Friday on My Mind (23 page)

Mira snipped her scissors in the air beside Ileana’s ear. ‘You next.’

‘I don’t think so. My hair is short enough.’

‘Not shorter. Just more style. Layers.’ She pointed the blades at Frieda. ‘Choppy.’

‘It’s very kind of you but –’

‘You buy food for us. We would like to make a return. It makes us feel better.’

Frieda was about to refuse once more, but what Mira said stopped her. Reuben always told her how bad she was at accepting gifts, asking for help, and it was true. Everyone wants reciprocity.

‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Just a trim, though. Nothing drastic.’

So it was that Josef found her with a towel draped over her shoulders and her wet hair being busily snipped at by Mira.

‘Cut again?’ said Josef, in dismay. ‘But Fr–’ He remembered in time. ‘Is already short. Why more so?’

‘I think Mira feels I could be more stylish. What is it you want to give me?’

Josef reached inside his jacket and drew out the envelope, creased now with smudges of dirt across it.

‘I told nothing,’ he said. ‘Not even that I give it to you.’

‘All right.’ She took the envelope, which was blank, and laid it on her lap. Little tendrils of her hair fell to the floor. Mira’s hands were oddly comforting on her scalp.

‘Go ahead,’ said Mira. ‘Don’t mind me.’

Frieda slid her finger under the gummed flap, then drew out the piece of paper, which she unfolded. She saw the first words – ‘Dear Frieda’ – and at once folded the paper and laid it back on her lap, under her hand. Karlsson. She had recognized the writing at once. Why was Karlsson writing to her and how had he known Josef would be able to find her? She closed her eyes for a few seconds. The scissors were cold against the nape of her neck.

‘All done,’ said Mira. ‘You want to look in mirror?’

‘I’m sure it’s fine.’

‘Very chic.’

‘That sounds good.’ She stood up and removed the towel. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘I just dry it.’

‘No. It’s fine. I can do that.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ She looked across at Josef, who had made himself a cup of tea and found the biscuits in the cupboard. ‘I’m going to read this. Stay there and I’ll come back shortly.’

‘You want me to come?’

‘No.’ She took the letter and, instead of going to her room, went outside with it. There was an area of scrubland near Thaxted House, where a house had been demolished, that was like an alternative garden, with butterflies among the buddleia and weeds and nettles pushing their way out of the cracks in the concrete. She sat with her back against the wall at the far end and opened the letter.

Dear Frieda,

I am going to give this to Josef on the off-chance that he will
know how to get it to you. You may be in danger. Sandy’s sister, Lizzie Rasson, came to see me. She told me that in the last few weeks of his life, Sandy had been urgently trying to contact you because he wanted to warn you. This is all I know. She had no idea why. I think you should take this seriously. Hussein doesn’t know I’m writing this letter or that Josef knows where you are.

 

Frieda – please give yourself up. They’ll find you and things can only get worse. If you go to the police, you’ll be safe. The investigation will continue. I promise.

 

Please take this seriously.

 

Yours, Karlsson

 

Frieda read the letter slowly, carefully. She noticed how formal it was – how he didn’t once make any reference to their shared past and their friendship or draw her attention to what he was risking for her. And he was risking a lot, she knew – his entire career. She put the letter into her pocket and leaned back against the wall, feeling its rough brickwork through her thin shirt. Just as when she had seen him on television, pale and strained beside the commissioner, she felt the impulse to go to the nearest police station and give herself up. Have done with this.

Then she thought of Sandy’s body in the morgue, her name tag on his wrist. She thought of how she had erased all those texts and voicemail messages and emails, not reading them first. If what Karlsson was telling her was true, then she was looking in the wrong direction, or at least thinking in the wrong way about his death. Bridget had said he was scared, but now it seemed that he had been scared for
her
, rather than for himself – or as well as himself, perhaps. Which meant
that his murder was linked to her life as well as his own. Of course she had always known this, because his wallet had been planted in her house and she had been framed. But she had assumed she was a convenient red herring. Now she had to assume that she was a target. She made herself think clearly, sorting through the fragments in her mind. Sandy had been murdered by someone who had tried to frame her. The murderer was not Dean Reeve, as she had at first assumed, because Dean had been far away, punishing Miles Thornton. Sandy had been in a dysfunctional state in the months leading up to his death – missing her and angry with her, treating women badly, feeling guilty, thinking of ending his life, scared by something or someone, sure that Frieda was in danger. Why would she be in danger, if it weren’t Dean? Why would they both be in danger from the same source – or had Sandy been killed simply as a way of getting to Frieda? That thought was so terrible that, for a moment, she stopped thinking and simply sat in the warmth of the dusk, staring at the fading blueness of the sky.

