Friday on My Mind (17 page)

He held out his hand. Frieda shook it, but then, without releasing it, examined Lev’s hand more carefully. The knuckles were raw, like Josef’s had been, the skin stripped off them. ‘What did you do to him?’

Lev took Frieda’s right hand in his hands. It seemed tiny and lost in his grasp. He let it go. ‘You been in fight ever?’ he said.

Frieda didn’t answer. She had, once or twice.

‘I hate the fighting,’ said Lev. ‘The fear, the blood. The people who think the fighting is a joke, that is …’ He seemed as if he would spit to demonstrate his contempt. ‘You cannot have a piece of a fight, a half of a fight, a little of a fight. Then you are hurt. I don’t fight.’ He looked down at his hand with a rueful expression. ‘But when I do fight it is everything. No limit, no stop. It is like love.’

‘Like love,’ said Frieda, slowly, repeating his words rather than asking a question.

‘You get up close, you feel the smell, you feel the touch, you feel the breath, and you do not stop. Most of the people cannot do that. I talk to Josef. You, Frieda, I think you can.’ Almost absent-mindedly, he took something from his pocket. At first she couldn’t see what it was. Then she could. He was holding a knife by the blade. The handle was polished dark brown wood.

‘What’s that for?’ said Frieda.

‘For you. Keep by you always.’

‘I can’t have a knife.’

‘Ach. You never use probably.’ He snapped it shut, then leaned forward and slid it into the pocket of her jacket. ‘Careful. Is sharp. Very.’

‘But –’

He shook his head.

‘None of the way,’ he said. ‘Or all of the way. If you have the …’ He searched for the word. He tapped his belly.

‘Stomach,’ said Frieda. ‘The stomach for it.’

‘Yes. You have, I think.’

He left the room and Frieda heard the outside door open and close. She rummaged in her bags and found her toothbrush and toothpaste, soap and a towel. She walked out and found the bathroom. As she brushed she noticed a pink plastic razor on the side of the bath and a shelf with shampoo, conditioner, a packet of tampons, jars of cream, a black eye pencil, a bag of cotton wool. There was nothing that looked as if it belonged to a man.

She got into the bed and switched off the light, then lay and stared up at the ceiling. A jagged crack, like a coastline, crossed the ceiling, all the way from one side of the room to the other. She heard the rumble of a train passing, a goods train. It seemed to take for ever.

She was woken by voices. She pulled her clothes on, and as she left her bedroom, the voices became louder and then there was a crash and a shattering and then another bang. She walked through to the kitchen. At first she had difficulty in working out what was going on. A woman was kneeling on the ground, picking up fragments of a
plate. Frieda could make out her shock of blonde hair and her dark clothes, but she couldn’t see her face. Another woman was standing beside the sink. She had brown hair, dark, almost black, eyes, and she was banging a wooden spoon on the edge of the sink’s metal rim, to reinforce the point she was making. Both women were speaking at the same time in raised voices and Frieda couldn’t even make out whether they were speaking English or not.

‘Hello?’ she said, but there was no sign that they had even heard her. She rapped hard on the table and the two women stopped.

‘How you get in?’ said the dark woman.

‘I slept here last night,’ said Frieda. ‘Lev brought me.’

‘Lev?’

The blonde woman said something, maybe in explanation, and the two women started shouting at each other again.

‘Please,’ said Frieda, and then she said it once more, almost shouting herself. The two women looked at her, almost in puzzlement. ‘Is there a problem?’

The two women were panting, as if they’d been in a fight.

‘No problem,’ said the dark woman.

‘I’m Carla,’ said Frieda.

The blonde woman frowned. ‘I am called Mira,’ she said.

‘I am Ileana,’ said the dark woman.

‘Hello,’ said Frieda, holding out her hand.

Mira hesitated for a moment. Then she wiped her hand on her trousers and took Frieda’s.

‘You’re bleeding,’ said Frieda. There was a bubble of blood on Mira’s index finger.

‘Is nothing.’

Frieda knelt down and picked up a couple of the fragments. ‘You’ve had an accident.’

‘That was not the fucking accident,’ said Ileana.

‘Oh,’ said Frieda. ‘Shall I make us some tea?’

‘There is no fucking milk,’ said Ileana.

‘That’s all right.’

‘No fucking tea.’

‘I’ll go and get some.’

When Frieda got back with tea and milk, Mira was in the bathroom. Frieda made the tea.

‘Shall I pour a tea for Mira?’

‘No,’ said Ileana. ‘She long time there. The hair. The nails. The skin.’ She made a sound expressing contempt.

Frieda poured two mugs. Ileana looked at her suspiciously. ‘What you do?’

‘Different things,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m a nanny at the moment. Mainly.’

