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

by Nicci French

The boot stopped. The heavy breathing above him lessened. There was a sound he couldn’t make out, slightly squeaky. Then it too ceased. A door opened. A door closed. Jack was alone again.

  Frieda was with Olivia, who was crying and lamenting her life, between gulps of wine. It was half past nine. Through the window she saw Josef and Reuben in the garden, sitting on the bench together in the warmth of the night. A cigarette end glowed. Whenever Olivia stopped crying, she could hear their low voices: what an unlikely friendship it was, she thought: a Bohemian psychotherapist from north London and a Ukrainian builder. From upstairs came the tinny sounds of a computer game, bouncy repetitive music and guns firing, bombs exploding: Chloë and Alexei were up there together.

  A message pinged on to her mobile and she glanced at it. It was from Jack. Your friend needs your help.

  Jack lay in the hall. His only wish was to lose consciousness but, stubbornly, his mind refused to let go. Pain came in waves, drawing him under and spitting him out. He put his tongue on his lip and tasted blood. His phone was ringing and ringing but he didn’t know where it was and he couldn’t get to it. He tried to move and for a few seconds slithered uselessly on the floor, getting nowhere.

  There was a scratching sound. A key in the lock. The person was coming back, he thought, to finish the job. At least the pain would be done with. But then there was a low voice calling his name and a cool hand on his forehead and now at last he could let go because he was safe. Frieda had come.

  45

  Don Kaminsky pressed the button on the recording machine. Daniel Blackstock smiled. He felt better this time. In control. This was happening on his terms now.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re still using cassette tapes,’ he said.

  Petra stated the time and the date and the names of those present.

  ‘I used to use them for interviews,’ he continued. ‘But that was years ago. You probably still use fax machines.’

  ‘You do not have to say anything,’ said Petra, ‘but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Could you say that again?’ said Blackstock.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I’ve heard those words so often on TV. It’s like the Lord’s Prayer. You hear it over and over again, but you don’t really take in the meaning. “Thy kingdom come.” What does that mean? How can a kingdom come? Is he telling the kingdom to come? So I want to hear what the words really say.’

  Petra repeated the caution with exaggerated care.

  ‘Defence?’ he said. ‘I don’t need a defence.’

  ‘You are also entitled to a lawyer. If you don’t have one, we can get you one.’

  ‘I know all about that. I wrote an article about it. Entitled to a defence. That’s a load of rubbish. Are you talking about anything more than a quick phone call to a duty solicitor with better things to do?’

  ‘People are usually more nervous than this,’ said Petra. ‘In an interview room with a tape going. Except for criminals.’

  ‘And journalists,’ said Daniel Blackstock. ‘You forget that this is my job.’

  ‘You were more nervous last time. Now you almost seem to be enjoying it.’

  ‘I’m not enjoying it and I don’t need a solicitor. I’m happy to answer any question you put to me. Just tell me what you want to know.’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘At what time?’

  Petra thought of the text that had been sent to Jack. ‘Between eight and ten,’ she said.

  Blackstock considered for a moment. ‘I was at home with my wife and then I was in the hospital.’

  ‘Hospital?’ said Petra. ‘What for?’

  Now Blackstock put his hands on the table. His right hand was heavily bandaged.

  ‘Have you had an accident?’ asked Petra.

  ‘Well, obviously.’

  ‘Do you mind telling me what happened?’

  ‘I was cutting a lino tile with a Stanley knife. My hand slipped and I cut across my other hand. It was bleeding everywhere. I went into the hospital and they had to stitch it up.’

  ‘What time did this happen?’

  ‘Why does it matter?’

  ‘There was an incident last night.’

  ‘What sort of incident?’

  ‘I’d like you to answer my questions first.’

