‘Frieda. You put money behind the mirror.’

‘Yes.’

‘So I find it.’

‘Oh.’ Frieda looked down at the notes, then back again at Mira. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Very much.’

Mira glanced at the bag Frieda was carrying.

‘You keep food? Is OK.’

Frieda just shook her head and handed her the bag.

‘Flat no good now,’ said Mira. ‘You must go.’

‘Yes.’

Mira took Frieda’s free hand, not as though she were shaking it, more like she was restraining her. She pushed Frieda’s sleeve up. Then she took a pen from her pocket, clicked it on her chest and started writing on Frieda’s lower arm. Frieda saw it was a number.

‘You call us,’ said Mira.

‘Some time.’

‘Good luck from us,’ said Mira.

‘Yes. Will you be all right? With the police?’

Mira held up the bag. ‘Fine. I have been shopping.’

25

Frieda walked swiftly, her sunglasses on and her head held high, but she didn’t know where she was going. The police had been waiting for her at the café and they had also tracked her to her new place; everything was closing in on her, all the doors shutting. She briefly thought of calling Josef again, but she no longer had a phone and, anyway, he had done enough, and she couldn’t go to yet another strange and lonely room.

She walked until she had no idea of where she was, in a labyrinth of side-streets and shabby houses. There she stopped and looked inside the bag that Mira had given her. Inside she found her cafetière, the new red skirt that she hated, two shirts, the dark trousers she had bought for June Reeve’s funeral, all the contents of her underwear drawer, the bottle of whisky, which was nearly empty, and a pack of playing cards that didn’t belong to her. And, of course, she still had her money, though it wouldn’t last her long. She let her thoughts rest for a few seconds on what she did not have: her beloved walking boots, a scarf that had been a present from Sandy, her sketchbook and pencils, her toothbrush, her keys … She stood quite still for a moment, with the flat blue sky above her and the hot tarmac under her thin shoes, feeling almost dizzy with the lightness of her life. It was as if she were suspended in space, in time. Then she made up her mind and continued.

An hour and a half later she knocked at the grey door and stood back to wait. When she heard footsteps she removed her sunglasses. The door swung open and Chloë stood in front of her.

‘Yes?’ she said politely. Her hair was cut very short, almost to a bristle, and she had new piercings and a tattoo on her shoulder. ‘Can I help?’ Then she frowned and her mouth slightly opened. ‘Fuck.’

‘Can I come in?’

Chloë reached forward, seized her by the forearm and dragged her across the threshold, slamming the door shut on them both.

Frieda was trying to smile but her mouth felt an odd shape. ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’

The words seemed to take both of them by surprise so that they stared at each other for a few seconds before Chloë threw her arms around Frieda’s neck and hugged her so hard that she could scarcely breathe.

‘I am so happy you’re here,’ said Chloë. There were tears in her eyes.

‘It’s not for long. Just for the night.’

‘Fuck that.’

‘The police are looking for me.’

‘I know that. But they’re not going to find you.’

Frieda felt she had arrived somewhere utterly familiar but that it had become strange and dreamlike: to be here, in this house where she had so often sorted out the chaos of Olivia’s life or cared for Chloë, and where now she was the outcast, the one in need of help.

‘You’ve cut your hair.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s not exactly a foolproof disguise.’

They went into the kitchen, which was in a spectacular state of disorder, but for once Frieda had no impulse to clean it up. She lifted a straw hat and an apple from one of the chairs and sat down in it. ‘Where’s Olivia?’

‘Out for a drink with a new date.’ Chloë gave a snort. ‘She said she’d be back for supper.’

‘I can’t meet the date.’

‘Leave it to me. Let’s have a whisky.’

‘It’s not six yet.’

‘Let me make you something. Scrambled egg? Or a toasted cheese sandwich? I bought one of those toasting machines. I can do it with tomatoes and pickles added, if you want. Or maybe a bath first – would you like a bath? I can run it for you and you just sit here. Just tell me what I can do and I’ll do it.’

‘Just tea. I need to make plans.’

‘Tea. And then you can tell me what’s going on – or maybe you don’t want to. Of course, if you don’t want to, I won’t put pressure on you but I want to say this. I know you didn’t kill Sandy, because you wouldn’t kill anyone and especially not a man you had loved so much – except, of course, I do know that people often kill the ones they love the most. Anyway, I know that if you had killed him, you wouldn’t have gone on the run. I know what you’re like – I know you believe in facing up to things. But if you had killed Sandy …’ She saw the look on Frieda’s face and stopped abruptly. ‘Tea,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’

‘Biscuit?’

‘Just tea.’

‘Right.’

‘And then I think I need to borrow some clothes.’

‘That might be complicated. There’s my grubby black goth clothes or Mum’s drunk ballerina or despairing diva ones.’

‘Something unobtrusive.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. I keep wanting to touch you to see if you’re real.’

Frieda held out a hand and Chloë grasped it. ‘I am real,’ she said, as though she were telling herself.

She drank her tea very slowly, then poured herself another mug. The sun came through the large, smeared windows and lay across the tiled floor. She could hear Chloë running up and down the stairs, and doors slamming. Eventually she returned to the kitchen.

‘I’ve put a pile of clothes in the spare room,’ she said. ‘Take your pick. They might not be quite the thing. I’m afraid the room’s not very tidy. Mum’s been sorting things in there.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Have you made your plans?’

‘I’ll have a shower, if that’s OK, then go out. I’ll be back later.’

‘You’ve only just arrived. What if you don’t come back?’

‘I will.’

‘What if someone sees you?’

‘I’ll make sure they don’t.’

‘I want to come with you.’

‘No, I’ve put enough people at risk.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘I do.’

Chloë stared at her, chewing her lower lip. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ll answer honestly?’

Frieda hesitated. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually.

‘If I was in your position and you were in mine, what would you do?’

‘I really, really hope that could never happen.’

‘But you’d do something, wouldn’t you? Do you believe you can help other people, but no one can help you?’

‘I don’t think I believe that.’ Frieda thought of Mira and Ileana risking themselves to help her, a stranger about whom they knew nothing. She would be in a police cell now, were it not for them.

‘So. I’m going to help you. If you say no, I’ll follow you anyway. Don’t look at me like that. I will! I’m not going to let you go off on your own again.’

Frieda put a hand across her eyes for a moment, thinking. Then she said, ‘OK. I’ll have a quick shower and put on different clothes and then we’ll go.’

‘Where?’

‘I need to fetch something.’

‘That sounds easy.’

‘Unfortunately there’s a problem.’

Frieda pulled off her clothes but as she was about to step into the shower she saw the phone number Mira had scrawled on her forearm. For an instant she thought she should just scrub it off, but something stopped her. She wrapped a towel round her, went back into the spare room, found a pen and some paper, then wrote it down.