Number 9 was always busy on a Sunday morning, but two people were just leaving the table in the corner and Frieda took her place there. Marcus was behind the counter, operating the espresso machine, steam hissing from its nozzles. Kerry was picking up plates from tables, delivering full English breakfasts or bowls of porridge. But she stopped when she saw Frieda. ‘Hello, stranger.’
‘I’ve been a bit busy. Where’s Katya?’
Kerry pointed and Frieda saw the little girl at a table near the door that led into their flats, bent over a pad of paper and writing furiously, her tongue on her upper lip. ‘I should be taking her swimming or to the park,’ said Kerry.
‘She looks happy enough.’
‘She’s writing a story. She’s been at it since half past six this morning. It’s about a girl called Katya whose parents run a café. Cinnamon bagel?’
‘Porridge. And fresh orange juice. There’s no hurry.’
Kerry left and Frieda pulled open her folder. Inside was everything Karlsson had given her on the Robert Poole investigation, and everything she had collected herself, including the Daily Sketch article from yesterday, which she turned face down on the table so that the photograph would be out of sight. She read through it alclass="underline" the discovery of Robert Poole’s body by the woman from Social Services; the autopsy; the state of Michelle Doyce’s room; Michelle Doyce’s garbled account; the interviews with the people who lived in the house with her; the interviews with Mary Orton, Jasmine Shreeve, the Wyatts and Janet Ferris. She noted the brief, clear statement by Tessa Welles, appended by a paperclip to the copy of Mary Orton’s unexecuted will, and the statements made by Mary Orton’s sons, in which Frieda felt she could hear their aggrieved self-righteousness. She read about the money trail, struggling to make sense of some of the vocabulary but understanding that Robert Poole’s money had been removed by him from his bank account, transferred to another account that had been opened in Poole’s name and then emptied. She looked through the notes about the real Robert Poole, who had died years ago and whose photograph bore no resemblance to that of their victim. She stared at the sketch she had made and the visual produced by the police computers and read her own transcribed notes.
Her porridge arrived and she sprinkled brown sugar over the top and ate it slowly, not interrupting her work. She made herself go through the Daily Sketch article once more, pausing, brow furrowed, when she came to Janet Ferris’s appearance. Opening her notebook, she read what she had jotted down after seeing Janet: her loneliness, her affection for Poole, which was both romantic and motherly, her sense of duty. She’d put in brackets ‘cat’ after this: the cat had been her inheritance from Robert Poole; caring for it, she was somehow still caring for him.
Frieda put down her spoon thoughtfully. Depression is a grim and blinding curse: you can’t see outside it. You can’t see hope, or love, or how spring will follow winter. Frieda knew this, better than most, and yet she remained bothered by the cat. When Janet Ferris had decided to take her own life, she hadn’t left food in the bowl for it or opened the window so that it could get out.
At last she got up, put her jacket on, left money on the table for her breakfast and, calling goodbye, went out into the street. The wind was cool but not unkind. Usually on a Sunday morning, she would read the papers at Number 9, then go to the flower market in Columbia Road. But today she walked instead past Coram Fields and then up towards Islington and to Highbury Corner. She didn’t know if Karlsson would be at home, but even if he wasn’t, the journey gave her time to collect her thoughts. As always, walking was a way of thinking. The houses flowed past her, the pavements pressed against her feet and the wind blew her hair back and filled her lungs.
At last she arrived at the Victorian semi-detached house where he lived in the lower-ground-floor flat. She had only been there once before, and then he had come to the door with his little daughter wrapped round him like a koala bear. Today he was alone, wearing running shorts and a sweat-drenched top, carrying a bottle of energy drink.
‘Do you want to shower first?’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘You mean apart from everything else?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Give me five minutes. You’d better come in.’ Frieda went down the steps and into the flat, stepping round a small tricycle and some red wellingtons. ‘Put the kettle on,’ he said, and disappeared.
She heard the shower running, doors opening and closing. It felt too domestic and intimate and she tried not to look at all the photographs of Karlsson-the-son, Karlsson-the-father, Karlsson-the-friend. She filled the kettle and turned it on, opened cupboards until she found coffee and mugs, watched a blue tit on the bird table outside, pecking at some seed.
‘Right.’ He stood beside her in jeans and a grey shirt, his face glowing and hair wet. ‘White, one sugar.’
‘You can put your own sugar in. You’re not having the kids today?’
‘Later,’ he said brusquely.
‘I’ll make it quick, then.’
‘Why are you here?’
Frieda paused for a moment. ‘Before I say anything else, I’d better warn you about something.’
‘“Warn”,’ said Karlsson. ‘That means it’s not something good.’
‘Reuben and Josef were at my place last night. They were trying to be consoling and they were drinking vodka and when they left there was a photographer outside and –’
‘No,’ said Karlsson. ‘Let me guess. This is like you and the therapist in that restaurant. The incident that ended with you in a cell.’
‘Some punches were exchanged.’
‘What is it with you people? Was he hurt?’
‘He was a bit knocked about.’
‘Well, it was two against one. Or was it three against one?’
‘I came out and stopped it.’
‘That might get you a reduced sentence. Did he call the police?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘I don’t think so. I just wanted to warn you.’
‘We’ll have to see what happens. What’s the immigration status of your Polish friend?’
‘He’s Ukrainian. And I don’t know.’
‘Try to keep him out of it. If he’s charged, he’ll probably be deported.’ Karlsson smiled thinly. ‘Any other crimes to report?’
‘No, it’s not that.’
Karlsson’s expression turned serious. ‘Yesterday must have been very distressing.’
‘I’ve spent this morning reading through the file.’
‘Instead of sleeping in, which is what you really need.’
‘I took the cat, you know.’
‘Yvette told me.’
‘When Janet Ferris killed herself, she didn’t feed it or leave the window open. Before you say it, I know she was of unsound mind, but it doesn’t feel right to me.’ Karlsson waited and Frieda drew a deep breath. ‘I am not sure that she killed herself.’