As he approached, Frieda turned round. Josef took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. She unfolded it. ‘Is he a friend?’

Josef nodded.

Frieda put the paper into her pocket. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘I come with you to see him.’

‘No. You won’t know where I am. You won’t know how to get hold of me.’

‘But, Frieda –’

‘You must have nothing to hide and nothing to lie about.’ She looked into his woebegone face and relented. ‘If I need you, I promise I will find you. But you must not try to find me. Do you hear?’

‘I hear. Not like, but hear.’

‘And you give me your word.’

He placed his hand over his heart and made his small bow. ‘I give my word,’ he said.

‘Have they been to see you?’

‘The woman. Yes.’

‘I’m sorry. You know, Josef, I’m not good at saying these things …’

Josef held up his hands to stop her. ‘One day we laugh about this.’

Frieda just shook her head and turned away.

11

Frieda walked along the canal and bought a pay-as-you-go phone from a little shop on Caledonian Road. She made the call, then took the Overground through the East End, crossing and re-crossing the canal, looking into back gardens, breakers’ yards, warehouses, allotments. Then the train plunged underground and after a few minutes re-emerged into the light in a different country: South London. Frieda got out at Peckham Rye and needed the map to steer her through residential streets, past a school and under-arch repair shops until she reached the housing estate she was looking for. Each large building had a name: Bunyan, Blake, and then – the one she was looking for – Morris.

A man was standing on the pavement talking on his phone. He looked as if he should have been on a touchline somewhere. He was dressed in trainers, tracksuit bottoms, a yellow football shirt with the name of a utility company across the chest and a black windcheater. He was tall, with long hair tied up in a ponytail, revealing earrings in both ears. One eyebrow was also pierced. He might have had a moustache and a goatee or he might just not have shaved for a few days. He noticed Frieda and held up his free hand in a gesture that greeted her, apologized, told her to wait. He was making complicated arrangements about a delivery. When he had finished he stowed away his phone.

‘By the time you tell them, it’s quicker to do it all yourself.’

The accent was a mixture of South London and Eastern Europe. He held out his hand and Frieda shook it.

‘This way,’ he said, and led her in through the gateway to the courtyard separating Blake from Morris.

‘Friend of Josef?’ the man said. Frieda nodded. ‘Lev.’

‘Frieda. Are you from Ukraine as well?’

‘Ukraine?’ Lev’s face broke into a smile. ‘I am from Russia. But we are like brother and brother.’

‘Yes. I’ve been reading about it in the papers.’

Lev glanced at Frieda with a frown, as if he suspected he was being made fun of, and Frieda suddenly felt that making any kind of fun of him might be a bad idea. Lev led her up a stairwell, one flight, then another, and up to the third level. He walked along the terrace. Flat after flat was bricked up with large, blue-grey breeze blocks.

‘They really don’t want people to get in,’ said Frieda.

Lev stopped and put his hands on the rail, looking out across the space towards Blake House, like a concerned owner. ‘They are pushing the people out,’ he said, ‘then the bricks.’

‘What’s happening to the place?’

‘The far house is empty. Next year they knock down and build. In two years, three years, this house too.’

He continued along the terrace and stopped in front of a door that had been whitewashed but with only a single coat so that the dark paint underneath showed through. Lev produced a key ring with two keys and a small plastic figurine of a naked lady dangling from it. He detached one of the keys and looked at it. ‘I give you the key,’ he said. ‘And you give me …’ He stopped to think for a moment. ‘Three hundred.’

Frieda took a small wad of twenties from her pocket and counted out fifteen. She handed them to Lev, who put them in his pocket without checking them.

‘For the …’ He waved a hand, searching for the word.

‘The expenses?’ supplied Frieda.

‘Some things to pay, yes.’

He unlocked the door. ‘Welcome,’ he said and stood aside to let her in.

Frieda stepped into the little hallway. There was a smell of damp and piss and something else, a rotting sweet smell. It looked as if the flat had been abandoned quickly. Whatever had been hanging on the wall seemed to have been pulled away, leaving cracked and pitted plaster. She turned a wall switch on and off. Good. There was light at least. She put down her holdall and walked around from one room to another. There was a sofa and a table in a living room, a single bed in a back room and nothing at all in the bathroom or kitchen. No table or chair, no pot or pan.

‘Do you own this?’ asked Frieda.

Lev grimaced. ‘Look after,’ he said.

‘And if someone comes and asks me what I’m doing here?’

‘Nobody come probably.’

‘If someone asks, do I mention your name?’

‘No names.’ Lev bent over a portable electric heater in the corner of the living room. He looked up. ‘When you go out, do not have this switch on,’ he said. ‘Is maybe problem. And maybe not when asleep as well.’

‘OK.’

‘You here just three weeks, four weeks?’

‘I guess. Who else lives here?’

‘Only you.’

‘I mean in the rest of the building.’

‘All kinds. Syria now. Romania. Always the Somalis. They come and they go. Except one very old woman, very old. English from long ago.’

‘Is there anything I need to know?’

Lev looked thoughtful.

‘Lock the door always from inside. They sometimes play the music very loud. The ear muffs is good, not the complaining.’

He held out his hand and shook Frieda’s.

‘When I’m done, what do I do with the key?’

He made a contemptuous gesture. ‘Thrown in the bin.’

‘And if there’s a problem, how do I reach you?’

He zipped up his jacket. ‘If there is a problem, the best is to go away to another place.’

‘Shouldn’t I have your number?’

‘For what?’

Frieda really couldn’t think of any reason why. ‘What about the next rent payment?’

‘There is not rent.’

‘Well, thank you, for all of this.’

He shrugged. ‘No, no, this was a thank-you to my friend Josef.’

Frieda didn’t want to think of what Josef might have done for Lev to have earned a favour like this. She hoped it was only some cheap building work.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘goodbye to you.’ He walked to the front door. ‘And now I think of it, maybe not to use the heater any time. Is not so good. And this is summer, so no need.’ And he left and Frieda was alone.

She paced the flat. She stopped in the living room and looked at a corner where the wallpaper was coming away. The whole place felt abandoned, desolate, forgotten. It was perfect.

First things first. She took a notepad and pen from her shoulder bag and made a list. Then she left the flat, locking the door after her, and went down the three flights of stairs, through the courtyard and back onto the street. She retraced her footsteps and soon was on the high street. The sky was a flat blue, making everything look slightly garish.

She went into a pound shop, which was crammed with all manner of apparently random objects. There was an entire section devoted to Tupperware, another to water pistols. Paper plates, bath toys, streamers, several fishing rods, mop heads, bath foam, photo frames and patterned cups; plastic flowers, toilet brushes and sink plungers; kitchenware of all kinds. Frieda selected a pack of paper plates, another of plastic forks and knives, washing-up liquid, lavatory paper, a white mug and a small tumbler, a miniature kettle in lurid pink.