by Nicci French
‘When you didn’t tell me,’ said Frieda, ‘what was it you were worried about?’
‘That you’d think I was involved. That I wasn’t an innocent victim.’
‘The one thing you need to believe is that you can say anything to me. I won’t say I’m not here to judge you, because we all judge each other with everything we say, but you don’t need to present me with a nice neat version of yourself. We don’t go through life with clean hands. There are grey blurry areas everywhere. The people I worry about are the ones whose stories are too neat, where the pieces fit together too easily.’
Afterwards, when Frieda was writing up her notes, she stopped at that exchange. Where the pieces fit together too easily. She had said something like that to Petra Burge about Daniel Blackstock. Petra had had an answer, but the feeling hadn’t gone away. He had had a perfect alibi. That was the problem. Normal people didn’t have perfect alibis.
47
She walked swiftly from her consulting rooms to St Dunstan’s in Clerkenwell. She had been there the previous night with Jack, travelling with him in the ambulance, accompanying him as far as the operating theatre. He had been heavily sedated by then, pumped full of morphine, but he had managed to say something to her before they wheeled him away.
‘I lied to him,’ he had croaked.
‘What about?’
‘He asked me if I was right-or left-handed. I said I was left-handed.’ Frieda looked at his heavily bandaged left hand. ‘I’m not.’
She had smiled at him and watched his eyes close on her, then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. ‘I’ll see you on the other side,’ she’d said.
Now, as she walked back to the hospital through the summer drizzle, she made several phone calls. The first was to Reuben.
‘It’s me.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Never mind me. How’s Jack?’
They were talking fast, as if they had no time for ordinary conversation any more, only for the important things. She could picture him, bald and thin, sitting in his study, and outside the thin rain falling on his lawn. ‘I’m on my way there now.’
‘Let me know.’
‘Of course. How are things there?’
‘Oh, you know. I’m being sick. Josef is baking cakes and cooking stew as if the smell of Ukrainian cooking can save the world. Alexei is barely speaking but he is playing computer games at full volume. Olivia is drinking her way through my wine cellar and crying.’
‘It sounds crowded.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Any chance of it being even more crowded?’
There was a brief silence.
‘Chloë. She can’t be alone.’
‘She’s at my house most of the time anyway.’
‘Reuben –’
‘You don’t need to say anything.’
‘All right. I’ll ask Josef to collect whatever she needs later. She shouldn’t go back there at all. Oh, and, Reuben, two police officers will be parked outside your house, day and night. They might be there already.’
As she approached St Dunstan’s, she saw a familiar figure standing outside the revolving doors.
‘Chloë. I thought you were at work.’
‘I had to come.’ Chloë lifted her tear-stained face to Frieda.
Frieda took her hand. ‘Let’s go and see him together.’
‘I’ve already tried. It’s no good.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They won’t let me in. It’s not visiting hours.’
‘Oh, really,’ said Frieda, grimly. ‘We’ll see about that.’
The door of Jack’s ward on the third floor was firmly closed. They both rubbed alcohol gel into their hands, then Frieda knocked loudly. Through the strips of glass she could see nurses passing to and fro. A porter approached from behind, pushing a trolley. He punched in the security code and pushed the double doors open. Frieda walked in behind him, beckoning Chloë to follow.
‘Excuse me.’ A nurse stood in front of them, blocking their way.
‘We’re here to visit Jack Dargan. He’s in bed seventeen.’
‘It’s not visiting hours.’
‘We need to see him.’
The nurse looked at the watch hanging on her apron. ‘You can come back in two and a half hours. Then you can see him.’
‘No.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘No.’
‘Frieda,’ said Chloë, in an urgent whisper. ‘Don’t make a fuss.’
‘A fuss?’ Frieda gave her niece a stern look. ‘It’s quite simple. We’re not going anywhere until we’ve seen him.’
Beside her, Chloë gave a nervous giggle.
‘I’ll call hospital security.’
‘Do that,’ said Frieda.
‘What is it, Theresa?’ asked a woman in a nurse’s uniform that was white not blue. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘I’ve told them it’s not visiting hours. They won’t go away.’
‘Won’t go away?’
‘Our friend Jack Dargan was attacked and injured last night. He has no family to visit him so we are here to see him and reassure him. I’m sure you’ll agree that it makes no sense to turn us away.’
‘The rules …’
‘If your rules say I shouldn’t be allowed in, they deserve to be broken.’
The second nurse looked at her, at Chloë who had stopped giggling at last, at Theresa. She sighed. ‘Go on, then,’ she said.
When Chloë saw Jack, she started crying. He was propped up in bed with his hand in a large cast that was supported by a hoist. He had stitches running across his forehead and one eye was closed; around it the skin was violently bruised and swollen. His nose was swollen and purple. He had a drip attached to his uninjured arm and was hooked up to a machine that beeped continuously.
