‘Did Alexander Holland come to the Warehouse much?’

Jack put his knuckles into his mouth and squinted. ‘No.’

‘You never saw him behaving angrily or violently?’

‘Violently? No, I never saw anything like that.’

‘Or angrily?’

‘I can’t believe this has happened,’ Jack said.

‘Was he angry?’

‘I don’t know. He was disappointed, the way people are when relationships go wrong. We’ve all been there.’

‘How disappointed?’

‘He’d lost Frieda.’

‘There’s nothing you can tell me that may be helpful to our investigation? And this isn’t just someone dropping litter, remember. A man you used to know has been killed.’

‘I realize that. I’m terribly sorry and shocked about that. But, no, I can’t think of anything that would be helpful. You’ll just have to ask Frieda.’

It was what they all said: ask Frieda.

‘This must be difficult for you,’ said Hussein.

Frieda was pouring tea and didn’t seem to hear. She put a coaster on the table in front of the detective and put a mug of tea on it. Then she took a sip from her own mug. ‘In what way?’

‘Alexander Holland was someone you cared about and –’

‘Can you call him Sandy? I never knew him as Alexander. It makes him sound like a stranger.’

‘Of course. Sandy was someone you cared about and he’s been murdered.’

‘One thing I’ve discovered,’ said Frieda, ‘is that when something happens, people want to become a part of it. If someone has a tragedy, then other people want to grab some of it for themselves, as if it happened to them as well. This wasn’t my tragedy. It was Sandy’s and his family’s tragedy. Can we take it as read that I’m deeply shocked by what’s happened?’

‘That sounds a bit cold.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve never been good at crying for the cameras.’ She paused for a moment, then added, ‘I know that I probably appear cold to you. But, as you know, people react very differently to distress and anger. They tend to make me withdraw into myself and appear harsh.’

‘All right. Thank you.’

‘I was explaining, not apologizing.’

‘They said you were difficult,’ said Hussein, who felt nettled and wrong-footed.

‘Who’s “they”?’

‘Commissioner Crawford. He told me about his experiences working with you. And Professor Bradshaw.’

Hussein was surprised by Frieda’s response. She didn’t seem angry or discomfited. Just curious.

‘How did that come about?’

‘Your name’s on our computer. And Crawford thought he should brief me about you.’

‘That explains things.’ Frieda smiled thinly. ‘This. You being here.’

‘It explains nothing. Alexander –’ She stopped herself. ‘Sandy Holland has been found murdered. He had your hospital identification tag on his wrist. You were in a relationship with him. Of course I need to investigate you. Of course I need to ask you questions.’

‘So ask a question.’

‘Had you been in contact with the deceased?’

‘I hadn’t seen him properly for months.’

There was a pause. ‘Would you like to elaborate on that?’

‘In what sense?’

‘You said, “seen him properly”. I said “contact”. And I’m not at all clear what you mean by “properly”.’

‘I’ve glimpsed him.’

‘Glimpsed?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes.’

‘You mean he just happened to be passing and you saw him out of the window? Out of a bus? Walking by on the other side of the street? At the house of a mutual acquaintance?’

‘I saw him a few times near where I sometimes work.’

‘The Warehouse.’

‘That’s right. I go there twice or three times a week.’

‘But you didn’t talk to him.’

‘No. Or, at least, no more than a word or so.’

‘When was the last time that you saw him?’

‘A couple of weeks ago, perhaps. I can’t remember precisely.’

‘A couple of weeks? The first week of June.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You can’t remember the exact date?’

‘Not off the top of my head.’

‘His sister last saw him on Monday, June the ninth. Was it after that?’

Frieda considered. ‘I usually work at the Warehouse on Tuesdays and I think it might have been the Tuesday of that week.’

‘No later?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m almost sure not.’

‘So that would be Tuesday, June the tenth. A Dr Ellison apparently rang the police to say he seemed to have disappeared. No one took her concerns very seriously. That was on June the sixteenth, six days after. Did you glimpse him any time between when you saw him at the Warehouse on June the tenth and then?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I am sure.’

‘Any other forms of contact?’

‘Sandy called me on the phone occasionally.’

‘Occasionally?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘You know that we’ve seen his phone records?’

‘He wanted to stay in touch.’

‘You mean he wanted to get back together with you?’

Frieda paused, hesitant. ‘I was always very clear that it was over.’

‘Was he angry about that?’

When Frieda replied, it was with a forced calmness: ‘I cared for Sandy a great deal. I still do. I only wished him well.’

‘It sounds like there’s a “but” coming.’

‘But these things are always painfully difficult. You hear about break-ups that are civilized, with no hard feelings on either side. I’ve never seen one.’

There was a ring at the front door. Frieda got up and answered it. Hussein heard voices, and when Frieda came back, she was accompanied by a man. He was large and imposing. Frieda’s living room suddenly seemed smaller. He wore heavy, dusty boots, jeans and a grey-ribbed woollen sweater, in spite of the heat. His hair was dark brown and unkempt and his cheeks were stubbly.

‘This is a friend of mine,’ said Frieda. ‘Josef Morozov. This is Detective Chief Inspector Hussein. She’s here to talk about Sandy.’

Josef held out his large hand, and as she shook it, Hussein felt it was rough, worn, stained. ‘Was very bad.’ He looked at Hussein with suspicion.

‘Sit down,’ said Frieda to Josef. ‘We’ll be done soon.’

‘Not that soon,’ said Hussein, tartly.

Josef sat on a chair to one side, just out of Hussein’s eyeline. She felt certain that Frieda had invited him to be present while she was being interviewed. It made her feel as if she was being checked on and anger rose in her. She looked round at Josef, who was regarding her with utter impassivity.

‘Did you know Mr Holland, Mr Morozov?’

‘Three years,’ he said. ‘Four years. Frieda’s friend is my friend.’ And he gave her a nod, as if he were warning her.

‘Do you live here?’ she asked.

‘Here in England?’

‘Here in this house.’

‘No.’

She turned back to face Frieda. ‘About a third of all his calls were to you,’ she said.

‘Is that a question?’

‘You might like to comment.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘We found objects connected with you in his flat.’

‘What sort of objects?’

‘Photographs, for example.’

‘When you’ve spent years together, there are going to be remnants.’

‘Are there remnants of Mr Holland here?’

‘Probably.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t think of any just now.’

‘You sound defensive.’

‘What would I be defending myself from?’

‘You know what I don’t understand? If I had been close to someone and they had been found horribly murdered, and I’d been the one who identified the body and then the police had wanted to talk to me about it, I would be racking my brains and trying to come up with anything, anything at all, that could help them. I would produce any information that could be helpful. I’d probably try to help so much that it would almost be annoying.’

‘You’re saying that you want my help?’

‘From what I hear, that’s what you do. I was told that when you get interested in a case, nothing will stop you getting involved.’

‘I don’t think that’s quite all you heard. I assume you’re quoting Commissioner Crawford here and that he didn’t mean it as a compliment. But if you want my help, I’ll do anything I can. Of course I will.’