‘It sounds like I owe you another apology.’
‘No,’ said Karlsson. ‘We have to face the day in the end. We can’t sleep all the time. But I tried to check up on your Mr Levin.’
‘What did you find?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not sure. Did anybody ever warn you about owing favours to someone you don’t know?’
‘Probably.’
They both looked at the river in silence.
‘I’d like to live by a river,’ Karlsson said.
‘I’m not sure that I would.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘I like walking by rivers, following them where they lead. But to live beside one would be like living next to a dark abyss. You’d always wonder what lay beneath the surface. And it’s worse than an abyss. It’s moving, always trying to pull you down and away.’
Karlsson shook his head, laughing. ‘Frieda. It’s just a river.’
Several miles away, Josef and Marty were sitting in a pub not far from the house in Belsize Park on which they had been working for so many months but which was now finished.
‘It was a good job,’ said Josef, drinking his second pint of beer. Surreptitiously he drew his vodka bottle out of his pocket and took a swig before offering it to Marty. ‘Big.’
‘Yeah,’ Marty agreed. He put the bottle to his mouth and tipped it back. A tattoo rippled along the muscles of his forearm. ‘Took care of the summer at any rate.’
‘Summer is not over,’ said Josef. ‘In Ukraine now is hot, very hot, with storms.’
‘Ukraine. That’s where you come from?’
‘Is my home. Kiev.’
‘It’s a long way off,’ said Marty, vaguely.
‘Much trouble there. Fighting and death. But is very beautiful. Many forests.’
They were both silent for a while, drinking.
‘I have sons there,’ said Josef, eventually. ‘Two sons who grow tall without me.’
‘That’s tough.’
‘Do you have sons?’
‘A boy called Matt. Little red-headed kid. But I don’t see him now.’
‘No? Is hard.’
‘Yeah. But it’s better to be free.’
‘You think? Free is to be alone.’
‘I don’t mind that. I can do what I want. Go where I want. Just pack up my bag and leave.’
‘Where do you go now?’
‘I dunno. I’ll leave London. I’ve done what I wanted here.’
‘Soon?’
‘Maybe even tonight.’
‘Just like that, you leave?’
‘Just like that.’ Marty snapped his fingers.
Josef nodded. ‘No homesickness?’
‘How can you feel homesick if you don’t have a home?’
‘I don’t know.’ Josef frowned: he knew it was possible but didn’t have the words. He finished his beer and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then looked at the clock on the wall. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘I am meeting my friend Frieda.’
‘Ah, that Frieda. Is she OK now?’
‘Yes, all OK. But like a soldier after battle.’
Marty gave a slow smile. ‘I read about it. It was in all the papers and on the telly.’
Josef hesitated, then said: ‘Do you want to come along?’
‘To meet your Frieda? No, mate, I should be getting on. I’ve things to do before I go. But thanks for the offer.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Bye then, Joe,’ he said. ‘You take care.’
Josef stood as well and the two men shook hands slightly awkwardly.
‘You helped me out,’ said Josef.
‘It was nothing.’
Marty slapped Josef on the back and left the pub. Light rain was speckling the dusty pavements and the air was thick, promising a downpour. He took two buses and then walked up Seven Sisters Road, whistling under his breath, his tool bag slung over his shoulder. At the Taj Mahal Hotel – on the sign the ‘J’ had slipped, which had always annoyed him – he pushed open the frosted-glass door and leaned on the bell until a very small and whiskery woman appeared from the back, wiping her hands on a stained apron.
‘What?’ she said suspiciously.
‘I’m Marty, from three B. I’m leaving tonight.’
‘Leaving?’
‘Yeah. I’m paid till the end of the week.’
‘No refunds.’
‘That’s OK.’
He went up the stairs two at a time and unlocked the door to his room. It was small and barely furnished, but there was a microwave and a kettle and a small fridge and he didn’t need much. He poured the last of the milk down the sink and unplugged the kettle. His bags were already packed. Just a few more things to put in.
He took the newspaper clippings off the wall. The ones about Frieda Klein absconding, most of which carried the same photo of her, a photograph that had been used in previous stories. The ones about the have-a-go heroine charging at the group of youths with her buggy in order to rescue the homeless man. It made him smile: he’d known at once it was her. The ones about the arrest of Frank Manning on suspicion of murder. The article in which Malcolm Karlsson’s picture appeared. He slid them all into the top of his case and zipped it shut. There were two keys on the bedside table, a Chubb and a Yale, and he put them in the inner pocket of his jacket. He’d managed to go through Josef’s bag one day and filch the set of keys Josef had for her house – just for an hour so, enough time to go to the locksmith and get copies made.
He looked round the room to make sure there was nothing he had missed, then slung his tool bag over one shoulder, his duffel bag over the other and picked up his case.
Then Dean Reeve left, shutting the door behind him, whistling as he went.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2015
Copyright © Joined-Up Writing, 2015
Map of Earl’s Sluice © Maps Illustrated, 2015
The moral right of the authors has been asserted
Cover design by Leo Nickolls
Cover images: © plainpicture/Katya Evdokimova, © Iain McGillivray/Alamy
ISBN: 978-1-405-91860-2