Saturday Requiem (16 page)

Then there was the sound of a door opening, closing, footsteps and a violent scrape of a chair being pulled back. And there was a man sitting in the chair opposite her. His forearms were on the table and he was leaning forward. His face stretched and grimaced; his mouth made strange shapes. He was saying her name.

‘Hannah,’ he said. ‘Hannah, do you remember me?’

Hannah stared at him. He came in and out of focus. He lifted a hand and let it fall. He was talking too quickly: his words ran into each other and she could make no sense of the stream of sound.

‘Hannah,’ he repeated. ‘It’s Tom. Tom Morell. Do you remember me? You lived in that house with me. Before. I’m sorry I haven’t come before.’

Hannah didn’t answer. Her expression was dazed.

‘I was scared,’ he said. ‘That’s the truth of it. But I haven’t forgotten about you. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about everything. So sorry.’

There was water on his cheek. Raining outside, raining inside. She put out a finger to touch it.

‘Careful now,’ said a voice from behind her.

‘Can you understand what I’m saying? Hannah? Can you hear? Do you remember?’

Remember? His words bounced inside her skull. His face worked. She closed her eyes. Remember.

The next time Hal Bradshaw meets Mary Hoyle it feels like they’re old friends, slipping into their usual intimacy. By contrast, the two nurses look bored and resentful and tense. One sits close by her, constantly observant.

‘So, what do you make of me?’ Hoyle asks.

‘I was hoping we could work together. People are fascinated by you. I thought you and I might be able to collaborate on a book.’

‘I could do that.’

‘Really? That would be terrific.’

‘After I get out.’

‘I was hoping we could do it straight away. It could be helpful to your case.’

‘It could be helpful. Or it could be unhelpful. You never know.’ There is a new firmness in her tone, but then her expression relaxes. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘I’ve talked to Dr Styles. She says you’re making excellent progress.’

There is a pause.

‘But?’ says Hoyle.

‘People have strong feelings about you, both outside and inside. I mean …’ Bradshaw hesitates. He isn’t quite sure how to put this. ‘Killing those children. And recording it. You know.’

‘I feel like I’m not the person who did that. Obviously I was found unfit to plead. But in my sessions with Dr Styles I’ve taken responsibility for what was done.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ says Bradshaw. ‘But there are naysayers. For example, you mentioned this young woman, Hannah Docherty.’

‘Did I? I don’t remember that.’

‘She was recently involved in a violent incident.’

‘I’m in solitary. I don’t hear about things like that.’

There is a snorting sound from behind her. It comes from the burly nurse sitting by the wall.

‘What’s that?’ asks Bradshaw.

‘You hear things,’ says the nurse.

‘Someone told me,’ says Bradshaw, ‘there was a feeling that this Hannah Docherty had made an enemy of you in some way. That you were out to get her.’

‘Why would I have an enemy?’ says Mary Hoyle.

‘It’s about respect,’ says the nurse. ‘And disrespect.’

‘I’m the one who needs protection. That’s why I’m on my own right now, meeting nobody. What can I do if Moss says things like that about me?’

‘It’s just one man’s opinion,’ says Bradshaw.

‘Ah! So it was Moss.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ says Bradshaw. ‘And it doesn’t matter.’

‘Moss. He shouldn’t be saying things like that.’

Frieda tried to see her friend Sasha once a week. She had been suffering from severe depression. She was vulnerable. Frieda had been concerned about her. But Sasha couldn’t always manage it, and Frieda felt she couldn’t impose herself. This Saturday morning, when they were sitting in Frieda’s living room drinking tea, was the first they had seen of each other for almost a month. Six months earlier she had been briefly in a psychiatric ward, heavily medicated. Frieda tried not to make her feel she was being scrutinized, spied on, but she couldn’t help checking her out. It had been an assessment she had been used to making in her early days as a doctor. Look at the condition of the hair, fingernails, state of cleanliness and neatness, signs of agitation.

Sasha wouldn’t have looked well to someone meeting her for the first time. Her long blonde hair was unkempt, her eyes were dark with tiredness. She fidgeted constantly, rotating the mug of tea on the table, pushing her hand through her hair. Outside it was rainy and windy, and every time the water gusted against the window, Sasha flinched as if it hurt her. But Frieda was reassured. Sasha was better than she had been. More responsive, more alert.

