‘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.

Tanya Hopkins ordered herself a cappuccino and a pastry. She checked her phone for messages but there was nothing important. She drank the coffee and tore off pieces of pastry. She opened her notebook and put it in front of her on the table. She looked at her phone once more. It was twenty minutes to ten. She pressed Frieda’s number and listened to the ringtone. The call went to voicemail and she left a curt message.

She wrote the date on the top of the page of her notebook and underlined it, finished her cappuccino and thought about ordering another. But, no, she would wait until Frieda arrived. She shaded the letters, then cross-hatched them, and then she crossed them out in impatient black lines.

When she looked at her phone again, it was past a quarter to ten. In fifteen minutes, they were meant to be at the police station. She called Frieda’s number once again but this time left no message. Her irritation had turned to a heavy anger that sat like a stone in her stomach.

At five to ten, she paid and went outside, looking up and down the towpath for her client. She walked up the steps and gazed around. She phoned one last time, without expectation. She waited until three minutes past ten and then she went into to the station and announced herself. She was shown into DCI Hussein’s room.

‘Something must have happened to hold Frieda up,’ she said, in a pleasant voice. ‘We’re going to have to rearrange her appointment.’

Hussein looked at her across her desk. She was very still and her face was grim. ‘So,’ she said at last. ‘You’re not serious?’

10

Commissioner Crawford pointed a quivering finger at the chair and Karlsson sat down.

‘Do you know why you’re here?’

‘I can guess.’

‘Oh, spare me your playacting. Of course you know. Your Frieda Klein has absconded. Disappeared. Buggered off. Gone.’

Karlsson didn’t move. Not a muscle of his face changed. He stared across the large desk into the commissioner’s face, which was so red it was practically steaming. He could see the tidemarks of anger in his neck, above his shirt collar. ‘Did you know? I said, did you know?’

‘I knew that she had gone.’

‘No.’ He banged his fist on his desk so his empty cup shifted and the pens rolled. ‘I mean, did you know she was planning to go?’

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘I know that she has talked to you.’

‘As a friend.’

‘A friend.’ The sneer in Crawford’s voice made Karlsson stiffen; his mouth tightened. ‘We all know about you and Dr Klein.’

‘I talked to her as a friend.’

‘With her solicitor. You were there with her fucking solicitor. Jesus. You are in such shit here, Mal. Up to your neck.’

‘Frieda Klein is a colleague, as well as a friend. We’re supposed to look after our own.’

‘Ex-colleague.’

‘I know you’ve had your differences –’

‘Stop it, Mal. This friend, this colleague, has murdered a man and now she’s run off before we can charge her.’

‘I’m sure there’s an explanation.’ The dull ache behind Karlsson’s eyes had spread and now occupied his entire skull. He thought of Frieda the previous day, how she had hugged him, although they had never touched each other except for a hand on the shoulder, and how she had thanked him. He realized now that she had been saying goodbye, and he heard his words to Crawford through the thud of pain. ‘I trust her,’ he said.

‘Get out of here. If I ever find out that you’ve helped her, in any way, I’ll have your head.’

On his way out he met a grey-haired man, with tortoiseshell glasses, holding a file. ‘It’s Malcolm Karlsson, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Can I help you?’

The man looked thoughtful, as if he were genuinely trying to think of a way in which Karlsson might be able to help him.

‘No, no. Not at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry, who are you?’

‘Oh, don’t mind me. Just visiting.’

Hussein looked across the table at Reuben. Reuben wasn’t looking back at her. They were sitting in the conference room at the Warehouse. One whole wall was glass and it had a view that took newcomers by surprise, looking southward right across the city. On a clear day – and today was a very clear day – you could see the Surrey hills, twenty miles away. After a full minute, Reuben turned to face the detective. ‘I’ve got a patient in a few minutes,’ he said. ‘So if you’ve got any questions to ask, you’d better ask them.’

‘Do you know about the offence of perverting the course of justice?’

‘I know it’s something you’re not meant to do.’

‘It carries a maximum sentence of life imprisonment.’

‘So I’m convinced that it’s serious.’

‘Did you know that a warrant has now been issued for Frieda Klein’s arrest?’

‘No.’

Hussein paused. She looked at Reuben’s face carefully. She wanted to see his reaction to what she was about to say. ‘Do you know that she has absconded?’

‘Absconded? What do you mean?’

‘She was due to report to the police station this morning, along with her lawyer. She didn’t appear.’

‘There’s probably been a mistake. Or an accident.’

‘She went to her bank this morning and withdrew just over seven thousand pounds in cash.’

Reuben didn’t reply. He rubbed his face with his hands, as if he was waking himself up.

‘You seem to be taking this very calmly,’ said Hussein.

‘I was thinking, that’s all.’

‘I’ll tell you what you need to think about. If you’ve helped Dr Klein in any way, if you discussed this with her, then you have perverted the course of justice and you have committed a criminal offence. If you’ve done anything, if you suspect anything, then you need to tell me now.’

Reuben touched the surface of the table very softly with his fingertips.

‘Do you really think she killed Sandy?’ he asked.

‘It doesn’t matter what I think. We built a compelling case and the CPS elected to prosecute.’ She leaned forward across the table. ‘This won’t work, you know. This isn’t the nineteenth century. It’s not even the 1990s. Someone like Frieda Klein can’t just disappear. What she has done is not just against the law, it’s insane. When she’s caught – and she will be – it’s going to be very bad for her and it’s also going to be bad for anyone connected with her. Do you understand?’