I didn’t agree with your idea of picking on William McCollough.’

  ‘We didn’t pick on him. We interviewed him.’

  ‘And someone leaked his name to the media.’

  ‘What was it you said exactly? Something about using rules as a way of avoiding having to think? If you had complaints to make about the investigation you go to me about it, or a senior officer. You don’t sound off to the media.’

  They had reached Elephant and Castle, which was a vast building site. They took a circuitous route through.

  ‘I suppose it’s changed since you lived here,’ said Frieda.

  ‘The problem isn’t what they’re knocking down. It’s what they’re keeping. If it were up to me, I’d flatten the whole lot and start again.’

  They turned right down the New Kent Road, and Petra continued, ‘When I was fifteen, I ran with a gang in the flats along there. I was on the edge really. But I got this.’ She pulled the collar of her jacket back to show the scar that ran from her ear down her neck.

  ‘A knife?’ said Frieda.

  ‘A broken bottle.’

  ‘You were lucky. It just missed the carotid artery.’

  Petra shook her head. ‘It didn’t miss. I was in hospital for two months. My best friend died. Ellie. She was a few months younger than me, only fourteen, a tearaway. I realized I had to get out. I went back to school and from then on I made sure I was the best at whatever I set out to do. But I took one lesson away from that time. You don’t turn against your own.’

  ‘I’ve never believed in unconditional group loyalty,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I know. I’ve read the paper. So you believe you know better than everyone else.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to stay quiet while you set a mob on William McCollough and ruined his life.’

  ‘He was an obvious suspect. He was close to Chloë. He had the opportunity, he had the record. We had to talk to him. You know that.’

  ‘It wasn’t him.’

  ‘I am not saying it is him. We simply took him in for questioning and then we let him go.’

  Frieda stopped and looked at a building across the street. ‘Look up there.’ She pointed at the painted façade of the building. ‘Neckinger Mills.’

  ‘I can read.’

  ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘I used to have friends on the Neckinger Estate. And I know Neckinger Street.’

  ‘Do you know the Neckinger River?’

  ‘No. Is there such a thing? Where is it?’

  ‘We’re standing on it. That’s why the Mills were there. They were tanning works. They used to treat the hides with water and dog shit. Tons and tons of it. Can you imagine the smell?’

  ‘What happened to the river?’

  ‘Dirtied, clogged up, buried. And forgotten. But it’s still there somewhere. This was an area for things that London needed but didn’t want to look at or think about or smell. It’s a useful reminder.’

  They crossed over Jamaica Road.

  ‘This was Jacob’s Island,’ said Frieda. ‘It used to be so dangerous that the police wouldn’t even go there. I’m talking about a century and a half ago. And now it’s somewhere you and I couldn’t afford to live.’

  ‘Would you prefer it the way it was? People starving to death in the streets.’

  ‘It’s not one or the other.’

  They walked through warehouses converted into flats.

  ‘When I was a kid,’ said Petra, ‘I used to come here on a Sunday morning. These were empty and falling down. We used to go inside, wander around, break a few windows.’

  They emerged from the shade of an alley and suddenly and improbably were on the river facing Tower Bridge and the rows of gleaming City buildings on the far side. The two women turned and walked along the river until they got to the inlet of St Saviour’s Dock. It was low tide and there was nothing but mud.

  ‘That’s all that’s left of the Neckinger,’ said Frieda. ‘Not that there was ever much of it.’

  ‘Typical of this bloody area. It can’t even produce a proper river.’ Petra turned to Frieda. ‘So did you bring me on this walk to tell me that William McCollough is innocent, which you’ve already told me and already told the press? Without any real evidence, incidentally.’

  ‘No,’ said Frieda, staring down at the mud, waiting to hear herself say the words out loud and make it real. ‘It’s not that. There’s someone you should take a look at.’

  ‘Is it another one of your friends?’

  ‘No. It’s not one of my friends. It’s the writer of the article. Daniel Blackstock.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Daniel Blackstock.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who’s been covering the story since the word go.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Petra stared at her. Then her eyes narrowed and she started to laugh – a loud, uninhibited laugh that crinkled her small face and made her narrow shoulders shake. ‘Why?’ she managed at last. She held up her hand – small and thin, bitten nails. ‘Don’t tell me. Your gut instinct.’

  ‘Not only that. Yesterday, when he was asking Chloë about what she remembered before she was abducted, he mentioned her having been in a bar. But how would he know that? No one does, do they?’

  ‘No,’ said Petra slowly. Her laughter was all gone now. She seemed suddenly older, tired. ‘I don’t think they do.’

  ‘And he was the one who gave me the photo. He could have sent it to himself at the newspaper. That would fit.’

  ‘Fit with what?’

