Friday on My Mind (25 page)

Frieda sat at the kitchen table. She still felt oddly calm, distant from what was going on around her. Chloë made them all scrambled egg. Olivia drank – from her own glass and Frieda’s and Chloë’s as well – and talked and asked questions that Frieda didn’t answer. The bin bag was at
her feet. She thought of the last time she had seen Sandy. He had hurled it at her, his handsome face wild, and shouted. But what had he said? She couldn’t remember. She should have paid more attention, before it was all too late.

Frieda lifted piles of clothes, books, photo albums off the bed and put on clean sheets. She had a second shower and pulled on the nightdress Olivia had lent her – white, with a ruffled neck, it made her look like a character out of a Victorian melodrama. Then she slid the contents of the bin bag onto the bedroom floor. A bottle of shampoo rolled across the carpet. There was only an inch left in it.

She picked up items, one by one, starting with the clothes. There was some underwear, a thin blue shirt, a pair of grey trousers, a very old jersey in flecked colours. A copper bangle. A small travel chess set. A sketchbook – she opened its pages and saw drawings she had made all that time ago: an ancient fig tree that grew out of the cracked paving near her house, a bridge across the canal, Sandy’s face, unfinished … Body lotion. Two books. Lip balm. A green bowl that she had given to him and he was now giving back, wrapped in newspaper – she was surprised it hadn’t broken. An apron he had bought for her. A hairbrush. A toothbrush. A spiral-bound pad full of notes she had made for a lecture on self-harm. A photograph of herself that he had taken, and used to keep in his wallet. She turned it so that it lay face down. A phone charger. A packet of wild-flower seeds. Hand gel. A slim box of charcoals, broken into fragments. Five postcards from the Tate Modern. She stared at them: there was one in dusty colours of a woman standing looking out of an
open window; stillness and silence. She shook the bag and heard something clink. Pushing her hand inside, she found a pair of earrings and a laminated name tag that she must have worn to some conference.

Frieda sat back on her heels and considered the objects. As far as she could tell, there was absolutely nothing here that was suspicious. Just the remnants of a relationship that had ended: all the happy memories that had become sad.

‘So what did Sophie and Chris tell us about this place?’ asked Hussein. They were driving up the New Kent Road in the early-morning cool. Shops were opening their metal shutters, delivery vans unloading boxes.

Bryant shrugged. ‘They were tipped off anonymously that she was there. But it seemed to be a dead end. Two women – Eastern Europeans – live there and no sign of Klein. That’s all.’

He turned the car up a smaller road and parked outside Thaxted House. They got out; Bryant spat out his chewing gum and adjusted his trousers, then looked around.

‘That’s the one,’ he said, pointing to a door on the ground floor.

‘OK.’

Hussein walked up to it, pressed the bell, which didn’t seem to make a sound, then knocked hard. The door opened on a chain and a segment of face appeared. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Hussein.’ She held up her ID. ‘And this is my colleague Detective Constable Bryant. Can we please come in?’

‘Why?’

‘There are some questions we would like to ask you.’

‘We have already answered questions.’

‘They were preliminary enquiries. We’d like you to answer them again.’

The face disappeared. They heard another voice in the
background, then the door shut again, the chain was dragged across, and it reopened to show two women standing before them. One was tall, with brown hair and eyes that were almost black under a heavy brow; the other was smaller, with a shock of peroxide-blonde hair and blue eye make-up. They both had their arms folded across their chests in an almost identical gesture of resistance.

‘What questions?’ asked the darker woman.

‘As you were told by our colleagues previously, we are looking for a woman.’ Hussein paused for a beat; neither face showed anything at all. ‘We have reason to believe she has been staying here. Her name is Frieda Klein.’

Neither woman said anything.

‘She wouldn’t have been using that name,’ continued Hussein.

‘Like we said, no woman,’ said the darker of the two.

‘Can we have a look?’ asked Bryant.

‘No woman,’ the darker one repeated.

‘Who lives here?’

‘We live here.’

‘And your names are?’

‘Why you want to know?’

‘We’re conducting an investigation,’ said Bryant. ‘We ask the questions and you answer them.’

‘I am Ileana. She’ – she jerked her thumb – ‘is Mira. Enough?’

‘For the time being,’ said Hussein. ‘Are you the only people living here?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many bedrooms do you have?’ asked Bryant.

‘Ah, this is the bedroom-tax question.’

‘No.’ Hussein took another step into the hall.

‘Is because our neighbours don’t like people like us.’

