Friday on My Mind (18 page)

‘I want to take this opportunity to apologize to the public. This woman, Frieda Klein, was at one time employed by us. Her record has been chequered, to say the least, but we could never have anticipated anything like this. All I can say is that we are going to make every effort to bring her to justice. I’ll now hand you over to the very distinguished psychiatrist Professor Hal Bradshaw, who can speak with more authority about Klein’s bizarre behaviour. Professor Bradshaw?’

Bradshaw waited several seconds before speaking, as if in the deepest of thought.

‘I need to be careful,’ he said, ‘because I understand that Dr Klein’ – he said the word ‘doctor’ as if holding it between tongs – ‘is facing a serious criminal charge and I don’t want to prejudice any proceedings. I just want to comment that, based on my long experience in this field, it is all too common that unstable, disordered people are attracted to the field of crime. They try to get involved in investigations. They try to help.’ He put his fingers together into a lattice. ‘The reasons are many and complex and it is hard to say exactly what it was about Dr Klein that caused this behaviour: it could be a narcissistic personality disorder, it could be a need for attention, it could be vanity, it could be greed, it could be neediness, it could be –’

‘But will such things help
catch
her?’ interrupted Hussein, unable to contain herself.

‘If I may say, that’s your job,’ said Bradshaw, and Hussein’s expression became almost as frosty as Karlsson’s. ‘All I will say is that she is in a disordered state, unrooted, homeless. She will probably draw attention to herself before too long.’ The commissioner started to speak but Bradshaw raised a hand to stop him so that he could continue. ‘I just want to say that I must add that Klein has a history of violence when provoked. Or when she feels she is provoked. If people see her, they should be wary of approaching her. By the way, if anyone has further questions, I’ll be available afterwards.’

‘Thank you,’ said the commissioner. ‘Wise words. And now I’d like to bring in Detective Chief Inspector Karlsson. He is not involved in the inquiry but he has worked with Klein and he wants to make a personal appeal. Just in case she happens to see a broadcast of this conference.’

Karlsson hadn’t known that this was how his contribution was going to be framed. Anger flared through him and he set his jaw, then took a deep breath and looked at the bank of cameras. Which direction was he meant to look in? He chose a TV camera.

‘Frieda,’ he said. ‘If you see this, I want you to come back. I know you have your own views about this case.’ He thought for a second. ‘Just as you have your own views about everything. You have to come back and to trust us.’ He paused again. ‘You’ve done valuable work with us and we owe you a lot. The best way –’

‘All right, all right,’ said the commissioner. ‘That’s enough of an appeal. Any questions?’

There was a flurry of questions, mainly directed at Hussein. As they began, Karlsson, whose face was as expressionless as a stone statue, turned very slightly and
caught Yvette Long’s eye. After a few questions, the commissioner wound up the proceedings. As they filed off the stage, he leaned close to Karlsson’s ear and whispered: ‘“Valuable work.” What the fuck was that?’

Karlsson didn’t reply. He edged his way through the dispersing crowd of journalists and met Yvette at the back of the room. He gave her the slightest hint of a wink.

‘One day,’ said Yvette, ‘Bradshaw’s going to offend the wrong person and something bad will happen.’

‘Oh, he’s already done that,’ said Karlsson.

‘But you did mean what you said earlier? That Frieda didn’t do this.’

Karlsson turned to her but he didn’t reply. He just looked tired.

The following day, as they returned from the park where Ethan and Tam had been paddling in the pool and Rudi and Frieda had sat on the grass with a punnet of strawberries watching them, it started to rain heavily, as if the swollen sky had split. They ran, the two children holding on to either side of the buggy, splashing through puddles that seemed to appear in seconds, but were drenched to the skin when they reached the house. It made all but Rudi, who was kept dry by the hood of the buggy, strangely happy. Ethan stood in the hallway and dripped rivulets onto the bare boards, a wide smile on his normally solemn face. Frieda collected towels from the bathroom. She stripped their clothes off and dried each child vigorously until they squealed and wriggled. She sat them on a sofa and covered them with a quilt, then made them hot chocolate that they drank with noisy slurps. Outside the summer rain clattered against the windowpanes and bounced off the road.

Rudi kept tipping forward on the sofa, so she put him in the high chair and gave him some wooden spoons to bang. She regarded him curiously: he was a mystery to her, with his darting eyes, his clutching hands, and the sudden piercing sounds he made. Sometimes she could make out emergent words from the jumble of syllables. What did one-year-olds think about? What did they dream about? How did they make sense of the world, when it came at
them with so many sights and sounds and smells and clutching hands and peering faces? She picked up the spoon he flung across the room and handed it back to him and he glared at her.

