30

Chloë had gone straight to the workshop from the funeral; Olivia had gone to the wake and she would probably be the last to leave, outstaying all of Sandy’s closest friends, sitting into the evening. Frieda was alone in the house in the late afternoon. She made herself a mug of tea and took it out into the overgrown garden to drink it. She knew she was becoming careless about keeping herself hidden, even reckless. Perhaps she almost wanted to be caught: to give herself up, to give up, to yield control. The sun came through the branches of the trees and fell in patterns on her skin. She drank her tea and wondered what she should do next. She felt that she had reached an impasse, in this search and in herself. She had said to Karlsson she needed a bit more time – but time for what? She did not know.

At last she went indoors, washed up her mug and went to her bedroom. She looked at her tiny pile of possessions and imagined her house, all the rooms empty, the cat stepping in and out of the catflap that Josef had fitted. On the floor was the bin bag that Sandy had thrown at her and she pulled the objects out again one by one, folding the blue shirt, the grey trousers and the jersey and adding them to her other clothes, putting the books by the side of her bed, flicking through the sketchbook once more, taking the photo of herself that he used to carry in his wallet and crumpling it in her hand She picked up the apron that he’d given her, thinking she would pass it on to Chloë to use, then heard something rattle faintly in the oversized pocket. She put her hand in to draw out what was there. She looked into the palm of her hand and for a while was absolutely still.

Had she known all the time? Had all her labour, all her searching and running, been so that she wouldn’t have to know what she had always really known? She couldn’t tell. The understanding settled in her, like something cold and heavy. Outside, all the sounds of the summer day continued, the cars and voices and laughter and music playing through open windows, and inside it was silent.

Karlsson went home. He went from room to room. In the children’s room, he adjusted the covers on the beds as if they were about to arrive. He went into his garden where the sun was now low in the clear sky and smoked a cigarette, with his eyes closed, listening to the blackbird that had built its nest in the tangle of bushes near the back wall. He was no longer a police officer. So what was he? Who was he?

He pulled on his running things, put a key into his pocket and set off, running hard, wanting to tire himself out and to empty his mind of thoughts. But a thought came to him and he couldn’t let it go or it wouldn’t let him go. He stopped in the park and made himself concentrate. The person who had been to see Mira and Ileana, who had threatened them, had been a man. They hadn’t been able to describe him, but this man must have been the one who had tipped off the commissioner or Hussein. Who would have done that? Who would have known enough about Frieda and about him to have gone to the top to shaft him and further isolate her? Who hated them enough to do that, with a personal and intimate hatred? An image came into his mind and he didn’t understand why he had never thought of it before. That was who it must have been.

He ran back to his house, so hard it left a pain in his side. After a brief cold shower he pulled on a pair of jeans and an old shirt – clothes that in no way resembled the ones he had worn as a detective chief inspector. He turned on his laptop and went to Google Images, then printed out a sympathetically smiling photograph. Forty minutes later he was knocking at the door of Mira and Ileana’s flat.

‘They’re not here,’ said a voice behind him, and he turned to see an old man in a wheelchair, folded and neatly pinned trousers where his legs used to be, and a small dog sitting on his lap. ‘They both went out.’

Why had he assumed they would be there, waiting for him? ‘Do you have any idea of when they’ll be back?’

‘No.’

‘Thanks anyway.’

‘The blonde one sometimes works in the salon on the high street. It stays open until seven or eight. She might be there.’

‘Salon?’ asked Karlsson, stupidly.

‘Hairdresser,’ said the man, making a snipping movement with his fingers. ‘Just a few minutes away. Next to the flower shop.’

‘Thank you.’

He half ran there, not knowing why it seemed so urgent to him. Through the window he could see Mira standing over a middle-aged woman, scissors in hand, so he pushed the door open and went in. It was a tiny place, with just two sinks, and an old-fashioned dryer standing like a beehive in the corner.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said to Mira.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I needed to ask you something.’

‘I’ll be done in ten minutes.’

‘It’s important.’

Mira patted the woman on her shoulder apologetically and turned towards Karlsson. He pulled out the photograph of Hal Bradshaw and said, ‘Was this him?’

‘What?’

‘The man who asked after Frieda and threatened you. Was it him?’

Mira took the photo and looked at it, frowning. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Look one more time.’

‘It wasn’t him.’

‘Can you perhaps tell me where I can find your friend so she can confirm that?’

‘It wasn’t him,’ repeated Mira. She looked at him in a kindly manner and added, ‘I’m sorry. I want to help you. It just wasn’t.’

Karlsson nodded. He put the photo back in his pocket. ‘Just a thought.’ The words sounded meaningless. He realized he was very tired. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and went out into the street. He walked aimlessly along for a few minutes, then stopped by a plane tree and lit another cigarette. Why did he feel so disappointed when it had just been a notion he had seized on? He finished his cigarette and dropped it to the ground. Thoughts and ideas flitted through his brain and it was almost as if he were watching them pass. Frieda had said to him that morning that someone always seemed to be one step ahead. The same person who had told Crawford or Hussein about his attempts to help her. He put a hand to his forehead as if to keep his thoughts from flying away from him. Then he took his phone from his pocket and Googled a different name. He pulled up an image. Yes.

Frieda walked there. She didn’t put her dark glasses on because she didn’t really care who saw or knew her. She had set out on a journey to find the truth and now she had found it and couldn’t lose it again, however much she might wish to. She took a deep breath and knocked at the door.

Karlsson walked back to the salon, cradling his mobile in his hand as if the picture might escape. He held it out to Mira, who was drying her customer’s hair now, and in the large mirror he saw her nod slowly and certainly.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. It was him. Yes. I am sure. Yes.’

Sasha opened the door. ‘I’m so glad. Come in.’

In the hall, Frieda opened her fist. ‘I found these.’

Sasha smiled. ‘Ethan’s wooden animals. He loses them everywhere. He’ll be happy to get some back. He’s upstairs in his room now – I was reading to him. He doesn’t seem to want to go to sleep. Will you come and say goodnight to him? He’ll be excited to see you again. He talks of you all the time.’

‘Not just now.’

‘But you didn’t come here just to give me a few little animals.’

‘I did.’

‘What is it?’ She looked into Frieda’s face. ‘You’re scaring me.’

‘I found them in the pocket of an apron I left at Sandy’s.’ Sasha’s face was blank. Frieda continued: ‘He had packed all the things I’d left at his flat and he flung the bin bag at me when I was coming out of the Warehouse. It was my last sight of him.’

‘Frieda, what are you on about?’ Sasha gave a small laugh, but her face had changed. It was grey.