‘You saw her, Frieda.’
‘I think she was killed.’
‘If I was your therapist –’
‘Why do people keep saying that to me?’
‘– I would say that perhaps you need to believe she didn’t take her own life because then you wouldn’t feel so responsible for her death.’
‘I’ve thought of that, of course.’
‘You’re upset, this has been a traumatic experience. But tell me, why on earth would anyone kill Janet Ferris?’
‘She died after the article came out in the paper.’
‘Exactly,’ said Karlsson. ‘And you know what that does to you.’
Frieda took the folder out of her bag, pulled out the Daily Sketch and pointed to the paragraph. ‘She says here that Robert Poole told her things, confided in her. If whoever killed him read that, they’d be worried. Wouldn’t they?’
Karlsson sighed heavily. ‘I don’t know, Frieda. I don’t know what they’d think. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘If someone killed Janet, I want to help find them.’
Karlsson put his mug down. ‘Think about it, Frieda. Dean hanged himself, and you think he’s still alive. Janet Ferris killed herself and you think someone murdered her. Do you see a pattern?’
‘Two events don’t make a pattern.’
Frieda glared at him and got up abruptly, the chair scraping the tiles.
‘Where are you going now?’ he asked. ‘You haven’t touched your coffee.’
‘Now I’ve seen you, I’m going to Margate.’
Margate was where Dean and Terry had gone on holiday each summer, for ten days, taking his mother June until she’d needed too much care. Frieda had read that in Joanna’s book, An Innocent In Hell. She had noted down the places they liked to visit: the beach, of course, and the old funfair with its wooden rollercoaster. The shell grotto, the arcades. Joanna had written that Dean always bought humbugs from the old-fashioned sweetshop. Dean and his mother June had a sweet tooth: Frieda remembered the doughnuts he always used to bring to June Reeve, in their greasy brown-paper bag.
It was windy and wet when she arrived in the town. Not many people were on the streets, and the beach was practically empty, bits of paper and plastic blowing across it. She pulled her coat tighter around her and, putting her head down, walked swiftly to the B&B Joanna had mentioned, which was set back from the beach, with a sea view only from its top floor.
The man who came to the door had a livid birthmark covering one side of his face and was wearing a dressing-gown over his clothes. Frieda could hear the television in the next room, and smell meat frying.
‘We’re not open. It’s out of season.’
‘I was hoping you could help me.’ Frieda had thought about what she was going to say, and decided it was best to be straightforward. ‘I wanted to ask you about Dean Reeve.’
A strange expression crossed both halves of the man’s divided face, furtive and assessing.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Dr Klein,’ said Frieda, hoping the medical tag would be enough. ‘Is it true that Dean Reeve stayed here?’
‘I’m not sure I’m wanting that to get around. Might put people off. Then again, it might encourage them.’
‘How often did he come?’
‘Ten years,’ he said promptly. ‘Every July. Him and his wife and his old mother.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Must have been the July before … before he died.’
‘Not after?’
‘How could it be after?’
‘This might sound like a strange question, but you haven’t met his brother, have you? They look – looked – identical.’
The man peered at her. ‘Why would I meet his brother?’
‘I thought he might have come here. Out of interest. His name is Alan Dekker.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘You’ve never even seen someone who reminded you of Dean?’
The man shook his head. ‘The thing is, he was always all right with me. Helped me mend the shower. I always thought there was something wrong with her, though.’
‘Her?’
‘The old woman.’
‘But his brother never came?’
‘I told you.’
Frieda went through the town to the shell grotto that Joanna had written about so enthusiastically – an underground labyrinth whose every inch was lined with shells, in patterns and stripes and studded spirals. It made her feel slightly nauseous. But Dean had loved it here, said Joanna. He’d been obsessed with it. So she asked the woman at the desk, selling little boxes made of shells and postcards featuring shells, the same questions she had asked the man who ran the B&B.
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ answered the young woman. She had an Australian accent.
Frieda took a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. ‘That’s the man I’m talking about.’
The girl smoothed it out and held it close to her face, then away from her, frowning. ‘No,’ she said.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Course I’m not. Hundreds of people come through here. He could have done. I wouldn’t remember.’
Frieda walked back along the beach. The tide was coming in, little waves licking their way up the shore. An old man was the only other person she could see: he had a small, scruffy dog running round and round him, trying to get him to play, and every so often he stooped down very slowly, as if his back was creaking, and picked up a stick to throw for it. Frieda stared out across the grey, wrinkled sea and, for a moment, wished she was on a boat out there, alone and surrounded by water and sky.
Thirty-seven
Frieda had a meeting at the clinic. She arrived there early to go through her paperwork and catch up. Paz was on the phone, talking to someone; her job at the Warehouse seemed to consist of long and animated conversations with anyone who happened to call. Now she was waving her hands in the air, gesticulating to whoever was on the other end, her bangles clattering on her wrist, her long earrings swinging. She waved and made incomprehensible signs as Frieda passed. Reuben was in his room, but his patient hadn’t arrived yet and Frieda put her head round the door.
‘How are your knuckles?’ she said.
‘We were just looking out for you,’ he said.
Frieda closed the door. ‘Defending my honour? What if he’d been carrying a knife? What if he’d fallen more heavily and hit his head?’
‘We were doing what friends do.’
‘You were drunk. Or on the way to being drunk.’
There was a pause.
‘How’s the cat?’ he asked. He was sucking a mint. He was back on the cigarettes, she thought; him and Karlsson both.
‘He woke me up at three by biting my toe. Also he’s eaten my jasmine plant and pissed in one of my shoes. Do you know anything about housetraining a cat?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve asked Josef to put a cat flap in my door.’
‘Good idea. There’s a woman in your office.’
‘I’m not expecting anyone.’
‘She looks a bit odd, like a toad.’
Frieda walked down the corridor and opened her door. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the woman who was sitting on the chair, her short legs curled under her, wearing a mustard-yellow scarf wrapped round her grey hair.
‘Hello, Dr Klein.’
‘Hello.’
‘Or can I call you Frieda?’
‘Whatever.’ She looked more closely and suddenly she knew. ‘You’re Thelma Scott, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry I was slow to recognize you. When I last saw you, you were sitting in judgement over my treatment of Alan Dekker. You’ll understand that I found the hearing rather intimidating.’