  ‘And he showed her the picture when he was interviewing her. I watched him watching her. I think he’s getting off on all this – doing the crimes and then controlling how they’re covered in the media. From his point of view, he’s writing the story he’s starring in.’

  ‘How you jump to conclusions.’ Petra sounded almost admiring. ‘One remark and you’ve worked out everything.’

  ‘It makes sense. He’s got the perfect excuse to be anywhere I am.’

  ‘Or he could simply be a journalist who’s covering the story. Because he’s a crime reporter, you know.’

  ‘Will you check him out?’

  Petra nodded. ‘I will. But don’t get your hopes up.’

  43

  Daniel Blackstock tried to keep his face steady. There was a tic at the corner of his left eye; his tongue felt thick. He knew he was blinking too much, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to appear composed and friendly.

  ‘Of course I want to help in any way I can,’ he said to Petra Burge, who sat across from him. ‘But I don’t think I know anything
that you don’t. I would always pass on information.’ He aimed for a tone of aggrieved innocence. His face felt rubbery with the smile he gave; his voice sounded strange in his ears. ‘After all, I gave that photograph to Dr Klein when it was in my best interests to give it to my editor.’

  Her face was unyielding and he couldn’t tell what impression he was making. There was sweat under his armpits and down his back; sweat on his forehead.

  ‘Just a few questions, Mr Blackstock,’ she said. He didn’t like the way she looked at him, as though he was a specimen in a laboratory.

  ‘Ask away.’ Too cheerful, he thought; too loud.

  ‘Just for the record, I would like to know where you were and what you were doing over the weekend that Chloë Klein was abducted.’

  ‘Me? What I was doing?’ He let himself stare for several seconds.

  ‘It’s a simple question.’

  ‘You can’t think I had anything to do with this?’ He paused but Petra Burge didn’t say anything, just waited. ‘Well, I was at home, with my wife. On Friday night we had a takeaway and watched TV together. She’ll confirm this.’ She will, he thought. Oh, yes. ‘As far as I remember, we went to the shops on Saturday. We had a walk along by the river, had coffee by the Thames Barrier. I wrote a piece for the paper on a spate of robberies in the area. That’s about it.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Between West Silvertown and Pontoon Dock. Kilkenny Road, number seventeen.’

  ‘And your wife’s name.’

  ‘Lee Blackstock.’ He was feeling steadier now. His face wasn’t jumping and twitching. His voice sounded quite normal. He had to protest a bit, he thought. ‘But why are you asking me all these questions? I’m just a reporter doing my job.’

  ‘Where were you on Monday, August the twenty-second?’

  Daniel Blackstock could almost feel his brain working, cogs moving. That would be the date Reuben was attacked. Best not to be too sure. An innocent person wouldn’t have prepared an alibi. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘That was the date of a further attack.’

  ‘I’d have to look at my diary. I imagine I was at home with Lee. We lead a quiet life,’ he added. ‘Just the two of us.’

  ‘All right. You have a look and let me know. Have you ever met Dr McGill?’

  ‘No.’ He thought of asking who he was, but didn’t: after all, he was the journalist who knew everything about Frieda Klein. Of course he would know who Reuben McGill was.

  ‘What about last Wednesday?’

  Morgan Rossiter. For a moment, he let himself remember that face looking at him, the eyes bright with shock, then dimming.

  He rubbed his face. His fingers were rough against his skin, which felt papery and frail. Attack is the best defence, he thought. ‘I know what happened on that evening and I can’t think why you’re asking me this. It’s ridiculous.’ He lifted his hands, curled them into fists, let them drop with a muted bang on to the table. ‘I gave Frieda Klein that photograph. I haven’t run with the mob picking on that William McCollough. In fact, I did an interview with the niece about her experience to help him out.’

  ‘Mr Blackstock –’

  A thought struck him, cold and hard. ‘Who put you up to asking me these questions?’

  ‘That’s not how it works.’

  ‘Was it Dr Klein by any chance?’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I very much hope you’re not letting your professional judgement be contaminated.’

  ‘One more thing. How did you know that Chloë Klein was at a bar when she was abducted?’

  ‘What?’

  His thoughts were snagging; he had to think straight.

  ‘You said in the interview that Chloë Klein had been taken from a bar. How did you know that?’

  ‘How?’ He took a breath that tore at the tightness in his chest. ‘I’ll tell you how. One of your lot told me.’

  ‘A police officer?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I see. Who was this police officer?’

  ‘You don’t expect me to tell you that.’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘Then you’re going to be disappointed.’

  He could see a slight tightening in Petra Burge’s jaw and that was all. He waited.

  ‘This is a murder inquiry,’ she said at last. ‘It’s a very serious matter to withhold information from the police.’

  ‘I don’t reveal my sources. That’s part of the job.’