‘Children,’ said Ileana, as if that was all that needed to be said.

‘It’s not that bad,’ said Frieda. ‘What do you do?’

‘In a market. The Camden Market.’

‘On a stall?’

‘The Spanish food. The paella.’

‘Are you from Spain?’

‘Bra
ş
ov.’

‘That doesn’t sound Spanish.’

‘Romania.’

‘Do you work with Mira?’

Ileana pulled a face. ‘Never. She is hairdresser.’

‘I’ve got to go in a few minutes,’ said Frieda. ‘Is there anything I need to know?’

Ileana thought for a moment. ‘No rules. Buy own food probably. Help clean. Pay for the heat with us. Careful with bringing people.’

‘I will be.’

‘Mira has the boyfriend. English.’ Ileana pulled the face again.

‘Not nice?’

‘He just see the face and the body and the sex.’

‘All right.’

‘If lights go, there is box by front door.’

Frieda stood up. Ileana looked at her with a puzzled expression. ‘You are English?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you are here?’

‘Just for a bit.’

‘Strange.’

Frieda tried to think of something to say that would make it seem less strange, but she couldn’t think of anything.

Reuben gave a dinner. Josef was there, of course, since he lived with Reuben, paying no rent but fixing the house, buying the vodka and cooking most of their meals, and so were Sasha, Jack Dargan, Frieda’s sister-in-law Olivia and Chloë. Chloë was just back from college, where she was taking a course in joinery and carpentry.

‘It’s just a phase,’ said Olivia, who had dreamed of having a doctor for a daughter.

‘I’m learning how to make chairs,’ said Chloë. ‘Tables. That’s more than you’ve ever done.’

She and Jack sat as far away from each other as possible: they had gone out, split up, got together again, and now they had once more separated. Jack ignored her, his cheeks flushed and his tawny hair standing up where he had pushed his hands nervously through it. Chloë glared at him and sometimes made loud, sarcastic remarks. Olivia had got dressed up for the occasion: she wore a purple skirt and lots of beads, and had tied her hair up in a complicated arrangement, with what looked like chopsticks sticking out of it. Her eye shadow was green and her lipstick red and she was already on the way to being drunk and slightly tearful. She sat next to Reuben and told him how she had recently let herself into Frieda’s house and sat in the living room and howled. ‘Like a baby,’ she said. Reuben patted her hand and refilled her glass. Only Sasha was silent.

Josef had cooked far too much food. He had spent most of the afternoon preparing summer borscht with cucumber and lemon added, wheat soup, his familiar
pierogi
s – savoury and sweet.

‘And
holopchi
,’ he said, putting the steaming dish on the table. ‘And
pyrizhky
.’

‘You know I’m a vegetarian?’ asked Chloë. ‘What can I eat?’

Josef sighed in heavy disappointment. ‘There is much cabbage,’ he said. ‘Cabbage rolls, cabbage buns. And soup with no meat.’

‘Fish? Because I don’t eat fish either.’

‘We all drink a toast to Frieda now.’

He filled six glasses to the brim with vodka and passed them around. ‘To our dear friend,’ he said. His brown eyes glowed.

‘To Frieda,’ said Reuben.

‘Who’s an idiot,’ added Jack.

‘To Frieda,’ said Sasha, softly, as if to herself, raising her shot glass but taking only a delicate sip.

‘Now that we’ve done that …’ said Reuben. He turned to Josef. ‘Well?’

‘What?’

‘I’m not blind and I’m not stupid.’

‘What is this?’ said Josef.

‘About Frieda.’

‘I know nothing,’ Josef said. ‘Nothing.’

‘Creeping round the house, leaving in the middle of the night, whispered conversations. And I can always tell when you’re lying. And you won’t meet my eyes.’

Josef bent across the table and stared into Reuben’s eyes. The two men stayed like that for several moments,
the room around them quite silent. Then Olivia began to giggle and they sat back. Josef knocked back another glass of vodka and wiped his forehead with a large handkerchief. Reuben sipped thoughtfully at his glass of wine.

‘We’re her friends too,’ Reuben said.

‘Sacred promise,’ said Josef.

‘Where is she?’

‘No. That is secret to her.’

‘But you’ve seen her?’

‘I cannot say.’

Sasha spoke, so quietly they had to lean forward to hear her. ‘If Josef’s made a promise, he should be allowed to keep it,’ she said. ‘Frieda has good reasons for wanting to remain hidden.’ She tossed the rest of her vodka down her throat and spluttered.

‘Whose side are you on?’ asked Reuben.

‘I didn’t know it was a question of sides.’

‘I help her find place,’ said Josef.

‘To live?’

‘My friend sort it.’

‘Where?’

‘Gone from there now.’

‘Gone? So where was she?’

