by Nicci French
‘Because that’s what they’re for. And one of the times he was here he had a van. I was working on my car. I had to move it out of the way so he could get past.’
‘Can you describe the van?’
‘It was white.’
‘Do you know the model? The registration number?’
‘I wasn’t paying attention.’
‘Did you see what was in it?’
‘No.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘I guided him past my car. He was backing up the alley towards his lock-up so it was tight.’
‘Did he speak?’
‘He nodded. Like saying thanks.’
‘Wait there,’ said Quarry. ‘Don’t move.’
He turned aside and rang Dugdale.
‘You need to get here, sir. And a locksmith. I’m in Creek Street. There’s garages round the back. He used to rent one of them. No, not Kernan. Dean Reeve.’
Before Dugdale arrived, a green van decorated with an angel carrying a key slowly eased its way round the corner into the alley. A man in crisply pressed red overalls got out.
‘I was expecting a police officer,’ said Quarry.
‘It’s all contracted out now,’ said the man. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve done all sorts. Burglaries. Pets that have got locked in. So, what have I got to deal with?’
When he saw the flimsy handle on the lock-up door, he looked almost disappointed. ‘It’ll take two minutes, that lock,’ he said. ‘You could almost do it with your bare hands.’
‘Wait till our boss gets here,’ said Quarry. ‘You can do it when he arrives.’
‘I get paid by the quarter-hour, you know,’ said the man. ‘Even one minute into the quarter counts as a quarter.’
It was twenty minutes before another car pulled in behind the locksmith and Dugdale got out. ‘So, what have you found?’ he said.
‘We were waiting for you.’
‘What do you think I am? The Queen opening a supermarket? There could be someone in there.’ He waved the locksmith forward. ‘Get it open. And don’t muck around with it too much. This is a crime scene.’ He took white surgical gloves from his pocket and gave them to the locksmith.
It took less than two minutes before the locksmith twisted the handle in the middle of the door and pulled it towards him and up.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘For what it’s worth.’
The space was filled not with a car but with four chest freezers, all of them with their lids raised. They weren’t switched on. The cords and plugs were strewn on the floor.
‘Hunting stolen freezers?’ said the locksmith.
‘Shut up,’ said Dugdale.
The locksmith pulled a face. He went to his van and came back with a form on a clipboard and a pen. Quarry signed it.
When the locksmith had gone, Quarry stepped into the lock-up. Dugdale was crouched behind a freezer at the back.
‘Have you found anything, sir?’
Dugdale stood up and brushed his trousers where he had been kneeling down. He shook his head. The two men walked outside.
‘So we know where he kept them,’ Dugdale said.
‘Shall I call the crime-scene guys?’
‘They won’t find anything but, yes, you’d better call them. And get some officers down here to do house-to-house.’ He sniffed. ‘It’s too late, though. He’s done what he had to do here.’ He looked at Quarry. ‘Good work. But we’re behind. We’re too far behind.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
What would Frieda think? That was what Lola said to herself over and over again on the long bus and Underground journey. She knew the answer. That was why she hadn’t even considered asking Frieda’s permission. Frieda would have told her not to go. And she needed to go. She had to find out what Jess knew. She just had to be careful, that was all.
When she approached the flat, she looked around the street outside without being quite sure what she was looking for. Everything was as it always was. She had decided that if there was any sign of a disturbance, if the front door was open, if there was visible damage, she would walk past, keep on going. But there was nothing. The lamps were lit and people passed by in the gathering gloom.
She walked up to the door and took out her key. Now there was just one last thing. She had thought of it on the train. She reached into her pocket and found the pay-as-you-go phone Frieda had bought her. She tapped the number nine three times: now with just one press of the button she would call the emergency services. She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door inward. Something smelt different: Jess must have been smoking indoors, even though they had a house rule.
She stepped inside, closed the door behind her with a small click.
When Frieda returned, she expected to find Lola leaning over the computer or lying on the sofa with her headphones on. She called out. Nothing. She looked around the flat. She quickly saw that Lola had left without taking anything. Her laptop was open on the table, there were clothes scattered in the bedroom. She had probably just gone out to the shops. Frieda took out her phone and rang Lola. No answer. Again, it was probably nothing. Still, Frieda knew what she had to do. She put Lola’s laptop and her own laptop into a shoulder bag. She didn’t even check for anything else. She had planned this a hundred times. Everything else was dispensable. Within five minutes of arriving, she was back out on the street, striding quickly. Fifteen minutes later she was sitting in a coffee shop. Waiting.
Lola seemed to have lost the use of her fingers. Her phone felt like an object she had never seen before. She needed to phone Frieda but it felt bafflingly hard to do. Her mind wasn’t working. Her breath was coming in wheezes that hurt her chest.