Sandy had been filled with guilt; with guilt and with fear. Why? She forced her mind against the question, as if the pressure of thought would give her an answer. She remembered him outside the Warehouse, shouting something – what? – and flinging the bag of her possessions at her. An idea came to her and she held onto it because she had nothing else, no solid ground.

Josef was still there when she returned. He and Mira and Ileana and another woman, who introduced herself as Fatima, were drinking vodka and he was teaching them a
game that involved lots of slapping down of playing cards and shouting. But when he saw Frieda, he stood up at once and crossed the room to her.

‘It’s fine,’ she said.

‘What can I do now?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Shall I take answer?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘If you see him, say thank you.’

Frank was looking after Ethan the following morning so Frieda didn’t have to collect him until after midday. She went instead to Bridget and Al’s street and, standing a few hundred yards away, called their number. Bridget answered.

‘It’s me, Frieda. I wondered if I could have a quick word with Al. It’s just about things at King George’s that he might be able to help me with.’

‘All right,’ said Bridget. ‘But, Frieda …’ her voice dropped so that Frieda could scarcely make out her words ‘… he still doesn’t know.’

‘Doesn’t know what?’

‘Doesn’t know who you are.’

‘You haven’t told him?’

‘Not yet.’

‘That’s extremely discreet of you. I’d assumed you would tell him.’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Bridget. ‘I don’t know how he’d take it. A nanny who’s wanted for murder.’

‘I can see that.’

‘And he doesn’t know about Sandy’s darkest moments either.’

‘You’re good at keeping secrets,’ said Frieda.

‘I’m good at knowing whose secret it is to tell. Remember that when you talk to Al.’

Al came onto the phone. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s a bit awkward,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m actually outside the
house but there’s something I need to ask you and I’d prefer to do it in private.’

‘What? You’re outside right now?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you don’t want to come in?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I don’t understand this at all, but I was about to go for a run. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

He came jogging towards her with his white shins and knobbly elbows and knees.

‘Bridget says you wanted to know something about Sandy’s job. But why are you interested in that? And why do you want to talk about it out here?’

Al didn’t know who she was and she was at a loss to explain herself to him. ‘I’ve been thinking about Sandy’s murder and some things have come up.’ She was conscious of Al’s nearly colourless eyes on her face as she spoke, and of the tameness of her words.

‘I’m confused,’ said Al, pleasantly. ‘You’re a nanny, right?
Our
nanny. At least, you were.’

‘Yes.’

‘And, for some reason, you want to ask me something about Sandy because you’ve been thinking about his death.’

‘I know about you and Veronica Ellison,’ said Frieda, suddenly. She’d had enough of this charade.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, I know about you and Veronica Ellison.’

He stared at her and she stared back.

‘I’m not even going to answer that,’ he said at last.

‘Sandy had some kind of an affair with Veronica, and then you did.’

‘Your point being?’ he asked. His voice was still perfectly polite.

‘I wondered if Sandy knew about it. Or Bridget.’

‘Did you now?’

‘I can’t ask Veronica. She’s on holiday and not answering her phone. I thought you could tell me.’

‘Are you quite mad?’ he asked. He didn’t say it rudely, more in a tone of amazement. ‘Why on earth should I tell you anything at all about my private life?’

‘Because it might help me understand why Sandy died.’

Al reached into the pocket of his running shorts and drew out a miniature iPod wrapped in its headphones. He started painstakingly untangling it.

‘Does Bridget know?’ repeated Frieda.

He looked up, resting his eyes on her with an expression of disdain. ‘No, she does not. And I hope she never will – unless, for some reason that I don’t pretend to understand, you think it fit to tell her.’ He gave her a curious little smile. ‘Of course, you will have to do what you think is right.’

Frieda thought of the passionate love letters from long ago that she had found in the locked tin in Bridget’s study. But it wasn’t the beautiful Bridget who had the secret to hide, it was her studious, gangly husband. She felt sick with herself but nevertheless asked the next question.

‘Did Sandy know?’

‘I’ve no idea. I assume not. Who would have told him? And what makes you think you have the right to ask me these questions? And now I’m done. And you, my friend, are likely to get into trouble if you go around asking questions like that. Everyone isn’t as understanding as me.’ He put the little buttons into his ears, shutting her off, gave
her a nod, turned his back on her and broke into a slow trot.

