She stood up once more and stared into the patch of night sky the little smeared window gave her. Another name came into her mind and settled there. Dr Ellison. The woman who, Hussein had said, had reported Sandy missing. Who was she? It was at least something to go on, a way to begin, and she pulled on her new unfavourite jacket and went out.

There were several other people at the internet café, all bowed over their computer screens. The room was silent, save for the occasional bleep and hum of the machines, and the light was a sour dim yellow, which made Frieda’s head ache slightly.

First of all she Googled ‘Dr Ellison’. Even when she was only looking for women, there were lots of them, all over the world. She added ‘UK’ and the names dwindled, but there were still too many to be helpful. She pondered, then went to the King George’s website; there was no way to do a search on a Dr Ellison so she started scrolling through the names of staff in each separate department, beginning with the sciences. Nothing in Neuroscience or Neurobiology, Biomedicine, Genetics, Physics or Molecular Biophysics, Chemistry, Environmental Science, Engineering … But suddenly, amid the blur of names, she saw a Dr Veronica Ellison who was a fellow in the Psychology department. She clicked on her name and a face came onto the screen, a woman who was probably about Frieda’s age, blonde, smiling, eyebrows slightly raised as if in surprised enquiry. There was an email address but Frieda didn’t want to email her, so she wrote down the number of the department in her notebook. She would call tomorrow. Although it was the summer vacation, someone would be there to answer calls and would at least pass a message on to Veronica Ellison.

On her way back to her rooms, she met the woman she had seen before smoking on the stairs. She raised her head. She had a bruise under her left eye and a split lip. She nodded at Frieda.

Frieda stopped. ‘I saw you before.’

The woman smiled – a smile that was knowing and rueful and oddly jaunty. ‘Who are you anyway?’ she asked.

Frieda sat beside her on the steps. ‘I’m Carla.’

‘What are you doing in a shithole like this?’

‘Passing through.’

‘That’s what we like to think.’

‘Your face looks sore.’

The woman touched it lightly with the tips of her fingers. ‘That’s nothing. But I could do with a drink.’

‘I have some whisky in my room.’

‘That’ll do.’

Frieda stood up and the woman held out her hand, like a child, to be helped up, then didn’t let go of Frieda’s at once.

‘Carla, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Hana.’ She smiled crookedly again. ‘Just passing through.’

The next morning, just before nine, Frieda walked into the deserted courtyard and called the number for the Psychology department at King George’s and when a woman finally answered, sounding harassed, explained that she needed to contact Dr Veronica Ellison.

‘She’s just come in to pick up some books.’

Frieda was momentarily taken aback. ‘Could I speak to her, then?’

‘One moment.’

Frieda waited several minutes, then a husky, slightly breathless voice said: ‘Hello? This is Dr Ellison. How can I help you?’

‘My name is Carla,’ said Frieda, trying to think of a convincing second name. She looked around and saw the name of the building over the gate. ‘Carla Morris. I am – I was – a friend of Sandy’s. I was hoping I could talk to you.’

‘About Sandy?’

‘I lost touch with him and then I heard about his death. I wanted to talk to someone who knew him.’

‘Why me?’

‘A friend mentioned you,’ said Frieda. ‘He said you’d been worried about him.’

‘Well, yes. I was.’ The woman sounded uncertain.

‘I thought perhaps you could tell me what happened.’

‘Were you and Sandy …?’ Her voice trailed off.

‘He was just a friend, many years ago. But for a while we were close. Now I need to understand what happened.’

‘I don’t know. I’m going on holiday tomorrow morning.’

‘Just fifteen minutes of your time, and I could come to wherever was convenient for you.’

‘All right.’ Now that she had made up her mind, her voice was brisker. ‘Come at midday to the garden centre just off Balls Pond Road. It’s called Three Corners. I’ve no idea why. I have to pick up some plants before I go.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Carla, you say?’

‘Carla Morris.’

‘I’ll be with the climbing roses.’

Frieda had nearly three hours. And the garden centre was about ten minutes’ walk from Sasha’s house. She was anxious about Sasha, and about Ethan. The last sight she had had of him, being pulled along by his implacable nanny, his mouth open in a howl and his dark eyes wet with tears, kept returning to her.

Thirty-five minutes later she was standing in the same position near Sasha’s house as she had been two days before. She knew that Sasha often left for work late, and she thought perhaps she would see her. But there was no sign of her leaving and there was no sign of Christine or of Ethan either. Probably she had arrived too late and no one was there.

Even as she was thinking this, the front door flew open and Sasha emerged, in a sleeveless blue work dress. But she was holding Ethan by the hand and talking into her mobile phone. Frieda could see she was dishevelled and, even from this distance, there was an air of agitation about her. She watched as Ethan skipped and twisted at his mother’s side. Sasha put her phone into her pocket and stopped walking. She put a hand to her throat in a gesture of distress that was familiar to Frieda, then took out the phone once more and made another call. Ethan tugged at her hand.

Frieda put her dark glasses on, buttoned up her bright jacket and walked down the street after them. Now she could hear Sasha talking. ‘No,’ she was saying, and, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know who else to ask.’

‘Sasha,’ said Frieda.

Sasha swung round. She stared, her eyes huge in her pale thin face. Frieda took off her dark glasses.

‘Your hair’s all gone,’ said Ethan.

‘Frieda! Oh, God. What are you doing here? I thought – the police came, you know.’

‘I wanted to make sure you were all right.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘Where’s Christine?’

‘She sent me a text this morning saying she doesn’t want to be a nanny for a single mother. She says it’s more trouble than it’s worth.’

‘Good.’

‘Good? I’m going to lose my job, Frieda, and then what will I do?’

‘Go to work right now. I’ll take care of Ethan. If that’s OK with you, Ethan.’

Ethan nodded and slid his hand into hers.

‘I don’t understand anything,’ said Sasha. ‘And your clothes are weird. Why have you cut off all your lovely hair?’

‘Give me your key and go to work before they miss you. We can talk later. Tell no one.’

‘But, Frieda …’

‘No one. Now go.’

‘Can we play animals?’ said Ethan, once they were alone together.

‘Later. First we’re going to a garden centre, to see the roses.’

He didn’t seem impressed.

15

Almost immediately Frieda asked herself, with a kind of horror, what she had done. Absconding, fleeing from the police, leaving all her friends, living among strangers, cut off from her own life: that was one thing. But this felt much worse. She was walking along the pavement with a two-year-old boy who didn’t belong to her. His father had left him and his mother was almost in a state of collapse. Yet there he was, his warm little hand in hers, entirely trusting. She could be taking him away from his home never to return and there would be nothing he could do about it. And he was so fragile. He could fall over. He could run into something. He could run out into the road. She tightened her grip as a bus passed and she felt the wind blowing against them in waves.