As they walked down the slope and the view flattened out, Karlsson told Frieda about Michelle Doyce, the house in Deptford and the decaying body that had been found propped up on her sofa, with a comb in his hair and lipstick on his mouth.
‘We thought it might have been natural causes or an accident, but there’s a bone in the neck that only breaks when you’re strangled.’
‘The hyoid bone,’ said Frieda.
‘I thought you were a psychotherapist.’
‘I studied medicine before. As you know.’
‘Anyway, you’re right. Sometimes you’re strangled and the hyoid bone doesn’t break. But if the hyoid bone does break, you’ve been strangled. I think I’ve got it the right way round. The point is, the man was murdered.’
‘Where is this woman?’ said Frieda.
‘She’s back in a psychiatric hospital, which she should never have left. As far as I can make out, she was living with a dead body for five days or more. From the look of it, she was serving him fucking tea and iced buns. Now, she could be the most brilliant actor in the world, but I think she’s insane and she’s not making any sense at all. She probably still killed this man somehow and she’s probably going to spend the rest of her life in the bin but …’ Karlsson paused. ‘I’d like to see what you make of her.’
‘I’m not the right person,’ said Frieda, without even looking round.
‘Aren’t you intrigued?’
‘Not especially. Nor am I properly qualified. I’ve never done abnormal psychiatry. My area is the unhappiness of ordinary people. There are plenty of experts. I could probably dig up some names for you but there must be people you use.’
‘It’s not about examining her,’ said Karlsson. ‘They’re probably doing that at the moment. I want someone to talk to her. We can’t do that. Well, we can do it. It’s just that we don’t know what to say and we don’t understand what she says back to us. That’s what you do.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda, doubtfully.
‘You talk about unhappiness,’ said Karlsson. ‘You know what Yvette said? I mean, DC Long. You remember her, don’t you? She said she thought Michelle was the unhappiest person she’d ever met in her life. I didn’t completely see it myself but that’s what she said. She may not be ordinary but she’s unhappy.’
When Frieda turned to Karlsson this time, it was with a look almost of alarm. ‘What do you think I am? Some kind of misery junkie?’
‘Only in a good way,’ said Karlsson.
‘Tell me something.’
‘What?’
‘Are you all right?’
‘What do you mean, all right?’
‘You seem troubled.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘More than usually so, I mean.’
For a moment Karlsson thought of confiding in her. It would be a relief to tell someone and hear their words of sympathy and advice. But then he felt a flash of irritation: Frieda was a professional listener and he didn’t want to talk to someone whose job it was to listen. He wanted someone who would be on his side, an intimate. He simply smiled and shrugged and said, ‘So, will you do it?’
Frieda entered the cobbled mews and approached her home – a narrow house squashed between a flat and a garage – with a familiar feeling of relief. She found the key and opened the door, taking off her coat to hang it on the hook in the hall, removing her boots and sliding her feet into the slippers that waited. Every morning when she left she would lay a fire ready for her return, and now she went into the living room, turned on the standard lamp and knelt down by the hearth. She struck a match and held it against the balled newspaper, watching the flames curl up and gradually catch the kindling. It was a matter of pride to her to use only one match, and she waited to make sure the fire had caught before going into the kitchen and filling the kettle. The light on the answering machine was winking and she pressed the ‘play’ button, then turned to take down a mug from the cupboard.
‘Hello, Frieda,’ said a voice, and she stood ambushed and absolutely still, her hand pressed hard against her stomach. ‘You haven’t answered my emails so I thought I’d ring. I need to say …’
Frieda pressed the ‘off’ button. The voice ceased mid-sentence and she stared at the machine as if it might suddenly come to life again. After a few moments, she went to the sink and ran the water cold, then splashed her face. She made a pot of tea, waited for it to brew, then poured herself a large mug and took it to the living room where she sat in her chair by the fire, which was burning steadily but not yet giving out true heat. Outside, the drizzle strengthened to steady rain. Sandy: the man she had allowed herself to love and who had gone away a year and a month ago. Sometimes there were days, even weeks, when she didn’t think of him at all, but still the sound of his voice made her stomach churn and her heart beat faster. Yet she hadn’t answered his emails. Mostly she hadn’t even read them. She had deleted them as soon as they appeared and then made sure she emptied the trash folder on her computer so she wouldn’t be tempted to retrieve them. He had asked her to go to America with him, and she had refused; she had asked him to stay, and he had said he couldn’t. What was there left to discuss?
Eventually she went back into the kitchen and listened to the rest of the message. It wasn’t long: Sandy simply said he needed to talk to her and wanted to see her again. He didn’t tell her he loved her, or missed her, or wanted her back; but he said there was ‘unfinished business’ between them and his voice sounded strained and hesitant. Frieda imagined him speaking the words – the way he frowned when he concentrated; the furrow between his eyebrows; the shape of his mouth. Then she erased the message and went back to the fire.
Later that day Karlsson also listened to a message on his voicemail that sent a sharp pain through him. He had to sit down and wait to recover.
He had just come back to his ground-floor Highbury flat after having dinner with a friend from university and his wife. They saw each other rarely, perhaps once a year, and each time the gap between them seemed to grow wider. Like Karlsson, Alec had studied law at Cambridge, but where Karlsson had joined the Met, Alec had kept on track and was now a senior partner in a law firm. His wife, Maria, was a lecturer in politics; she was tiny, sardonic and endlessly energetic. They had three children who had been up when Karlsson arrived, bearing a bottle of wine and a tired bunch of flowers. He had sat in the living room with this apparently perfect family, the children in their pyjamas, the youngest still in nappies, and had felt melancholy wash over him: he was an underpaid and overworked detective. His wife had left him and now lived with another man. His two children were growing up without him to tuck them into their beds at night or teach them how to ride a bike, kick a ball, swim their first length of the local pool with their faces almost submerged under the turquoise water.
Now he listened to the message his wife had left on his mobile.
‘Mal? It’s Julie. We need to talk.’ He could tell from her slightly slurred words that she’d been drinking. ‘You can’t just think this will go away if you ignore it and it’s not fair on me. Call when you get this. It doesn’t matter what time.’
Karlsson went into his kitchen and pulled out a bottle of whisky. He’d drunk several glasses of wine already but felt clear-headed. He poured himself a generous slug and added a splash of water. Then he picked up the phone again.
‘Hello?’ She had definitely had several drinks: there was a wobble to her voice.
‘I got your message. Can’t this conversation wait until morning? It’s nearly midnight, we’re both tired …’
‘Speak for yourself.’
He swallowed his anger. ‘I’m tired. And I don’t want us to have an argument about this. We should think about what’s best for Mikey and Bella and not rush into things.’