‘Is that the lot?’ asked Karlsson.
‘Yes.’
‘These people, do they have anything in common?’
‘Chris and I talked about that. They all live in completely different parts of London, and a couple of them are outside the city. Mary Orton and Jasmine Shreeve live fairly near where he lived. The Wyatts live near where the body was found. They all have different occupations. They’re different ages, different social types. Some of them said they knew him, others didn’t. None of them know each other. There doesn’t seem to be any link, as far as we can see.’
‘So we have eight names and absolutely nothing to link them, not even knowledge of the victim.’
‘They’re all well-off,’ said Chris Munster, hesitantly.
‘Some are well-off and some are very well-off,’ agreed Yvette. ‘You should see where the Wyatts live. It’s like something in a magazine.’
‘I’ll pay them a visit.’
‘So.’ An hour later, Karlsson leaned forward across his desk. ‘What do you say? Are you in or out?’
‘I’m still not sure this should be on a formal basis.’
‘You know, Frieda, I think we’re doing a strange sort of dance. What you like is when I ask you not to do something and then you do it anyway, or when you go ahead and do something that you’re not meant to do, then tell me afterwards. You know what? If you were going to be your own therapist, you might decide that you have trouble committing yourself.’
‘You want me sign an oath and fill out all the right forms?’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘I’m not really a team player, especially in a team that isn’t sure it wants me.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘What about Yvette Long?’
‘Yvette? What about her?’
‘She dislikes and disapproves of me.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Are you blind?’
‘She’s just protective of me.’
‘She thinks I’ll get you into trouble. She may be right.’
‘That’s my problem. But if you don’t want to work with me, fine. Just say so, once and for all, and I’ll not bother you again. But we can’t carry on in this half-arsed way with you popping in and out and nobody knowing quite what you’re up to. It’s decision time: yes or no?’
Frieda looked at him and he looked back at her. At last, she nodded. ‘I’ll give it a try.’
‘Good,’ said Karlsson, seeming almost surprised by her decision. ‘That’s good. There’ll be some paperwork. You’ll need to sign a contract.’
‘Is this all to do with health and safety?’
‘No, it’s about police work, which mainly consists of filling out forms. And now you can come with me and visit the people on Robert Poole’s list who actually knew him. This nice young man doesn’t seem to have been so nice after all – and he doesn’t seem to have been Robert Poole after all, either.’
‘Can I ask you a favour before we go?’
‘Go on.’
‘Alan Dekker.’
Karlsson’s expression became wary. He put his chin on his steepled hands and looked at Frieda. ‘We’ve been through this before …’
‘I know.’
‘You’ve nothing to go on, Frieda. A feeling.’
‘I know Dean is alive.’
‘You don’t know. You believe.’
‘I firmly believe. If Alan’s out there, there must be obvious ways of tracking him down. That’s what you do, isn’t it?’
Karlsson sighed heavily. ‘Tell me, Frieda,’ he said. ‘If we find something, what then?’
‘It’s simple. If you find Alan, we’ll know Dean is dead and I’ll admit I’m wrong.’
‘That’ll be a first.’
‘So will you do it?’
‘I’ll see. It’s sometimes difficult to find people who don’t want to be found.’
In the car, Karlsson told Frieda what they knew so far of the man known as Robert Poole: that he had taken the identity of a man who had died six years ago. His real identity was still unknown. They’d found no evidence of any settled job or fixed income, yet he had had a large amount of money in his bank shortly before his death. His account had been emptied around the time of his murder. People spoke warmly of him but no one seemed to know much about him. They had found a notebook in his flat with several names in it, including those of Frieda’s couple in Brixton, and of Mary Orton.
‘Who are we seeing first?’ asked Frieda.
‘Frank and Aisling Wyatt. They live in Greenwich. We’ve rung ahead and they’ll both be in this time. Last time it was just her.’
‘What do you know about them?’
‘He’s an accountant in the City. She’s an interior designer. Part-time, probably a hobby. They have a couple of young kids at primary school.’
The car drew up at a row of gleaming apartment blocks that looked out across the widening river; now the tide was low, the Thames a thinning flow of brown water between two banks of silt and sand.
‘They’re not badly off,’ said Karlsson.
They took the paved river walkway that led to the Wyatts’ home. It was on two floors, with a wrought-iron balcony on the first, and the ground floor giving on to a small garden that was filled with a profusion of pots, some terracotta, others pewter and brass. Even on a grey, windy February day, Frieda could see that in the spring and summer it would be a riot of colour and scent. Today the only flowers visible were droopy white snowdrops and blue chionodoxa.
Karlsson rapped on the door, which was quickly opened by a dark-haired, powerfully built man in his thirties, with a blue chin, grey eyes and beetling brows. He was wearing a beautifully cut dark suit, a flawlessly ironed white shirt and a red tie. He looked distrustful as Karlsson introduced himself and almost amused when he introduced Frieda.
‘Aisling’s through here. Can I ask you how long it will take? This is a working day.’ He looked at his watch, a flash of dials and shimmering metal.
‘We’ll be as quick as we can.’
Frank Wyatt led them through a door into the main room, which took up the ground floor, an expanse of stripped wooden boards, throw rugs, pillowed sofas, soft pale curtains, vivid plants, a low table and at the far end a gleaming kitchen with stainless-steel hobs and surfaces winking in the light thrown from the river-view window. For a moment, Frieda thought of Michelle Doyce rooting through skips and bins just a little upriver. Then she turned her attention to the woman, who rose from the sofa to greet them. Aisling Wyatt was tall and thin and aquiline, rich brown hair tied back from a face that was bare of makeup. She was wearing jogging pants and a cream cashmere jumper and her feet, which were long and thin like the rest of her, were bare. She had an air of self-assurance that seemed to go with the furniture.
‘Can I get either of you something? Tea or coffee?’
They both declined. Karlsson stood with his back to the window. Frieda noted his air of never quite fitting in, whatever the setting, never being won over.
‘Aisling’s already talked to a police officer, you know. I’m not sure what more we can add.’
‘We just wanted to check a few things. As you know, Robert Poole was murdered.’
‘Awful,’ murmured Aisling. Frieda saw that there were little smudges under her eyes and her lips were bloodless.
‘We’re trying to build up a picture of him,’ continued Karlsson. ‘Can you tell us how you both met him?’
‘That was Aisling.’ Frank nodded at his wife.
‘Mrs Wyatt?’
‘It was because of the garden,’ said Aisling.
‘We saw it on the way in,’ Frieda said. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I love it.’ Aisling turned to her and smiled for the first time, her thin face losing its haughtiness, its air of weary disdain. ‘It’s my passion. Frank works very long hours and it’s what I do when the children are at school. I have a job of sorts but, to be honest, people don’t want to spend their money on interior design at the moment.’