by Nicci French
‘What about her?’
‘The only thing she has said, apart from confirming her name, is “no comment”. It’s like she’s zoned out and isn’t even hearing what I’m asking.’
‘You’ve got twenty-four hours?’
‘About fifteen now.’
‘You can’t hold them for longer?’
‘I need just cause.’
‘Can’t you bend the –’
‘No.’
There was a pause.
‘Can I come and talk to them?’
‘You?’
‘I think that maybe Daniel Blackstock wants me as his audience so he might give something away.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Please,’ said Frieda, not in a pleading tone but in a firm one, almost a command.
There was a pause. Petra thought about the failed Bruce Stringer investigation, the series of attacks on Frieda’s friends, the death of Morgan Rossiter. She thought of Daniel Blackstock sitting in the interview room with his sunburned nose and his hot brown eyes, his strange mixture of agitation and excitement. She thought of his notebook, the story he would write if they released him without charge again, and her stomach tightened.
‘OK. Why not? They’re both taking a break.’
She ended the call.
‘Hello Frieda.’
She didn’t reply but sat opposite him, Petra to one side. Their eyes met and, with a sickening lurch, she felt his excitement. Why, when he was in a police interview room, his wife next door, did he seem so full of restless anticipation?
‘You couldn’t keep away?’ asked Daniel. He had a notebook open on the table in front of him and now he looked at her intently, then jotted down a few words. ‘Grey shirt,’ he said. ‘Hair tied back severely. Readers like to know things like that.’ He wrote again. ‘Looks tired, pale, under strain. You do, you know.’
‘Do you really think,’ said Frieda, ‘that you have killed a man, injured two others, abducted a young woman and left no trace?’
Daniel glanced left at Simon Neaves, raised his eyebrows, and smiled. ‘No comment,’ he said.
‘Your alibi is fraudulent.’
‘No comment.’
‘You’ve got your wife to cover for you, I think you got her to inflict the injury on you.’
‘No comment.’
‘What kind of husband would do that?’
‘No comment.’
‘I met your wife. Do you think she’ll stick to her story, once she knows the trouble she’s in?’
‘You have nothing,’ said Daniel Blackstock. ‘The famous Frieda Klein, and you have nothing. How does it make you feel?’
‘Who are you trying to impress, Daniel? Me?’ Frieda stared into his hungry face. ‘Dean Reeve?’
‘Nothing,’ repeated Daniel Blackstock.
‘It’s over,’ said Frieda. ‘Even if you walk out of here this time, there’s nothing left for you. You will be charged, you will be sent to prison, and when you’re there, in the empty days, in the years stretching ahead, do you think anyone will remember your name?’
He gazed at her, then leaned forward. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘My client has nothing to say and we are going to take a break.’ Simon Neaves put a hand under Blackstock’s elbow as if to raise him from the chair.
‘No. You’ll be just another pathetic little man who’s locked behind bars. You have no legacy.’
Daniel stood up. ‘You have no idea,’ he said. ‘No idea at all.’
Lee’s face was heavy, like dough. Her eyes were cloudy, resting on Frieda but with no sense of actually seeing her.
‘I know you’re loyal. But sometimes there are things that are even more important than loyalty,’ said Frieda, softly. She was conscious of Petra in the room with her, watchful by the door. ‘Sometimes to support your husband is to do something very wrong, Lee.’ She waited a few seconds. ‘You don’t need to be his accessory. You can be your own person. That would be very brave.’ Another pause. ‘He didn’t cut his hand in your home, did he?’
Lee said, in a low, muffled voice, ‘No comment.’
‘You did it for him, didn’t you? Near the hospital?’
The woman made no answer. Behind her, Frieda heard the door open.
‘This doesn’t need to continue, Lee,’ said Frieda, not turning, trying to hold her attention. ‘You can stop it now. It’s not too late.’
‘I think it is this that isn’t going to continue,’ said a voice. Frieda looked round to see a tall woman in the doorway, with grey hair and a long, angry face. ‘DCI Burge, a word. And you too, Dr Klein,’ she said to Frieda.
They went to the door.
‘Who –’
‘As of yesterday, I’m the acting commissioner. And I’m not terrifically happy.’ She switched her attention to Petra. ‘We’ve had enough of rule-bending, rule-breaking. Do you understand the scrutiny we’re under at the moment?’
‘That’s not a reason –’
‘I understand you’ve asked for an extension.’
‘Yes.’
‘On what grounds?’
Petra held her gaze. ‘I believe Daniel Blackstock murdered Morgan Rossiter, abducted Chloë Klein, attacked Reuben McGill and Jack Dargan.’
‘I know what you believe. Why do you believe it? What evidence do you have?’
‘His alibi is shaky and –’
‘What evidence, DCI Burge?’
‘He did it,’ said Frieda.
The woman turned to scrutinize her. Her eyes were sharp and clear. She gave a sigh. ‘I know what you’ve been through, Dr Klein. But you have to understand, we have rules for a reason. And we can’t have a private citizen interviewing a suspect.’
‘Then let Petra do it. Just give her extra time. He did it.’
‘No.’
