Nicci French - Waiting for Wednesday

That meant her attacker hadn’t been acting alone. Someone else had been sitting in the car, revving the engine, waiting to drive them away. Not one person. Two. A pair of killers.

Everything had a steely clarity now, icy, hard-edged. She found Thelma Scott’s number and dialled it.

‘Dr Scott? This is Frieda Klein. I’ve got to cancel.’

There was a pause.

‘Do you have a moment to talk?’

‘Not really. I’ve got something to do. Something that can’t wait.’

‘Frieda, are you quite well?’

‘Probably not, just at the moment. But there’s something important. It overrides everything.’

‘It’s just that you don’t sound quite well.’

‘I’m so sorry. I’ve got to go.’

Frieda hung up. What did she need? Keys, jacket, her hated phone. That was all. She was just pulling on her jacket when the doorbell rang. It was Josef, dusty from work.

‘I’m on my way out. I’ve got no time. Not even to talk.’

Josef took her by the arm. ‘Frieda, what is happening? Everyone phoning everyone. Where is Frieda? What she doing? You never phoning. Never answering.’

‘I know, I know. I’ll explain. But not now. I’ve got to get to Croydon.’

‘Croydon? The girls?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘Alone?’

‘I’m a big girl.’

‘I take you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Josef looked stern. ‘I take you or I hold you here and phone to Reuben.’

‘You want to try it?’ said Frieda, fiercely.

‘Yes.’

‘All right, drive me, then. Is this yours?’

Behind Josef was a battered white van.

‘Is for work.’

‘Then let’s go.’

It was a long, long drive, first across to Park Lane, then Victoria and over Chelsea Bridge into south London. Frieda had the map open on her lap, guiding Josef and thinking about what she was going to do. Battersea. Clapham. Tooting. Should she be calling Karlsson? And saying what? Suspicions about a man whose name she didn’t know? Whose address she didn’t know? About a girl nobody was looking for? And after their last awful encounter? Now they were in parts of south London with names she barely recognized. The instructions got more complicated and then, finally, Frieda steered Josef just a little past Lawrence Dawes’s house.

‘So,’ said Josef, expectantly.

Frieda thought for a moment. Lawrence and his friend, Gerry. Them. She didn’t know Gerry’s second name and she didn’t know where he lived. But she knew something. Upstream. That was what Lawrence had said. He lived upstream, which meant he was on the same side of the road, and she remembered that when she had stood in the garden with her back to the house, the river flowed from right to left. So Gerry’s house was up to the right. And it probably wasn’t next door. Lawrence would have said ‘my next-door neighbour’. And hadn’t he talked about next door being used for refugees? She got out of the car. She would start with the house next door but one. Josef got out as well.

‘I’m fine,’ said Frieda.

‘I come with you.’

Lawrence Dawes lived at number eight. Frieda and Josef walked up the path of number twelve. Frieda rang the bell. There was no response. She rang again.

‘No people home,’ said Josef.

They walked back on to the pavement and up to the door of number fourteen and rang the bell.

‘This is for what?’ said Josef, puzzled, but before Frieda could answer, the door was opened by a white-haired old woman.

Frieda was momentarily at a loss. She hadn’t thought of what she was going to say. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to drop something off for a friend of a friend. He’s called Gerry. He’s in his sixties. I know he lives in one of these houses but I’m not sure which one.’

‘It might be Gerry Collier,’ said the woman.

‘Early sixties?’ said Frieda. ‘Brown hair going grey?’

‘That sounds like him. He lives along there. Number eighteen.’

‘Thanks so much,’ said Frieda.

The woman closed the door. Frieda and Josef walked back to the van and got inside. Frieda looked at the house. A two-storey, semi-detached house, grey pebbledash exterior, aluminium window frames. Ornate front garden, with a little white brick wall, yellow, blue, red, white flowers spilling over.

‘And now?’ said Josef.

‘Wait a moment,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m trying to think what to do. We can –’

‘Stop,’ said Josef, in a hiss. ‘Look.’

The door of number eighteen opened and Gerry Collier stepped out. He was wearing a grey windcheater and carrying a plastic shopping bag. He walked out on to the pavement and set off along the road.

‘I wonder if we should follow him,’ said Frieda.

‘Follow the man?’ said Josef. ‘Is no good.’

‘You’re right. He’s probably going to the shops. We’ve got a few minutes. Josef, can you help me break inside?’

Josef looked bemused and then he grinned. ‘Break into the house? You, Frieda?’

‘Now, this minute.’

‘This not a joke?’

‘It’s really, really not a joke.’

‘OK, Frieda. You ask. Questions later.’ He picked up his work bag, from which he grabbed a heavy wrench and two large screwdrivers. They left the van and walked up to the front door of number eighteen.

‘We need to be quick,’ said Frieda. ‘And quiet. If you possibly can.’

Josef ran his fingers over the lock with a certain delicacy. ‘Which is most important? Quick or quiet?’

‘Quick.’

Josef pushed one screwdriver into the gap between the door and the frame. He flexed it, and the gap widened slightly. Then he pushed the other screwdriver into the gap about a foot further down. He looked at Frieda. ‘All right?’

She nodded. She saw him silently mouth the words, one, two, three , and pull the two screwdrivers sharply towards him, at the same time leaning hard on the door. There was a splintering sound and the door swung inwards.

‘Where now?’ said Josef, in a hoarse whisper.

Frieda had seen Lawrence Dawes’s house. Where was possible? She pointed downwards. Josef put down his bag, and they walked softly along the hallway, by the left side of the staircase, Josef in front. He stopped and nodded to the right. There was a door leading back under the stairs. Frieda nodded and Josef gently opened it. Frieda saw the beginning of stairs leading down into darkness. There was a smell, something slightly sweet that she couldn’t quite identify. Josef fumbled along the wall and switched on a light.

With a start, Frieda saw that a figure was sitting at the bottom of the flight, on the floor, back against the brick wall, half lost in shadow. Whoever it was didn’t look round. Josef hissed at Frieda to stop, but she walked decisively down the steps. She had only taken a few steps before she knew who it was. She recognized the jacket, the white hair, the bent frame. When she reached the cellar floor, Jim Fearby was looking up at her with open, unblinking, unseeing, yellow dead eyes. His mouth gaped open as well, as if in surprise, and there was a large brown stain extending from his scalp down one side of his face. Frieda was going to lean down and check if he was dead but she stopped herself. There was no point. She felt a jolt of nausea that was overtaken by an intense aching sadness as she gazed down at this abandoned, dear man, who had finally been proved right.

Josef was coming down the stairs and Frieda was turning to speak when she heard a sound, like the whimper of an animal, somewhere further in the cellar, where it went under the pavement. She looked and saw a movement. She stepped forward and in the semi-darkness a figure took shape. A person, female, young, propped upright against the wall, arms splayed, legs splayed. Frieda saw matted hair, staring blinking eyes, taped mouth. She stepped forward and saw that the woman was secured by wire around her wrists and ankles, waist and neck. She was whimpering. Frieda put her finger to her lips. She tried to pull at the wire around one wrist but then Josef was beside her. He took something from his jacket pocket. She heard a click of pliers and one hand was free. The other wrist, the neck, the waist and then the woman fell forward. Frieda supported her, fearing she might break her ankles. Josef knelt down and cut her free and the woman fell to her knees.