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

by Nicci French

  On the tenth floor, several of the wide boards were missing, others rotten, and he could see through gaps to the rooms beneath. He made his way carefully. Dust balls rolled across the floor. There was a dead bird in one room, and a long table in another. He looked out of the window at the railway line and the rows of neat modern houses, each with their patch of lawn.

  ‘Where are you?’ he said, and his voice sounded unfamiliar in that high, empty room, the voice of a stranger.

  No one had found anything: no sign that Yvette, or Chloë, had ever been there.

  ‘What next?’ asked one of the men, a young officer with eyes that were large and distressed behind his spectacles.

  ‘We’ve covered about a fifth of this building. We’ll take it staircase by staircase. When we’re done, we move to the other buildings.’

  ‘What are the parameters of our search, sir?’ asked another.

  It was a good question, and Karlsson couldn’t answer it. They were searching for a woman who might be anywhere, and who might be dead. Even there, in this inch of the great map of London, there were thousands of buildings: factories, warehouses, houses, flats, shacks, huts, containers, crannies. For a brief moment, he let helplessness wash over him, then steeled himself. ‘Let’s just think about this building.’

  55

  At first Frieda had thought of going over to Silvertown, just to be there, to walk around, to drink it in, maybe to feel something. But she knew it would just have been a gesture. All she could do was wait, and she had always been terrible at waiting. She had to do something, anything, rather than think of Yvette somewhere in this city, alive or dead. Alive. She was sure she must be alive. She remembered Daniel Blackstock’s expression. It would be more interesting for him. It would give him more power. But there was no point in dwelling on it. That was unproductive. She should leave the police to do their work. She looked at her watch, then thought: What does it matter what the time is?

  She should do something else. Work was out of the question. She could tidy the house, except that she had been compulsively doing that in the previous few months, trying to eliminate anything that Dean Reeve might have touched. She had already cleaned and scoured and scraped. She looked at the coffee-table. Rays of light were coming from the front window, forming a pool on the flecked brown surface. Frieda walked to the kitchen and half filled a tumbler with water. She returned and placed it in the pool of light, moving it this way and that until the shadow fell on the table surface just right. She rummaged through a drawer and found two pencils, hard and soft, and a drawing pad. She sat at the table, laid the pad and the pencils in front of her and stared at the glass, emptying her mind of everything except the light and the shadow. Then, after a full minute, she picked up the hard pencil and traced the first line. As always, she had to ignore the ache of disappointment that came as she started to draw. Before, in that moment of thought, the drawing could have been anything, but now it was already limited by the frailty of her fingers. It was already starting to fail.

  She changed to the softer pencil and was trying to capture something of the soft grey shadow created by the water and the swirling refracted shades in the water itself when she was interrupted by a ring at the door. She almost ran to answer it. Josef was standing there.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.

  ‘No happy to see me?’

  ‘I’m waiting for news,’ she said.

  Josef stepped inside and saw the glass on the table and the sketchbook. ‘I think maybe you out looking,’ he said.

  ‘Looking for what?’

  ‘You know. For her. For Yvette.’

  ‘How can I look? Where? This isn’t a game of hide and seek.’

  ‘We do this. You have the instinct.’

  ‘Josef, I do not have the instinct. I’m not a witch. Anyway, the police are doing their job. The phone will probably go in five minutes and they’ll have found Yvette and we can all go back to our lives.’

  ‘You want me going?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. You’ll probably do less harm here than anywhere else.’

  Josef frowned. ‘Do harm?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m in a bad mood. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘The punching bag,’ said Josef.

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘The post that the cat scratches.’

  ‘All right, that’s enough.’

  ‘I get us a drink.’

  ‘Tea,’ said Frieda.

  Josef went into the kitchen and Frieda heard the sound of cupboards opening, water running. When Josef came through with two mugs, she hadn’t moved.

  ‘Continue,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The drawing,’ he said.

  Frieda took the mug and sipped at the scalding tea. It almost hurt her mouth, but it felt good. It was keeping her alert. She picked up the pencil and tried to continue but the spell had been broken. ‘Aren’t you working on Reuben’s garden?’ she said.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  Frieda resumed her drawing. With the hard pencil, she tried to capture a patch of shadow with some delicate cross-hatching. She didn’t feel happy with it. Maybe it would look better from a distance. She glanced up. Josef was examining her wall, rubbing his fingers along it.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she said.

  ‘Is old,’ he said. ‘The plaster. Get wavy and then crack. Strip away, re-plaster, beautiful.’

  ‘Is it cracked now?’

  ‘Soon. Few years it start to crack.’

  ‘Good. I can live with it for a few years. And when it starts to crack, I can live with it for a few years more.’

  ‘The wiring,’ said Josef. ‘When you do the rewiring?’

  ‘Josef. Please, I –’

  She was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. As soon as she opened the door and saw Karlsson’s face, she knew it wasn’t good news.

  ‘We haven’t found her,’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’

  ‘Thank you, Frieda. It’s good to see you too. I have to meet Petra and the acting commissioner and then I’ll go back. I’ve got twenty minutes, enough to let you know the news, or lack of news, and pick up a sandwich.’