‘He’s dangerous.’
‘There’s feeling and there’s evidence. There’s belief, and there’s proof. Give me evidence, and we can hold him. Otherwise, he and his wife must be released.’
‘He’s done something else,’ said Frieda, abruptly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must see that doesn’t help me.’
‘You can’t just let him go.’
‘I can’t not let him go. But,’ her face eased slightly, ‘we are going to put him under surveillance.’ She held up her hand to stop them speaking. ‘That’s all I can do.’
Frieda walked to Reuben’s house. It was early evening and she had rung in advance to say that Daniel and Lee Blackstock had both been released without charge.
Reuben came to the door. He had put on an old summer suit that hung off him, and was wearing new frameless glasses. He gave Frieda a light hug and beckoned her through into the garden. There was a tray of glasses on the table and a bottle of white wine.
‘Sit,’ he said, gesturing to a chair.
She sat, took off her jacket and her sandals, shut her eyes briefly. She heard the splash of wine in glasses. The garden smelt of mown grass. ‘They’ve released them both,’ she said. ‘Not enough evidence.’
‘Have a drink.’
He passed her a glass and raised his own to her.
‘You look smart,’ she said.
‘You mean I’m not in pyjamas.’
‘Well, maybe.’
‘There’s comfort in shuffling around being an invalid, but it wears a bit thin. Today I did some work on a paper I’m writing. And made phone calls to people I’ve been avoiding.’
‘That’s good.’
‘It’s something at least.’
‘So where is everyone?’
‘Everyone?’
‘You’ve got five people living in your house, remember.’
‘Four until Jack’s out of hospital. Lucky that Josef fitted the new boiler last year.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘I’m assuming it’s not for long.’
‘Reuben –’ She stopped. He looked at her fo
r a moment and put a finger to his lips.
‘To answer your question, Josef and Alexei are making a meal. Josef seems to have given up being a builder and is turning into a bloody chef. He and Olivia battle it out in the kitchen: she keeps giving him handy hints that he doesn’t appreciate – and eating his ingredients before he has time to use them. She’s in the bath at the moment, though. I think Chloë’s gone to see Jack.’
‘Chloë’s here,’ said a voice, and they turned to see her coming through the kitchen door. ‘How did it go, Frieda?’
‘They released him.’
Her face crumpled. ‘Oh. I thought – I hoped –’ Tears welled in her eyes. She scowled ferociously and rubbed them away with the heel of one hand. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shit. We’re like prisoners here and he’s free.’
‘Does the prisoner want some wine?’ asked Reuben.
She took the glass he handed her and took a large gulp. Her hand was trembling. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘The police have him under surveillance.’
‘So we’re just going to wait? All of us here together? Wait till he does something again?’
She was asking Frieda what Frieda had asked Petra. There was no answer.
‘And another fucking thing,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘William.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s being tormented.’
‘The press are still harassing him?’
‘No. There’s a gang of teenagers who are making his life hell.’ Tears stood in her eyes again. ‘He’s scared to go out. They call him horrible names and barge into him and push him about and jeer. It’s foul.’
‘Has he called the police?’
‘What do you think? He’s just cowering in his room.’
‘OK.’ Frieda was thinking hard. She could get Petra on to it – but it wasn’t going to be a top priority with Petra just at the moment. And she had no faith in the local police to deal with it. Reluctantly, she decided to ask Karlsson if he could help.
But then she had an idea.
‘Wait here a minute,’ she said, and went into the house to find her bag. In the wallet was the slip of paper on which Yvette had written her mobile number. Frieda remembered her expression as she’d pressed it into her hand, telling her to ring if she ever needed help: awkward, eager, intense. She would ask Yvette to deal with William McCollough’s persecutors: she would do it at once and efficiently, and she would be glad to be asked. It would make her feel needed.
She dialled the number and got only silence. She frowned, checked the number, and dialled once more. Again, there was no message, just a silence.
Odd, she thought. She walked back into the garden, deep in thought.
‘What is it?’ asked Chloë, seeing her troubled expression.
‘I’m trying to get hold of Yvette.’
‘She’ll ring back.’
‘I’m getting nothing.’
She rang Karlsson’s number but it went straight to voicemail. She stared at Chloë and Reuben, gripped by a sick, cold feeling.
‘What?’ Reuben was saying. ‘What is it?’
Her mobile rang and it was Karlsson.
‘Frieda? Are you OK?’
‘Have you talked to Yvette recently?’
‘Yvette? No. She’s on indefinite leave.’
‘She hasn’t been in touch at all?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I’m trying to get hold of her. Her phone’s dead.’
‘And?’ Karlsson was cautious.
‘I’ll phone you back.’
53
‘No,’ said Petra.
‘Just hear me out.’
‘No.’
‘All you need to do is search Yvette’s flat. Just to check.’
‘Frieda … Actually, I think I’m going to go back to calling you Dr Klein. Do I come into the middle of one of your therapy sessions and tell you how to do your job?’
‘Daniel Blackstock’s done something and Yvette is missing.’
‘Yvette Long is on a much-needed sabbatical.’
‘She hasn’t returned my calls.’
