Nicci French: Waiting for Wednesday

‘I’m very sorry,’ she said.

‘Is that an admission?’

‘A regret.’

As she made her way towards the Underground, Frieda turned on her mobile and looked at all the messages. So many, from people she knew and people she didn’t. She was walking towards uproar, questions and comments, the dazzle of attention that she dreaded, but for now she was alone. Nobody knew where she was.

But there was someone she did have to call.

‘Karlsson. It’s me.’

‘Thank God. Where are you?’

‘I’m on my way to Tooting, to the hospital.’

I’ll meet you there. But are you all right?’

‘I don’t know. Are you?’

He met her in the lobby, striding towards her as he came in through the revolving door, putting one hand briefly on her shoulder as he stared into her face, looking for something there.

‘Listen –’ he began.

‘Can I say something first?’

‘Typical.’ He tried to smile, his mouth twisting. He looked exhausted and stricken.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry!’

‘Yes.’

‘But you were right. Frieda, you were horribly right.’

‘But I did wrong, too. To you. And I apologize.’

‘Oh, Jesus, you don’t need to –’

‘I do.’

‘OK.’

‘Have you been there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have they found the missing girls?’

‘It’ll take more than one night. But yes.’

‘How many?’

‘It’s too early to say.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Several.’

‘And have you found …’

‘Of course we have. Gerald Collier isn’t saying anything. Nothing at all. But we don’t need him to. They were in his cellar.’

‘Poor Fearby,’ said Frieda, softly. ‘It was him, you know, not me. I would have given up, but he never did.’

‘An old drunk hack.’ Karlsson’s voice was bitter. ‘And a traumatized therapist. And you solved a crime we didn’t even know existed. We’ll be tremendously efficient now, of course. Now that it’s too late. We’ll identify the remains and we’ll inform the poor bloody relatives and we’ll go back over their lives and we’ll find out everything there is to be discovered about those two fucking bastards who got away with it for so many years. We’ll update computers and conduct an inquiry as to how this could have happened. We’ll learn from our mistakes, or that’s what we’ll tell the press.’

‘His own daughter,’ said Frieda. ‘She was the one I was looking for.’

‘Well, you found her.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll need to answer a lot of questions, I’m afraid.’

‘I know. I’ll come to the station later. Is that all right? But first I’m going to see Josef. Have you seen him?’

‘Josef?’ A tiny smile broke through Karlsson’s wintry expression. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen him.’

Josef had a room to himself. He was sitting up in bed, wearing oversized pyjamas, with a bandage round his head and his arm encased in plaster. A nurse stood by his side with a clipboard. He was whispering something to her and she was laughing.

‘Frieda!’ he cried. ‘My friend Frieda.’

‘Josef, how are you?’

‘My arm is broken,’ he said. ‘Bad break, they say. But clean snap so good recovery. Later you write on arm. Or draw one of your pictures maybe.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Drugs take away pain. I have eaten toast already. This is Rosalie and she is from Senegal. This is my good friend Frieda.’

‘Your good friend who nearly got you killed.’

‘Is nothing,’ he said. ‘A day’s work.’

There was a knock at the door and Reuben came in, followed by Sasha, who was bearing a bunch of flowers.

‘I’m afraid you aren’t allowed flowers,’ said Rosalie.

‘He’s a hero,’ said Reuben, decisively. ‘He has to have flowers.’

Sasha kissed Josef on his bristly cheek, then put her arm around Frieda, gazing at her with beseeching concern.

‘Not now,’ said Frieda.

‘I’ve brought you some water.’ Reuben drew a little bottle out of his pocket and gave Josef a meaningful look.

Josef took a gulp, flinched and offered it to Frieda. She shook her head, withdrew to the chair by the window, which looked out on to another wall and a narrow strip of pale blue sky. She could see the vapour trail of a plane, but it was too soon for it to be Sandy’s. She was aware of Sasha’s eyes on her, heard Reuben’s voice and Josef’s boisterous replies. A junior doctor came in and then left. A different nurse entered, wheeling a trolley; the creak of shoes on lino. Doors opening, doors closing. A pigeon perched on the narrow sill and stared in at her with a beady eye. Sasha said something to her and she replied. Reuben asked her a question. She said yes, no, that she would tell them everything later. Not now.

Sandy took her in his arms and held her against him. She could feel the steady beat of his heart and his breath in her hair. Warm, solid, strong. Then he drew away and looked at her. It was only when she saw the expression on his face that she began to understand what she had come through. It took a great effort not to turn away from his pity and horror.

‘What have you done, Frieda?’

‘That’s the question.’ She tried to laugh but it came out wrong. ‘What have I done?’

Frieda had the strange feeling that she was on stage but that she was playing the wrong part. Thelma Scott was sitting in what should have been Frieda’s chair and Frieda was pretending to be a patient. They were facing each other and Thelma was looking straight at her with a kind, sympathetic expression, an expression that said there was no pressure: anything could be said, anything was allowed. Frieda knew the expression because it was one she used herself. She felt almost embarrassed that Thelma was trying it out on her. Did she think she would be so easily fooled?

Frieda kept her own consulting room deliberately austere, with neutral colours, a few pictures deliberately chosen not to send out any precise signals. Thelma Scott’s room was quite different. She had busy, patterned wallpaper, blue and green tendrils intertwined, here and there a bird perched on them. The surfaces were crowded with little objects, knick-knacks. There were miniature glass bottles, porcelain figurines, a glass vase with pink and yellow roses, pill boxes, china mugs, a set of plates decorated with wildflowers. But there was nothing personal, nothing that told you about Thelma Scott’s life or personality, except that she liked little objects. Frieda hated little objects. They felt like clutter. She would have liked to sweep them all into a bin bag and put them out on the pavement for the binmen to take away.

Still Thelma looked at her with her kind, accepting expression. Frieda knew what it was to sit there, to wait for the first step that would mark the beginning of the journey. Sometimes Frieda had sat for the entire fifty minutes with a patient failing to say a single word. Sometimes they would just cry.

Why was she here? What, really, was there to talk about? She’d already gone through it all, all the choices, all the permutations, the roads she had taken and the roads she hadn’t taken, while lying awake at two, three, four in the morning. Because of her intervention, Russell Lennox’s attempt to protect his son had failed and Ted was now in custody. The thought of him in prison and all he might be going through was terrible, but he had committed a terrible act of violence, and against his own mother. His only hope was to acknowledge what he had done and take the consequences. The legal system might be merciful. With the right defence, he might escape a murder conviction.

Some people might think that Ted would have stood a better chance if he had remained free. Human beings have an ability to survive by burying the past, making themselves forget. Ted might have found his own way of atoning. But Frieda couldn’t make herself believe that. You had to face the truth, however painful, and move on from there. Burying it didn’t make it die, and in the end it would claw its way out of the earth and come for you. But was that just an opinion and was Ted paying the price for it?