Friday on My Mind (7 page)

Frieda Klein had a single session that afternoon, with Joe Franklin whom she had been seeing for years. She had only to see the set of his face as he entered through the door, the shape of his shoulders, the heaviness of his footfall, to know his mood. Today he was quiet and sad, but not despairing. He talked in a soft, slow voice about the things he had lost to his depression. He told her about the dog he had had when he was a child, a brindled mongrel with beseeching eyes.

Before he left, Frieda said, ‘I may not be able to see you for some time.’

‘Not see me? For how long?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But –’

‘I know that it will be painful for you, and if I could avoid it I would. But I’m going to give you a name. She’s someone I know, and I trust her. I want you to call her tomorrow. I’ll speak to her in advance. And I want you to see her instead of me until I return.’

‘When? When will you return? Why are you going?’

‘Something’s happened.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘I can’t explain now, Joe. But you will be in good hands. We’ve done well together, you and I. You’ve made progress. You are going to be all right.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes. Remember to call that number. And take care.’

She held out her hand. Normally she never made physical contact with her patients, and Joe took it in a kind of bafflement and held it for a moment. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ he said.

Frieda spent the rest of that afternoon phoning patients, cancelling them and arranging for cover. To each, she said the same thing: that her absence would be indefinite. To each she recommended alternative therapists, and she called these colleagues to entrust her patients to their care, until she returned.

Only when she was satisfied that she had left no one uncovered did she go home, walking through the back-streets. She stopped outside the café owned by her friends. She went to it almost every day, but today it was closed and forlorn-looking. A couple of minutes later she was back in the little cobbled mews where her narrow house stood squeezed between the lock-ups on its left, the council flats on its right. She turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, stepping into the cool hallway with the same relief she always felt. But now she saw her house – the living room with its chess table and the fire she lit each day in winter, the bathroom with the magnificent bath her friend Josef had installed without her permission and with a large amount of chaos, the small study under the roof where she sat and thought and made pencil and charcoal drawings – with fresh eyes. She didn’t know when she would see it again.

She made herself a pot of tea and sat with it, the tortoiseshell cat she had unwillingly inherited on her lap, thinking, making a list in her head. There was so much she had to do. For a start, someone would have to feed the cat
and look after her plants. That was simple. She picked up the phone and punched in the number.

‘Frieda, is me. All good?’ He was from Ukraine, and although he had lived in London several years now, his accent was still thick.

‘There’s something I need to ask you.’

‘Ask anything.’ She could picture him laying his large hand over his heart as he spoke.

‘Tomorrow morning I have an appointment with the police. They are going to charge me with Sandy’s murder.’

There was a silence, then a loud bellow of protest. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but certainly threats of violence and pledges of protection were in there.

‘No, Josef, that’s not –’

‘I come now. This moment. With Reuben. And with Stefan too, yes?’ Stefan was his Russian friend, who was large and strong and of dubious occupation. ‘We sort it out.’

‘No, Josef. I do need your help, but not like that.’

‘Then tell.’

‘I need someone to look after the cat and –’

‘The cat! Frieda. You joke.’

‘No. And water the plants. And,’ she continued, over his yelps, ‘there is one more thing I want to ask you.’

She went through her list: first of all, she wrote a long, careful email to her niece Chloë, whom she had kept a close eye on over the years since Chloë’s father – Frieda’s estranged brother David – had left Olivia. Chloë had been a troubled child, a reckless and needy teenager, but was now twenty and had dropped out of studying medicine
and was planning instead to be a carpenter and joiner. She then wrote a much shorter but equally careful email to Olivia, whom she didn’t want to talk to: Olivia would become hysterical, then probably drunk and would want to rush round and weep. She was about to call Reuben but he beat her to it, having been told by Josef what was going on. To her surprise Reuben was calm. He offered to come to the police station with her the next morning but she told him her solicitor wanted to meet her beforehand. He said he would come round at once, to be with her, but she said that she needed to be alone that evening and he didn’t press her. He was steady, consoling, and she was reminded of what a good supervisor he had been to her, all those years ago.

