Her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears. The gangly man who had spoken before her put his arm around her shoulders and led her back to her place in the corner. Frieda saw a tall woman with black hair and extraordinary blue eyes put out a hand in comfort.

There were more stories. A man who had played squash with Sandy described his ferocity on court to laughter from the room. An old woman read a poem by John Donne in a voice so quiet people had to strain to hear it. Someone else read out a favourite recipe of Sandy’s in a thick Scottish accent and said he would email it to anyone who wanted it. A woman with tattoos running down both her bare arms said how good he was with kids and a voice called out: ‘Ask Bridget about that. She’ll have stories to tell.’

The black-haired, blue-eyed woman Frieda had noticed before glared. ‘None that I want to share, thank you,’ she said, in a clear voice. ‘Sandy was a private man.’

The atmosphere chilled for a moment. People exchanged awkward glances, but Frieda looked at the woman with interest. She had turned her back and was looking out of the large french windows onto the garden, which was lush and overgrown, with roses in blowsy flower.

A woman came forward holding a violin and introduced herself as Gina. Frieda knew about her, although they had never met. Gina said she and Sandy had been involved a long time ago, and although they hadn’t met for many years, she had wanted to be here to play something for him. She said she had chosen a Bach piece that he had loved. She played it with sinuous skill, apparently in a world of her own. Frieda saw a couple of people pressing their fingers into the corners of their eyes or pulling tissues from their pockets.

Refreshments followed. Young people, whom Frieda guessed to be Sandy’s students, carried trays around with snacks on them. She took a blini with smoked salmon on it and made her way across the room towards the woman who had refused to speak about Sandy. She was talking to Veronica; the gangly man stood beside them. He had a thin, clever face and almost colourless eyes. As she approached, Veronica saw her and beckoned.

‘Hi, Carla,’ she said. ‘These are my good friends Bridget and Al. Al worked closely with Sandy,’ she added.

‘Hello,’ said Frieda. She shook their hands. Bridget was almost as tall as Al, and her strong, vivid appearance contrasted with his pale thinness. She was all colour and form, while he was made up of planes and angles.

‘Carla knew Sandy a long time ago,’ explained Veronica.

Bridget looked at her, taking in her stupid T-shirt and dowdy slacks, her roughly cut hair.

‘You were right, he was a private man,’ Frieda said to her. ‘I always felt he was hard to properly know.’

Bridget frowned and looked away; she wasn’t going to be drawn into reminiscences.

‘In fact,’ said Veronica, after a pause, ‘Carla might be just the person you were looking for.’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Frieda.

‘Carla’s a nanny,’ continued Veronica. ‘Aren’t you, Carla?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Bridget and Al have been let down by theirs and are looking for someone to step into the breach.’

‘That’s right,’ said Al. ‘We have a girl of three and a boy of just one. Are you available?’

‘No.’ She remembered she was Carla here, not Frieda, and added in a more conciliatory tone: ‘Not really.’

‘Not really?’ Bridget raised her thick eyebrows and smirked. She seemed in a jangled and impatient mood. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’m not really available.’

‘Well, if you change your mind, give us a call.’ Al pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket and extracted a card.

Frieda turned away but Veronica followed her to say: ‘Don’t mind Bridget. She’s upset.’

‘Because of Sandy?’

‘They were close. She and Al were the nearest thing Sandy had to a family.’

‘I thought he had a sister.’

‘Well, yes. But Sandy spent a lot of time at Al’s house and the kids were very attached to him too.’

‘I see.’

‘She doesn’t do sad. So she does angry instead. Poor Al,’ she added fondly.

‘Complicated?’ said Frieda. ‘What did you mean by that?’

‘Complicated?’

‘You said Sandy was complicated.’

Veronica seemed discomposed. ‘Nothing in particular. But don’t you feel that events like this don’t really show people the way they were? It’s always “they liked this” or “they were good at that”. We’re all messier than that.’

‘In what way was Sandy messy?’ said Frieda.

‘He could be difficult,’ Veronica said awkwardly, and Frieda felt she couldn’t push any further.

A large man was seated on the spindly piano stool, his dimpled hands rippling delicately over the keys. In the corner Frieda thought she glimpsed Lucy Hall, who had been Sandy’s PA several years ago, but Lucy showed no sign of noticing or recognizing her. Sandy’s cleaner was talking to Ruth Lender; she towered over the tiny professor, and tears were running down her cheeks. Gina was putting her violin back in its case. Frieda considered talking to her but decided against it: what was the point of hearing an old flame’s fond memories?

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a figure with red hair and turned away sharply, staring fixedly out at the garden with her back to the room, not daring to move. She heard Ruth greet him, and Veronica’s voice joined them.

‘Lawn needs cutting,’ said a voice beside her. It was Al.

‘I suppose so. I like it a bit wild.’

Very cautiously she adjusted her position and glanced to her left. The man with red hair was standing near the piano. He was holding a glass of wine and talking to Veronica and Ruth; he seemed hot and a bit agitated. He dabbed a handkerchief against his freckled forehead. She had been right: it was Tom Rasson, married to Sandy’s sister, and someone she had met many dozens of times. The room was emptying and she felt exposed, standing there in her shallow disguise. He had only to look her way to see Dr Frieda Klein, the woman who had thrown over his brother-in-law, who had identified his body, who had run from the police, suspected of his murder, who had turned up with a shorn head to snoop on the people who had become his friends.

‘Let’s have a look at it,’ she said to Al.

She bent down and tugged the lock at the base of the french windows. It came up reluctantly. She yanked at the handles and the doors swung open with an audible snap; warm air gusted into the room. She stepped out into the garden, the grass long around her ankles. It was twilight and she could smell the flowers and the moist earth. Al stepped out after her politely.

‘Do you like gardening?’ he asked her.

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But I like being in gardens.’ She gave him a smile. ‘I ought to be going. Perhaps I can leave this way.’

She went swiftly round the back of the house and through the side gate she’d seen when she arrived, drawing back the stiff bolts to release it, raising her hand in a wave to Al, stepping out onto the pavement, walking away.

17

When Frieda got back to her flat, she sat on the sofa for several minutes. There was no radio to turn on, no music to listen to, no book to take down from the shelf. It was almost restful, except that there were always noises from outside, shouts, the banging of doors, car horns. She really didn’t want to transform this dingy space into anything that resembled a home, and had no impulse to make it into her own territory. But she needed to buy some more things, cleaning stuff, basic supplies. She would do some shopping in the late-night store, fix a meal and make a plan.