That afternoon, Frieda took Ethan to the park. He was in high spirits: he hurled bread at the ducks, and at the playground tumbled from slide to seesaw to swing, where she pushed him high into the air and he screamed in joyous fear. As she lifted him out again and he collapsed into the buggy, she looked at the little boy’s face, in which she could see both Sasha and Frank. She would miss him, she realized. She had got used to the way he slid his hand into hers or fell asleep on her lap with a suddenness that always surprised her.

She gave him his beaker of juice and a biscuit and pushed the buggy out of the park onto the road that led towards Sasha’s house. It was a muggy, overcast day and she was thinking about Karlsson’s letter. She wondered about his children, Bella and Mikey, who had lived in Spain for a long time with their mother and stepfather. She remembered how painfully Karlsson had missed them. He had described it to her as a sharp pain, like something gnawing at him. As she was thinking this, a few drops of rain fell from the sky and there was a low rumble in the distance. She quickened her pace, hoping to get back to the house before the storm. And then she saw the group of young men, boys, really, a few yards ahead of her down the hill, shouting and jostling. It took her a few moments to realize that a figure was lying on the ground in their midst, a man with a thick beard, matted grey hair, grubby clothes. They were taunting him, laughing. One of them picked up an empty beer can and threw it at his head, and from where she stood Frieda heard him cry out in a high,
wavering voice. She saw that other people were looking as well, furtively, not wanting to be involved. Rage, which felt pure and clean after the shameful encounter with Al, rose up in her. She bent down and fastened the safety straps around Ethan, who looked at her with his bright eyes.

‘Ethan, I’m going to run as fast as I can and you’re going to shout as loudly as you can. Your biggest scream. OK?’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

He opened his mouth very wide and emitted a howl that hurt her ears. She took a deep breath and sprinted down the hill towards the group of youths, the buggy bumping wildly as she went. Ethan’s roar became a shriek. The buggy smashed into the first figure and Frieda caught a glimpse of a pimply, startled face. She veered into the next, lifting a fist and aiming it at him. She felt flesh against her knuckles, heard a grunt of pain. The figure on the ground was huddled into a foetus shape, all his pitiful things scattered around him. She swung round again and drove the buggy into a boy in a hoodie, who was staring at her with his mouth open slackly, in an expression of comic surprise.

The group was breaking up. People were arriving from across the street. The man stirred, lifted his head. She saw that he was crying.

‘Christ,’ said a voice, excitedly. ‘You were terrific. Just terrific. How did you do that?’

‘I’ve called the police,’ said another voice. A man came towards her, his mobile in his hand. ‘Someone will be here any minute. I got some of it on my phone.’

‘You can stop screaming,’ Frieda said to Ethan, although the sounds he was making were hoarse and intermittent now.

‘They just ran,’ the man said to Frieda. ‘I should have helped you. But it happened before I had time.’

‘Time to film it,’ a woman said.

‘It’s OK,’ said Frieda. ‘I’ll be on my way now.’

‘But the police will want to talk to you.’

‘You can tell them what happened. You saw it.’ She looked towards the man on the ground, homeless and now beaten up. ‘Make sure he’s OK. Buy him a drink, talk to him.’

‘But –’

Frieda left, pushing the buggy rapidly back up the hill. By the time she reached the top, Ethan had already fallen asleep.

‘I think my child-minding days are coming to an end,’ she said to Sasha, later that evening.

‘You’ve done too much already. I’m interviewing several nannies this week. I’m sure one of them will be fine. I’ve got several days’ leave I can take.’

‘I can do a few more days.’

‘You’ve done enough. I don’t know how I would have managed without you. Ethan will miss you. And so will I.’

‘Right,’ said Frieda. ‘Let’s talk about your story, if anyone asks questions about this.’

Walking away from Sasha’s house, Frieda saw Frank coming towards her. It was too late to cross the road or turn aside, so she just kept moving steadily forward, keeping her expression unconcerned. He seemed tired and sad, his
dark brow furrowed. And he stared right through her without seeing her, as though she didn’t exist. Which was sometimes what she felt herself.

‘Look at this,’ said Yvette Long, flinging a newspaper onto Karlsson’s desk.

He picked it up. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘An active citizen. Good for her.’

‘You’re not looking closely enough.’

