But she didn’t have him. He hadn’t come and she was here alone in this dampness and cramp and cold, the wind outside as bitter as the wind rushing through her head. Thoughts clamouring and jumbled. Hungry too. Potatoes eaten. Gas all finished. This morning she had stirred a stock cube into cold water, then drunk its salty undissolved granules. It had made her want to gag. Her lip had healed, more or less, but when she looked in the little mirror the puckered scar looked like a sneer. He wouldn’t like that. And she thought she was beginning to smell, though she still tried to rub the hard nub of soap into her skin and into her clothes as well, which hung in sodden trails round the cabin. Nothing dried properly.
How long had it been? She took her calendar of trees and held it up to the narrow window, squinting at it. Most of January, and more than half of February, but she seemed to have stopped crossing off the days. Perhaps it was already March. Perhaps spring was coming, yellow daffodils and opening buds, warmth in the sun. She didn’t think so. It didn’t feel like spring.
But it was too long, even if it was still February. Twenty-eight clear, twenty-nine in each leap year. Was it a leap year? You could ask a man to marry you. But you couldn’t ask if he wasn’t there. Alone. Alone in a world full of cruel strangers and people with deceiving smiles. What had he said? ‘I will always return. If I don’t come, you’ll know that they’ve got me.’ Kissing her forehead, brave. She had to be brave too. She had to continue without him, and do the things he wanted to do. She was the fuse and he had lit her; she was the bomb and he had set her ticking. That was all that was left now.
Twenty-seven
In the last two weeks, Joe Franklin had been in a far better state than he had been in for months, even years: he wore jeans and an ironed shirt; his laces weren’t trailing; his fingernails were clean and cut; his hair was brushed; his face was freshly shaved. Usually, he sat forward in his chair, hunched over himself, his head held in his hands and often obscured by them, but today he had sat back, his head lolling against the chair rest, like a convalescent who was weak but with the sense of life trickling back into him. He even smiled twice, once when he spoke of licking out a cake bowl when he was little, and once when he told her that a friend was coming round that evening and they were going to eat sea urchins together: ‘Did you know you could eat sea urchins?’ Frieda hadn’t known. She noticed the way his face changed and softened when pain ebbed out of it. He looked years younger.
Her final session of the morning was with a middle-aged man called Gordon, who spoke in whispers through his fingers, as if he was ashamed of himself. He was trapped by his own frantic insecurities, by the knots he’d tied himself into, and Frieda’s job was slowly, carefully, to go into his world and bring him back out. Sometimes she felt as if she was building a castle one grain of sand at a time.
When it was over, she went and opened her window for a few minutes and leaned out, inhaling the cold damp air, letting the wind blow through her. There was still no work on the building site, but she saw that some kids had made a den out of the planks they’d collected, and as she watched, three young boys ran across to it and inserted themselves through an opening in the wonky structure. She remembered that it was half-term: Chloë had told her very firmly that they were having no chemistry lessons this week; she was on holiday.
She closed the window again and wrote her notes on the last session, but before she had finished, the phone rang. It was Josef. ‘Where are you?’ she said.
‘With the woman,’ he said. ‘Mrs Orton. Doing the house. Fixing here and there.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Can you come?’
‘Is there a problem?’
Josef replied, but the line was bad or he was speaking quietly so Frieda couldn’t make out what he was saying.
‘Can you speak louder?’ she said. ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying.’
‘Better if you come,’ said Josef. ‘You can come now?’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘You can come now?’
Frieda gave up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can come now.’
The door was opened by a man Frieda didn’t recognize. He was in his fifties, with thinning short grey hair, and was dressed in grey corduroy trousers and a checked shirt. He looked at her with a frown.
‘I’m Robin Orton,’ he said, and led her through. In the kitchen, Mary was sitting at the table with another, slightly older, man. He was also casually dressed, with black jeans and a navy blue sweater zipped up to the neck. Slightly older, slightly bulkier, slightly balder. To Frieda it looked like dress-down day at an office where the employees would have been happier in their normal suits. ‘This is my brother, Jeremy,’ said Robin.
‘Please, sit down,’ said Jeremy.
Frieda sat at the table, now feeling as though she’d arrived at an unexpected job interview.
‘Hello, Frieda,’ said Mary Orton, with a nervous smile. ‘I’ve just made some coffee. Would you like some?’
Frieda nodded and the old woman filled a cup, put it on a saucer and placed it in front of her.
‘And some cake as well? I remember how much you liked it.’
‘Yes, that’d be lovely,’ said Frieda. ‘A small piece. A bit smaller than that.’ She took a sip of cool coffee, conscious that she was being scrutinized by three pairs of eyes. ‘Josef Morozov asked me to come,’ she said.
Jeremy folded his arms. He was evidently the elder brother, the one in charge. ‘Yes, we talked to him. I’m sorry. Can we go back to basics? Can you explain to us exactly what your involvement with our mother is?’
Frieda paused. That was a surprisingly difficult question. ‘A man who was working for your mother has been murdered.’ She looked at Mary Orton. She felt awkward talking about her as if she wasn’t present. ‘I was involved in interviewing Mrs Orton.’
‘Mary, please,’ said Mary Orton.
‘Are you a police officer?’ asked Jeremy.
‘No. I’m doing some work with them. As a sort of consultant.’
‘Do you have some identification?’
‘Identifying me as what?’
‘As officially working with the police.’
Frieda spoke as calmly as she could. ‘No, I don’t. If you have any questions, I can give you a number to call. As it happens, I’m only here because Josef rang me. I assumed there was some sort of problem.’
‘There’s all sorts of problems,’ said Jeremy. ‘We’ll get on to that. But, first, this man Josef, he’s here on your recommendation. Is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is this an official service as part of your police work?’
Frieda frowned. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Your mother had water leaking through the roof. Josef’s a friend of mine. He’s good and he’s trustworthy. If you have a problem with him being here, just tell me or him.’
The brothers exchanged looks. Robin had been standing to one side. Now he came across and sat at the table. Suddenly Frieda felt surrounded.
‘We’ve been having a family conference,’ Robin said. ‘We’re not happy about what’s been happening with our mother.’
‘Hang on.’ Frieda put down her coffee cup. ‘I was phoned by Josef. Where is he?’
‘He’s up in the loft,’ said Jeremy. ‘You can go and see him if you want.’
‘I’ll see him in a minute,’ said Frieda. ‘But if you’ve got some problem with him being here, just let us know. As far as I’m concerned, he’s doing Mary a favour. If you don’t see it that way, say so and we’ll go.’