‘You should have brought Ethan,’ said Frieda.

‘Oh, you don’t want a four-year-old running around your house smashing things up.’

‘One of the main rules in life,’ said Frieda, ‘is that you should never own anything that you would mind a four-year-old smashing up.’

‘He’d find something,’ said Sasha. ‘But it’s not that. I’m doing well with him. Except sometimes I can feel people looking at me: is she safe with him? Is she going to lash out at him or forget to feed him? And I’m back at work, for a couple of days a week.’

‘That’s good.’

‘It’s tiring. And Ethan’s tiring. So to sit here and be just us …’ She looked up. ‘It’s all right, you know.’

‘What’s all right?’

‘I haven’t left Ethan home alone. I’ve hired this woman, Mariana. I hand over almost my entire salary to her and she helps with Ethan. And things. So you don’t need to worry about him.’

‘I wasn’t worried. How are your therapy sessions going with Thelma, by the way?’

‘I think she disapproves of me.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

‘I would if I were her. What I wish is that it was like the old days, that I could just talk to you.’

‘You can talk to me,’ said Frieda. ‘You’re talking to me now.’

Sasha put both her hands on the table and drummed her fingers, as if she were playing it, like a piano. ‘I suppose you can’t go to a therapist if one of your problems is that you almost destroyed their life and got them killed.’

‘You never did anything wrong,’ said Frieda. ‘Nothing at all. It wasn’t you who nearly killed me. The reason I’m not your therapist is because I’m your friend. It’s good to see someone from outside your life. You look better, Sasha, you really do.’

‘I don’t know whether it’s me or the pills. I feel out of my head.’

‘What are you taking?’

Sasha rummaged in her pocket and produced a brown plastic bottle and handed it to Frieda. ‘It’s funny,’ she said. ‘I studied SSRIs when I was a post-grad. I was always a bit dubious about them. I never know whether they’re working or whether it’s a placebo effect. Whatever it is, after the last terrible year, I’ll take it. I’ll take anything.’

As Frieda started to reply, she was interrupted by the doorbell. The two women looked at each other.

‘If you’ve organized a surprise party,’ said Sasha, ‘I’m not really in the mood.’

Frieda got up. ‘That’s another good thing,’ she said. ‘You’re getting your sarcasm back.’

She opened the door. A shock hit her like a dull throbbing. Two uniformed police officers and a man in a suit were standing in the doorway.

‘Dr Frieda Klein?’ said the man in the suit.

‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘My name’s Detective Chief Inspector Waite.’

‘Do I know you?’

‘Know me? Why would you ask that?’

‘I’ve met a lot of policemen,’ said Frieda. ‘Over the years.’

‘You’re a doctor,’ Waite began.

‘I trained as a doctor. I’m a psychotherapist.’

‘You’re a psychotherapist,’ said Waite. ‘And you see so many police officers that you have trouble keeping track of them?’

‘That’s right.’

‘We’ll probably get to that in due course.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Frieda. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Can we come in?’

‘If there’s something you want to tell me, I’d rather you just told me.’

‘We want to talk to you. It would be better inside.’

‘I don’t know why you’re being mysterious.’

‘Please,’ said the detective, and stepped forward, so he was almost against her.

Frieda felt as if he was trying to physically intimidate her and her instinctive impulse was to push back. But she didn’t. She knew it would probably just lead to more trouble. ‘All right.’

She stepped aside and the three officers walked down the hall and into the living room, which they seemed to fill. Sasha looked up in alarm. ‘What’s going on?

‘I don’t know.’

Waite looked at Sasha. ‘Could you give us a moment?’

‘It’s all right.’ Sasha stood up. ‘I was just going.’

‘You don’t need to go,’ said Frieda.

‘It’s probably best,’ said Waite.

‘What do you mean?’ said Frieda. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘Shall I call Karlsson?’ asked Sasha.

‘Who’s Karlsson?’

‘Why do you need to know?’ asked Frieda.

‘He’s a detective,’ said Sasha. ‘And he’s a friend of Frieda’s.’

‘It’s all right.’ Frieda put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll ring you later.’

Frieda looked at Sasha with concern as she put on her jacket, fumbling with the zip as if it was an unfamiliar design. When she was done, she came over and hugged Frieda. ‘Are you involved with something?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda.