‘It’s because we are looking for a woman called Frieda Klein.’ She took the picture of Frieda from her briefcase and held it in front of them. Neither made a move to take it, just glanced at it without expression. ‘Do you recognize her?’

‘No.’

‘So you’ve never seen her?’

‘Not that I know.’

‘She is wanted by the police for questioning on a very serious charge and we have been told that she is or was staying here.’

‘You have the wrong information.’

The blonde unfolded her arms. ‘Look and see if you don’t believe.’

Hussein and Bryant went into the kitchen first, where they found nothing except pans on the draining board, a well-stocked fridge and half a bottle of vodka on the side, with some playing cards. Then they went into each room. There was a third bedroom, but it was quite empty: just a bed with no sheets on it, a bedside table and a threadbare rug. There was nothing else there at all.

‘Thank you for your help,’ Hussein said politely.

‘If you’re withholding information …’ began Bryant, and Hussein put a hand on his arm.

‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘We’ve taken up enough of their time.’

‘It was just another wild-goose chase,’ Hussein said to Karlsson later. ‘First that bloody farce at the café and now this.’

‘There was nothing at all?’

‘Nothing. Unless you think that wearing make-up at seven in the morning and drinking vodka and washing your dishes is suspicious.’

‘Who did the tip-off come from?’

‘No idea. Maybe it’s like the women said: someone who doesn’t like living next door to women from Bulgaria and Romania. How can someone just disappear?’

‘It’s hard.’

‘Unless she’s getting help.’ And she looked levelly at Karlsson.

He lifted a hand in repudiation. ‘I don’t know where she is, Sarah.’

‘And if you did? If you had an idea?’

‘I believe she should come back and give herself up.’

She rose to go and then at the door stopped. ‘Do you really believe she didn’t do it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you speaking as a police officer or a friend?’

‘Is there a difference?’

But it was as a friend, not a police officer, that he went in the early evening to Thaxted House, parking several streets away and walking there slowly through the evening warmth. When he knocked at the door, there was no reply. He tried to lift up the letterbox, but it was impossible to see anything. There were no lights on and he could hear no sound.

‘What do you want?’ a voice asked behind him. Two women stood there, one dark and one blonde. They were carrying bags, and from where he stood, Karlsson could smell Chinese food.

‘My name’s Malcolm Karlsson and I was hoping you could help me.’

‘We have already spoken to the police. They find nothing.’

‘I’m a friend of Frieda.’

‘We know no Frieda.’ The dark woman fished a key from her back pocket and inserted it into the lock. The door opened onto a dark hallway. ‘Leave.’

‘Fuck this, I know Frieda was here. Whatever name she was using. And I know Josef was also here.’

Neither said anything, but he saw the startled look they exchanged. ‘I sent Josef here with a letter for Frieda. I wanted to warn her.’

‘You?’

‘Yes. Please, can I come in for a few minutes?’

‘Mira?’ said the dark one. Mira gave a minute nod. They stood aside and he passed into the flat.

They sat at the kitchen table on rickety mismatched chairs and the two women took lids off their steaming cartons of food. Karlsson saw the vodka on the side and recognized it as Josef’s brand.

‘Hungry?’ asked Ileana.

No, thank you,’ said Karlsson, although he suddenly was, his mouth watering at the smell billowing from the cartons. ‘I don’t want to get you into any trouble and I understand that you don’t trust me. You’re right to be cautious. I don’t expect you to tell me if Frieda was here. But do you know where she is now? Do you know if she’s all right?’

‘We know no Frieda.’

‘Whatever she called herself.’

Mira took a huge mouthful of rice covered with a red
gloop of sauce, then said thickly, ‘Everyone asking about this person.’

‘What do you mean? Sarah Hussein?’

‘Her. The man with her. The two who came before. But then this other one too.’

‘Someone else came here?’

‘Look.’ Ileana rolled up her sleeve and Karlsson saw a red weal across the lower arm, deepening into a bruise. ‘He do this.’

‘Who did?’

‘Man.’

‘You’re saying someone came here who wasn’t a police officer, asking after Frieda, and he hurt you?’

‘First all nice and charming. Then he hurt and threaten. Always the same threats that people give, that we be thrown out.’

‘I’m sorry. But you don’t know who he was?’

‘Just man,’ Ileana repeated, as if all men were one and the same to her.

‘What did he look like?’

She shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

Mira leaned across the table and said: ‘She mean ordinary.’

‘I mean,
nothing
.’ Ileana glared at Mira.

‘Not tall and not short,’ said Mira. ‘Not fat and not thin. Not ugly and not handsome. Ordinary.’

