Friday on My Mind (27 page)

‘I’ll be at the service,’ said Hussein. ‘You stay in the grounds. We have three other officers on the perimeters.’

‘She won’t be there.’ Bryant lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

‘We have to see.’

‘She’ll know we’ll be there and looking for her. It’s the very last place she’ll be.’

‘The more I know about Frieda Klein, the more I think that the last place might be the first place.’

‘That sounds a bit biblical.’

‘What? Oh, never mind.’

‘Are you going?’ said Frieda to Olivia, as they drank coffee in the kitchen.

Olivia put her mug down and leaned across the table. ‘Chloë says we shouldn’t, but I think we must, or at least I must. In spite of everything.’

‘Good.’

‘I thought you’d hate the idea.’

‘It’s important to say goodbye.

‘Chloë,’ said Olivia, to her daughter, who came into the kitchen at that moment. ‘Frieda says we
should
go to the funeral.’

Chloë looked across at Frieda. ‘Don’t you want me to stay with you?’

‘No. But listen, Olivia, there’ll be lots of people there.’

‘I know. The press will come, won’t they? What do you think I should wear? Black? Or is that a bit much?’

‘The police will be there as well.’

‘Why? Oh, right, I understand why.’

‘Will you really be all right?’ asked Chloë. She looked troubled.

‘I will.’

Reuben put on his summer suit and a bright blue shirt. He lent Josef a jacket that was a bit too small for him, and Josef put a rose in its buttonhole, a small bottle of vodka and a packet of cigarettes in its pocket. He polished his boots vigorously and shaved with extra care.

‘She will not come?’ he said to Reuben.

‘Even Frieda wouldn’t be so stupid.’

Olivia and Chloë left at half past nine. Olivia wanted to get a good seat. She wore her long grey skirt, a sleeveless white shirt and lots of silver jewellery; her hair was tied up in a complicated knot that was already unravelling and her nails and lips were painted red. At the last minute she remembered to stuff handfuls of tissues into her bag.

‘I always cry at funerals. Even if I don’t know the person very well –
especially
if I don’t know them very well – because then you think about your own life, don’t you? God, I could start weeping right now.’ She allowed Chloë to pull her out through the door.

Frieda washed up the breakfast things, then went upstairs to take a shower and dress. She barely had any clothes but Chloë and Olivia had given her several pairs
of trousers and a variety of shirts. She picked out the plainest and coolest of them, for the day was going to be warm. She put on her dark glasses and left the house. It was just before ten o’clock. She had plenty of time.

By twenty to eleven, Hussein had taken up her position at the back of the chapel, and was watching mourners come in. Some of them she recognized: Sandy’s sister, of course, Lizzie Rasson, with her husband and small child, several people from the university that they’d interviewed during the course of their investigation. Then she saw Reuben McGill come in with Josef and also the young man from the Warehouse, she couldn’t remember his name, with wild orange hair. He was wearing striped jeans and a purple shirt. A woman seated near the front turned round and waved them over with extravagant gestures and Hussein recognized her too: Frieda’s sister-in-law, or ex-sister-in-law, there with her daughter.

Gradually the chapel filled up. It was going to be full: soon there would be standing room only. A slender woman and a solid-looking man took a seat across the aisle from her. She recognized Sasha, but not the man.

Frieda walked up Primrose Hill. It was a clear, warm day and she looked down at the zoo and the city beyond, spread out in the sunlight. People lay on the grass, which was already bleached from the summer – it had started early this year. She slid off her shoes and took off her dark glasses. It was eleven o’clock. They would be carrying Sandy’s coffin into the chapel now. What music would be playing? Who would pay tributes? She imagined the rows of mourners and she, who had known him so well, wasn’t
among them. Instead she had come here, where they had so often come together, in all seasons. This was her own private ceremony, but how should she say goodbye to someone she had loved so dearly, left so abruptly, seen descend into a self-destructive and wretched anger?