After she had put the phone down she sat for several minutes, deep in thought. No one – not her solicitor, not Karlsson, not Reuben or Josef – had asked her if she had killed Sandy. Did they believe that she had, believe that she hadn’t, not wanted to know or not dared to ask? Or perhaps it was irrelevant: they were standing by her whatever she had or hadn’t done, unconditionally. She stared blindly into the empty fireplace, as if she could find an answer there.

There was one more person she had to tell, and a phone call or email wouldn’t do. Her heart felt heavy.

Ethan’s nanny, Christine, answered the door. Frieda had met her several times before but only briefly. She was tall and vigorous, with strong arms. Her hair was always tied back, then held in place by multiple grips; she seemed very businesslike and strode around the house with an air of purpose. Frieda got the impression that Sasha was
intimidated by her and she wondered what Ethan made of her.

‘Yes?’ said Christine, as if she’d never set eyes on Frieda before. ‘Sasha’s not back yet.’

‘I must be a bit early, then.’

‘No. She’s late. Again.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be here soon. You can leave if you want and I’ll look after Ethan.’

‘That would be good.’

‘It must be harder for Sasha now that it’s just her,’ Frieda said.

‘Tell me about it.’

She opened the door wider and Frieda followed her into the kitchen. Ethan was strapped into his chair. He had bright spots on his cheeks and a mutinous look about him that Frieda recognized.

‘Hello, Ethan. It’s you and me now.’

‘Frieda,’ he said. He had an oddly husky voice for a toddler.

Christine stared from him to the mess on the floor, where his bowl and beaker lay upturned. ‘You’re a bad boy,’ she said, in her cool voice, not angry but implacable.

‘I can take it from here,’ said Frieda. ‘And you should be careful about calling someone bad.’

‘You’re not the one who has to clear up the mess.’

‘I am now. You go home.’

Christine left, then Frieda went across to Ethan and kissed him on his sweaty brow, untied him and lifted him onto the floor. He put his sticky hand into hers. He had Frank’s dark eyes and hair, Sasha’s pale skin and her slenderness; Frank’s determination and Sasha’s sweetness. Frieda had met him when he was less than a day old, a crumpled,
scrawny little thing with a face like an anxious old man’s, changed his nappy (something she’d never done for anyone else’s baby), looked after him when Sasha was too sick and sad to do so, taken him for walks and read to him. He was still a mystery to her.

‘What are we going to do before Sasha gets home?’

Before Ethan had time to say anything, she heard the door bang open.‘I’m so sorry,’ Sasha called. ‘The bus was late.’

Frieda went to the door. Her friend’s hair was dishevelled and her face flushed. ‘Hello, Sasha.’

‘Oh, God, Frieda. I got here as quickly as I could.’

‘It’s fine. You’re just a few minutes late.’

Sasha bent down and lifted Ethan into her arms, but he squirmed impatiently and she put him down. He dropped to his hands and knees and disappeared under the table, which was his favourite place to be. He would stay there for hours, if left to himself, with the tablecloth hanging down to make a kind of enclosure and his miniature wooden animals that he moved around and talked to in a low, urgent whisper.

‘Where’s Christine?’

‘I sent her home.’

‘Was she all right?’

‘Fine,’ said Frieda. ‘Rather brusque.’

‘I’m a bit scared of her when she’s cross.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a very healthy working relationship.’

‘No,’ said Sasha, forlornly. ‘Since Frank left, I always seem to be half an hour late for everything. No wonder she gets impatient.’

‘Let’s have some tea. There’s something I need to tell you.’

Sasha filled the kettle and dropped tea bags into the teapot. Frieda, watching her, was struck by how very beautiful her friend was and how fragile she seemed. They had first met after Sasha had come to see her as a client, in the wake of a disastrous affair with her previous therapist, but later Sasha had helped her professionally, and they had gradually become friends. When Sasha had met Frank, she had been luminously happy for a while, but after Ethan had been born she had suffered from catastrophic post-natal depression and hadn’t quite returned to an even keel since.

‘Frank’s coming in half an hour or so. Thursday’s his evening with Ethan.’

‘I don’t know if I’ll still be here.’

‘You’ll probably want to keep out of his way, after last time.’