Frieda had a spare set of clothes for Ethan in case of accidents, so now she went up to Tam’s bedroom, where she rummaged through drawers, pulling out some trousers and a striped green-and-white top. On her way upstairs she took the opportunity to replace the photos in the box in Bridget’s desk drawer, though she could do nothing about the broken lock, and on her way downstairs she paused by Bridget and Al’s room, hesitating. She could hear Tam and Ethan’s voices, and the bang of Rudi’s spoons. After the last time, when all she had found had been old love letters that nobody should see except Bridget herself, she had told herself she shouldn’t pry any more. But if that was the case, what was she doing, the counterfeit nanny, towing three tiny children around parks and wiping their faces? The only reason she was here was because something about Bridget’s reaction to Sandy’s death had alerted her. So she pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

The large double bed was unmade, and there were clothes tossed onto chairs and lying on the floor. There was a pile of laundry in the corner. There was no wardrobe in here, and dresses and shirts hung instead from the long clothes rack. Most of them were Bridget’s – colourful garments in cotton and silk and velvet. There was an astonishing number of shoes along the floor. The room felt very female, as if Bridget had taken up most of the space, leaving Al just one side of the rumpled bed, and a small table on which sat a pile of books.

She gazed around her. She didn’t know what she was looking for, or where she should look for it. There were tubs of face cream and tubes of body lotion on Bridget’s bedside table, as well as a novel she had never heard of and a dial of birth-control pills; underwear and T-shirts in the chest; make-up and jewellery on the small dressing-table by the window. She pulled open its small drawers, seeing tangled necklaces, hairbrushes, face wipes, several bottles of perfume. She ran her hand along the clothes hanging from the rack, feeling the soft brush of their different textures. Something jangled in the pocket of a scarlet velvet jacket and Frieda put her hand in and pulled out a set of keys. She held them in her hand. Two Chubb keys, two Yale keys, their metal cold against her palm. She heard the bang of Rudi’s spoon and the hammer of rain outside. She put the keys into her pocket and went downstairs again, making sure to close the bedroom door behind her.

Rudi fell asleep and Tam and Ethan played with some wooden bricks and soft toys and mostly Frieda just sat and half watched them. She intervened from time to time – when Tam tried to wrestle a doll from Ethan’s grasp, or when Ethan reached for an exotic and fragile vase on a bookshelf – but mainly her thoughts were elsewhere and the children were just a slightly agitating noise in the background.

Sasha came home very late, when Ethan was already in bed. She had had a tiring day and her face was drawn. Frieda saw how sharp her cheekbones were, how thin her wrists.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Sasha said. ‘I just couldn’t get away. We
had an after-work meeting that went on and on, and all I could think of was that I was –’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Frieda put a hand on Sasha’s arm. ‘Really. That’s why I’m here, so that you don’t have to be anxious all the time. I’ll make you some tea and then I’ll go.’

‘Tea? Wine. Frank’s coming round in about an hour to talk about childcare arrangements.’

‘Just a very quick drink.’

But as they went into the kitchen the doorbell rang, and then the door knocker was rapped hard and Sasha’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘It’s Frank,’ she whispered. ‘He’s the only one who does that.’

‘I thought you said he was coming in an hour.’

‘He’s early.’

The bell and the knocker sounded again.

‘I don’t really want to see him,’ said Frieda.

‘No. I know. Oh dear.’

‘I’ll wait upstairs.’

‘He might be ages.’

‘Then I’ll read a book.’

She went swiftly upstairs, and into the little room that served as a spare room and study. The front door opened and she could hear Frank’s voice greeting Sasha and Sasha replying. There was a book of photographs by a German pre-war photographer on the shelves. She pulled it down and turned the pages slowly, looking at the faces of people who were long dead. She thought about what they must have lived through, those who were posing so calmly for the camera. She had a sudden longing, so sharp it was like a physical blow, for her garret room at home, the sketchpad and soft-leaded pencils, the silence of the rooms and London lying outside, vast and glittering in the night.

Their voices came from the front room but mainly she couldn’t make them out. She heard some of Frank’s phrases: ‘We can’t go on like this’; ‘We have to make arrangements.’ Sasha’s replies, such as they were, were just a murmur through the wall. The voices were raised slightly: ‘I know you’ve been having a hard time, Sasha. You look thin and tired. But it doesn’t need to be like this.’

Frieda tried not to listen. She was used to hearing people’s secrets. It was her job. But now she thought of what she was doing in Bridget and Al’s house, ferreting through drawers, knowing what she shouldn’t know; listening to Frank and Sasha as they talked about their future. She went on looking at the photographs, but still she heard the voices, and she thought about Sandy, his bitterness when they had parted. They, too, had loved each other once, and for her the ending had been like the tide going out, the gradual withdrawing of passion and a sense of a shared future. For him it had been like a blow falling, leaving him wounded, humiliated and confused. For a while, he had become like a stranger to her but now that he was dead she felt close to him again, and full of a terrible sadness for him.

She heard Frank’s voice again, the scraping of a chair. He must be standing up.

‘Yes.’ Sasha’s voice was subdued. ‘I will.’

