‘You were only kind,’ said Josef, soothingly.
‘Sticking-plaster kind,’ Frieda said, and Josef looked confused. He took a mouthful of vodka, then chased it down with tea. ‘Kind to get her to give me her confidences and expose her feelings. Then I went away and filed my report for Karlsson and forgot about her. I’d ticked her off my to-do list.’
‘Ticked her off?’
‘It means – oh, never mind.’ Reuben took Josef’s vodka and absent-mindedly drank it, then filled the glass again, drank half and handed it to Josef, who emptied it. ‘Are you saying you should have been more aware of her state of mind or that you helped to create it?’
‘I don’t know. Me, the police, that journalist – we all just used her. She was grieving.’
‘He was just her neighbour.’
‘He made her feel hopeful.’
‘There is that.’
‘When I first came on to this case, the police didn’t really care about it. Karlsson was different, but basically they wanted to close the file. They thought the victim would turn out to be some drug-dealer or drop-out, and the murderer was a madwoman who would be locked away in a hospital for the rest of her life. Then when we discovered who Robert Poole was, it still didn’t matter that much because he was some kind of creepy conman. Who really minded that he was dead? Janet minded. And now she’s dead too.’
‘The problem,’ said Reuben, refilling the glass with vodka and taking another gulp, ‘is that you’re losing sight of whether you’re a therapist or a detective.’ He stared into the glass. ‘You don’t know whether to catch people or cure them.’
Frieda took her hand away from her face and sat up straighter. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘The point is that a therapist is what you are when someone comes to see you in a room and takes on the role of the patient. You’re not a therapist to everyone you meet. You can’t be.’
‘No,’ said Frieda, but not with certainty. ‘No, you’re probably right.’
‘This is good for sad days,’ said Josef, filling three shot glasses to the brim. They each took one, raised it to the others, and swallowed it in one go. Even in her wretchedness, Frieda noticed how gradually Reuben was shedding his virtuous abstinence and returning to his old self.
‘You need to sort this out,’ said Reuben. ‘In your own head.’
‘I’ll think about it. I need to get this right. Now, you’ve got to go out soon, right?’
‘Christ, Frieda! You should have been a spy.’
‘You’ve just shaved – there’s still a fleck of foam on your neck, and you never shave in the evenings – and you’ve looked at your watch twice.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Just someone I met. Marie. Or Maria.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I’ll just have to avoid using her name.’
‘I’ll be on my way soon. First, can one of you get me some milk from the fridge?’
‘Milk?’
‘Yes, please.’
Josef fetched a carton of semi-skimmed milk from the fridge and handed it to her, with a glass, but Frieda took a saucer from the cupboard instead and went out into the hall where she had left a cardboard box by the door. Josef and Reuben followed her curiously. She prised open the box and put her hand inside.
‘Out you come,’ she said, and lifted the cat Robert Poole and Janet Ferris had called Mog or Moggie on to the floor. It stood quite still for a few moments, its back arched and its tail high in the air.
‘Where did you get that? Has it got fleas?’
‘No,’ said Frieda. ‘Janet Ferris wouldn’t have let it get fleas.’ She poured some milk into the saucer and put it under the cat’s nose. It sniffed at it suspiciously, then lapped at it with a flicking pink tongue. Only when the saucer was empty did it move away and delicately start to wash itself, licking the side of its paw, then swiping it over one ear and down the side of its face.
‘So, would you like a cat, Reuben?’ Frieda asked.
‘Ah, yes!’ Josef squatted on the floor beside her and put out one stubby finger, making strange crooning noises and speaking in a language Frieda didn’t understand. The cat gave a piteous mew.
‘I’m allergic,’ said Reuben, hastily.
‘Is hungry,’ said Josef.
‘How can you tell? Do you talk in cat language?’
Josef stood up and disappeared into the kitchen, the cat trotting behind him. They heard the fridge door open.
‘That cold chicken is not for cats!’ Frieda shouted after him, then turned to Reuben and asked, ‘Are you really allergic?’
‘I wheeze and come out in hives.’
‘I guess I’ll have to keep him.’
‘I don’t believe it. Frieda Klein with a pet?’
‘It’s not a pet. It’s a punishment,’ she said. ‘And now it’s time for you to go.’
She almost pushed them out, and when the door was closed she leaned back against it, as if to keep it shut. She took a deep breath and then another. Suddenly she heard a sound, something she couldn’t make out. Was it from inside the house or outside? Far away or near? She opened the door and just a few yards away she saw a jumble of bodies – she couldn’t make sense of it. It was a mixture of impressions: shouting, swearing, a fist, the sound of blows. Figures were sprawling on the ground entangled with each other. As she stepped forward she saw Reuben, Josef and someone else she couldn’t make out, gripping and hitting each other, rolling round. She shouted something incoherent at them and tried to grab one – it was Reuben’s moleskin jacket – and an arm struck her and knocked her back. She sat down heavily. But her intervention had broken the spell. The men disentangled themselves, and Josef bent down to her.
‘You hurt?’
Frieda looked beyond him at Reuben. He was panting heavily and there was a glow in his eyes that alarmed her. Another man, young, dark-haired, anoraked, a camera hanging from his neck stood up and backed away. He raised his hand and touched his nose. ‘You fuckers,’ he said. ‘I’m fucking calling the police.’
‘Call the fucking police,’ said Reuben, still breathing heavily. ‘You’re a fucking parasite. I’d like to see you in court in front of a fucking jury.’
Frieda pushed herself up. ‘Stop this,’ she said. ‘Stop this all of you.’ She looked at the photographer. ‘Are you all right?’
‘You fuck off, too,’ he said jabbing his finger at her. ‘I’m calling the police right now.’
‘Call the police,’ said Reuben. ‘I want you to. I fucking dare you to.’
The photographer gave a strange, twisted nod and walked away, out of the mews and round the corner. The three of them watched him go. Reuben was touching the knuckles of his right hand, flinching slightly. Josef was shamefaced.
‘Frieda …’ he began.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Just stop. Go. Go now.’
‘We’re just looking out for you,’ said Reuben.
She couldn’t bring herself to reply. She turned and left them, kicking the door behind her.
Thirty-six
Frieda woke with the watery light of a late-February morning. The cat was sitting on the end of her bed, staring at her with yellow eyes, unblinking. She sat up. The brawl in the street had kept her awake and infected her dreams in which, she knew, Dean Reeve’s face had smiled at her out of shadows and corners. Why had it sickened her? Weren’t they just protecting her? Didn’t she herself know what it was like to behave impulsively? She forced herself to put it out of her mind.
‘What do you know?’ she asked. ‘What did he tell you and what did you hear?’
Perhaps this cat had seen Robert Poole die, and then poor Janet Ferris string herself up and kick away the chair. Or was that really what had happened? Frieda was uneasy with unformed thoughts and suspicions. She shivered and got out of bed. The sky was a pale streaked blue. Today it was possible to believe that spring might come, after such a long, cold winter. She showered and dressed in jeans, then went downstairs, the cat threading through her legs and miaowing. She’d bought some cat food from the late-night shop down the road when she’d come home, and now she shook some dried pellets into a plastic bowl and watched while it ate. Now what should she do? Let it out? But then it might run away, heading for its old home, and get crushed by a car. Or leave it inside to pee all over her floor? She’d have to get a cat flap. Sighing, she laid down several layers of newspaper on the kitchen floor and shut the cat in there. She pulled on a thick jacket, picked up her manila folder and notebook, then left the house.