Frank was Ethan’s father, Sasha’s ex, and had for a while been Frieda’s friend. But that was before his relationship with Sasha had started to go wrong. For a while, Frieda had stood on the sidelines and watched as her friend had become increasingly dejected and defeated – reminding her of how she had been when they had first met: Sasha had come to her as a vulnerable client. At last, she had told Sasha that she did not have to stay with someone who made her feel worthless; that although it might not feel like it at the moment, she always had a choice. She could choose to stay or choose to leave.

‘I don’t mind meeting him,’ said Frieda. ‘But there mustn’t be any kind of scene in front of Ethan.’

‘Of course not.’ Sasha put a mug of tea in front of Frieda and sat down opposite her. ‘What was it you needed to tell me?’

As Frieda told her, she didn’t seem to understand the words. Her thin face was distraught. Her eyes seemed enormous.

‘How can they think such a thing?’

‘I can see why,’ said Frieda. ‘His wallet hidden in my drawer, for instance.’

‘How did that happen?’

Frieda shrugged. ‘Let’s not go through all of that again,’ she said. ‘The point is, I’m to go to the police station tomorrow morning and I am assured by my solicitor, who seems to know what she’s talking about, that I will be charged.’

‘Then what will happen?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘You don’t have to say anything.’

‘I do.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘You’re my friend, my dearest friend, and you’ve stood by me through thick and thin.’

‘We’ve stood by each other.’

‘You’ve stood by me,’ repeated Sasha, ‘from the moment we met, when you punched my creep of a therapist in the face and ended up in a police cell, to now, when you’ve helped me though my break-up with Frank. I don’t know how I would have coped with all of that, and being a single mother, without you.’

‘You would have coped.’

‘I don’t think so. I can’t just let this happen. Tell me what I can do now. Tell me how I can help you.’

‘You can be all right, you and Ethan.’

‘Frieda, you make everything sound so solemn.’

Frieda smiled. ‘It is quite solemn,’ she said. ‘I’m about to be charged with the murder of a man I once loved.’

‘But you won’t go to court – you won’t be found guilty! They’ll let you go.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Your lawyer –’

‘My lawyer seems very competent. But there’s only so much she can do.’

‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

‘It is rather strange. Like a dream,’ said Frieda. ‘Like the kind of story that happens to other people.’

‘How can you be so calm?’

‘Am I calm? I suppose I am.’

‘I’ll do anything, anything at all. Just say the word.’

‘There is no word. I wish there was. I’m rather tired.’

Sasha took the chair beside her, grasped her hand and held it. ‘At any rate, tell me,’ she said at last.

Frieda looked at her curiously. ‘What?’

‘You know.’

‘You mean, did I kill Sandy?’

Sasha nodded. ‘I would understand if you had. It wouldn’t make me feel differently towards you. But I’d like to think you could tell me.’

‘I could tell you,’ said Frieda. There was a pause. Ethan shuffled under the table; they heard the small clicks of objects being laid down on the tiles.

‘Go on,’ said Sasha.

‘There’s not much I want to say, except for a long time now, I have felt that Sandy should never have met me. His life would have been much happier without me in it. I was to blame for his unhappiness and I hold myself responsible for his death.’

‘Well, we should talk about all of that,’ said Sasha. ‘But you haven’t given me an answer, you know.’

Frieda smiled at her. ‘You’re the only person who’s actually dared ask.’

Suddenly Sasha’s face was very pale. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel –’

And she stopped.

‘What do you feel?’

There was a loud series of knocks on the front door, followed almost immediately by another.

‘That’s Frank,’ said Sasha, standing up. ‘He always knocks like that – impatiently, as if I’m keeping him waiting.’ But she spoke tolerantly.

She went to let him in and Frieda put her head under the tablecloth.

‘Frank’s here,’ she said.

Ethan looked up. His face was very close to hers and she could see herself reflected in his deep brown eyes. ‘Come in my cave,’ he said. ‘It’s safe.’

At twenty-five past nine the following morning, Friday, 27 June, one week after Sandy had been found in the Thames with his throat cut, Tanya Hopkins arrived at the Waterhole café and secured a free table looking out over the canal. It was a beautiful June day, clean and fresh, with the last softness of morning in the air. People walked, ran, biked past the window. Ducks bobbed among the drifts of litter in the glinting brown water.