‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
She made herself a bitterly strong cup of coffee and fed the cat, watered the plants in her backyard, breathing in the intense fragrance of hyacinths and herbs. Then she put on her jacket and left the house. It was a fresh, damp dawn; later it would be warm and bright. The sweetness of spring. The shops were all still shut, but she could smell bread baking in the little bakery on the corner. Lights were coming on in flats and houses; metal shutters rattled up in newsagents and corner shops; a bus lurched by with a single passenger staring out of the window. A postman pulling his red cart passed her. The great life of London starting up again.
Frieda reached Muswell Hill and consulted her A-Z, then turned off into a wide residential street full of handsome detached houses. Number twenty-seven. From the outside, the damage wasn’t immediately obvious – just darkened bricks, some charred woodwork, a broken window on the first floor and, as she drew closer, the acrid smell that caught in the back of her throat. She hesitated, then stepped into the front garden with its gravelled pathway and its tub of red tulips that had survived the blaze. From here she could see through the large bay window into the front room, where the devastation was obvious. She pictured the fire raging through the orderly spaces, gobbling tables, chairs, pictures, doors; licking ashy blackness up the walls. Dean had done this – casually pushed a petrol-soaked rag through the letterbox, dropped a match after it. We couldn’t let him get away with it. In a way, Bradshaw was right: this was her fault.
There was a side door to the left of the house, and when she pushed at it, it opened on to the garden at the back. She stepped through into a green space, and now she was looking in at what had once been a conservatory and kitchen but was now a ruin. She was about to turn away when she saw something that stopped her.
Hal Bradshaw was in there, stooped over the scorched remains. He squatted, pulled out what had obviously once been a book, held it up to examine, then dropped it again. He was wearing a crumpled suit and wellington boots and stepped softly through the silt of ashes that stirred as he walked, lifted in dark petals around him. Frieda saw his face, which was tired and defeated.
He seemed to sense her presence because he straightened up. Their eyes met and his expression tightened. He pulled himself back into the Hal Bradshaw she knew: controlled, knowing, defended.
‘Well,’ he said, coming towards her. ‘Quite a sight, isn’t it? Come to assess the damage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I needed to see it. What were you looking for?’
‘Oh.’ He smiled mirthlessly, lifted his sooty hands, then let them drop. ‘My life, I suppose. You spend years collecting things and then – poof, they’re gone. I wonder now what they all meant.’
Frieda stepped into the ruin and picked up the remains of a book that crumbled at her touch. She watched words dissolve into ash and dust.
‘I’m very sorry,’ she said.
‘Is that an admission?’
‘A regret.’
As she made her way towards the Underground, Frieda turned on her mobile and looked at all the messages. So many, from people she knew and people she didn’t. She was walking towards uproar, questions and comments, the dazzle of attention that she dreaded, but for now she was alone. Nobody knew where she was.
But there was someone she did have to call.
‘Karlsson. It’s me.’
‘Thank God. Where are you?’
‘I’m on my way to Tooting, to the hospital.’
I’ll meet you there. But are you all right?’
‘I don’t know. Are you?’
He met her in the lobby, striding towards her as he came in through the revolving door, putting one hand briefly on her shoulder as he stared into her face, looking for something there.
‘Listen –’ he began.
‘Can I say something first?’
‘Typical.’ He tried to smile, his mouth twisting. He looked exhausted and stricken.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry!’
‘Yes.’
‘But you were right. Frieda, you were horribly right.’
‘But I did wrong, too. To you. And I apologize.’
‘Oh, Jesus, you don’t need to –’
‘I do.’
‘OK.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have they found the missing girls?’
‘It’ll take more than one night. But yes.’
‘How many?’
‘It’s too early to say.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Several.’
‘And have you found …’
‘Of course we have. Gerald Collier isn’t saying anything. Nothing at all. But we don’t need him to. They were in his cellar.’
‘Poor Fearby,’ said Frieda, softly. ‘It was him, you know, not me. I would have given up, but he never did.’
‘An old drunk hack.’ Karlsson’s voice was bitter. ‘And a traumatized therapist. And you solved a crime we didn’t even know existed. We’ll be tremendously efficient now, of course. Now that it’s too late. We’ll identify the remains and we’ll inform the poor bloody relatives and we’ll go back over their lives and we’ll find out everything there is to be discovered about those two fucking bastards who got away with it for so many years. We’ll update computers and conduct an inquiry as to how this could have happened. We’ll learn from our mistakes, or that’s what we’ll tell the press.’
‘His own daughter,’ said Frieda. ‘She was the one I was looking for.’
‘Well, you found her.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll need to answer a lot of questions, I’m afraid.’
‘I know. I’ll come to the station later. Is that all right? But first I’m going to see Josef. Have you seen him?’
‘Josef?’ A tiny smile broke through Karlsson’s wintry expression. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen him.’
Josef had a room to himself. He was sitting up in bed, wearing oversized pyjamas, with a bandage round his head and his arm encased in plaster. A nurse stood by his side with a clipboard. He was whispering something to her and she was laughing.
‘Frieda!’ he cried. ‘My friend Frieda.’
‘Josef, how are you?’
‘My arm is broken,’ he said. ‘Bad break, they say. But clean snap so good recovery. Later you write on arm. Or draw one of your pictures maybe.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Drugs take away pain. I have eaten toast already. This is Rosalie and she is from Senegal. This is my good friend Frieda.’
‘Your good friend who nearly got you killed.’
‘Is nothing,’ he said. ‘A day’s work.’
There was a knock at the door and Reuben came in, followed by Sasha, who was bearing a bunch of flowers.
‘I’m afraid you aren’t allowed flowers,’ said Rosalie.
‘He’s a hero,’ said Reuben, decisively. ‘He has to have flowers.’
Sasha kissed Josef on his bristly cheek, then put her arm around Frieda, gazing at her with beseeching concern.
‘Not now,’ said Frieda.
‘I’ve brought you some water.’ Reuben drew a little bottle out of his pocket and gave Josef a meaningful look.
Josef took a gulp, flinched and offered it to Frieda. She shook her head, withdrew to the chair by the window, which looked out on to another wall and a narrow strip of pale blue sky. She could see the vapour trail of a plane, but it was too soon for it to be Sandy’s. She was aware of Sasha’s eyes on her, heard Reuben’s voice and Josef’s boisterous replies. A junior doctor came in and then left. A different nurse entered, wheeling a trolley; the creak of shoes on lino. Doors opening, doors closing. A pigeon perched on the narrow sill and stared in at her with a beady eye. Sasha said something to her and she replied. Reuben asked her a question. She said yes, no, that she would tell them everything later. Not now.