‘I thought you were done with all this.’

‘It keeps coming back.’

Sasha let herself out, looking small and vulnerable.

‘Is something up with your friend?’ asked Waite.

‘Yes.’

‘Mind if we sit down?’

The two uniformed officers took two of the chairs and put them against the wall, side by side, and sat on them. Waite sat at the table and gestured for Frieda to sit opposite him.

‘Pretty house,’ he said. ‘Psychiatrists must be richer than policemen.’

‘Fifteen years ago this street was derelict.’

‘Nice one. Prime central London location. Good call.’

‘You had something to say.’ Frieda was making an effort to sound calm.

‘I looked your name up. I thought there might be a speeding fine, a court appearance. But you’ve been a busy lady.’

‘I think you’ve got this the wrong way around. If you’ve got something to tell me, then tell me. If you’ve got a question, then ask it.’

Waite leaned forward, his elbows on her table. She could see his face in high definition. His dark hair was pushed back against his head, but it was thin over his scalp. It was really time for him to cut it short, to stop pretending he wasn’t going bald. ‘You know a woman called Erin Brack.’

Frieda paused. She hadn’t been expecting this. ‘Was that a statement or a question?’

Waite frowned, looked across at the two officers, then back at Frieda. ‘You know, usually when I meet respectable members of the public, such as yourself, they’re eager to cooperate. They want to be good citizens. All right. Put a question mark at the end of the sentence. Do you know a woman called Erin Brack?’

‘I’ve met her twice.’

‘In what context?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to be a bad citizen, or whatever it is you call it, but this isn’t how it works. If you’re
investigating a crime, you need to tell me what it is. You can’t just ask vague questions.’

‘Because of what? Because you might give yourself away?’

‘Because it’s how the legal system works.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

‘Force of circumstances,’ said Frieda. ‘It wasn’t my own choice.’

‘You mean when you were on the run?’ said Waite. ‘Or the various crime scenes you’ve been found at?’

‘Yes. Those. So if you want me to answer questions, you need to tell me what this is about.’

‘All right, Dr Klein. Yesterday there was a fire at the house owned by Erin Brack.’

‘What kind of fire?’

Waite continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘When the fire was put out, a body was found. It was the owner, Erin Brack.’

Frieda stared at Waite. ‘She’s dead?’

‘Oh, yes.’

She put both her hands on the table in front of her and looked down at them for a few moments before asking, ‘Was the fire an accident?’

‘Investigations are in progress, but we don’t think so. And when we looked at her phone records, there were calls – repeated and of some duration – over the last few days.’

‘Yes, she called me.’

‘What about?’

For a moment Frieda couldn’t even speak. She thought of poor, clumsy, hopeless, obsessed Erin Brack. What was it she had wanted from life? And what had happened to her? Frieda forced herself to answer. ‘She kept a blog. You can read what she said there.’

‘We know about her blog. That was the first place we
looked. But we want to hear it from you. What did you talk about during those calls?’

Frieda found it difficult to think clearly about this, although she didn’t quite understand why. She had barely known Erin Brack, and she had found her troubling and irritating. The idea that anything could happen to her had never occurred to her.

‘I don’t think I can answer any of your questions,’ she said slowly.

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’ Frieda looked at Waite’s changed expression with a detached sort of interest. She could see that it might have appeared frightening, if she had cared about it at all.

‘This isn’t like …’ Waite stopped. He seemed to have trouble searching for what it was that it wasn’t like. ‘Like something optional. We’re police. We’re questioning you.’

Frieda took a small notebook from her pocket. She wrote on a page, ripped it out and handed it to Waite. He looked at it. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Call him,’ said Frieda. ‘He’ll explain.’

‘What’s this? Phone a friend?’

‘Just call that number.’

‘If you don’t answer our questions, I’m going to arrest you.’

‘What for?’

‘Perverting the course of justice. We can add that to your file.’

‘Just call the number. Then you can decide if you want to arrest me.’

Waite stood up and glared down at her. The other two officers stood up as well.

‘I’ve got a better idea. We’ll put you in a cell. Then I’ll think about calling this number.’ He nodded at the officers. ‘Take her. If she does anything, cuff her. We’ll call it resisting arrest.’