Josef made a vague helpless gesture.

‘Where
is
she now?’

‘I do not know.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I am not.’

‘Is she all right?’ This from Chloë, who spoke in a fierce whisper as if someone might be listening in.

‘Hair all gone and odd clothes.’

‘Hair gone?’ gasped Olivia. ‘All of it?’

‘Why doesn’t she come to us?’ said Chloë. Her eyes had suddenly filled with tears and she blinked them away.

‘She doesn’t want to get us into trouble,’ said Reuben. ‘She’s protecting us.’

‘Fuck that,’ said Olivia, ferociously, and one of the chopsticks fell out of her hair. ‘If she’d killed ten men I would still be on her side.’

‘She hasn’t killed anyone,’ said Sasha. Her face was white and her cheeks very pink. Her fingers plucked at the tablecloth. ‘That’s the point. If the police think it’s her, they won’t find who really did it.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Jack.

‘I just do.’

‘She’s told you, has she?’

‘No!’

‘Why have you gone all red?’ Olivia was examining her. ‘You look slightly feverish.’

‘I’m just tired.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Olivia. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I keep thinking,’ said Jack, ‘that we should ask ourselves what Frieda would do.’

‘We know what Frieda would do because she’s gone and done it.’

‘I mean, in our position. Would she just sit and wait, like we’ve been doing? Except Josef, of course.’

‘Is there anything else you know, Josef?’ asked Chloë. ‘Is she OK for money?’

‘I think,’ he said.

‘What can we do?’ Reuben asked moodily. ‘We don’t know where she is. We don’t know what she’s up to. We can’t contact her.’

‘We’ll have to follow Josef,’ said Olivia. ‘Put a trail on him.’

‘I? No!’

‘But what would she do?’ repeated Jack, tugging at his disordered hair. ‘She’d do something, I know she would. And so should we.’

‘Has anyone talked to Karlsson?’ asked Chloë.

‘Poor sod.’ Reuben poured himself another glass of wine. ‘He’s in trouble as it is. It’s complicated, being Frieda’s friend.’

Detective Constable Yvette Long had to pull Karlsson out of an interview.

‘It’s the commissioner,’ she said.

‘All right.’

‘Your car’s outside. You need to go in a minute.’ She looked at her watch. ‘In fact, now.’

‘Where to?’

‘The Altham station.’

‘Altham?’ Karlsson frowned. That was where Hussein was based. ‘Have they found Frieda?’

‘Not that I’ve heard. Shall I come along?’

‘If you like. You might draw some of the fire away from me.’

They didn’t speak again until they were in the back of the unmarked police car.

‘Did he say anything?’

‘Who?’ said Karlsson. ‘The commissioner?’

‘The cabbie. I’m talking about our case. Did he confess?’

‘He didn’t say a single word. He didn’t even look me in the eye.’

‘But we’ve got the DNA. And the girl’s statement. That should be enough.’

‘It’ll just take longer. And she’ll have to give evidence.’

Karlsson didn’t seem interested in talking. He just stared out of the window.

‘Any idea what this is about?’ Yvette asked.

Karlsson didn’t answer.

‘She shouldn’t have done this,’ Yvette continued. ‘She’s just causing trouble. She …’

Karlsson looked round at her and something in his expression made her stop.

‘Coffee?’ said Commissioner Crawford.

An office at Altham police station had apparently been cleared and prepared for him, almost like a royal visit. On a conference table there was a flask of coffee, a jug of water, a plate of biscuits and a bowl with apples and tangerines and a bunch of grapes. Detective Chief Inspector Hussein was sitting on the other side of the table. In front of her was a glass of water, a file and her phone. Karlsson and Long helped themselves to coffee and sat down. The commissioner took his own coffee, added two lumps of sugar and stirred them in. ‘How’s your rape case going?’

‘We’ll charge him later.’

‘Excellent.’ The commissioner smiled. Yvette found his affability more alarming than the briskness and impatience she was used to. ‘See? It looks like you can manage well enough without your friend.’

Yvette looked at Karlsson. She saw his jaw flex slightly. She recognized the signs and felt a sudden lurch. Was Karlsson going to say something? But he didn’t speak immediately. He picked up his coffee cup with great care and took a sip.

‘I was pulled out of the interview,’ he said at last. ‘Is something up?’

‘I suppose this is a bit painful for you.’

‘In what way?’

The commissioner’s expression changed from warmth to one of concern. ‘Your special adviser going on the run like this.’

‘It’s unfortunate,’ said Karlsson.

‘Don’t you want to know how the search is proceeding?’

‘How is it proceeding?’

‘It’s not,’ said Hussein.

There was a pause.

‘At this point,’ said the commissioner, ‘you’re supposed to say something like “What a pity” or maybe make a suggestion.’