‘White?’

‘Not not-white.’

‘I see,’ said Karlsson, although he didn’t. ‘What about the colour of his hair, the clothes he was wearing?’

‘Nice jacket,’ said Mira, wistfully.

‘What was his voice like?’

‘Just normal.’

‘Did he have an accent?’

Mira looked at him pityingly. ‘Everyone has an accent, just not the same one.’

Karlsson put the bottle of vodka on the table. Josef filled two shot glasses to the brim. Both men lifted them and tipped the contents down their throats. Josef filled them again.

This time Karlsson only sipped at the vodka. ‘I met Mira and Ileana.’

Josef drained his glass and set it back on the table with a little click. ‘So?’

‘I know that she was there and now she’s gone.’

Josef said nothing. He regarded Karlsson with his soft brown eyes.

‘I need to speak to her, Josef,’ said Karlsson. ‘I think she’s in trouble. Someone’s after her.’

‘Everyone is after her.’

‘Do you know where she is?’

Josef poured a third glass for himself and picked it up, turning it in his calloused hands. ‘No,’ he said eventually.

‘Really?’

‘This is the truth.’ He placed his free hand on his chest. ‘I do not know.’

‘All right. If you find her, or if she finds you, tell her I must speak to her. As her friend.’

Josef looked troubled. He nodded at Karlsson.

‘Thanks. Well, I should be going – is Reuben not here?’

‘He’s at the Warehouse still. Clearing all up.’

‘Clearing what up?’

‘Trouble. Someone broke in. I have mended the window and he stay there late to make sure all safe again.’

‘I’m sorry to hear this. Has he called the police?’

‘No.’

Karlsson didn’t go straight home but drove to the Warehouse instead. He rang at the front door and Paz opened it. Her sleeves were rolled up and she wore her hair tied back from her face. Karlsson thought she looked jangled.

‘I heard you had a break-in.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘Who is it?’ a voice called. Then Reuben came into view. ‘Karlsson. What’s up?’

‘Josef said someone had broken into the Warehouse.’

‘Someone threw a brick through the window. You know, kids today.’

‘Have you called the police?’

He waved his hand airily.

Then Jack Dargan appeared, skidding along the corridor with a cloth in one hand and some cleaning spray in the other. There was a brief silence as he pulled up alongside Reuben and Paz.

‘You might as well tell me,’ said Karlsson.

An almost identical expression of exaggerated bafflement appeared on all three faces.

‘What?’ asked Reuben.

‘It was Frieda, wasn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It was Frieda.’

‘That’s insane. I don’t know what you’re on about.’

Jack pushed his hands through his hair in the familiar gesture, so that it stood up in peaks. ‘Nor do I.’ And he gave a small, wild laugh.

‘This is me,’ Karlsson said.

Reuben raised his eyebrows. ‘I know. DCI Karlsson of the Met.’

‘A friend.’

Reuben gave a soundless whistle. ‘What would your boss make of it?’

Karlsson shrugged. ‘I’m hoping he never has to know.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Paz, crossly. ‘This is stupid. Yes, it was Frieda. Do you want to see?’

‘See?’

‘Come with me.’

She gestured him to the reception desk and clicked on the computer. And there she suddenly was, grainy but unmistakable: Frieda, striding along the corridor towards them. Her head was held up and she seemed quite composed. It was as if she were looking straight at him, through him.

‘Her hair’s very short,’ he said.

‘A disguise, I guess,’ said Reuben. ‘Of sorts.’

‘So why was she here?’

‘See that bag she’s carrying?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re pretty sure that’s what Sandy flung at her when he came round to the Warehouse,’ said Jack. ‘You know about that. He was angry. I’d never seen him like it.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘I looked inside.’ Paz sounded defensive. ‘After she disappeared and the police were everywhere and there was the media attention, I went through her room to make
sure there was nothing –’ She broke off and gave an elaborate shrug, rolling her eyes. ‘You know.’

‘That could incriminate her?’

‘Yes. But it was just odds and ends, things that she had left at Sandy’s. A few clothes, books. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘Do you know where she is now?’

All three shook their heads.

‘She’s getting reckless, though,’ said Jack.

Karlsson nodded. ‘Perhaps she knows that time is running out.’

And – maybe because he had spoken those words out loud, confirming his fears to himself – he still didn’t go home, although he’d been up since six and hadn’t eaten anything since a stale croissant in the canteen. Instead, he drove through the fading light to Sasha’s house in Stoke Newington.