Hussein gave a brief précis of the case, of Frieda Klein’s role as chief suspect and of her disappearance. Yvette barely listened. She knew that conferences like this were partly a charade. She had seen parents asking tearfully for a child to be returned, a husband asking for a witness to the murder of his wife. If a witness came forward, that was good but it wasn’t the only point of the exercise. Almost always the parents or the husband or the boyfriend were suspects and it gave an opportunity to see their demeanour under the spotlight. Was that what this was? Did Hussein think that Karlsson was holding something back?

Hussein finished her statement and Commissioner Crawford leaned forward towards the microphone and said a few words.

‘I want to take this opportunity to apologize to the public. This woman, Frieda Klein, was at one time employed by us. Her record has been chequered, to say the least, but we could never have anticipated anything like this. All I can say is that we are going to make every effort to bring her to justice. I’ll now hand you over to the very distinguished psychiatrist Professor Hal Bradshaw, who can speak with more authority about Klein’s bizarre behaviour. Professor Bradshaw?’

Bradshaw waited several seconds before speaking, as if in the deepest of thought.

‘I need to be careful,’ he said, ‘because I understand that Dr Klein’ – he said the word ‘doctor’ as if holding it between tongs – ‘is facing a serious criminal charge and I don’t want to prejudice any proceedings. I just want to comment that, based on my long experience in this field, it is all too common that unstable, disordered people are attracted to the field of crime. They try to get involved in investigations. They try to help.’ He put his fingers together into a lattice. ‘The reasons are many and complex and it is hard to say exactly what it was about Dr Klein that caused this behaviour: it could be a narcissistic personality disorder, it could be a need for attention, it could be vanity, it could be greed, it could be neediness, it could be –’

‘But will such things help catch her?’ interrupted Hussein, unable to contain herself.

‘If I may say, that’s your job,’ said Bradshaw, and Hussein’s expression became almost as frosty as Karlsson’s. ‘All I will say is that she is in a disordered state, unrooted, homeless. She will probably draw attention to herself before too long.’ The commissioner started to speak but Bradshaw raised a hand to stop him so that he could continue. ‘I just want to say that I must add that Klein has a history of violence when provoked. Or when she feels she is provoked. If people see her, they should be wary of approaching her. By the way, if anyone has further questions, I’ll be available afterwards.’

‘Thank you,’ said the commissioner. ‘Wise words. And now I’d like to bring in Detective Chief Inspector Karlsson. He is not involved in the inquiry but he has worked with Klein and he wants to make a personal appeal. Just in case she happens to see a broadcast of this conference.’

Karlsson hadn’t known that this was how his contribution was going to be framed. Anger flared through him and he set his jaw, then took a deep breath and looked at the bank of cameras. Which direction was he meant to look in? He chose a TV camera.

‘Frieda,’ he said. ‘If you see this, I want you to come back. I know you have your own views about this case.’ He thought for a second. ‘Just as you have your own views about everything. You have to come back and to trust us.’ He paused again. ‘You’ve done valuable work with us and we owe you a lot. The best way –’

‘All right, all right,’ said the commissioner. ‘That’s enough of an appeal. Any questions?’

There was a flurry of questions, mainly directed at Hussein. As they began, Karlsson, whose face was as expressionless as a stone statue, turned very slightly and caught Yvette Long’s eye. After a few questions, the commissioner wound up the proceedings. As they filed off the stage, he leaned close to Karlsson’s ear and whispered: ‘“Valuable work.” What the fuck was that?’

Karlsson didn’t reply. He edged his way through the dispersing crowd of journalists and met Yvette at the back of the room. He gave her the slightest hint of a wink.

‘One day,’ said Yvette, ‘Bradshaw’s going to offend the wrong person and something bad will happen.’

‘Oh, he’s already done that,’ said Karlsson.

‘But you did mean what you said earlier? That Frieda didn’t do this.’

Karlsson turned to her but he didn’t reply. He just looked tired.

19

The following day, as they returned from the park where Ethan and Tam had been paddling in the pool and Rudi and Frieda had sat on the grass with a punnet of strawberries watching them, it started to rain heavily, as if the swollen sky had split. They ran, the two children holding on to either side of the buggy, splashing through puddles that seemed to appear in seconds, but were drenched to the skin when they reached the house. It made all but Rudi, who was kept dry by the hood of the buggy, strangely happy. Ethan stood in the hallway and dripped rivulets onto the bare boards, a wide smile on his normally solemn face. Frieda collected towels from the bathroom. She stripped their clothes off and dried each child vigorously until they squealed and wriggled. She sat them on a sofa and covered them with a quilt, then made them hot chocolate that they drank with noisy slurps. Outside the summer rain clattered against the windowpanes and bounced off the road.

Rudi kept tipping forward on the sofa, so she put him in the high chair and gave him some wooden spoons to bang. She regarded him curiously: he was a mystery to her, with his darting eyes, his clutching hands, and the sudden piercing sounds he made. Sometimes she could make out emergent words from the jumble of syllables. What did one-year-olds think about? What did they dream about? How did they make sense of the world, when it came at them with so many sights and sounds and smells and clutching hands and peering faces? She picked up the spoon he flung across the room and handed it back to him and he glared at her.

Frieda had a spare set of clothes for Ethan in case of accidents, so now she went up to Tam’s bedroom, where she rummaged through drawers, pulling out some trousers and a striped green-and-white top. On her way upstairs she took the opportunity to replace the photos in the box in Bridget’s desk drawer, though she could do nothing about the broken lock, and on her way downstairs she paused by Bridget and Al’s room, hesitating. She could hear Tam and Ethan’s voices, and the bang of Rudi’s spoons. After the last time, when all she had found had been old love letters that nobody should see except Bridget herself, she had told herself she shouldn’t pry any more. But if that was the case, what was she doing, the counterfeit nanny, towing three tiny children around parks and wiping their faces? The only reason she was here was because something about Bridget’s reaction to Sandy’s death had alerted her. So she pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

The large double bed was unmade, and there were clothes tossed onto chairs and lying on the floor. There was a pile of laundry in the corner. There was no wardrobe in here, and dresses and shirts hung instead from the long clothes rack. Most of them were Bridget’s – colourful garments in cotton and silk and velvet. There was an astonishing number of shoes along the floor. The room felt very female, as if Bridget had taken up most of the space, leaving Al just one side of the rumpled bed, and a small table on which sat a pile of books.