Jack tried to smile at them, but his face was too sore and battered. His one good eye looked at them and a single tear ran down his cheek. ‘Hello,’ he said, in a thick, slurred voice. ‘I thought I heard you.’
‘You don’t need to talk,’ said Frieda. ‘Are you thirsty?’
He nodded. Frieda picked up the beaker of water from the side table and put the bendy straw into his mouth.
‘Does it hurt?’ asked Chloë.
‘Drugs. Lots of drugs.’
‘Was it terrifying? Well, you don’t need to answer that. I can see it was, of course. I’m just saying stupid things because I don’t know what to say. Your poor hand. And your poor face. I hardly recognize you. God, it must have been so scary. You probably thought you were going to die.’
‘Is there anything you need?’ asked Frieda.
Jack shook his head.
‘Frieda told me you said you were left-handed. That was amazing. Just amazing. I couldn’t have been so quick while someone was attacking me.’
‘Listen, Jack,’ said Frieda. ‘I’ll come back later. We’ll all be here as much as you want until you leave the hospital. If there’s anything you need, tell us. When you leave, you’ll come to Reuben’s as well. That seems safest. But I need to ask you something first. Is there anything else you remember?’
‘Smell.’
‘You remember his smell?’
‘Sweat.’
‘That’s good. Everything helps.’
He gazed at them helplessly out of his one eye. Even his red hair had a desperate air.
‘You did well,’ said Frieda.
‘Darling,’ said Daniel Blackstock, tenderly, standing behind his wife as she made their dinner, massaging the back of her neck with the hand that wasn’t injured. ‘How can I help?’
‘Help?’ Lee Blackstock looked alarmed at the thought.
‘Yes. You work so hard and you look after me as well and I don’t show you often enough how grateful I am to you.’
Lee Blackstock twisted her head to look at him. His expression was warm. She smiled at him and let him go on massaging her neck, even though he
was pressing rather too hard.
‘I’ve only got the mashed potatoes left to do.’
‘My favourite!’
‘Is your hand hurting a lot?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Daniel.’ Her tone was wary.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll always help you. You know that.’ She stopped but he didn’t say anything, just continued to dig his fingers into her flesh. ‘I just wondered if you wanted to tell me –’ She faltered and came to a stop.
‘Is this about yesterday?’
She nodded.
‘Do you trust me, Lee?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘I’m working very hard, day and night, to make sure we have enough money and are secure. You do understand that?’
‘I only wondered. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s all right.’
‘Things are going well for me just now.’
‘That’s good, Daniel. I’m glad. You deserve it.’
‘I’ve got chances and I need to take them.’
‘Of course.’
‘People want to interview me. I might be on the radio. You wouldn’t want to get in the way of all that.’
‘No!’
‘Good. I know you trust me, and you know that I trust you. I’m right to trust you, aren’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because we’re partners. Everything we do, we do for each other. Right?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then we don’t need to say anything else.’
When Frieda opened Reuben’s front door she heard loud shouts and a scream, a wail from Olivia, a sound like slapping. She rushed towards the living room and at first couldn’t make out what she was seeing.
They were all crouched on the floor in a ragged circle, leaning in, hands flailing.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, raising her voice above the hubbub.
‘That was mine!’ cried Reuben, not looking up, slapping down a card. He was wearing a new dressing gown, a full-length Moroccan tunic in stripes of yellow and purple, and his face was flushed.
‘Cards,’ said Frieda. ‘This is about a card game?’
‘Racing Demon!’ shouted Chloë. ‘Join in.’
‘Not just now.’
She looked at them all, with their packs of cards and their wildly animated faces. Even Alexei was playing, though it seemed to Frieda from where she stood that he had no idea of the rules.
Frieda thought of the family she had grown up with: a father who had killed himself, a mother who had never wanted children and had said so even on her deathbed, brothers who resented and disapproved of her and whom she never saw. Blood ties. This was her real family, ramshackle and rowdy, here in this hot, noisy room.
48
At six thirty the next morning Frieda was in Silvertown. The day was already warm and muggy, the sky low and grey. She hoped that later it would rain, clear some of the dust and grit from the roads and water the parched earth. Daniel Blackstock lived on a modern estate, dwarfed by the crumbling old warehouses on one side and the tower blocks on the other. His house was on a cul-de-sac, with a small neat front garden and a space for their red Honda. The curtains were closed.
She positioned herself by a skip where she could see his door but wouldn’t be seen, and waited. It wasn’t Daniel Blackstock she had come here for, it was his wife, who had called 111, and who had driven her husband to St Jude’s Hospital. At twenty past seven, the curtains in an upstairs window were opened. Ten minutes later, the ones downstairs were as well. She could make out a shape moving about the room.
At just after eight, the front door opened and Daniel Blackstock appeared. He patted his jacket, obviously checking if he had his keys on him, before closing the door and stepping briskly on to the pavement. So he wasn’t using the car today. He was carrying a briefcase that he swung as he walked and even from where she stood he looked brisk and jaunty. She watched him until he disappeared from view. Then she went to the little house with its sparse, well-tended garden and pressed the buzzer. She heard the tinkle of music inside.