He glanced at the headline – ‘Have-a-Go Heroine’ – and then read the story about a woman with a buggy charging at a group of young men who were assaulting a homeless man. And then at the blurred photograph that showed a woman with very short dark hair, wearing bright clothes, running with a buggy.

‘Fuck,’ he said.

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Yvette. ‘And somebody filmed it with their phone. It’s on the website.’

‘Show me.’

Yvette went to her desk and tapped on a keyboard. ‘Here,’ she said.

He clicked the ‘play’ button. Things jerked and blurred and then came into focus. There was a youth with his mouth open wide throwing something and then a figure shot into the frame: a woman running and some unearthly noise coming from the buggy she was pushing in front of her, like a battering ram. For a moment she disappeared as another shape passed in front of her, the face out of focus, and then there she was again, her back to the camera. Then the film stopped. It had lasted about twenty seconds.

‘It could be her,’ he said.

‘It is her.’

He looked again. Yes. And he had a pretty good idea of who had been in that buggy. ‘Bloody Frieda,’ he said, but he felt oddly elated.

A few miles away, there was a call for Commissioner Crawford.

‘It’s from Professor Bradshaw,’ his assistant told him. ‘It’s something to do with Frieda Klein.’

When Sasha opened the door, she didn’t just look nervous, she looked distraught.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Hussein. This is Detective Constable Glen Bryant. Can we come in?’

Sasha didn’t reply. She flicked her hair away from her face.

‘Are you all right?’ said Hussein.

‘Things are difficult,’ said Sasha. ‘I’ve got a little boy.’

‘We know.’

‘And I’ve just lost my childcare, which is irritating.’

Hussein and Bryant looked at each other.

‘Can we come in?’ said Hussein.

Ethan was sitting at a miniature red plastic table drawing with crayons in broad strokes, red and black and brown.

‘What is it?’ said Hussein, but Sasha picked him up before he could answer and sat on the sofa with him on her lap. He started to wriggle and to grab at her hair.

‘I need to put him in his room,’ said Sasha. ‘It’s time for his sleep.’

‘We can wait,’ said Hussein.

Bryant walked around the room, looking at the
bookshelves as Ethan’s protesting cries receded upstairs. He ran his finger along the mantelpiece and inspected it. ‘The house needs a bit of a clean,’ he said.

Sasha came into the room and sat back down on the sofa. Faintly, from upstairs, there was the sound of wailing.

‘So he’s not quite asleep,’ said Hussein.

‘He doesn’t like sleeping,’ said Sasha. ‘Even when he’s tired out of his skull.’

‘What’s he like at night?’

‘The same. I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep for what seems like my whole life.’

‘I’ve been through that,’ said Hussein. ‘You need to leave him to cry and he’ll go to sleep.’

‘I’ve never been able to do that.’

Hussein nodded at Bryant. He took a photograph from the folder he was carrying and handed it to Sasha.

‘That was taken the day before yesterday near Clissold Park,’ he said. ‘A woman intervened in an assault.’

‘That sounds like a good thing to do,’ said Sasha.

‘She left the scene before the police arrived,’ said Bryant. ‘The media are calling her a have-a-go heroine. They’re looking for her. So are we.’

‘Why are you showing it to me?’

‘Look more closely.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you think she looks like Frieda Klein?’ said Hussein.

‘It’s a bit blurry.’

‘People who know her think she does.’

‘But why are you asking
me
?’

‘This mysterious heroine was pushing a buggy.’

‘Well, then,’ said Sasha.

‘What do you mean, “Well, then”?’

‘It can’t be Frieda.’

‘Unless she was looking after someone else’s child,’ said Hussein. ‘And, after all, it’s quite good cover, isn’t it? London’s full of people pushing buggies around. People don’t notice them.’

Sasha didn’t reply. She was scratching the back of her left hand as if she had an itch on it. This was the moment that Frieda had talked about. It seemed like years ago. They had rehearsed what she would say.

‘We’ve talked to people who know Frieda or work with her,’ said Hussein. ‘And you’re the only one with a young child. Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I told you. I’ve got a problem with my childcare.’

‘Who was looking after your child the day before yesterday?’

‘He’s called Ethan.’

‘Who was looking after Ethan?’

‘The nanny.’

‘Can we talk to her?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘Gone where?’

‘Back home. To Poland.’

‘To Poland. What’s her name?’

‘Maria.’

‘Maria what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You had a woman looking after your child and you don’t know her second name?’

‘I was in a crisis, my other nanny had suddenly left. I’d met her in the park. She said she’d stand in for a while. But now she’s gone as well.’