  Daniel Blackstock paused. ‘You’re asking things the wrong way round. You need to tell me what you’re accusing me of and then I can defend myself, if I’ve got a defence.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Last night a man called Jack Dargan was assaulted at a house in Islington. The man was wearing a mask. In the course of the attack, the assailant sent a text using Dargan’s phone.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘The attack wasn’t done as part of a robbery. It was done as some sort of a statement or a message.’

  ‘Who did he send the text to?’

  ‘To Frieda Klein.’

  ‘Oh.’ He whistled. ‘I see. That must have been a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Does that interest you?’

  ‘As a journalist, of course it does. I’ve been covering the Frieda Klein story from the start. But you can’t seriously think I could do something like that.’

  ‘The text message was timed at nine thirty-two. So if you can show us where you were at that time, you can go home.’

  Blackstock stayed silent for a while. ‘This is all crazy. I don’t even know why you suspect me of this. But if you want to play this game, I’ll go along with it. That must have been about the time that I cut myself and went into the hospital.’

  ‘Can you give me exact times for that?’

  ‘You know, I don’t think I can. When I’m living my normal life I don’t keep a constant record of timings.’

  ‘But I suppose there are ways of checking.’

  ‘When it happened, I was trying to stop the bleeding and my wife dialled one one one and asked for help. They probably keep a record.’

  ‘They definitely keep a record.’

  ‘She talked to them and described what was happening. They said the best thing would be if we got to A & E. So my wife drove me to St Jude’s.’

  ‘What time did you get in?’

  ‘I don’t know. Half an hour, forty minutes after it happened.’ He made an angry gesture. ‘Look, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to rip off my bandages and show you my wound? I’ll do it, if you want.’

  ‘Whoever assaulted Jack Dargan could have been injured.’

  ‘Was it a knife fight?’ said Blackwood, angrily. ‘You can check the wound and you’ll see it’s been gouged with a knife by someone who’s terrible at doing DIY.’

  ‘How did you get to the hospital?’

  ‘My wife drove me.’

  ‘And how long were you there?’

  ‘We got back just after midnight.’

  ‘You know that when I say we’re going to check this we really are going to check it.’

  ‘Check anything you want,’ said Daniel Blackstock. ‘And if you need any more information, just get in touch.’

  Petra nodded at Don Kaminsky, who leaned forward and switched off the tape.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘We’re done.’

  Frieda didn’t speak at first, but Petra found the narrowing of her eyes alarming enough.

  ‘You must be wrong,’ she said at last. ‘You’ve missed something.’

  ‘I know what you must feel,’ said Petra. ‘But I didn’t.’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I need to get somewhere.’

  ‘Just five minutes. There are things I have to say.’

  Petra stepped inside and Frieda led her through to the kitchen.

  ‘Drink?’ said Frieda.

  ‘No, thank you. Tell me.’

  They sat down facing each other across Fri
eda’s table, where Petra felt as if she was back in the interview room except now she was the one being interrogated.

  ‘Have you properly checked the alibi? Was the injury really serious?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve heard the one one one call his wife made. It was timed at nine thirty-eight. It was made from their home. He was logged in at the St Jude’s A & E department just after ten twenty. I talked to the consultant on duty. The wound was severe, bleeding copiously. The consultant said they should really have called an ambulance. He said that Blackstock was lucky he didn’t hit an artery or sever a tendon.’

  Frieda drummed her fingers insistently on the table. ‘It seems too convenient to me.’

  ‘Of course it’s convenient. It’s an alibi. If an alibi doesn’t cover the time of the crime then it’s not called an alibi.’

  ‘But why just at that particular moment of that particular evening does he happen to be somewhere where he was recorded? Why wasn’t he just sitting at home with his wife the way he normally would be?’

  ‘All right, Frieda. If Blackstock had been sitting at home, like he normally does, with no witness except his wife, would you have believed him then? That would have been called “not having an alibi”.’

  ‘The obvious answer is that he got the injury when he was attacking Jack and then …’ She paused.