‘Yes?’
The woman who stood in front of her was still in a dressing gown. She was quite short and solid, with a round face and brown hair cut in a severe fringe. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
‘Lee Blackstock?’
‘What do you want?’ the woman said. Her voice was high-pitched and girlish. Then her expression changed from one of anxious enquiry to fearful recognition.
‘I’m Frieda Klein.’
‘I know. I’ve seen your photo.’ She stopped. ‘Daniel’s not here.’
‘It’s you I came to see. Can I come in?’
Her eyes darted from Frieda to over her shoulder. She clutched the neck of her dressing gown. ‘Why?’
‘I’d like to ask you about something.’
‘I don’t understand. It’s Daniel you need to talk to.’
‘It’s a very simple matter.’
‘I’m not dressed.’
‘That’s all right.’
Frieda stepped into the house.
‘I haven’t cleared up yet,’ Lee Blackstock said apologetically, and she showed Frieda into the kitchen.
But the place was spotless, just a plate and a mug on the table. The only splash of colour and life in the germless room came from a huge bouquet of flowers on the side. Frieda watched as Lee brushed away a few invisible crumbs, ran her hands down her dressing gown, tied it tighter. She seemed nervous.
‘I wanted to ask you about the night before last.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your husband had a nasty accident.’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Can you tell me about it?’
‘Why?’ The question seemed to make her bolder. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘Rather a lot, I think.’
‘You’ll have to ask Daniel, not me. I’m not very good with words.’
‘You don’t need to be good with words and you don’t need to be scared,’ said Frieda. She saw the woman flinch, a flush spread over her face and down her neck. ‘I just want the truth.’
‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ Again, Lee Blackstock ran her palms up and down her dressing gown. Then she took a seat at the small, bare table and folded her hands together to stop them trembling. ‘I’ll tell Daniel you’ve been here, you know.’
‘Of course you will. Could you tell me what happened? Just as you remember it?’
Lee Blackstock looked away from Frieda. She took a deep breath and when she spoke it was in a monotone.
‘We were here together. We had eaten supper. I was in the living room watching a quiz show on the TV. Daniel was in the back room and he was cutting a lino tile. I heard him shout and went to see what was wrong. The Stanley knife had slipped and he had cut his hand. There was lots of blood. I called one one one. They said to come to the hospital. I drove him there and he got it seen to. Then we drove home.’ Now she looked back at Frieda. ‘That’s all.’
‘What time did he cut himself?’
‘Half past nine,’ she said promptly.
‘You called one one one at once?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you drove to the hospital at once?’
‘I bandaged him up first and cleared up the blood. Then I drove him.’
‘What time did you get there?’
‘About a quarter past ten.’
‘Was he in pain?’
The question seemed to throw her. ‘He must have been.’
‘How did you react?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I told you. I rang one one one and drove him to St Jude’s.’
‘I mean, were you very shocked?’
‘Oh. Yes. I was shocked.’
‘Did you ask any of your neighbours to help?’
‘No.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘See me?’
‘Both of you.’
<
br /> ‘I don’t know.’
‘You obviously reacted calmly.’ Frieda stood up. ‘Do you work?’
‘I’m a care assistant at an old people’s home.’
‘That’s a good thing to do.’
‘You think?’ Lee Blackstock looked at her doubtfully.
‘I do.’
‘It doesn’t pay much.’
‘So-called woman’s work never pays well – that doesn’t mean it’s not important. I imagine you work nights a lot.’
‘Yes.’
‘It must be tiring.’
‘It is. Though Daniel says I’m just –’ She stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Thirteen years. I was very young, a school leaver. I met him when I was only fifteen.’ For a moment, her eyes shone. ‘It was love at first sight,’ she said.
So she was in her late twenties or early thirties. She seemed much older, almost middle-aged.
‘And you don’t have children.’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Those are lovely flowers. Did Daniel give them to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it your birthday or an anniversary?’
‘No. He just gave them to me.’ An expression of satisfaction crossed Lee Blackstock’s face. Frieda watched her curiously. Then the flush returned and she looked lumpy and awkward in her stained dressing gown. ‘I still don’t understand why you’re here.’
‘I needed to get a clear picture of what happened.’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘He’s out finding out things about you, and you’re here finding out things about him.’
‘Yes,’ said Frieda. ‘Funny.’
Daniel Blackstock stood in Saffron Mews, looking at Frieda Klein’s narrow house with the blue door, and whistling softly through his teeth. The shutters were closed. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. But he’d find out.
49
Frieda walked back down to the main road. She was starting to cross it to reach the station when she saw a taxi approaching. An idea occurred to her and she hailed it.
‘St Jude’s Hospital,’ she said to the driver, as she got in. ‘How long will it take?’