‘All right. I’ll make a suggestion. As well as looking for Dr Klein, I think you should be exploring other angles.’

The commissioner’s face reddened. Yvette knew what was coming.

‘There are no other angles. Frieda Klein absconding was a clear admission that she did it.’ He paused. Karlsson’s failure to answer made him even angrier. ‘Well?’

‘Frieda didn’t commit the murder,’ said Karlsson. ‘But if she had done something like that, she would own up to it. She wouldn’t go on the run.’

‘As you well bloody know, she already did kill someone and she didn’t own up to it.’

‘She didn’t kill that person either.’

‘Of course she did.’

‘If she had done it, there was no reason to deny it. It was a clear case of self-defence.’

Crawford pushed his cup away. ‘Coffee break’s over,’ he said. ‘DCI Hussein and I have some questions for you.’

‘What questions?’

‘Have you had any contact with Frieda Klein?’ Hussein asked.

‘No.’

‘If she contacted you, what would you say?’

‘I don’t normally answer hypothetical questions. But I’ll answer that one: if Frieda contacted me, I would ask her to give herself up.’

‘Why?’ said Crawford, with what was nearly a sneer. ‘Haven’t you read the file? Your friend is almost certain to be convicted.’

‘Because it’s the law.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t manage to persuade Klein before she disappeared.’

‘I’ve never managed to persuade her of very much.’

‘You know her,’ said Hussein. ‘Have you got any suggestions?’

‘Not really.’

‘That’s not much help,’ said the commissioner.

‘I guess she’ll be avoiding anywhere she normally goes.’

‘We missed her at that hospital. Why do you think she went there?’

‘To see her patient, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, but why?’ asked Hussein.

‘Didn’t you interview him?’

‘He wasn’t very coherent. He’d been horribly beaten up and injured. His fingers had been smashed and some of them chopped off. But, as far as I can tell, she asked questions about how he was, where he’d been, who had hurt him, that sort of thing.’

‘So she was concerned about him.’

‘Mm. But it’s an odd thing to do, isn’t it, go somewhere she knew she might be recognized in order to show her concern?’

‘I don’t know. It’s the kind of thing Frieda might do.’

‘What about her friends?’

‘What about them?’

‘Do you think they’re helping her?’

‘You need to ask them.’

‘It’s not just a matter of asking them. I’m also asking you. What do you suspect?’

Karlsson thought for a moment. ‘I think her friends would help her if she asked them. And I don’t think she would ask them.’

‘You’re her friend,’ said Hussein.

‘She hasn’t asked me.’

‘If she did, how would you respond?’

Commissioner Crawford looked at his watch. ‘Fun as this is, we don’t have time for a discussion about hypothetical situations,’ he said. ‘I’m confident that DCI Karlsson will contact us about anything we need to know. Meanwhile we have an appointment.’

Karlsson and Yvette stood up and began to leave but the commissioner smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re coming too, Mal,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘You know the old saying: when all else fails in an investigation, hold a press conference.’

‘I didn’t know that saying.’

‘It starts in five minutes and it’s a chance for you to show that you’re a part of the team.’

‘Is it something I need to show?’

‘And
you
,’ said the commissioner, pointing at Yvette, ‘you can stand at the back and learn something.’ He gestured to Karlsson to follow him, and as he turned away, Yvette mouthed something at his back.

‘By the way,’ said Hussein, as Crawford led them through the corridors, ‘another friend of yours will be joining us onstage.’

‘Who’s that?’ said Karlsson, and as he said the words he had a sudden sick feeling as he realized what the answer would be.

The Pauline Bishop Suite was named after a policewoman who had fallen in the line of duty and today it was almost full. Lights were being set up and there was an expectant, bustling murmur. Yvette edged her way along the back. She felt a sense of apprehension as if she were about to watch a play that she knew hadn’t been properly rehearsed. There was a flash of lights and they filed up onto the platform: the commissioner, Hussein, a tense-looking Karlsson, and Professor Hal Bradshaw, in a sombre grey suit, white shirt and dark tie that made it seem as if he were in charge of the whole operation. They sat down and his expression was serious and thoughtful.

Hussein gave a brief précis of the case, of Frieda Klein’s role as chief suspect and of her disappearance. Yvette barely listened. She knew that conferences like this were partly a charade. She had seen parents asking tearfully for a child to be returned, a husband asking for a witness to the murder of his wife. If a witness came forward, that was good but it wasn’t the only point of the exercise. Almost always the parents or the husband or the boyfriend were suspects and it gave an opportunity to see
their demeanour under the spotlight. Was that what this was? Did Hussein think that Karlsson was holding something back?

Hussein finished her statement and Commissioner Crawford leaned forward towards the microphone and said a few words.