The tree for February was a beech, although few except her would recognize that because its branches were bare. She liked the smooth grey bark of a beech tree and the fluted column of its trunk. At the trunk’s fork, she had put in the tiny initials of her name and his. Nobody would ever see it, but she knew it was there – like a lover’s carving. She did it with each tree, in a different place. It was a secret code. She hadn’t even told him because perhaps he wouldn’t like it, but after this was over, she would tell him and he would wrap his arm around her shoulders and kiss her on the top of her head or on the side of her jaw just beneath her ear and tell her how proud he was of her and of what she had endured for his sake. He needed her. Nobody had ever needed her before. It was because of this that she had given up everything: her home, her family, her comfort, her safety, herself.
She put her face to the window and looked out at the grey sky that was darkening towards night. Days were short and nights were long, and it was cold and she wanted him to come.
Thirteen
At just past seven on the following morning, Frieda was standing at the door of a well-lit basement room in the police station. It was windowless and cold and there was even an underground smell, a tinge of decay and dirt. It was from the detritus in the alley that had been laid out on the surfaces with evident care, each item in its own space.
‘You wanted to see it,’ said Karlsson.
‘Is there anything?’
‘Judge for yourself.’ He entered the room and Frieda followed him. ‘Obviously we were looking for things like traces of human blood, bodily fluid, but even if there had been anything like that, the rain and melted snow would have washed it all away. If the body had been in that alley, it would have been about two weeks ago. Of course, it would have been nice to find his missing finger.’
‘There was nothing else?’
‘What? Like a wallet full of cards, or a set of keys with an address tag on them? No. We have a list of items.’ He waved a sheet. ‘The boys were very diligent. They even sorted things into categories.’ He glanced down at the paper. ‘Things like tinfoil cartons containing the remains of sweet and sour chicken, that kind of thing. Here. A souvenir for you. They’ll start putting it in bin bags at nine – all that effort just to repackage rubbish.’
Frieda glanced at the list: remains of one dead cat minus its tail, forty-eight syringes, two dirty nappies, seven condoms … She looked around the room, oddly compelled by what was clearly a forensic examination of everyday litter. She turned to Karlsson. ‘Is that it, then?’
‘As far as Crawford is concerned, the case is closed. I’m now investigating a nasty case of domestic abuse,’ Karlsson said, by way of answer. ‘Sixty-three stitches in the poor woman’s face from being repeatedly hit with a broken bottle, four fractured ribs and a badly bruised kidney. It’s the third time she’s been injured in the last eighteen months, and each time so far she’s withdrawn the complaint and gone back to her charming husband. I’m trying to persuade her to press charges this time.’
‘I don’t want to hold you up any more. Maybe you can just leave me here for a few minutes to look around.’
‘So you can find something we’ve missed?’
‘Now that I’m here.’
‘Be my guest. Get them to buzz me from Reception when you’re done.’
Karlsson left and Frieda closed the door. She took off her coat and laid it with her scarf and shoulder bag on a metal chair but kept her gloves on. The first category was the largest: rotten food. There were chicken bones with shreds of flesh hanging off them, apple cores, the remains of bread rolls with the toothmarks still visible in some, foil containers full of different kinds of unspeakable greasy gloop, a small heap of rotten pulpy tomatoes, a few knobs of chocolate, lots of flabby grey chips smeared with tomato, pieces of what Frieda took to be battered fish, fragments of pies in different states of decay. She looked at them all swiftly and moved on to the next category, which was packaging: crisps packets, cigarette packets, sweet wrappers, old plastic bags, beer cans, Coke cans, cider cans, empty vodka and wine bottles, polystyrene cups. Then came clothing: one child’s flip-flop, two trainers with their soles peeled back, a woman’s once-white shirt from M&S missing an entire sleeve, a woollen scarf covered with what smelt like dog shit, a greying bra (size 36B), men’s running socks with balding heels.
Frieda moved on: nappies and condoms; syringes; dead tailless cat; unidentifiable very dead rodent with innards spilling onto the counter; newspapers and magazines, dating back as far as 23 January; flyers for various gigs and takeaways; fragments of broken pottery, including one nearly complete bowl with an Indian-tree pattern on it that reminded Frieda of her grandmother; batteries; the rusting casing of a mobile phone and three plastic lighters; coins in mostly one- and two-penny denominations, though there were a few euros as well.
The final space on the surface had been reserved for all that couldn’t be categorized: a small, dusty heap of cigarette stubs, matches, tiny scraps of paper and cardboard, hair grips, metal tabs from cans.
Frieda sighed. She put on her coat and scarf and slung her bag over her shoulder. But she didn’t leave at once. She stood in the middle of the room, looking from one section to the next, frowning. Then she walked over to the flyers and picked through them again. She extracted one and, holding it between her thumb and forefinger, she left the room, shutting the door behind her.
‘Is that it?’ said Karlsson. He was sitting behind a desk piled high with paper. On the shelf behind him Frieda saw the photographs of his two little children, a flaxen-haired girl with a cleft in her chin, like his, and an older boy with big, anxious eyes. She had met them once, when she had visited his flat in Highbury, but couldn’t remember their names.
‘It’s not local.’ Frieda pushed the torn, crumpled, grubby flyer under Karlsson’s nose. ‘All the others were from nearby. This one’s got a Brixton area code. Look.’
‘And?’
‘So why was it there?’
Karlsson leaned back, his hands behind his head. ‘Amazing how people get about these days,’ he said companionably. ‘Look at me. I travelled all the way in to work from Highbury and this evening I’m actually going to visit someone in Kensal Rise. That’s nothing compared to Yvette. She comes in from Harrow.’
‘This is from a little alleyway. It’s not a place for passers-by.’
‘There were people buying drugs in the house. People shooting up in the alleyway.’
‘With receipts?’
‘Even heroin addicts buy things.’
‘Have you noticed the writing on the back?’
Karlsson turned it over and smoothed out the paper. ‘“String”,’ he read out loud. ‘“Straw. Cord. Stone.”’
‘Do you make anything of it?’
‘I presume it’s a shopping list. Maybe whoever wrote it is a DIY enthusiast. There are a lot around nowadays. If I had to guess, judging from my own experiences last year, I’d say that someone’s planning to grow strawberries in their garden.’
‘What about the letters?’
‘C, SB, WL. I don’t know, Frieda. You tell me.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Let’s see, Cabbage, Salted Butter, Waxed Lemon. Or Cointreau, sesame bagels and washing liquid. Fun as this is, I don’t really have the time.’
‘I can see that.’
Karlsson pushed the flyer back at her. ‘Listen, I know I persuaded you to get involved. I know you’ve put a lot into this. I know you think we’re wrong about Michelle Doyce. I know Hal Bradshaw is a wanker and his theories are hot air dressed up in pompous language. What’s more, I even know it’s possible, even likely, that Michelle Doyce wasn’t the actual murderer. But I’ve got a crime nobody gives a toss about, I’ve got a corpse with no name, I’ve got a single witness who makes no sense and is in a psychiatric hospital where she belongs. I’ve got a management consultant with pointy shoes looking over my shoulder, and I’ve got a commissioner who’s already moved on. What would you do?’