‘… This is an occasion for people of all faiths and none to say goodbye to Sandy Holland …’

Hussein looked round at the solemn faces. The coffin lay on the catafalque and Lizzie Rasson and her husband sat at the front; she was already sobbing silently. Hussein glanced down at the order of service: Lizzie was supposed to be speaking later; how would she manage to do that?

‘… and to remember him, each in their own way …’

Frieda let herself remember Sandy as he had been when they first met. She summoned him into her mind, image by image: Sandy laughing, Sandy lying in bed, Sandy cooking for her, Sandy as he had been when she had sought him out after their long separation, at his sister’s wedding reception, and the way he had looked at her then. Sandy sitting by her hospital bed, with a stricken face. Sandy standing at her door, returned from the States because she had finally told him about something that had happened to her in her past. And then Sandy angry, baffled, hurt, humiliated, full of jealousy. All of these were him. Only once someone is dead can their many different selves come together.

A striking woman came to the front.

‘My name is Bridget,’ she said, in a clear voice. ‘Sandy was my friend and I loved him. No. I love him. Just because
he’s dead it doesn’t mean he has gone from our hearts. I loved him, but he wasn’t easy, as most of you here will know. I want to tell you all a little story about the first time I met him …’

Hussein half listened to the words, the appreciative ripples of laughter. Frieda wasn’t going to show up. She felt a stab of disappointment because, although she knew it was irrational, she had half believed that Frieda would find a way to say goodbye.

A few people were crying, most of them quietly, but at the front there was a snorting, choking noise that she worked out came from Olivia. Across from Hussein, Sasha had her head on the man’s shoulder and he was patting her tenderly on the back.

She wondered where Karlsson was. She had expected him to be there.

In her head, Frieda said goodbye to Sandy. She told him that she was sorry for all that had happened and that she wouldn’t forget him. She closed her eyes and felt the soft breeze on her face.

‘Hello, Frieda.’

The voice came from behind her. For a moment, she didn’t move but went on looking at the skyline. Then she turned. ‘Karlsson,’ she said.

‘I’ve been looking for you.’

‘How did they know where I was?’

‘They didn’t. I did.’

‘How?’

‘I know that you and Sandy used to come here a lot together.’

‘So now you’re a mind-reader as well as a detective.’

‘May I join you?’

‘Do I have any choice?’

‘Of course. If you tell me to go, I’ll go. But please don’t do that.’

‘You’re not here in …’ she gave a wry smile ‘… an official capacity.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You’re crossing a boundary, Karlsson.’

‘I crossed it some time ago.’

‘It’s what you used to get so angry with me for.’

‘Don’t think I won’t again.’

‘All right, you can join me.’

He sat beside her on the grass, took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘You brought me up here once, many years ago. I asked you to tell me something interesting about what we were looking at and you pointed to the zoo and said that, not so long ago, foxes had got into the penguin enclosure and killed about twenty of them.’

‘About a dozen, I think.’

‘Right. Your hair’s not so bad. I was a bit shocked when I first saw it on the video.’

‘What video would that be?’

‘The one of you breaking into the Warehouse.’

‘Oh.’

‘Which, of course, Reuben kept from the police.’

‘I’m sorry anyone else has to get involved in this.’

‘They’ll catch you soon, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘When they do, it won’t be pretty.’

‘No.’

‘And in the meantime, I think you’re in danger.’

‘I think perhaps I am. I feel that someone is always one step ahead of me.’

‘How can you be so calm?’

‘Am I calm?’

‘The question is, Frieda: what are we going to do?’

She turned her face to him and he felt the brightness of her gaze. Then she touched him very lightly on his arm with the tips of her fingers. ‘I appreciate that “we”.’

They both sat in silence, gazing at the horizon of tower blocks against the blue sky.

‘Will you give yourself up?’ he said at last. ‘It would be better than being caught and we could get you the best legal team there is. I’ve already started making enquiries.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Sarah Hussein is very fair.’

