‘We want to check on the residents of this building. Do you live here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. With my husband, who’s in bed, and my two sons, who are at school, if that’s what you were going to ask. What is this?’
‘Is your husband ill?’ asked Riley.
‘He lost his job.’ The woman glared, her face tight. ‘He’s on disability. I’ve got all the forms.’
‘We don’t care about that,’ said Munster. ‘Do you know a woman called Ruth Lennox?’
‘I’ve never heard of her. Why?’
‘She came to this address last Wednesday.’
He took the photograph of Ruth out of his pocket and held it out. ‘Do you recognize her?’
She examined the picture, wrinkling her face. ‘I don’t take much notice of people who come and go,’ she said.
‘She’s been the victim of a crime. We think she came here on the day she died.’
‘Died? What are you suggesting?’
‘Nothing. Really nothing. We just want to find out if she was here that day, and why.’
‘Well, she wasn’t in our place at any rate. I don’t know any Ruth Lennox. I don’t know this woman.’ She jabbed the photo. ‘And we’re law-abiding citizens, which can be hard enough these days.’
‘Do you know who lives in the other flats?’
‘There’s nobody above. They moved out months ago. And I don’t know about downstairs.’
‘But somebody lives there?’
‘I wouldn’t say lives. Somebody rents it but I don’t see them.’
‘Them?’
‘Them. Him. Her. I don’t know.’ She relented. ‘I hear a radio sometimes. During the day.’
‘Thank you. And last Wednesday, did you see anyone there?’
‘No. But I wasn’t looking.’
‘Perhaps your husband might have seen something if he’s here during the day?’
She looked from one face to the other, then gave a small, weary shrug. ‘He sleeps a lot, or sort of sleeps, because of his pills.’
‘No. That’s all right. Can you tell me who your landlord is?’
‘You don’t see him round here.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Mr Reader. Michael Reader. Maybe you’ve heard of him. You see his boards up everywhere. His grandfather bought up loads of these houses after the war. He’s the real criminal.’
TWENTY
Duncan Bailey lived in Romford, in a concrete, brutalist apartment block. It was built on a grand scale, with chilly corridors and high ceilings, large windows that overlooked a tumble of buildings and tangled ribbons of roads.
Frieda knew that he would be there, because after some thought she had rung his mobile and made an appointment to see him. He hadn’t sounded flustered, or even surprised, but relaxed and almost amused, and he had agreed to see her at half past five that afternoon, when he returned from the library. He was a psychology graduate student at Cardinal College where Hal Bradshaw was a visiting lecturer.
She walked up the stairs to the third floor, then along the broad corridor. Would Bailey think she was out for revenge? No, it wasn’t for revenge that Frieda was there but something odder, more formless. She couldn’t see it, couldn’t hear it, couldn’t smell or touch it, but some vague and shadowy shape shifted and stirred in her mind.
Duncan Bailey was an unusually small young man. He seemed out of place and almost comical in the cavernous living room. He had light brown hair and a neat goatee, lively blue eyes, a thin and mobile face. His manner was genial and mischievous. It was hard to tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ said Frieda.
‘No problem. I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. It’s about the experiment we both took part in.’
‘No hard feelings, I hope,’ he said, with a smile.
‘Why would there be?’
‘Some people might feel they’d been humiliated. But it’s all in the cause of science. Anyway, Dr Bradshaw said you might not see it that way.’
‘He should know,’ said Frieda. ‘But, as I understand it, you all had to pretend to be the same case study, describe the same symptoms, is that right?’
‘Dr Bradshaw said we could go off script as much as we wanted as long as we smuggled in the vital ingredients.’
‘So, things like the story about cutting the father’s hair: that was in your story too?’
‘Yes. Did you like it?’
‘Did Dr Bradshaw create the case study himself?’
‘He signed off on it, but it was put together by one of the other researchers. We never met as a group. I came into it rather late, as a favour.’
‘Who were they?’
‘You want me to give you their names?’
‘Out of interest.’
‘So you can visit them too?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re going to a lot of effort. Romford seems a long way to come just to ask a simple question. I would have told you over the phone. Especially after you’ve been so ill.’
Frieda didn’t say anything, just looked at him.
‘Don’t you want to know which one I went to see?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘It was your friend.’
Poor Reuben, thought Frieda. He wouldn’t have stood a chance with someone like Duncan Bailey.
‘James Rundell.’ He looked at her enquiringly, head cocked to one side. ‘I can see why someone would want to punch him.’
Frieda suppressed a smile at the thought of James Rundell meeting this sharp, cynical, bright-eyed young man.
‘But you can’t just go around thinking you can control people,’ Duncan Bailey continued. ‘I mean, it’s very nice to meet you, of course, but someone more sensitive than me might be intimidated by your visit, Dr Klein. Do you see what I mean?’
‘I just want the names.’
Bailey thought for a moment. ‘Why not? They’ll be in the psychology journal soon enough. Shall I write them down for you? I can give you their addresses if that would help. Save you going to any trouble.’ He uncurled himself from his chair with the agility of a cat and padded lightly across the room.
Five and a half hours later, Frieda was on a plane. The last-minute flight had been eyewateringly expensive; she was going for a ridiculously short time; above all, she was scared of flying and for nearly a decade had avoided it. She sat in an aisle seat and ordered a tomato juice. The woman next to her snored gently. Frieda sat upright, burning with fear: because she was flying, because Dean Reeve was still alive, because she knew what it felt like to die, because she was so gladshe would be seeing Sandy and because caring so much was dangerous. It was safer to be alone.
When Fearby phoned Vanessa Dale, she said she’d moved away years earlier. Now she lived in Leeds. She worked in a chemist’s. Fearby said that was fine. He could come and see her. Did she have a break? Oh, and one other thing. Did she have a photograph of herself? From that time? Could she bring it with her?
He met her outside on the pavement and walked with her to a coffee shop a few doors along. He ordered tea for himself and for her a kind of coffee with an exotic name. Although it was the smallest size, the foamy concoction looked enough for four people. Vanessa Dale was dressed in a dark red skirt over thick tights, ankle boots and a brightly patterned shirt. He noticed she had a badge with her name on just above her left breast. He took out his pen and his notebook. You think you’ll remember things, but you don’t. That was why he wrote everything down, transcribed it, put the date beside each entry.
‘Thank you for taking the time,’ he said.
‘That’s all right,’ she said.
‘Did you manage to find an old picture?’