‘So things are better with Frank.’

‘I’m trying to get him to do more.’

The next morning Frieda took the train up to Dalston early and she was in Stoke Newington Church Street at half past nine, an hour before her meeting with Sasha. The road was dotted with cafés. She walked past Black Coffee, then crossed the road to another café, about thirty yards further on. She sat near the window and ordered a black coffee. The café had a pile of newspapers for customers and she took one and opened it on the table in front of her. But she didn’t read it. Instead she gazed out at the street. Once, in what seemed a previous lifetime, she and Sandy had sat in restaurants and, as an amusement or an exercise, they had tried to guess the stories and problems of the people at other tables, what they were doing there. Now, looking at the passers-by on Stoke Newington Church Street, Frieda did it for real. She saw the mothers, in groups, some of them pushing buggies, on their way back from dropping the older children at school. An old woman made her way with agonizing slowness along the pavement with a walker. At one point her walker got stuck where a driveway crossed the pavement. Over and over again she pushed the wheels against the edge of the driveway, and over and over again they wouldn’t quite get over. Frieda could hardly bear just to sit there watching. Finally two boys, who probably should have been in school, helped her over the tiny obstacle.

There was a bus stop right next to Black Coffee and a queue of people waiting. Two old women, one with a shopping bag on wheels. A young woman glancing anxiously at her watch, late for work. A young man, early thirties, bomber jacket, jeans, with earphones. Three teenagers, two boys and a girl. The girl looked like she was the sister of one of the boys. A middle-aged couple, together, but not speaking. He was doing something on his phone; she appeared irritated.

The bus arrived, obscuring the queue. When it left, the two old women had gone. The other woman was still looking at her watch. An old man and an old woman separately joined the queue, alongside two teenage girls. Another bus pulled up and then left. The young woman was gone. Frieda felt absurdly relieved. The two boys and the girl and the two teenage girls were gone. But the man with the earphones was still there. Another bus came and then another and another. Frieda came to see the queue as a kind of organism, permanent and permanently changing its constituent parts, mutating, shedding, accumulating. But the man with the earphones was still there.

Frieda ordered another coffee. On the other side of the road, further along, a car was parked on a yellow line. The light was shining on the windows, so she couldn’t tell whether anyone was inside. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter past ten. She saw the familiar green uniform of a traffic warden. She watched as he approached the car hopefully. Traffic wardens were paid by results, weren’t they? He leaned down towards the car. He seemed to be talking to someone. He moved on without taking action. Across the road, a bus came and went. The man with the earphones was still standing there. If the two of them had been in uniform it couldn’t have been any more obvious.

A young woman brought Frieda’s coffee.

‘Is there a loo here?’ Frieda asked.

‘Through the door at the back,’ said the woman, gesturing.

Frieda turned and walked through the door. Straight ahead of her was the loo door. To the right was a doorway that led to a storeroom, with cardboard boxes and canisters. On the left was a fire door. She pushed at it and found herself in a small side-street. She walked up it, away from Stoke Newington Church Street. After a couple of turns she found herself walking along railings, then went through an opening and into the park. She just hoped that people weren’t still looking for the have-a-go heroine.

Almost without thinking, she headed across the park, then out through the gate on the other side, southwards towards the river. For a time she felt her mind was in a fog that only slowly started to clear. So they had got to Sasha. She tried not to think about it and then she realized it was her responsibility, all of it, so she made herself think about it. She imagined the police interviewing Sasha, threatening her with prosecution and with losing Ethan. Losing her son after having lost her partner. Then she imagined Sasha ringing her, what it must have cost her to lure her friend into a trap. Friend. Even saying the word silently to herself made her feel a pang of guilt. Was this what she did to her friends?

Suddenly she found herself on Blackfriars Bridge, staring at the water. A long open-topped boat passed under her. There was a party on board and some revellers at the back waved up at her and one shouted something she couldn’t make out. Next to them a dark-haired woman was standing alone, without a drink, both hands on the guardrail. Suddenly she looked up and saw Frieda and they seemed to recognize something in each other and then, almost instantly, the boat was too far away and the moment had gone.

Frieda took out her phone. It was tainted now; it would lead people to her. She leaned her hand over the railing and released it. It hit the water with a small splash she saw but couldn’t hear. She stared at the water and suddenly thought of Sandy. This was the river that had taken him and then had given him up. For the first time she thought of the sheer physicality of those days his body had been in the water, carried up and down with the tide, as if he were being breathed in and out.

When she arrived back in the flat she heard voices. She looked through the kitchen door. Ileana and Mira were sitting at the kitchen table. Although it was still early, they were drinking red wine from tumblers and there were the remains of a pizza in a box on the table.

‘There is left for you,’ said Mira. ‘And some of the wine.’

Ileana poured the last of it into a tumbler. It fizzed and bubbled like Coca-Cola. Frieda took a sip. It tasted a bit like Coca-Cola as well. Mira looked at her appraisingly.

‘Hair good,’ she said. ‘Tired also.’

‘Thanks,’ said Frieda.

‘No, no,’ said Ileana. ‘Eat pizza, drink wine, then sleep.’

‘I’ll just make myself some tea.’

‘There is no tea. And there is milk but not good.’ Ileana gave a sniff.

‘I’ll go and get some,’ said Frieda. ‘Do you need anything else?’

It turned out that they did need other things, so many that Frieda had to find an old envelope and write a list.

It took longer than she expected. The list was surprisingly complicated. She twice had to ask the man behind the counter where something was. Each time he sighed, took his headphones off and walked laboriously round the shop. Once he had to climb on a chair, once he went back into a storeroom. Finally Frieda emerged from the shop. It was late afternoon, sunny, warm. But she just wanted to get into bed with a mug of tea. Not to sleep. There was no prospect of that. She just needed silence to process the events of the day.

Almost immediately she felt a nudge and looked round. It was Mira. Frieda was so startled that she didn’t know what to say.

‘Is no good,’ said Mira. ‘Police there.’

‘Where?’

‘In flat.’

Frieda still had difficulty speaking.

‘But how are you here, then?’

Mira seemed out of breath. Frieda couldn’t tell whether it was from physical effort or just the stress of it all.

‘Ileana open door. I hear, go into room, out window. I grab some of your things for you. Not much, I have no time.’

She held out a plastic shopping bag. Frieda took it. It didn’t feel like it had a great deal in it.

‘And this.’ Mira put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a wad of banknotes. ‘Is yours,’ she said.

‘Thank you. But how did you know where it was?’