  ‘Very noble,’ she said drily. ‘But this isn’t going to go away.’

  ‘Do you have any more questions or can I get back to my work?’

  ‘You can go. For the time being. You’ll find out what you were doing on those dates?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you should think if there’s anyone else who can corroborate what you say – apart from your wife, that is.’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  What had happened? Daniel Blackstock poured extra sugar into his tea. His hands were trembling so much that the liquid spilled over the brim of the cardboard cup. His legs felt shaky as well. He needed to sit down somewhere. He needed to think. Had it just been that remark about the bar? How could he have been so stupid? It was Frieda Klein. It must be. He thought of her eyes looking through him.

  His head was hurting and the bright sunlight made his eyes ache. He had felt invisible, but now he was in full view.

  Petra Burge called Frieda.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’ve talked to him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And now I’ve let him go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve got no reason to keep him.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘No. We’ll check up on him. But there is no evidence against him.’

  ‘What about him knowing about the bar?’

  ‘He said it was a police source.’

  ‘That’s rubbish.’

  ‘It could have been. Liz Barron’s been getting information through leaks too.’

  ‘Did he say who?’

  ‘He says he never reveals his sources.’

  ‘Very convenient.’

  ‘Would you inform on your patients?’

  That made Frieda hesitate for a moment. ‘If they were breaking the law, yes. Did he have an alibi?’

  ‘Not really – which doesn’t mean anything, of course. On the days when Chloë was missing he was at home with his wife, having a quiet weekend – shopping, watching TV, taking a walk by the Thames Barrier.’

  ‘Thames Barrier?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which side?’

  ‘What do you mean “which side”?’

  ‘North or south of the river?’

  ‘How can that possibly matter? Anyway, I don’t know. He lives in Silvertown, so it was probably the north side.’

  Frieda felt her breath catch. ‘Silvertown.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Near City Airport.’

  ‘There is no proof that your niece was kept near there.’

  ‘It’s him. I know it is. It’s Daniel Blackstock.’

  44

  Jack walked up the road towards Olivia’s house. He had worked late at the cheese stall and was looking forward to a bath to wash off the day, then a meal. The house would be his – Chloë was at Reuben’s, having dinner with Frieda and Olivia. He relished the thought of an evening alone, sitting with a beer in front of the TV. He was planning a risotto and had the ingredients in his backpack: red onions, dried mushrooms, Parmesan and even a small jar of truffle sauce that someone at the market had given him in return for a circle of soft cheese.

  He slid the key into the lock. It took a knack to turn it, easing it out slightly and jiggling it. He pushed the door open and stepped into the hall. It was still dusk, but only just, the last glimmers of light picking out Chloë’s boots, the picture on the wall.

  There was a sound behind him �
�� later, he couldn’t remember what this was: a breath, a cough, a whisper. He swung round in the doorway and saw a shape step into view, a shape in dark clothes, with a stocking over the face. In the seconds before he moved, thoughts rushed in a thick stream through Jack’s mind: that there was something glinting in the figure’s right hand, that he’d not be making that risotto now, that perhaps he was going to die, that maybe Chloë would push the door against his body when she returned from Reuben’s, that there was a smell of rosemary in the air that must be coming from the bush outside the front door.

  Jack always said that he was a coward. He shrank from any kind of violence or confrontation. But before he had time to know what he was doing, he found himself charging at the figure and there was a hoarse yell coming from him. And then came a dark flash, a feeling that later would turn into pain but for now was more a series of colours in his brain, reds and purples. A crunching sound. He knew, as he thudded to the floor, that his nose was broken. Then he heard a shattering. His jar of sauce, he thought. The door shut and they were in the small dark hall. He could see some pointed shoes belonging to Olivia just a few inches away, but dimly. And there was a smell of truffles, potent, unpleasant. A boot kicked his cheek. He could hear the gasp of his breathing, and above him the figure was breathing heavily as well, as though this was hard work. He was labouring over Jack, bringing a metal bar down on his legs, his back.

  Then, abruptly, he stopped. He leaned down. Jack couldn’t see any more, not even when he opened his eyes, but he could feel the person fumbling in his pockets, fingers probing. He could smell him, sweat and something fragrant, like perfume. His mobile was being pulled out. Silence and then he heard a ping as a text was sent.

  Then there was a voice in his ear, a whisper in the darkness.

  ‘Left or right-handed?’

  Jack groaned.

  ‘Left or right-handed?’

  ‘Left,’ he managed to say.

  With a horrible delicacy, the figure took his left hand and laid it out, palm down on the dusty floor. There was a pause. Then pain crashed through him: from the hand up the arm, flooding the entire body, the brain, the whole self, nowhere to hide. Again. Again. A boot stamping on his hand. There was nothing left but pain and the animal sounds he was making.