Then the front door opened and shut, and after a few moments, Sasha called up to her that Frank was gone.

They sat at the kitchen table and drank a glass of wine. Sasha was visibly agitated. She told Frieda that Frank thought they should try again.

‘And what did you reply?’

‘I told him I would think about it.’

‘Is it what you want?’

‘I’m just tired out, Frieda. Just tired out.’

‘I know you are.’

‘I feel all wrong.’

‘In what way?’

‘I can’t say.’ She shook her head from side to side. ‘I can’t explain.’

‘You could try.’

‘You’ve got enough going on in your life as it is. You’ve already done so much to help me.’ She took a large mouthful of her wine. ‘Actually, there’s something I should tell you.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I met up with everyone last night. Reuben and Josef and Jack, Chloë and Olivia.’

‘Oh.’

‘Everyone wants to help you, Frieda. That’s why we met – it was like a meeting that Reuben convened. With great quantities of Ukrainian food, of course, and vodka.’

‘That’s kind,’ said Frieda, neutrally, imagining them all there without her. ‘You didn’t say anything?’

‘No, of course not, although it felt impossible to behave naturally. Jack kept saying: “What would Frieda do?”’

Frieda smiled. ‘Did he? And what
would
Frieda do?’

‘No one knew.’

‘Good.’

It was after ten when Frieda left Sasha. The rain had stopped and the night was cool and clear, with a moon showing above the rooftops. Puddles glistened on the streets and the plane trees dripped. She walked at a steady pace and before long she was on such familiar ground that
she scarcely had to think about where she was going. Her feet took her along streets she knew well, whose names spoke to her of their history, past an ancient church, rows of houses and shops, and then Number 9, the café her friends ran and where she always took her Sunday breakfast. Down into the little cobbled mews. And at last she was there, standing at the dark blue door.

Was this stupid? Yes, almost certainly it was. It was the most stupid thing she could do, but while her head told her to stay away her heart ordered her to go on, and her heart was stronger. The longing in her was great so she took the keys that she’d found in Bridget’s jacket from her pocket. There were two Chubbs and two Yales. She took the smaller Chubb and inserted it into the locks, then one of the Yales, and as she had known as soon as she had seen them, they fitted, turned. The door swung open and she was home.

For a moment, she stood in the hallway and allowed the house to settle around her. It still smelt familiar – of beeswax polish and wooden floorboards and many books, and also of the herbs that she had on her kitchen windowsill. Josef must be watering them for her, as he had promised. A shape slid against her legs and she bent down to stroke the cat that was purring softly, unsurprised by her return. She knew she mustn’t turn on the light, so she made her way into the kitchen to find the torch that she kept there.

Switching it on, she moved from room to room, the cat at her heels like a shadow, taking in everything the torchlight fell on. The chess table, the pieces still there in the pattern of the last game she had played through; the empty hearth and the chair beside it, waiting for her; the large
map of London in the hallway; the narrow stairs taking her up to her room, where the bed was made up with fresh sheets, just as she had left it, and the bathroom where Josef’s splendid bath sat. Up the next, even narrower, flight of stairs and into her garret study. She sat down at the desk, under the skylight, and picked up a pencil. On the blank page of the sketchbook she drew a single line. When she returned, she would make that line into part of a drawing.

She went downstairs once more and shook a small amount of cat food into the bowl and put it on the floor. When the cat had finished eating, it left through the cat flap without a backward glance. She washed the bowl and placed it on the rack where she had found it. Then she turned off the torch, put it back into the drawer and then, just as she was opening her front door, she saw something that, for a moment, stopped her in her tracks, her skin prickling. There was a table just inside the door where she put mail and keys. On it was a small metal box she didn’t recognize, about the size of a thick book. A red light flashed intermittently. It wasn’t hers. It was obviously a sort of camera or sensor and, of course, the police had put it there, as she should have known, if she had thought about it, that they would. Put it there just in case she was stupid enough to come back. She had been stupid enough. She had been so careful and now, with one stroke, she was visible again. She quickly left the house, double-locking it behind her.

But she hadn’t finished yet. She walked through Holborn and then along Rosebery Avenue and left up smaller streets until she came to Sandy’s flat. This, too, she knew to be recklessly foolish. She had learned her lesson and
she didn’t even try to go inside, simply put the Chubb key into the front door and felt it fit and turn. She pulled it out again and put it back into her pocket, then turned away and left. So Bridget had Sandy’s keys, and she had Frieda’s keys as well.

From Islington to Elephant and Castle was a walk she knew well, the first part at least, following the course of the buried, lost, forgotten Fleet River down Farringdon Road to the Thames, then across Blackfriars Bridge. She stopped to lean over the bridge, as she always did, to see the swirling currents of the great river, as if it were fighting against its own flow. Then she turned south and, though it was the middle of the night, there were still people around and taxis and buses and vans. There was never an escape from all of that. It was nearly dawn before she lay down on the narrow bed and closed her eyes and did not sleep.