‘You mean, you know his name but you’ve still no idea who he actually was?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What about his mobile number? Surely that gives you a lead. Can’t you track him from that?’
‘His number was from a pay-as-you-go phone, but we’ll see if we can do anything with it. We’ve got a facial reconstruction done and we’ll distribute that – you know, “Have you seen this man?” That, with his name, might do the trick, though usually the people who get in touch are not what you’d call reliable witnesses. We’ve got one old man who’s always seen every single person on the posters. Anyway, it’s worth a try. And we’ll have another look at Michelle Doyce’s room. It is – I should point out – not totally, completely, a hundred per cent certain that the body in the room is this painter and decorator.’
‘They recognized the sketch I showed them.’
‘Yes. I saw your sketch, and possibly you should have talked to me before flashing it around, but all right, I accept that. Actually, it’s not far off our own visual.’
Frieda drained her glass. ‘Thanks for telling me,’ she said. ‘I won’t get involved like that again.’
Karlsson gave a cough, as if he was preparing to deliver a speech.
‘There was something else, Frieda. I wanted to say, quite clearly, that, despite occasional differences of opinion, you’ve been a great help and –’
‘This sounds like the sort of speech you give when you’re firing someone,’ said Frieda.
‘No,’ said Karlsson. ‘Quite the opposite. We need to get on a proper footing. If you’re going to do work with us, or with me, from time to time, you should be a consultant, with a contract and appropriate fees and agreed responsibilities. What do you feel about that?’
‘Hang on.’ Frieda stood up and went over to the bar, returning with two more whiskies.
‘Well?’ said Karlsson.
‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the idea.’
‘Why ever not? It would just be making it official.’
‘I’ll consider it,’ said Frieda. ‘But at the moment all I can think of is reasons why not. I don’t feel I’ve got anything more to contribute to this case. Once you find out properly who Robert Poole is, you’ll find who did it. That’s the way it usually works, isn’t it?’
‘A jealous lover,’ said Karlsson. ‘That’s what it’ll be.’
‘Except for the finger.’ Frieda frowned. ‘That looks more calculating.’
Karlsson gave a triumphant smile. ‘You can’t stop yourself. You’re interested. She could have cut off the finger to take back the wedding ring. For the gold. Or an extreme form of divorce. My wife would have done that to me, if she could.’
‘It was the wrong finger,’ said Frieda. ‘Anyway, the idea of a contract worries me. Then I’d have duties and I’d have to be responsible. I helped you because I felt I needed to, and I didn’t have to worry about justifying my expenses or ticking a box.’
‘Don’t say no,’ said Karlsson. ‘I mean, don’t say no straight away without thinking it through. Give it a few days. You see, I’m going to be the therapist for a moment –’
‘Oh, please –’
‘No, honestly. I think you rather like the idea of getting involved when you aren’t meant to, when you’re telling people things they don’t want to hear. You have difficulty with being invited in. Wasn’t there the old joke about not wanting to join a club that would accept you as a member? That’s you.’
‘There’s something else,’ she said.
‘About the case?’
‘Not this one. Remember I took that neurologist Andrew Berryman along to see Michelle Doyce? That, incidentally, is the kind of thing I wouldn’t be able to do if I was under contract.’
‘You’d have to ask in advance,’ said Karlsson. ‘Which I know you don’t like doing.’
‘And I’d have to justify it and fill out a form and it would get turned down, but that’s not the point. There’s something he told me that I can’t get out of my mind. While we were talking about Michelle Doyce’s perceptual problem, he told me about a neurological disease called Capgras Syndrome. Certain, very rare, cases of neural damage result in the patient suffering the delusion that a close family member or friend has somehow been replaced by an impostor.’
‘Sounds uncomfortable,’ said Karlsson. He paused. ‘Well?’
‘The idea of it obsessed me. And I didn’t know why. Then I thought about Carrie Dekker.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘She said that after Dean died, her husband’s behaviour changed. Then, quite suddenly, he left her and disappeared. I thought of Carrie with a husband who seemed to have been replaced by an impostor.’
Karlsson’s face took on a bemused expression and when he spoke it was as if his brain was working slowly. ‘I don’t get this,’ he said. ‘Are you saying that Caroline Dekker was suffering from an incredibly rare brain disease?’
‘No,’ said Frieda. ‘The opposite, in a way. What kind of person could have the symptoms of Capgras Syndrome but not the disease?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘If it wasn’t a delusion.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Karlsson. ‘Do you …?’ And then he stopped. ‘Oh, God. You can’t be serious. We found Dean’s body. I met Alan afterwards. He was with her.’
‘I was fooled by Dean. I was as close to him as you are to me. I talked to him. I didn’t see a difference.’
‘But we had the body.’
‘What does that prove?’ said Frieda. ‘Dean and Alan were identical twins. They even shared the same DNA.’
Now Karlsson frowned. ‘What’s your evidence for this?’ he asked.
‘It’s just a feeling,’ said Frieda. ‘Because of what happened to Alan. Or Dean. I always felt strange about it but I couldn’t pin it down.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Karlsson. ‘He couldn’t fool his own wife. He wouldn’t know about their life, he wouldn’t know who their friends were.’
‘He was only there for a matter of days. He refused to do anything, see anyone. It was a perfect way of escaping – in full view of everyone. It gave him the opportunity to really escape – to escape without anyone realizing he’d got away.’
‘So where is he?’ said Karlsson. ‘According to your theory.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘There’s no evidence.’
‘No, there isn’t,’ said Frieda. ‘And there won’t be.’
‘Just your feeling.’
‘You see, that’s why you should think twice about giving me a contract. And I should think twice about signing one. I’m not like a policeman and I don’t want to be.’
The desk sergeant knew the type. They’d come into the station as if they’d wandered in out of the rain. They’d glance at the desk, then look around, at the posters on the wall, maybe even start reading them. Sometimes they’d lose their nerve and just leave. Otherwise they would make their way across, casually, as if it didn’t matter. This woman was in her late forties, she thought, perhaps older. Smartly but unshowily dressed, professional, as if she’d come on her way home from work. Old workaday shoes, but polished. She didn’t look like the victim of a crime. It took her several minutes to approach the desk and peer through the security grille.
‘Can I help you?’ the sergeant asked.
‘It’s my neighbour,’ she said. ‘He lives in the flat upstairs.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘He’s disappeared.’
The sergeant assumed her most comforting expression and embarked on the explanation she gave every week or two, about how common it was for people to go away and, unless there was a particular reason, there was almost certainly no cause for concern.