‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘Ileana say you running away from husband.’

‘And what do you say?’

‘I not sure. But now we meet Josef. Interesting man.’

Frieda stood up and started to edge Mira towards the door.

‘You wouldn’t like him,’ she said. ‘He’s Ukrainian.’

Mira looked puzzled. ‘Ukrainian not so bad. Romanian bad. Russian a bit. Not Ukrainian.’

Frieda pushed the door shut.

22

A homeless man had been found kicked to death and left behind a skip near King’s Cross. Karlsson thought it was one of the most depressing cases he had ever dealt with: not just that the man, whose name he didn’t know, had been so mutilated and then discarded like a piece of rubbish, but that there was no one who claimed his body, knew his identity or anything of his life, or cared that he was dead. The victim looked old but the pathologist said he was only about fifty. His possessions, which he had pushed about in a rusty old supermarket trolley, had been scattered nearby and had been found near his body; they consisted of a sleeping bag, some pieces of quilting, a few cans of white cider, a plastic bag of cigarette butts, six used-up cigarette lighters and some dog food, although he hadn’t owned a dog. Nobody had seen anything; nobody knew anything; nobody cared.

He looked at the photographs of his two children, Bella and Mikey, that were on his desk: that man had been a little kid once; a baby who had squirmed and cried and smiled. How did a life go so off the rails? ‘Poor sod,’ he muttered.

There was a knock and Yvette put her head round the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

‘I needed disturbing. What is it? Any new leads from the lads?’

‘No. But it’s not about that. There’s someone who wants to see you.’

‘Who?’

‘A woman called Elizabeth Rasson. I asked her what it was about but she said she only wanted to talk to you. She’s very insistent.’

‘Elizabeth Rasson?’ Karlsson frowned. ‘But that’s –’ He stopped. ‘Never mind. Send her in.’

Lizzie Rasson came through the door in a rush and stopped, looking around her as if unsure of where she was or how she had got there. She was very thin, with a sharp collarbone, and her face wore a dazed expression that Karlsson was familiar with.

‘Mrs Rasson,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

‘Lizzie,’ she said. ‘We met once. Or were in the same room. You won’t remember.’

‘I think I do.’

‘It was a long time ago. I remember you because I don’t usually meet police officers, and also because Sandy really didn’t like you.’

‘Right.’

‘Sandy’s my brother.’

‘I know.’

‘Was. Was my brother. I keep doing that. How long does it take?’

‘To use the past tense, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’ll probably feel strange for a long time.’

‘I’m talking so that I don’t have to say anything, if you see what I mean.’

‘I do. Please.’ He pulled out a chair and she sat down in it abruptly, her long legs folding under her. He saw how bony her shins were.

‘We were very close when we were children – there’s only fourteen months’ difference between us. We drifted apart a bit when we were adults but then this time, when he came back from America, I saw a lot of him. He wasn’t in a good way and he came to our house a lot and, well, we’re family. I was the only family he had, after …’ She bit down on her words, rubbed her face.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘You’re a good friend of Frieda’s, aren’t you?’ Lizzie continued, as if he hadn’t spoken.

‘She’s my friend, yes.’

‘Yes.’ The single syllable was heavy with bitterness. ‘That’s why Sandy didn’t like you. He thought the two of you were too friendly. He was jealous. Especially after it all ended. She treated him very badly, don’t you think?’

‘The ends of relationships are always painful,’ Karlsson said guardedly. ‘And Frieda –’

‘Yes, yes, Frieda’s a special case. Even now. Do you think she killed my brother?’

The directness of the question took Karlsson by surprise. ‘No.’

‘You mean, you don’t think she did.’

‘I mean that she didn’t.’

‘Why? Because she’s your friend?’

Karlsson blinked and pinched the top of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I suppose it comes down to that,’ he said at last.

‘Lucky Frieda, to have such friends. But you don’t sound very much like a detective.’

‘That’s because I’m not a detective in this case. You do understand that I have nothing to do with the inquiry? If you need to know anything, or if you have anything to say, you should speak to DCI Hussein. I can give you her number.’

‘That’s not why I’m here.’

‘Why are you here, then?’

‘I’ve been thinking.’

Karlsson waited.

Lizzie wrinkled her nose and looked into the distance. ‘About the last few weeks of Sandy’s life.’

‘Go on.’

‘He was all over the place. You know Sandy – knew. He was quite controlled, reserved. But not in the time before he died. He kind of unravelled, if that makes sense.’

Karlsson nodded but didn’t speak. The light was flashing on his phone but he made no move to answer it.

‘He’d done something bad,’ said Lizzie.

‘What had he done?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You should speak to Sarah Hussein. It might be important.’

Lizzie made an impatient gesture with her hand. ‘I’m speaking to you. He wasn’t just troubled, he was scared.’

Karlsson leaned forward in his chair. ‘What was he scared of, Lizzie?’ he said softly. ‘Who was he scared of?’

‘No. Not like that. You don’t understand.’

‘Then tell me.’

‘He kept trying to call Frieda.’

‘Yes, I knew that.’

‘But she wouldn’t answer. He called and he emailed and she never replied.’

‘I think she believed that there was nothing to be said.’

‘No. He wasn’t pursuing her – not at the end, anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t think he ever stopped loving her so when he was scared he was frantic to get in touch with her.’ Tears filled Lizzie’s eyes. ‘Frantic,’ she repeated.

‘He was calling Frieda for help?’ asked Karlsson.

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

‘I thought she killed him, so it didn’t matter. But if she didn’t, then I have to warn her, however cruel she was.’

‘Please. You have to be clearer. What are you saying?’

‘He wasn’t scared for himself. He was scared for her. He thought she was in danger.’

Karlsson stared at Lizzie Rasson. He felt a bead of sweat work its way down his temple. ‘Your brother believed Frieda was in danger.’

‘Yes.’

‘He told you that himself?’

‘Yes. But he was drunk when he told me, and when he died and Frieda was OK, I didn’t think it meant anything. Just a wild notion. But now you have to warn her. It’s the last thing I can do for Sandy.’

‘I don’t know where she is. But we need to tell Sarah Hussein.’

‘You have to warn her,’ she said again. ‘Before something terrible happens to her as well.’

After Lizzie Rasson had left, Karlsson picked up the phone and called Hussein, who listened to what he had to say in a silence so complete that he kept having to check that she was still there.

‘What do you think?’ he said, when he had finished, although he left out the part about the need to warn Frieda.

‘I think this is probably a red herring and that Frieda Klein killed her ex and that’s why she’s disappeared. If she was innocent, why would she do that?’