Karlsson looked at his watch. It was ten past ten and Bridget and Al lived in Stockwell. But he climbed into his car, put the address in the satnav and drove off.

He thought he had rarely met a couple as dissimilar as Bridget and Al: she vivid and dark-haired, with an olive complexion and Italian gestures; he gangly, sandy-haired, drily self-deprecating, the quintessence of a certain kind of Englishness. Karlsson sat in their kitchen and drank tea. He longed for a whisky but he had to drive later and knew, anyway, that he was in the dangerous mood of alert and heady tiredness, which alcohol would only increase.

He explained once again that he was a detective but that he wasn’t there as a detective. He knew that when this was all over – whatever ‘over’ might mean – he would have to think about what he was doing. Not yet.

‘Karlsson, you say?’ Bridget was looking at him speculatively.

‘Yes.’

‘Is that why she called herself Carla?’

‘What?’

‘Karlsson. Carla.’

‘I don’t know about that. I’m sure it was just …’ He found he couldn’t reach the end of his sentence. He lifted his tea in both hands and carried it to his mouth.

‘How can we help you?’ asked Al, politely, as though he were there to ask for directions.

‘I need to find Frieda.’

‘She no longer works for us.’

‘Do you have any idea of where she might be?’

‘No,’ Bridget said. ‘I never knew where she went back to each evening. I knew very little about her, even after I discovered who she was.’

‘I see.’

‘She worked for us,’ said Al, ‘because we knew Sandy. God help us, we let her look after our kids, thinking she was a nanny, when all the time she was conducting her own investigation while being wanted by the police.’

‘She was quite a good nanny, in fact,’ said Bridget. ‘Unorthodox.’

‘I didn’t know what she was up to until yesterday.’ Al cast a glance at Bridget, both rueful and accusing. ‘For a while, I believe she suspected me of being the murderer.’

‘Us,’ corrected Bridget. ‘Yes, she did.’

‘Of killing Sandy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I had his keys,’ said Bridget. ‘And hers as well.’

‘Why?’

‘He gave me a set of his keys and hers were attached. It was as meaningless as that.’

‘And I had a motive,’ added Al. Karlsson couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused. ‘He’d rather shafted me. Professionally, I mean.’

‘Frieda discovered that?’

‘Yes. She found out a lot of things,’ said Al.

‘I liked her,’ said Bridget. ‘Why are you so eager to find her?’

‘Because I think she’s in danger.’

‘Why?’

‘I think that whoever killed Sandy is also after her.’

‘We can’t do anything for you,’ said Bridget. ‘We don’t know where she is. I tried to help her – I gave her names of women Sandy had been involved with. I told her everything about him I thought might be helpful.’

‘Like what?’

Bridget sat very still at the table for a few moments. She didn’t look at Al when she told Karlsson that Sandy used to confide in her, that he had been in a bad way before he died, that she had been scared he would do something foolish.

Al looked shocked. ‘You mean, that he might kill himself?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you never thought to tell me.’

‘It wasn’t my secret to tell.’

‘Even after he’d been murdered.’

‘Especially.’

‘Why was he in such a bad way?’ asked Karlsson.

‘He felt he had made a mess of everything. I think he felt guilty about the way he’d treated various women – hurting them the way he thought he’d been hurt.’

‘By Frieda?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And Frieda visited these women?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who were they?’

‘I know she spoke to Veronica Ellison and Bella Fisk, who both work at King George’s. And then there was the old nanny of Sandy’s sister.’

‘I see. But she didn’t find anything?’

‘By that time, she’d stopped being our nanny. I don’t know what she found.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It’s Sandy’s funeral tomorrow.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m speaking and Al’s doing a reading. “Fear No More the Heat of the Sun”. Do you know it?’

‘I think I heard it at a funeral.’

‘Sandy was scared. Did you know that?’

‘Did he tell you?’

‘He was trying to contact Frieda about it.’

‘You should have told me, Bridget,’ said Al. His face was sharp and pale.

‘Maybe, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.’ She didn’t sound sorry. She looked at Karlsson. ‘And I wish we could help. I hope she’s going to be all right; I hope you find her before someone else does.’

He couldn’t sleep and wondered if this was how Frieda felt when she went on her night walks. Perhaps she was on one right now – he tried to imagine where that would be, what she would be thinking, planning.

Tomorrow Sandy would at last be cremated. Frieda would know that, of course. What would she be doing when at eleven o’clock in the morning the mourners gathered and his coffin was carried into the chapel? His family and friends and colleagues would all be there; the police would be there. Where would Frieda be?

28

‘I’ll be at the service,’ said Hussein. ‘You stay in the grounds. We have three other officers on the perimeters.’

‘She won’t be there.’ Bryant lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

‘We have to see.’

‘She’ll know we’ll be there and looking for her. It’s the very last place she’ll be.’

‘The more I know about Frieda Klein, the more I think that the last place might be the first place.’

‘That sounds a bit biblical.’

‘What? Oh, never mind.’

‘Are you going?’ said Frieda to Olivia, as they drank coffee in the kitchen.

Olivia put her mug down and leaned across the table. ‘Chloë says we shouldn’t, but I think we must, or at least I must. In spite of everything.’

‘Good.’

‘I thought you’d hate the idea.’

‘It’s important to say goodbye.

‘Chloë,’ said Olivia, to her daughter, who came into the kitchen at that moment. ‘Frieda says we should go to the funeral.’

Chloë looked across at Frieda. ‘Don’t you want me to stay with you?’

‘No. But listen, Olivia, there’ll be lots of people there.’

‘I know. The press will come, won’t they? What do you think I should wear? Black? Or is that a bit much?’

‘The police will be there as well.’

‘Why? Oh, right, I understand why.’

‘Will you really be all right?’ asked Chloë. She looked troubled.

‘I will.’

Reuben put on his summer suit and a bright blue shirt. He lent Josef a jacket that was a bit too small for him, and Josef put a rose in its buttonhole, a small bottle of vodka and a packet of cigarettes in its pocket. He polished his boots vigorously and shaved with extra care.

‘She will not come?’ he said to Reuben.

‘Even Frieda wouldn’t be so stupid.’

Olivia and Chloë left at half past nine. Olivia wanted to get a good seat. She wore her long grey skirt, a sleeveless white shirt and lots of silver jewellery; her hair was tied up in a complicated knot that was already unravelling and her nails and lips were painted red. At the last minute she remembered to stuff handfuls of tissues into her bag.

‘I always cry at funerals. Even if I don’t know the person very well – especially if I don’t know them very well – because then you think about your own life, don’t you? God, I could start weeping right now.’ She allowed Chloë to pull her out through the door.

Frieda washed up the breakfast things, then went upstairs to take a shower and dress. She barely had any clothes but Chloë and Olivia had given her several pairs of trousers and a variety of shirts. She picked out the plainest and coolest of them, for the day was going to be warm. She put on her dark glasses and left the house. It was just before ten o’clock. She had plenty of time.