Frieda lifted piles of clothes, books, photo albums off the bed and put on clean sheets. She had a second shower and pulled on the nightdress Olivia had lent her – white, with a ruffled neck, it made her look like a character out of a Victorian melodrama. Then she slid the contents of the bin bag onto the bedroom floor. A bottle of shampoo rolled across the carpet. There was only an inch left in it.

She picked up items, one by one, starting with the clothes. There was some underwear, a thin blue shirt, a pair of grey trousers, a very old jersey in flecked colours. A copper bangle. A small travel chess set. A sketchbook – she opened its pages and saw drawings she had made all that time ago: an ancient fig tree that grew out of the cracked paving near her house, a bridge across the canal, Sandy’s face, unfinished … Body lotion. Two books. Lip balm. A green bowl that she had given to him and he was now giving back, wrapped in newspaper – she was surprised it hadn’t broken. An apron he had bought for her. A hairbrush. A toothbrush. A spiral-bound pad full of notes she had made for a lecture on self-harm. A photograph of herself that he had taken, and used to keep in his wallet. She turned it so that it lay face down. A phone charger. A packet of wild-flower seeds. Hand gel. A slim box of charcoals, broken into fragments. Five postcards from the Tate Modern. She stared at them: there was one in dusty colours of a woman standing looking out of an open window; stillness and silence. She shook the bag and heard something clink. Pushing her hand inside, she found a pair of earrings and a laminated name tag that she must have worn to some conference.

Frieda sat back on her heels and considered the objects. As far as she could tell, there was absolutely nothing here that was suspicious. Just the remnants of a relationship that had ended: all the happy memories that had become sad.

26

‘So what did Sophie and Chris tell us about this place?’ asked Hussein. They were driving up the New Kent Road in the early-morning cool. Shops were opening their metal shutters, delivery vans unloading boxes.

Bryant shrugged. ‘They were tipped off anonymously that she was there. But it seemed to be a dead end. Two women – Eastern Europeans – live there and no sign of Klein. That’s all.’

He turned the car up a smaller road and parked outside Thaxted House. They got out; Bryant spat out his chewing gum and adjusted his trousers, then looked around.

‘That’s the one,’ he said, pointing to a door on the ground floor.

‘OK.’

Hussein walked up to it, pressed the bell, which didn’t seem to make a sound, then knocked hard. The door opened on a chain and a segment of face appeared. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Hussein.’ She held up her ID. ‘And this is my colleague Detective Constable Bryant. Can we please come in?’

‘Why?’

‘There are some questions we would like to ask you.’

‘We have already answered questions.’

‘They were preliminary enquiries. We’d like you to answer them again.’

The face disappeared. They heard another voice in the background, then the door shut again, the chain was dragged across, and it reopened to show two women standing before them. One was tall, with brown hair and eyes that were almost black under a heavy brow; the other was smaller, with a shock of peroxide-blonde hair and blue eye make-up. They both had their arms folded across their chests in an almost identical gesture of resistance.

‘What questions?’ asked the darker woman.

‘As you were told by our colleagues previously, we are looking for a woman.’ Hussein paused for a beat; neither face showed anything at all. ‘We have reason to believe she has been staying here. Her name is Frieda Klein.’

Neither woman said anything.

‘She wouldn’t have been using that name,’ continued Hussein.

‘Like we said, no woman,’ said the darker of the two.

‘Can we have a look?’ asked Bryant.

‘No woman,’ the darker one repeated.

‘Who lives here?’

‘We live here.’

‘And your names are?’

‘Why you want to know?’

‘We’re conducting an investigation,’ said Bryant. ‘We ask the questions and you answer them.’

‘I am Ileana. She’ – she jerked her thumb – ‘is Mira. Enough?’

‘For the time being,’ said Hussein. ‘Are you the only people living here?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many bedrooms do you have?’ asked Bryant.

‘Ah, this is the bedroom-tax question.’

‘No.’ Hussein took another step into the hall.

‘Is because our neighbours don’t like people like us.’

‘It’s because we are looking for a woman called Frieda Klein.’ She took the picture of Frieda from her briefcase and held it in front of them. Neither made a move to take it, just glanced at it without expression. ‘Do you recognize her?’

‘No.’

‘So you’ve never seen her?’

‘Not that I know.’

‘She is wanted by the police for questioning on a very serious charge and we have been told that she is or was staying here.’

‘You have the wrong information.’

The blonde unfolded her arms. ‘Look and see if you don’t believe.’

Hussein and Bryant went into the kitchen first, where they found nothing except pans on the draining board, a well-stocked fridge and half a bottle of vodka on the side, with some playing cards. Then they went into each room. There was a third bedroom, but it was quite empty: just a bed with no sheets on it, a bedside table and a threadbare rug. There was nothing else there at all.

‘Thank you for your help,’ Hussein said politely.

‘If you’re withholding information …’ began Bryant, and Hussein put a hand on his arm.

‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘We’ve taken up enough of their time.’

‘It was just another wild-goose chase,’ Hussein said to Karlsson later. ‘First that bloody farce at the café and now this.’

‘There was nothing at all?’

‘Nothing. Unless you think that wearing make-up at seven in the morning and drinking vodka and washing your dishes is suspicious.’

‘Who did the tip-off come from?’

‘No idea. Maybe it’s like the women said: someone who doesn’t like living next door to women from Bulgaria and Romania. How can someone just disappear?’

‘It’s hard.’

‘Unless she’s getting help.’ And she looked levelly at Karlsson.

He lifted a hand in repudiation. ‘I don’t know where she is, Sarah.’

‘And if you did? If you had an idea?’

‘I believe she should come back and give herself up.’

She rose to go and then at the door stopped. ‘Do you really believe she didn’t do it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you speaking as a police officer or a friend?’

‘Is there a difference?’

But it was as a friend, not a police officer, that he went in the early evening to Thaxted House, parking several streets away and walking there slowly through the evening warmth. When he knocked at the door, there was no reply. He tried to lift up the letterbox, but it was impossible to see anything. There were no lights on and he could hear no sound.

‘What do you want?’ a voice asked behind him. Two women stood there, one dark and one blonde. They were carrying bags, and from where he stood, Karlsson could smell Chinese food.

‘My name’s Malcolm Karlsson and I was hoping you could help me.’

‘We have already spoken to the police. They find nothing.’

‘I’m a friend of Frieda.’

‘We know no Frieda.’ The dark woman fished a key from her back pocket and inserted it into the lock. The door opened onto a dark hallway. ‘Leave.’