  ‘And then what?’ said Petra. ‘It may be obvious, but what? Phone your wife and get her to call it in? And then somehow get across London with a disabling wound that was bleeding so heavily he needed multiple stitches and meet up with his wife on the way? Anyway, I talked to Jack Dargan. There was no meaningful struggle. No sign of a knife. Your friend said there was no possible way that the attacker could have been injured at the scene, let alone suffered a major laceration. And there was no blood at the scene except Dargan’s.’

  Frieda frowned at Petra and Petra frowned back.

  ‘What?’ said Petra. ‘Give me something and we’ll look into it.’

  ‘You’ve looked at him,’ said Frieda. ‘The way he wants to worm his way into the case, the way he’s enjoying it all. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?’

  ‘He’s a journalist. That’s what he’s paid to do. You may not like it, I may not like it, but we’ve got to live with it.’

  ‘I told you I was suspicious of him. At that time I didn’t even know he lived in Silvertown, just where Chloë was held, right by City Airport.’

  ‘You can’t be certain about that.’

  ‘Chloë heard the small planes taking off.’

  ‘It’s still just an assumption. There are other small airfields around London. There’s one just beyond Chigwell. You could drive to that in twenty minutes up the M11.’

  ‘I know that airfield. That’s just a tiny flying club. If Chloë had heard one of those little two-seater planes, she would have said so.’

  ‘So you’re both experts on small planes now, are you? Your whole theory depends on the evidence of a young woman who was drugged, blindfolded, semi-conscious, in a state of trauma. And you’re setting it against an alibi that you may not like but which is backed up by completely solid evidence. We know the accident was called in at nine thirty-eight. We know he was at the hospital, badly injured, at just after ten twenty. When we’re training, we’re told over and over again about the investigations that were derailed because the detective in charge had a theory and just wouldn’t give it up.’

  Petra looked at Frieda who was still frowning and biting her lip. She seemed to be in pain. ‘I’m going to give your friends protection,’ she said more gently.

  Frieda nodded. ‘My new plan is for everyone to move into Reuben’s house for the time being.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea.’

  Frieda stared past her, out of the window. ‘You should search his house,’ she said.

  ‘We cannot search his house. We don’t have probable cause.’

  ‘So what is your plan?’

  ‘My plan is to start again.’

  46

  Karlsson almost burst into Frieda’s house. ‘Look,’ he said, and threw a newspaper down.

  ‘At what?’ said Frieda.

  He angrily leafed through it, then laid it open on the centre pages. There was a large headline: ‘MY LIFE AS A SUSPECT’. Below there was a portrait of Daniel Blackstock looking sombrely into the camera.

  ‘I’m not really interested,’ said Frieda, scowling.

  Karlsson picked up the newspaper again and started reading from the article: ‘ “The floundering police investigation took a new desperate turn as they turned on the press. It was a case of blaming the messenger.” Little shit.’

  ‘Karlsson, it’s not worth bothering about.’

  ‘Hang on, Frieda, you’ll want to hear this bit: “I was taken into a police interrogation room and faced the remorseless questioning of Detective Inspector Petra Burge. The police seem to be wondering why the press know so much more about the case than they do. Perhaps, I tried to explain, it’s because we’re doing our job.” Bastard.’

  ‘I really would rather you didn’t read the whole piece out to me.’

  Karlsson shook his head and folded the newspaper so that it was more manageable, then stood up and limped rapidly around the room as he read from it.

  ‘Here,’ he said.

  ‘You’re going to fall over. You don’t want to break your leg all over again.’