She had turned away from Jess’s open, sightless eyes but it didn’t help. There was still the smell of the blood. The room was hot and sweet with it. It was everywhere. Jess’s T-shirt and sweatpants were soaked and it was pooling on the floorboards and there were Lola’s own footprints. She had stepped in it and left prints on the floorboards. She could see all of it, even though she was looking away. She was trembling right through her whole body so that it felt like the whole house was shaking. Deep breaths. That’s how you calm yourself. Lola breathed once, twice, three times, deeply, even though it felt like she was inhaling the blood. The smell filled the room, and the smell must contain particles of blood, so didn’t that mean she was breathing in the blood itself? Stop. Stop thinking about that. She had to concentrate. She had to talk to Frieda. It was all that mattered. Slowly, clumsily, she managed to find Frieda’s number and call it.
‘Where are you?’
‘Frieda? Frieda?’ Was that her voice? It didn’t sound the same.
‘Where are you?’
Lola sniffed and rubbed her nose with her sleeve. ‘She’s dead.’ The words came out in a croak. For a moment, she saw Jess’s face, then pushed the image away. She mustn’t. She mustn’t.
‘Who is dead?’
‘Jess. My housemate. My friend. Jess!’
Now her voice cracked. Little sobbing sounds were bubbling out of her.
‘Lola. Tell me.’
‘She’s dead. Her throat’s cut. There’s blood. It’s everywhere.’ She could hear herself talking, a gabble of sound, squeaks and croaks. She felt sweat on her forehead and down her back. Sickness in the back of her throat. The thick smell of blood.
When Frieda’s voice came, it was calmer than before, calmer than Lola had ever heard it. ‘Are you sure she’s dead?’
‘Her eyes are open. There’s blood everywhere. Her head’s almost …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘Are you still in the house?’
‘Yes. What shall I do? What have I done?’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘I had to talk to you.’
‘Ring the police right now. Then call me back.’
The line went dead. Lola dialled 999. A woman answered and said, ‘What service?’ and Lola said, ‘She’s dead, she’s been murdered,�
�� and started to cry again, splintering sobs. Her body felt like it was breaking apart. She still couldn’t bring herself to turn and look at Jess.
She was asked for her name and for the address and she found it hard even to get the words out. As soon as the operator said the police were on their way, Lola ended the call and rang Frieda back.
‘I’m so sorry, Frieda, I’m so sorry.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘She’s lying there. She’s here with me, just a few feet away. She’s my friend. I got her killed.’ There was a pause. ‘Frieda?’
‘Why did you go there?’
‘She sent me a direct message. She said she had to see me. I know I should have told you. I’m so sorry.’
‘That doesn’t matter now.’
‘What should I do? Should I run away and get back to you?’
‘No. The police will be there in a minute or two. So listen carefully. Tell them everything. Be completely honest. Miss nothing out. And then ask them to put you in touch with Chief Inspector Malcolm Karlsson.’
‘Why?’
‘Say the name back to me.’
‘Malcolm Karlsson.’
‘You’re in a severely stressed state. If you forget the name, just ask for the detective who worked with me. They’ll know who he is or how to find him. He’ll make sure you’re safe.’
‘I want to see you. Please. Don’t leave me alone.’
‘You’ve got to talk to the police and then you have to let Karlsson keep you safe. Do you understand?’
Lola heard the sound of sirens, distant, getting less distant.
‘They’re coming.’
‘Good. You’re safe now.’
‘But how can I –’
‘Stop,’ said Frieda. ‘I need to say something first. Lola, I am sorry about Jess. Your friend. Very sorry indeed. But you must know that it isn’t your responsibility, not any of it. You wandered into his world. Once you did that, there was nothing you could do about it.’
‘I want to talk to you about this. I want to see you. Please.’
‘Maybe when this is over. Now, remember, trust the police and tell them everything and ask for Karlsson.’
‘When will I see you?’
‘Goodbye, Lola.’
And then the police started to arrive and the paramedics and then the detectives, a younger one and one who seemed to be in charge, the one she’d heard of, Dugdale. When she saw him looking across at the sprawled body, at the blood, when she saw his shocked face, she felt like she was living it all over again.
TWENTY-NINE
Chloë often stayed late at the joinery workshop. She spent the evening hours on her own projects. For some time she had been constructing a small table for Frieda. It was made from a golden elm tree that had somehow survived the disease that had wiped out most of the elms in the country, but had blown over in a storm and been planked up and brought to the workshop, where it had lain for months, sending out a rich, yeasty smell as it released its sap. Chloë had put aside two of the widest planks and, as soon as they were seasoned, had set about the task. She remembered Frieda saying to her, shortly after Chloë had started training to become a carpenter, that one day she should make her a table. She could almost see her aunt’s face as she bent over her task.
But in recent days she had been working on Frieda’s balcony. This evening she had been sanding the supporting rail smooth so that the grain in the wood almost glowed.
It was dark when she left; the days were getting shorter. Soon it would be winter, she thought. She didn’t like to think of time passing, of seasons changing. When it had been only days, and then weeks, since Frieda had disappeared, she had been able to tell herself that she would be back soon. But the weeks had turned to months. The leaves had started to fall, and now lay in sodden drifts. Although it was still only October, the shops were full of Christmas things.
The little street was empty, except for a woman who was standing at the corner, under a plane tree. She had silver hair, cut short, and heavy-rimmed spectacles, and was wearing a shawl-necked grey coat and boots. As Chloë approached she turned and walked ahead of her, but slowly, so that soon they were level.