  ‘You can eat something here,’ said Frieda.

  Karlsson’s face fell when he saw the contents of the fridge.

  ‘I can go round the corner and get something,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Don’t worry. I don’t need much.’

  Karlsson made himself a sandwich with cheese and a tomato. It didn’t look particularly appetizing but he consumed it in a few bites, almost desperately. He took a gulp of water from the glass on the table, then noticed Frieda’s drawing.

  ‘Sorry. It’s your still life.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Tell me about your morning.’

  ‘There is that abandoned warehouse. Redevelopment is supposedly under way but I couldn’t see any sign of it. We’ve been over it and we didn’t find anything.’

  ‘Did you find any signs that someone’s been there?’

  ‘What’s a sign? It’s been abandoned for years, and people get inside one way or another. It could be kids playing there or down-and-outs looking for somewhere to sleep or thieves looking for some scrap metal. Basically there’s crap everywhere but nothing that seemed relevant.’

  ‘So you can definitively eliminate that place as somewhere where Yvette is being held?’

  ‘You sound like a lawyer.’

  ‘It’s an important question.’

  Karlsson thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got two answers. The first is, no, we can’t definitively eliminate it. It’s bloody enormous, like a town not a single building, and there aren’t many of us. There are hundreds and hundreds of little rooms. I’m sure there are little storage spaces we didn’t check, cellars, gaps between the walls. We’ll keep looking but I don’t think she’s there. It’s like a building site, surrounded by wires and gates and CCTV cameras. A couple of teenagers could get in. Blackstock could get in
on his own. I just can’t imagine him trying it with Yvette, conscious or unconscious.’

  Frieda flinched, even at the mention of the name. ‘So what’s your plan?’

  ‘The plan is for me to go to this meeting, then get back to supervising the team. We’ll look in the other warehouses, in the old factories, anywhere deserted, and then we’ll keep looking. Probably we’ll take another day or so and then we’ll have to change strategy.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Stop the secrecy. Announce that a policewoman has been kidnapped, go to the media, put her photograph everywhere.’

  ‘You know what you’re risking?’ said Frieda.

  ‘Is it more of a risk than this? Another day of being held captive somewhere, in conditions we can’t imagine. If we put her photo out there, somebody might have seen something or heard something or suspect something. Just because it’s the traditional strategy doesn’t make it wrong.’

  When Karlsson was gone, she and Josef looked at each other.

  ‘What?’ said Frieda.

  ‘I wait for you to do something. Or say something.’

  ‘All right, Josef, so what have we got?’

  ‘I the one who ask you that first.’

  ‘The photograph,’ Frieda said.

  ‘What?’

  Frieda took out her phone and placed it on the table. She sat down and drew up another chair next to her for Josef to sit on. She clicked through to the photograph of Chloë, drugged, captive, splayed on the mattress. ‘There,’ she said.

  ‘What is this?’ said Josef, drawing back, his face horrified.

  Frieda explained about the picture, how she had got it, how she had copied it before handing it to Petra Burge.

  Josef groaned and put his head into his hands. ‘Is terrible. Terrible. Young Chloë.’

  ‘Don’t think about that,’ said Frieda. ‘That’s not what’s important. Is there anything in that picture that can help us?’

  Josef lifted his head. ‘Like help how?’

  Frieda stared at the picture so hard that it almost hurt. ‘I had a hope that we might be able to see what direction the light is coming from and that might give us some clue about where it is.’ She looked round at Josef. He was frowning.

  ‘I no think so,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ said Frieda.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m talking to me, not you. The direction of the light source wouldn’t tell us anything useful and there’s no obvious light source in the picture anyway. It just looks grey and blank. There’s just a mattress and a blurry grey background.’ Frieda enlarged the image and then enlarged it again, as far as it would go, and the image became grainier and grainer. ‘I was hoping we’d see some sort of maker’s name on the mattress,’ she said. ‘And that it would turn out to be very rare.’

  ‘No name,’ said Josef.

  Frieda used her finger to move the image around. ‘So what are we looking at? A mattress like any other mattress. And behind it an out-of-focus background, which is probably a bit of floor and wall. What we’d like is a window with a glimpse of a famous landmark outside. What we’ve got is a blurry grey background with a couple of little blurry white patches, which look like rough licks of paint.’

  ‘Is plasterboard,’ said Josef. ‘Gypsum.’

  ‘So what’s that?’

  ‘Is board for the room.’ He got up and rapped his knuckles on the wall and shook his head. ‘No. Is brick here.’ He reached up and rapped on the ceiling. There was a hollow sound. ‘Is the plasterboard. Cover everything, keep out the fire. Is flat, easy. Then you put on the paint, the wallpaper.’

  ‘I hope you’re going to tell me that you’re an expert on gypsum plasterboard, that you can tell me exactly what kind it is.’

  Josef shook his head. ‘No. The plasterboard is the plasterboard.’

  ‘Could the plasterboard be in a building like the one Karlsson has been searching?’

  ‘Is possible.’