‘I’m sure that’s true.’

‘Where are you living?’

She just shook her head at him.

‘Tell me what to do, Frieda. Now that I’ve found you, you can’t just melt away again.’

‘Just a few more days.’

Karlsson stared straight ahead, at the haze over the city. ‘Promise me something.’

‘What?’

‘Contact me, day or night, if you need my help.’

‘That’s kind of you.’

‘I notice you’re not promising. Do you have a mobile?’

‘I threw it away.’

‘Here.’ He took his jacket from the grass beside him and took his wallet out of its breast pocket, opened it to find a card. ‘Keep this with you. It’s got all my different
numbers on it. And this is my home landline.’ He wrote the number on the back of the card.

Frieda took it. ‘I should go now. I feel a bit exposed here and the funeral must be nearly over.’

Karlsson looked at his watch. ‘Yes. About now.’

Frieda slid her feet into her shoes and put on her dark glasses. She stood and smiled down at him. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, raising her hand in a farewell salute. ‘Thank you, my friend.’

When Karlsson arrived back at his office, Yvette Long was waiting for him. She looked anxious.

‘Glen Bryant called. Hussein wants to see you.’

‘I’ll get back to her.’

‘He said it was urgent.’

‘All right.’

‘Where were you?’

‘I was meeting a contact.’

‘Is there something I should know?’

‘Better not.’

‘Also, a man called Walter Levin came to see you.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘He was a bit vague. I think he was something to do with the Home Office. Grey hair, glasses. Said “super” rather a lot.’

‘I’ve no idea what that would be about.’

‘He left a card.’ Yvette pointed to his desk.

‘I don’t have time for that now.’

Karlsson called Hussein. It was very brief and Yvette watched him until he was finished. ‘I’m going straight over,’ he said, and then he noticed her expression. ‘What?’

‘You’ve cut me out,’ she said.

‘Only for your own good.’

‘She’ll be all right,’ said Yvette. ‘However this turns out.’

‘Are we still talking about Hussein?’

‘This is me,’ said Yvette. ‘Don’t make it into a joke.’

‘I’m not sure she’ll be all right.’

‘What about you?’

‘We’ll see.’

On the car journey over, Karlsson’s head was full of thoughts of what he ought to say, questions he needed to ask. But when he arrived at the station, he wasn’t taken to Hussein’s normal office. Instead, without explanation, the young female officer knocked on the door of a conference room. Then she opened it and stepped aside to allow Karlsson past. There were only two people inside. Right at the far end of the room, at the end of the long table, were DCI Hussein and Commissioner Crawford. So this was what it was all about. As Karlsson closed the door behind him, he felt strangely calm. He walked along the table and sat opposite the two of them. There were a jug of water and glasses on the table. He took one and filled it with water. He looked across the table.

‘No, thank you,’ said Hussein.

The commissioner didn’t reply. Karlsson noticed he was flexing a muscle in his jaw, as if he was forcing himself to remain silent.

Karlsson took a sip from the glass, then placed it carefully on a coaster decorated with the insignia of the Metropolitan Police. A crown on top of a star. A star that looked more like a snowflake. It was like he’d never noticed it before.

‘I’ve just been at the funeral,’ said Hussein. ‘As you know.’

‘Yes.’

There was a pause.

‘I’m expecting you to say something,’ said Hussein.

‘What?’

‘Something like: was Frieda there?’

‘Of course she wasn’t there. I’ve got another question, though.’

‘All right.’

‘Do you seriously believe all of this?’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Hussein.

‘Do you still, having lived with this investigation, believe that Dr Frieda Klein, a qualified doctor, a practising therapist, and a one-time consultant to this police force, murdered her ex-partner, dumped his body in the Thames – oh, and having done that, left a wristband with her own name on it on the body? Do you believe that?’

