‘You’ll do it?’ Frieda asked.
‘I do owe you, Frieda. And, also, you’re my friend. So I trust you as well, in spite of the apparent wildness of this. But you understand this might backfire?’
‘Yes.’
‘On me, I mean.’
Frieda met his gaze. She could have wept at his expression. ‘Yes, I understand.’
‘All right.’
‘I can’t come with –’
‘No.’
‘Will you let me know?’
He let his eyes meet hers. ‘Yes, Frieda. I’ll let you know.’
As they left his room, a familiar figure approached them.
‘Oh, shit,’ Karlsson hissed.
‘Malcolm,’ said the commissioner. His face was red with anger. ‘A word.’
‘Yes? I’m on my way to see Mr Lennox. Can this wait?’
‘No, it cannot wait. There was a report.’ He pointed a quivering finger. ‘Her contract was terminated. There’s this scandal with Hal. You know what I think. What the flaming hell is she doing here?’
‘She’s been an important –’
‘Do you realize what this looks like?’
Karlsson didn’t reply.
‘Have you paid her?’ Crawford jabbed Karlsson and, for a terrible moment, Frieda thought there might be a fight between Karlsson and his boss. She winced with the fresh knowledge of how he had risked himself for her.
‘Commissioner, as you must be aware, Dr Klein has been very helpful to us and –’
‘Have you paid her?’
‘No, I haven’t been paid.’ Frieda stepped forward. Her voice was cold. ‘I’m just here as a member of the public.’
‘What the hell are you doing, then?’
‘I came to see DCI Karlsson on a purely private matter. As a friend.’
Crawford raised his eyebrows. ‘Careful, Mal,’ he said. ‘I’m paying attention.’ And he noticed Fearby. ‘Who’s that?’
‘This is my colleague, Jim Fearby,’ said Frieda. ‘We were both leaving.’
‘Don’t let me stop you.’
At the entrance, Fearby turned to Frieda. ‘That went well, after all.’
‘It went terribly,’ Frieda said dully. ‘I abused my friendship with Karlsson and lied to the commissioner.’
‘If we achieve what we’re after,’ said Fearby, ‘none of that matters.’
‘And if we don’t?’
‘Then it doesn’t matter either.’
As they left, they met a woman coming in – middle-aged and tall, with long brown hair and wearing a long patchwork skirt. Frieda was struck by her expression of fierce purpose.
FIFTY-FOUR
‘I’d like to see Malcolm Karlsson,’ said the woman, speaking loud and fast.
‘I think DCI Karlsson is rather busy at the moment. Do you have –’
‘Or Yvette Long. Or that other one.’
‘Can you tell me what it’s about?’
‘My name is Elaine Kerrigan. It’s about the murder of Ruth Lennox. There is something I need to say.’
Yvette sat opposite Elaine Kerrigan. She saw the hectic blotches on the woman’s normally pale cheeks and the brightness of her eyes. Her glasses, hanging round her neck on a chain, were smudged and her hair hadn’t been brushed.
‘You told the officer on the desk there was something you needed to say.’
‘Yes.’
‘About the murder of Ruth Lennox?’
‘That’s right. Can I have a glass of water first, please?’
Yvette left the room and bumped into Karlsson. He looked awful and she touched him on the elbow. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘No reason. I’m in there –’ she jerked her head in the direction of the room ‘– with Elaine Kerrigan.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just going to get her some water. She seems agitated.’
‘Does she indeed?’
‘Have you finished with Russell Lennox?’
‘I’m taking a break for an hour or so. It won’t do him any harm to wait and worry.’ His face grew grim. ‘There’s something I have to do.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You wouldn’t understand. You’d think I’d gone mad. Sometimes I think I’ve gone mad myself.’
There was nothing to do but wait. Fearby said he had people he needed to see while he was in London and drove off once more, leaving Frieda unsure of what to do with herself. In the end she did what she always did at times of uncertainty or distress, when dark thoughts filled her: she walked. She found herself going towards King’s Cross, weaving along minor streets to avoid the roar of traffic, then took the road that led to Camden Town, which made her think again of the house where the Lennox family used to live, in clutter and a sort of happiness, but which now stood empty. Russell was in prison; Ted, Judith and Dora were at their aunt’s house, many miles away. At least it was neat.
She turned on to the canal. The houseboats moored by the path had pot plants and herbs on their decks. On a couple of them dogs lay in the sunshine; on one, Frieda saw a parrot in a large cage, eyeing her. Some were open to the public, selling banana bread and tie-dye scarves, herbal tea and recycled jewellery. People passed her on bikes; runners pounded by. Summer was coming. She could feel it in the warm air, see it in the thin brightness of the light and the sappy greenness of unfolding leaves on the trees. Soon Sandy would be back and they would have weeks together, not days.
She thought these things but couldn’t feel them. Indeed, the clear light and the happy people seemed unreal, far off, and she belonged to a different world – one in which young women had been dragged out of their lives by a man who had a smiling, sympathetic face. He had killed his daughter, Lila, Frieda was sure of it now – and yet he had seemed genuinely grief-struck by her absence. A piece of chalked graffiti on the wall showed a huge mouth full of sharp teeth, and she shuddered, suddenly cold in spite of the warmth of the afternoon.
She walked along the canal as far as Regent’s Park. The houses on the other side were grand here, like small castles or mock châteaux. Who would live in such places? She walked through the park swiftly, scarcely noticing the gaggles of children, the courting couples, the young man with closed eyes doing some strange slow exercises on a roll-out mattress by the ornamental gardens.
At last, making her way through side-streets, she was at home. The phone was ringing as she opened the door and she half ran to get it, in case it was Karlsson.
‘Frieda? Thank God. Where the fuck –’
‘Reuben, I can’t talk now. I’m waiting for a call. I promise I’ll phone you as soon as I can, all right?’
‘Wait, did you hear about Bradshaw?’
‘Sorry.’
She slammed the phone down. How long would it take for Karlsson to go to Lawrence Dawes’s house? When would he call? Now? This evening? Tomorrow?
She made herself some toast and marmalade and ate it in the living room, listening to the phone ringing over and over and the answering machine playing messages: Chloë, plaintive; Sasha, anxious; Reuben, furious; Sandy – oh, God, Sandy. She hadn’t even told him what she was up to. She’d gone into a different world, of terror and darkness, and hadn’t even thought to confide in him. She didn’t pick up, but let him leave his message asking her, yet again, to contact him, please. Josef, drunk; Olivia, drunker.
The day darkened and still Karlsson hadn’t called. Frieda went upstairs to her study and sat at the desk that looked out over the great sprawl of the city, now lit up and glittering under the clear sky. In the countryside, the sky tonight would be thick with stars. She picked up her pencil and opened her sketch pad, made a few indeterminate lines, like ripples. She thought of the stream at the bottom of Lawrence Dawes’s garden.