‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Just a trim, though. Nothing drastic.’

So it was that Josef found her with a towel draped over her shoulders and her wet hair being busily snipped at by Mira.

‘Cut again?’ said Josef, in dismay. ‘But Fr–’ He remembered in time. ‘Is already short. Why more so?’

‘I think Mira feels I could be more stylish. What is it you want to give me?’

Josef reached inside his jacket and drew out the envelope, creased now with smudges of dirt across it.

‘I told nothing,’ he said. ‘Not even that I give it to you.’

‘All right.’ She took the envelope, which was blank, and laid it on her lap. Little tendrils of her hair fell to the floor. Mira’s hands were oddly comforting on her scalp.

‘Go ahead,’ said Mira. ‘Don’t mind me.’

Frieda slid her finger under the gummed flap, then drew out the piece of paper, which she unfolded. She saw the first words – ‘Dear Frieda’ – and at once folded the paper and laid it back on her lap, under her hand. Karlsson. She had recognized the writing at once. Why was Karlsson writing to her and how had he known Josef would be able to find her? She closed her eyes for a few seconds. The scissors were cold against the nape of her neck.

‘All done,’ said Mira. ‘You want to look in mirror?’

‘I’m sure it’s fine.’

‘Very chic.’

‘That sounds good.’ She stood up and removed the towel. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘I just dry it.’

‘No. It’s fine. I can do that.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ She looked across at Josef, who had made himself a cup of tea and found the biscuits in the cupboard. ‘I’m going to read this. Stay there and I’ll come back shortly.’

‘You want me to come?’

‘No.’ She took the letter and, instead of going to her room, went outside with it. There was an area of scrubland near Thaxted House, where a house had been demolished, that was like an alternative garden, with butterflies among the buddleia and weeds and nettles pushing their way out of the cracks in the concrete. She sat with her back against the wall at the far end and opened the letter.

Dear Frieda,

I am going to give this to Josef on the off-chance that he will know how to get it to you. You may be in danger. Sandy’s sister, Lizzie Rasson, came to see me. She told me that in the last few weeks of his life, Sandy had been urgently trying to contact you because he wanted to warn you. This is all I know. She had no idea why. I think you should take this seriously. Hussein doesn’t know I’m writing this letter or that Josef knows where you are.

Frieda – please give yourself up. They’ll find you and things can only get worse. If you go to the police, you’ll be safe. The investigation will continue. I promise.

Please take this seriously.

Yours, Karlsson

Frieda read the letter slowly, carefully. She noticed how formal it was – how he didn’t once make any reference to their shared past and their friendship or draw her attention to what he was risking for her. And he was risking a lot, she knew – his entire career. She put the letter into her pocket and leaned back against the wall, feeling its rough brickwork through her thin shirt. Just as when she had seen him on television, pale and strained beside the commissioner, she felt the impulse to go to the nearest police station and give herself up. Have done with this.

Then she thought of Sandy’s body in the morgue, her name tag on his wrist. She thought of how she had erased all those texts and voicemail messages and emails, not reading them first. If what Karlsson was telling her was true, then she was looking in the wrong direction, or at least thinking in the wrong way about his death. Bridget had said he was scared, but now it seemed that he had been scared for her, rather than for himself – or as well as himself, perhaps. Which meant that his murder was linked to her life as well as his own. Of course she had always known this, because his wallet had been planted in her house and she had been framed. But she had assumed she was a convenient red herring. Now she had to assume that she was a target. She made herself think clearly, sorting through the fragments in her mind. Sandy had been murdered by someone who had tried to frame her. The murderer was not Dean Reeve, as she had at first assumed, because Dean had been far away, punishing Miles Thornton. Sandy had been in a dysfunctional state in the months leading up to his death – missing her and angry with her, treating women badly, feeling guilty, thinking of ending his life, scared by something or someone, sure that Frieda was in danger. Why would she be in danger, if it weren’t Dean? Why would they both be in danger from the same source – or had Sandy been killed simply as a way of getting to Frieda? That thought was so terrible that, for a moment, she stopped thinking and simply sat in the warmth of the dusk, staring at the fading blueness of the sky.

Sandy had been filled with guilt; with guilt and with fear. Why? She forced her mind against the question, as if the pressure of thought would give her an answer. She remembered him outside the Warehouse, shouting something – what? – and flinging the bag of her possessions at her. An idea came to her and she held onto it because she had nothing else, no solid ground.

Josef was still there when she returned. He and Mira and Ileana and another woman, who introduced herself as Fatima, were drinking vodka and he was teaching them a game that involved lots of slapping down of playing cards and shouting. But when he saw Frieda, he stood up at once and crossed the room to her.

‘It’s fine,’ she said.

‘What can I do now?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Shall I take answer?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘If you see him, say thank you.’

24

Frank was looking after Ethan the following morning so Frieda didn’t have to collect him until after midday. She went instead to Bridget and Al’s street and, standing a few hundred yards away, called their number. Bridget answered.

‘It’s me, Frieda. I wondered if I could have a quick word with Al. It’s just about things at King George’s that he might be able to help me with.’

‘All right,’ said Bridget. ‘But, Frieda …’ her voice dropped so that Frieda could scarcely make out her words ‘… he still doesn’t know.’

‘Doesn’t know what?’

‘Doesn’t know who you are.’

‘You haven’t told him?’

‘Not yet.’

‘That’s extremely discreet of you. I’d assumed you would tell him.’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Bridget. ‘I don’t know how he’d take it. A nanny who’s wanted for murder.’

‘I can see that.’

‘And he doesn’t know about Sandy’s darkest moments either.’

‘You’re good at keeping secrets,’ said Frieda.

‘I’m good at knowing whose secret it is to tell. Remember that when you talk to Al.’

Al came onto the phone. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s a bit awkward,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m actually outside the house but there’s something I need to ask you and I’d prefer to do it in private.’

‘What? You’re outside right now?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you don’t want to come in?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I don’t understand this at all, but I was about to go for a run. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

He came jogging towards her with his white shins and knobbly elbows and knees.

‘Bridget says you wanted to know something about Sandy’s job. But why are you interested in that? And why do you want to talk about it out here?’