‘You’ve only really known me in the winter.’
There was a silence: they were both remembering the work they’d done together, and the way it had ended so violently.
‘Frieda …’ he began.
‘You don’t need to.’
‘I do. I really do. I haven’t been to see you since you left hospital because I felt so bad about what had happened that I went into a kind of lockdown about it. You helped us – more than that, you rescued us. And in return we got rid of you and then we nearly got you killed.’
‘You didn’t get rid of me and you didn’t nearly get me killed.’
‘Me. My team. Us. That’s how it works. I was responsible and I let you down.’
‘But I wasn’t killed. Look at me.’ She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, smiled. ‘I’m fine.’
Karlsson shut his eyes for a moment. ‘In this job you have to develop a thick skin or you’d go mad. But you can’t have a thick skin when it involves a friend.’
Silence settled around the word. Images of Karlsson flitted through Frieda’s mind: Karlsson at his desk, calm and in control; Karlsson striding along a road with a tight face; Karlsson sitting by the bed of a little boy who, they thought, was perhaps dying; Karlsson standing up to the commissioner for her; Karlsson with his daughter wrapped around his body like a frightened koala; Karlsson sitting beside her fire and smiling at her.
‘It’s good to see you,’ said Frieda.
‘That means a lot.’
‘Have your children left yet?’ she asked.
‘No. They go very soon, though. I was supposed to be spending lots of time with them. Then this case came up.’
‘Hard.’
‘Like a toothache that won’t go away. Are you really OK?’
‘I’m fine. I need a bit of time.’
‘I don’t mean just physically.’ Karlsson flushed and Frieda was almost amused.
‘You mean am I in a state of trauma?’
‘You were attacked with a knife.’
‘I dream about it sometimes.’ Frieda considered. ‘And I need to tell you that I also think about Dean Reeve. Something happened a few days ago that you should know. Don’t look anxious, I don’t want to talk about it now.’
There was a silence. Karlsson seemed to be weighing something up in his mind. To speak or not to speak.
‘Listen,’ he said finally. ‘That boy Ted.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘That’s not what I wanted to say. You know about the case?’
‘I know his mother was killed.’
‘She was a nice woman, with a decent husband, close family, good friends, neighbours who liked her. We thought we’d got the man who did it, all simple and straightforward. It turns out that he couldn’t have and we’re back where we started. Except that it makes even less sense.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Frieda said neutrally.
‘Dr Bradshaw has a theory.’
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Frieda said quickly. ‘That’s one of the perks of being pushed out.’
Karlsson looked suspicious. ‘Is there some problem with Bradshaw?’
‘Does it matter?’ Frieda didn’t say anything further, just waited.
‘You wouldn’t come to the house with me, would you? Just once? I’d like to discuss it with someone I trust.’
‘What about Yvette?’ asked Frieda, although she already knew she was going to say yes.
‘Yvette’s terrific – apart from the fact that she let you get nearly murdered, of course. She’s my trusted colleague, as well as my attack dog. But if I want someone to look at a house, just to get the smell of it, have a thought or two, I’d ask you – I am asking you.’
‘As a friend.’
‘Yes. As a friend.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow morning, when the house is empty?’
‘That would suit me fine.’
‘Are you serious? I mean, that’s great. Shall I send a car?’
‘I’ll make my own way.’
I met a neuroscientist called Gloria today, who I think you’d like a lot (you see, I’m making friends for you out here). We talked about free will – does it exist etc. She was arguing that with everything we know now about the brain, it’s impossible to believe there is such a thing, and yet it’s impossible not to believe in it at the same time and to live our life as if we have choices. A necessary delusion.
It’s a beautiful evening, with a full moon shining on the river. I wonder what it’s like in London – but, of course, it’s nearly morning for you now. You’re asleep. At least I hope you are. Sandy xxxx
SIXTEEN
So it was that the very next day Frieda once more walked past the Roundhouse, past the little café where Ted and Chloë had drunk hot chocolate the evening before and the larger one where an aeroplane nose-dived down the wall and music throbbed, into Margaretting Road. Karlsson was already outside, drinking coffee from a paper mug that he raised in salute as she came towards him. He noticed that she walked more slowly than she used to, and with a slight limp.
‘You came.’
‘I said I would.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘As long as you’re sure no one’s in?’
‘I’m certain. The family has been staying with neighbours. The house is still officially a crime scene.’
‘And Hal Bradshaw?’
‘Fuck him.’ The vehemence of Karlsson’s response surprised her.
Frieda followed Karlsson through the front door. Although the window was still broken, the barriers had been cleared away and the forensic team had gone. But the house had the special emptiness of an abandoned place, already neglected and musty from disuse – and, of course, it was the place where a woman (a wife, a mother, a good neighbour, Karlsson had said) had recently been murdered. As Frieda stood in the silent hallway, she felt that the house somehow knew it and felt abandoned.
A large photograph, the frame cracked and the glass smashed, was propped against the wall and she bent down to look at it.
‘The happy family,’ said Karlsson. ‘But it’s usually the husband, you know.’
Official family photographs that are framed and hung in the hall are always happy. Everyone has to stand close together and smile: there was Ted, not as gangly and dishevelled as she’d seen him, with the smooth face of youth; there was the elder of the girls, her arresting pale eyes and nimbus of coppery curls; the youngest daughter, skinny and anxious, but grinning despite her train-track braces, her head tipped slightly towards her mother’s shoulder. There was the husband and father, as proud and protective as a husband and father is meant to look when he’s standing with his family grouped around him for the picture that will represent them – he had greying brown hair, jowly cheeks, his eldest daughter’s eyes, eyebrows that tilted at a comic angle, a face that was made to be cheerful.
And there she was, standing in the centre with her husband – in a flecked sweater, her soft hair tied back loosely, her candid face smiling out of the picture. One hand on the shoulder of her elder daughter, who sat in front of her, and one against her husband’s hip. It was a touching gesture for the official portrait, thought Frieda, casual and intimate. She bent closer and stared into the dead woman’s eyes. Grey. No makeup that she could see. Small signs of age drawing down her mouth and creasing her brow. Smile marks and frown marks, the map of our days.
‘Tell me about her. Describe her,’ she said to Karlsson.
‘Her name is Ruth Lennox. Forty-four years old. A health visitor, and has been since her younger daughter started school; she had several years out when the children were small. Married to Russell Lennox,’ Karlsson pointed to the man in the photo, ‘happily, from all accounts, for twenty-three years. He’s an executive in a small charity for children with learning difficulties. Three kids, as you see – your Ted, Judith, who’s fifteen, and Dora, thirteen. All at the local comp. Has a dragon of a sister who lives in London. Both her parents are dead. On the PTA. Good citizen. Not rich, but comfortable, two modest but stable incomes and no big outgoings. Three thousand pounds in her current account, thirteen thousand in her savings account. Healthy enough pension pot. Donates to various charities by standing order. No criminal record. Clean driving licence. I’m using the present tense but, of course, last Wednesday she sustained a catastrophic injury to the head and would have died instantly.’