Karlsson looked at the commissioner. He expected something, a sigh, a snort of derision, but there was nothing. There was a tinge of pink in his cheeks, but that was all. The commissioner looked like a man who had already made up his mind and thought that this meeting was just noises, something he had to sit through.

‘It’s not what I believe,’ said Hussein.

‘Of course it’s what you believe. We’re not machines.’

Hussein shook her head. ‘This feels like my first week at Hendon.’ She banged her fist on the table. ‘You build evidence, you construct a case. If the case isn’t strong enough, then Frieda Klein can defeat it in court. What you don’t do is go on the run. You follow the rules, you obey the law. I’ve been to countries where the police act on their hunches or their personal beliefs and bend the law to fit them. I wouldn’t want to live there. Would you?’

‘This case against Frieda Klein is being pursued by people with a grudge against her.’

‘This isn’t a case against Frieda Klein. When I was put in charge, I’d barely heard of her. And at every stage of
the inquiry, if you – or anyone else – had relevant evidence, then I was willing to hear it. You never gave any.’

‘It’s not just that,’ said Karlsson. ‘The inquiry got too focused on Frieda from the beginning.’

‘That’s the thing. All this talk about “Frieda this” and “Frieda that”. It sounds like you’re defending a friend. That’s not the way policing is meant to work.’

‘She didn’t do it. That’s the simple fact.’

‘This is the Frieda Klein you saw in a police cell after an assault in a restaurant. The Frieda Klein who cut a woman’s throat.’

‘Even Hal Bradshaw never said that was anything but self-defence.’

‘Except that Frieda Klein never admitted to it at all. And even now, while on the run from the police, she has become involved in another brawl.’

‘You mean intervening to prevent a crime?’

‘That’s enough,’ said the commissioner. Karlsson knew Crawford as a man with a temper, but now he was speaking quietly. ‘None of this is relevant. Just for the record, I would like to say that DCI Hussein has conducted this investigation in an exemplary manner.’

‘Shall we wait until it’s over, before we say that?’

Now Crawford’s eyes did flash with anger but he didn’t speak for a few seconds. He looked down at a piece of paper on the table in front of him. With one hand, he adjusted it slightly. When he began to speak, it was slowly and distinctly, like a solicitor reading from a legal document.

‘We have heard that you have been interviewing people concerned with the case. Is that true?’

‘Who have you heard from?’

‘Is it true?’

‘I’ve talked to some people I thought might provide information.’

‘Did you receive authority from DCI Hussein?’

‘No.’

‘Did you file a report?’

‘No.’

Crawford picked up a pen and scratched something on his piece of paper. Karlsson could see that he wasn’t making notes but doodling.

‘Just one more question,’ said Crawford. ‘Have you had any contact with Frieda Klein?’

Karlsson took a deep breath. He had been waiting for this moment. After this, there would be no going back.

‘Yes, I have.’

Both Hussein and Crawford started visibly. But when Crawford spoke, it was in the same restrained tone.

‘Have you seen her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can we get this clear?’ said Crawford. ‘Have you been in touch with a fugitive during a police hunt for her?’

‘No, I saw her today.’

‘Did you inform Hussein?’

‘I’m informing her now.’

‘I’m assuming you didn’t take her into custody.’

Karlsson thought for a moment. ‘I didn’t agree with her decision to …’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘To go it alone.’

‘Go it alone?’ said the commissioner, raising his voice slightly.

‘And I think she’s now in danger from whoever actually did this murder.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You’re suspended, of course. Clearly you’ll be facing disciplinary charges. Now I’ve heard the full extent of your behaviour, I’ll be consulting on the possibility of criminal charges. I don’t need to tell you the consequences of perverting the course of justice.’

Karlsson stood up.

‘I can’t believe you’ve done this, Mal,’ said the commissioner. ‘To yourself. To your colleagues.’

Karlsson reached into his pocket, took out his police badge and tossed it onto the table. ‘I should have done it before,’ he said, and he turned and left the room.