  ‘Just one more extract. This was the one that really got to me. Wait, let me find it. Yes, here it is.’ Karlsson gave a preparatory cough. ‘ “I consulted the expert profiler Professor Hal Bradshaw. What did he think was behind these crimes? “In recent years, Frieda Klein has deliberately turned herself into a celebrity. She has inserted herself into criminal investigations. The damage this has done to serious police procedures is a matter for the authorities to deal with and I wouldn’t presume to comment on it …” ’ Karlsson stopped reading for a moment and shook the paper. ‘Then why are you commenting, you fucking idiot?’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  ‘Hang on. “My interest as a psychologist is in the impulse that turns a person who should be a doctor and a healer into a celebrity and an attention-seeker. The result has been not just to put herself into danger. That is her own affair. Some people like to bungee-jump, some people like to jump off mountains with parachutes, some like to get involved with criminal investigations. But she’s also putting other people at risk, innocent lives. I’m not saying that psychologists cannot be of use in criminal investigation. In my upcoming TV series, Crimes of the Mind, I’ll be showing how the skills of an expert can tackle unsolved crimes. Frieda Klein has always wanted fans. Well, they say you should beware what you ask for.” ’ Karlsson threw the newspaper on to the table. ‘You don’t think someone could arrange for Dean Reeve to attend to Hal Bradshaw?’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Frieda. She left the room and went into the kitchen.

  ‘Is it too early for a drink?’ Karlsson shouted after her.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  A few minutes later she returned with two mugs of coffee.

  ‘I don’t know how you can bear it,’ he said. ‘Having your name out there like that for people to kick around. I probably didn’t help much by coming and reading it aloud to you. I was probably scratching at a sore point, but I felt you needed to know what frauds like Hal Bradshaw are up to.’

  Frieda looked down into her coffee. ‘I don’t care about that. It’s just something outside. It’s like the weather.’ She took a sip of her coffee. ‘But he’s right.’

  ‘In what possible way?’

  ‘I’ve put people in danger. It may not be what I planned or what I wanted, but I have to take responsibility for that.’

  ‘Frieda, that’s not true. The number-one rule is that the perpetrators are to blame, never the victims.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Yes, that’s a useful story I can tell myself. And meanwhile we’re just sitting here waiting to see what whoever it is out ther
e decides to do next.’

  ‘There is a police inquiry proceeding.’

  ‘Yes.’ Frieda nodded. ‘A police inquiry is proceeding.’

  Alex Zavou looked down at the floor, then at Frieda, then back down at the floor. He was biting his lip. Frieda recognized the signs. ‘If there’s something you need to say,’ she said, ‘then this is a safe space.’

  A safe space. Frieda had always hoped that her consulting room was a place of escape for her patients, a place of refuge. Now it felt like that for her. Just at the moment, she felt as if her consulting room was a hole in the ground. She wanted to stay there, hiding, and never come out. Meanwhile, she waited for Zavou to speak. Sometimes the silence could last many minutes. At certain times it had lasted almost the whole session. Silence could be a kind of therapy.

  ‘I promised myself,’ Zavou began stumblingly, ‘that if I was going to do this, I was going to be completely honest. I wasn’t going to hold anything back.’ He stopped, as if he were waiting for something from Frieda. Approval, maybe. But she didn’t speak, so he continued: ‘I think I made it look as if this incident, the fight, the violence, was something completely new in my life. It wasn’t. That’s all.’

  Frieda suddenly felt a terrible flushing of shame. She already knew what Zavou was going to tell her and she was going to have to put on a performance, to pretend. At that moment she felt she had brought a terrible corruption with her into her consulting room.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Her tone was as neutral as she could manage.

  ‘I’ve got into fights before,’ he said. ‘I don’t start them, but I don’t hang back. It’s hard to put into words, but I’ve always had the feeling that you don’t back down. If you go in, you go in. I’m not so bad if someone insults me or knocks into me or spills my drink, you know, all those stupid things that start fights. But if they do something to someone I’m with, I feel I’ve got to stand up for them. I’ve just got to. So …’ He stopped.

  Frieda felt a moment of relief. It was out in the open. Now they could talk about it. ‘So?’ she said.

  ‘I’m not the person you thought I was. You thought I was an innocent who had just wandered into the situation and tried to rescue it and didn’t manage to. Now maybe you reckon I was the one who started it, or that I made it worse, escalated it.’