  ‘Josef, you’ve got to help me out here. Before, that photograph told us nothing that Daniel Blackstock didn’t want to tell us. Now we’ve found one thing. That’s our finger-hold.’

  Josef made a helpless gesture. ‘Frieda, I want to help. I want to find Yvette. But every job I do, every room has the plasterboard, on the walls, on the ceiling, on the floor.’

  There was a long pause as Josef and Frieda stared at each other. ‘We can do better than this,’ she said finally. ‘When this huge building has been turned into offices or luxury flats and they are being offered for sale, at that point there will be no visible plasterboard. Right?’

  ‘Then is covered.’

  ‘Right. And Karlsson said that the building he was searching was still littered with stuff from kids messing around. In a project like that, what would you have to do before putting up plasterboard?’

  ‘Much,’ said Josef. ‘Big, big clear-out. The structure engineering, the plumbing, the electrics. The plasterboard near the end.’

  ‘Good,’ said Frieda. ‘That’s very good. So you’re not going to have new plasterboard in an old abandoned shed or cellar or lock-up or abandoned warehouse. You put up the plasterboard at a fairly late stage, just before the decoration, right?’

  Josef gave a shrug. ‘Is possible.’

  ‘I think they’re looking in the wrong place,’ said Frieda.

  ‘So what you do?’

  ‘We’re going to Silvertown.’

  56

  First, she called Petra.

  ‘There’s no news,’ said Petra. ‘I’ll let you know if I hear anything.’

  ‘I think they’re looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘Where should they be looking? Tell me.’

  The question wasn’t hostile: Frieda could hear from Petra’s voice that she was in a state of hyper-alertness. She could picture her tense, narrow shoulders, her thin face and her pale eyes.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But there’s something …’ She let the sentence trail away. She had nothing except Josef’s knowledge of plasterboard.

  ‘If you have anything, anything at all, give it to me.’

  ‘I will. Is he under surveillance right now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure he hasn’t given them the slip?’

  ‘I came off the phone to the officers a minute ago.’

  ‘Blackstock’s been in custody, then under surveillance for nearly three days now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So if Yvette is alive she’s been alone, probably without water.’

  ‘Probably.’

  As they walked towards Josef’s van, Frieda made another call. ‘Chloë?’

  ‘Yes. Has anything happened?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at work. What’s up? Has –’

  ‘I want you to go to Silvertown.’

  ‘Silvertown? Near City Airport?’

  ‘Now. I’ll explain when I see you.’

  ‘All right,’ said Chloë. She sounded wary, perhaps scared. ‘But it might take a bit of time. I’ll get the Tube to Tottenham Hale, then take the Overground. Give me an hour at least, probably longer.’

  ‘Take a cab.’

  ‘What’s going on, Frieda?’

  ‘Call when you’re nearly there.’

  ‘They’re watching both of us,’ said Daniel Blackstock. ‘You understand?

  Lee stared at him.

  ‘I said, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was more like a sob. ‘But I don’t know what’s happening. Everything’s so awful. What’s happening?’

  Daniel looked at his wife. Her skin was clammy and she had pouches under her eyes. Her hair was greasy. He saw that there was eczema on her wrists and the inside of her elbows. He could feel his heart jumping and his blood coursing through him and his skin twitching, as if thousands of insects were crawling across it. He forced himself to be still and calm. He took one of her hands, which was large and soft and lay i
n his without moving.

  ‘Lee,’ he said, trying to make his voice tender, though she was so heavy and inert and he wanted to hit her, shake her, push her away from him. ‘Lee, my love.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know I said how it was you and me against the world?’

  She nodded.

  ‘That’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? You’re my partner. We protect each other, right?’

  After a long pause, she nodded again. He put a hand under her chin. ‘I can trust you, can’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. A fat tear trickled down her cheek and on to his hand.

  ‘And you’ve already crossed a line, you know that.’ A pause. He said again, louder, ‘You know that. Don’t you?’

  Another nod.

  ‘So they’re watching both of us. But me much more than you.’ He took his hand from her chin and stroked her face gently. ‘So I’m going to tell you what to do.’ He smiled at her, a vein ticking in his neck. ‘And then you’re going to do it.’

  ‘I’m outside the station,’ said Chloë.

  ‘We’re nearly there.’

  ‘I don’t have enough money for the cab driver and he’s getting rather cross.’

  ‘I’ll pay him as soon as we arrive. I can see you now.’

  Chloë was standing beside the minicab, dressed in baggy canvas shorts and a singlet. Josef pulled over and Frieda got out and paid the driver, who counted the money suspiciously before driving off.

  ‘This is where he lives, isn’t it?’ asked Chloë, as she and Frieda waited for Josef to park his van.

  ‘Near here.’

  ‘And this is the area where you think I was kept?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why is it so urgent for me to be here?’

  ‘To help find Yvette.’

  ‘How can I?’ Chloë’s voice rose almost to a shout. ‘What do you think I can do? I know what you want: you want me to think myself back into that room and to remember something. Do you think I haven’t tried? Do you think I don’t try and remember every day?’