‘Hello,’ said the woman.
A shivery sensation passed through Chloë, as if she had suddenly been struck by a nasty bug. Her skin prickled. She turned her head towards the woman who walked beside her. ‘Oh,’ she said, on an out breath, the exclamation like a sigh.
‘Don’t say anything and keep on walking. I won’t be long.’
‘If you leave again I won’t be able to bear it,’ said Chloë.
‘I will leave again, and you will bear it.’
Frieda put out her hand and held Chloë’s; they walked along like that, footsteps in time.
‘Are you all right? Where have you been? When are you coming home?’
‘I need some help.’
‘Tell me what.’ Chloë remembered hurling a brick through a window and helping Frieda clamber into the building.
‘I need somewhere to stay. Somewhere discreet. An empty flat.’
‘Stay with me. I’ll keep you safe.’
‘Nobody must see me and nobody must know. I thought you might have friends, or friends of friends, who were away travelling perhaps. It won’t be for long.’
Chloë thought for a moment. ‘I have an idea,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘One of my flatmates is looking after her mother’s cats at the moment. She’s on holiday. My flatmate complains about it all the time, though. She’s allergic to cats and has to go halfway across London. I could get the keys off her and say I can do it. I’ll say I’ve got work round the corner.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Near Cable Street.’
‘Do you know the address?’
‘I’ve been there a few times: three Vincent Street. If you come to my flat then I can get the keys and …’
‘No. Leave them under a stone or a pot before midnight and I’ll collect them.’
‘Oh,’ said Chloë, disappointed.
‘And, Chloë …’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t visit.’
‘So I know where you are and I’m not allowed to come near you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘If I can’t trust you, I’ll go somewhere else.’
‘You can trust me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But is that all you need? There must be something else.’
‘That’s all.’
‘Don’t go yet.’
‘I’ll walk with you to the main road.’
‘It’s like seeing a ghost. Olivia thinks you’re dead already.’
Frieda smiled. Her hand tightened on Chloë’s. ‘How are you?’ she asked softly. ‘How’s everyone?’
‘We miss you. We’re worried. We want to help.’
‘You’re helping.’
‘Is this where you’re going to be? If I urgently need to see you, can I find you there?’
‘No. And I won’t be there long. There’s someone who can find me a safer place.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone with friends in high places. You don’t need to know the name.’
‘I guess not,’ said Chloë. Then: ‘Can I tell the others I saw you?’
‘No. This is between you and me.’
Chloë saw the main road ahead. She slowed her steps. ‘You’re not going to die, are you?’ she asked.
‘Not if I can help it. Give me news.’
‘Reuben seems OK,’ said Chloë, dragging her feet. ‘His hair’s growing back all curly. And Alexei’s doing well at his new school, though he’s still a bit shy and Josef worries about him. Sasha isn’t back yet but I think she’s returning by Christmas. Jack’s Jack and he’s being really sweet, and don’t look at me like that, no, we’re not going out again, though sometimes I think – Oh, never mind that. Your cat’s being looked after like it
’s a substitute you. Everyone buys it treats so it’s getting quite chubby. Josef goes to your house almost every day and makes sure everything’s all right and puts fresh flowers out and waters your plants.’
She hesitated. She felt she ought to tell Frieda what else Josef was doing. The last time she had been in the house, Josef and Stefan had been pulling up the floorboards. Was it important that Frieda knew or was it important that she didn’t know? But she had to keep talking. Frieda couldn’t leave as long as she was talking. ‘Olivia’s read a book about decluttering and has thrown about two hundred bin bags of stuff out. I haven’t seen Karlsson. I’m doing well at work, I think. I like it. I wouldn’t have been a good doctor but I am a good carpenter.’
They were at the main road. She stopped.
‘Can you do me a favour?’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘When you come home, grow your hair long and dark again. I prefer it.’
Frieda laughed. ‘I promise.’ She gave Chloë a gentle push. ‘Get the keys there by midnight. Off you go.’
‘But –’
‘It’s our secret.’
‘I won’t say a word,’ said Chloë, her voice wobbling. But Frieda was walking away. Chloë gazed after her. ‘I’m making you a little table,’ she called after her. ‘For when you come home. It’s made of golden elm.’
THIRTY
Dugdale and Karlsson met in the commissioner’s anteroom. They exchanged nervous glances.
‘I feel like I’m about to go into an exam,’ said Karlsson.
‘I was thinking more of dental surgery,’ said Dugdale. ‘Root-canal work. The one where they go really deep down.’
‘All right, I get it.’
A young woman came in and escorted them through to the commissioner’s office. Karlsson had been there before, with a different commissioner. This time it felt equally uncomfortable. Helena Leigh, her short grey hair standing out against her dark uniform, was seated behind the familiar desk. She didn’t get up. She just nodded to the two detectives to sit down.
‘Geoffrey Kernan,’ she said. ‘Lee Samuels. Gerald Hebb.’
‘Yes,’ said Dugdale, in a slightly strained tone.