There was a pause.
‘You’re ringing me because she didn’t return one call?’
‘I have called many times. It doesn’t go to voicemail. There’s just silence.’
‘What are you? Thirteen years old and waiting for your boyfriend to call? I talked to Yvette and she was exhausted, finished. She’s escaping for a while. Let her have that.’
Frieda started to say something and then she realized that the line was dead. She looked at her phone angrily as if it were slightly responsible for what had happened. Then she dialled another number.
‘Can you come and pick me up?’ she said.
‘She said no, didn’t she?’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t play games.’
‘I don’t have time for games.’
‘All right, all right.’
‘You know what I’m going to say,’ said Karlsson.
He and Frieda were sitting in his car.
‘The last time I saw Yvette, she said that if I needed anything, just to call. I called and there was no reply.’
‘No reply. For how long? A week? A month?’
‘Her phone is dead. I’m concerned.’
Karlsson thought for a moment. ‘And what Petra said to you is that the simple explanation is that she’s away and doesn’t want to be contacted.’
‘She said something like that.’
‘I’ll bet she did. Sometimes it feels like you’re working your way through the Met, officer by officer, driving them to despair. In the end I’ll be the last one standing, the last one who’ll do your bidding. And, by the way, Petra is right.’
‘Then no harm will have been done.’
‘By what?’
‘By searching her flat.’
Karlsson turned round sharply, looking really troubled for the first time. ‘Is there something you know? Something you’re not telling me?’
‘I know something’s wrong.’
‘How were you planning to get into her flat?’
‘I suppose we could break a window or something like that.’
‘And if anybody sees you? Us, I should say.’
‘We could say we smelt gas. Or saw an intruder.’
Karlsson started the car and began to drive. He shook his head. ‘Smelt gas? Where do you get these ideas from? You sound like a burglar. A really incompetent burglar.’
‘This is Yvette we’re talking about,’ said Frieda, unsmiling.
‘Yes. Yvette, who said she wanted to get her head straightened out by escaping from everything, by getting away from the pressure of the job.’
‘We’ll see.’
The traffic up Seven Sisters Road was agonizingly slow.
‘I should have taken the Tube,’ said Frieda, almost to herself.
‘I’m sorry that the taxi service isn’t to your liking.’
The journey took twenty minutes more – in silence – before Karlsson turned off the main road into a residential street, made a couple of turns and then parked. The two of them got out.
‘I’ve never been in her house before,’ said Frieda.
‘She’s a private person.’
Karlsson opened the garden gate of a small terraced house and led Frieda down the steps to the basement. The window and the door were both heavily barred. ‘This is Tottenham,’ he said. ‘Your breaking-and-entering plan was never going to work in this area.’
‘So what do we do?’
Karlsson took a key-ring from his pocket with two keys on it. He shook it so they tinkled. ‘Yvette gave me a spare set, in case of emergencies.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘I wanted to hear your plan. Such as it was. Careful what you touch when you’re inside,’ he added. ‘I don’t know why I’m even bothering to say that. As if you’d pay attention.’
He
turned a key in the lock and pushed the door open. The two of them stepped inside together and Frieda took a breath and felt an immediate sense of relief. She had been dreading that horribly familiar sour-sweet smell, the one from under the floorboards. But there was none of that, just the slightly stuffy, dank smell of a home that hasn’t been lived in for a while, where the doors and windows have been closed in hot weather. Karlsson gestured Frieda inside and she stepped through the door, straight into a small living room. She walked quickly through the tiny flat. Bedroom, bathroom, miniature paved patio at the back. She wanted to see if there was anything obvious. There wasn’t.
‘No sign of a struggle,’ said Karlsson.
She couldn’t tell at first if he was being mocking, then decided he wasn’t. He cared about Yvette. She knew that. She looked around more carefully.
‘Is this owned or rented?’ she asked.
‘Yvette owns it,’ said Karlsson. ‘Well, sort of. She has a mortgage.’
In the kitchen everything was stowed away. When Frieda opened a cupboard she found a neat pile of plates, four wine glasses, four tumblers. In the living room there was a small flat-screen television and DVD player against the wall facing the front door. A large pot stood next to them on the floor, with the blackened dead remains of a plant in it. There was a low glass coffee-table with an armchair on one side. On the other, against the left wall, there was a matching sofa. There was one picture, just above the sofa, a photograph of a fox – startlingly red – sitting on a frozen lake.
‘It feels rented,’ said Frieda. ‘Or as if she’s just moved in.’
‘She moved in three years ago,’ said Karlsson. ‘Maybe four.’
‘It doesn’t feel like a place where someone has been happy.’
‘Remember what I said about Yvette being a private person? I cannot convey how distressed she would be about the idea of us being here and you making judgements about her life based on how it all looked.’
‘How well do you know this flat?’
‘I’ve been here once, literally once, and that was when she moved in. I drove some things over for her.’
‘So you don’t know the flat well.’
‘As I said, I’ve been here just the once.’
‘And you wouldn’t be able to tell if there was anything unusual or out of place?’
‘No. Although it’s obvious that there isn’t anything unusual here.’
