Nicci French - Blue Monday

Tanner leaned back on the sofa. He was breathing deeply. ‘Do you want me to say I’m haunted by the case? That it’s why I took early retirement?’

‘Is it true?’

‘I could deal with the dead bodies. I could even deal with the people walking free that I knew had done it. I could deal with their solicitor standing next to them on the pavement talking about his client being vindicated and grateful to the jury for seeing sense. In the end it was just the paperwork and the targets. In the end I just couldn’t be doing with it.’

‘Joanna Vine,’ said Karlsson, gently. ‘What happened with the inquiry?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll tell you what it was like. I’ve got this cupboard door in the kitchen and it doesn’t have a handle. To open it you have to push your fingernails into the crack and just get a bit of purchase on it and ease it open. The Joanna Vine inquiry was like going through the motions. We set up an office and we took hundreds of statements and we wrote reports and we gave press conferences and we had meetings about our progress. But there wasn’t a single actual piece of evidence. There was nothing you could push your fingernails into and ease away at.’

‘So what happened?’

‘We needed smaller rooms for the press conferences. We ran out of things to do. Suddenly it was a year later. Nothing else had happened. Nobody had cracked.’

‘What did you think?’

‘Think? I just told you what I thought.’

‘I mean, how did it smell to you? What was your guess?’

Tanner gave a sour laugh. ‘I couldn’t work it out. After a couple of days, I thought we’d find her in a ditch or a canal or a shallow grave. With these sick bastards it’s usually an impulse thing. Then they just try and get rid of the evidence of what they’ve done. This didn’t feel like that, but I didn’t know what it did feel like. There was just nothing. How do you analyse nothing? Maybe he – or she – just buried her in the right place. So how’s your inquiry going?’

‘It reminds me of yours. For a few hours we hoped he’d turn up, that he’d got lost or hidden in a cupboard or stayed with a friend. We interviewed the parents. They’re not separated. We talked to an aunt. The wife’s brother lives nearby. He’s unemployed, drinks. We really leaned on him. And now we’re waiting.’

‘What about CCTV?’

‘He’s either clever or lucky. The camera at the school turned out on inspection not to be working. It’s a closely guarded secret that about a quarter of cameras are either faulty or not switched on. But we know he walked away from school. There are a few cameras on shop fronts and next to a pub just before his home. He didn’t show up on these, but I’m told they were poorly angled, so this was inconclusive. But the walk home passes along the side of a park that has no cameras at all.’

‘Can’t you check number-plates driving in and out of the area?’

‘What? In and out of Hackney? This isn’t a red-light district at two in the morning. We wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Maybe you’ll need to wait another twenty-odd years.’

Karlsson stood up. He took a card from his wallet and handed it to Tanner, who looked wryly amused. ‘You know what I’m going to say,’ said Karlsson. ‘But if there’s anything, anything at all, just give me a ring.’

‘It’s not a good feeling, is it?’ said Tanner. ‘When you need to come and talk to people like me?’

‘It was helpful,’ said Karlsson. ‘I’m almost glad that it was as bad for you as it’s been for me.’

They walked together to the door.

‘I’m sorry about your wife,’ said Karlsson. ‘Is she getting better?’

‘Worse,’ said Tanner. ‘It’ll take a long time, the doctor says. You need a cab?’

‘My driver’s outside.’

Karlsson stepped out and then thought of something, something he hadn’t meant to say. ‘I dream about him,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember the dreams when I wake up but I know they’re about him.’

‘I did as well,’ said Tanner. ‘I used to try a couple of drinks before I went to sleep. That helped sometimes.’

‘I missed you last night,’ Sandy said.

Frieda looked around the kitchen. It already seemed like foreign territory.

‘I was just having breakfast. Do you want…’

‘No, thank you.’

‘At least it’s not raining any longer. You look lovely. Is that a new jacket?’

‘No.’

‘I’m gabbling like an idiot. I’m sorry about last night. I’m sorry. You were right to be angry.’

‘I’m not angry any more.’

‘No,’ said Sandy. ‘Because you’ve decided not to come with me. Is that right?’

‘I can’t leave everything,’ she said. ‘Even to be with you.’

‘But aren’t you scared of losing what we have?’

She hadn’t meant it to happen, but somehow they were kissing each other, and then he was peeling off her jacket, her shirt, and they were stumbling on to the sofa together, his mouth against hers, her hands on his naked back, pulling him closer for the last time. He called out her name, over and over again, and she knew that she would wake in the night and hear that cry.

Afterwards, she said, ‘That was a mistake.’

‘Not for me. I don’t leave until after Christmas. Let’s spend that time together. Try to work things out.’

‘No. I don’t do long goodbyes.’

‘How can you bear to leave, after that?’

‘ ’Bye, Sandy.’

After she had gone, he stood by his window and looked down at the square she would come out on to. And after a few minutes there she was, a slim and upright figure making her way swiftly towards the road. She didn’t look up.

‘The boss is going to be spitting mad,’ said DC Foreman, gloomily.

There were several of them in the operations room, although Karlsson was out and not expected until later. They were thumbing through the morning’s papers, where the Matthew fever showed no sign of abating. In one tabloid, there were nine pages given over to him – several photographs of him, interviews with people who knew him or claimed to know him, pieces about psychological profiling, a long feature about Matthew’s home life. There were speculations about the state of the Faradays’ marriage. Sources ‘close to the heart of the operation’ had said as much.

‘Who the fuck was that, then?’

‘They’re flying kites. They know it’s usually the dad or the step-dad.’

‘He was miles away. There’s no way he could be a suspect. Why would they print such a thing?’

‘Why do you think? Matthew’s money. I read somewhere that papers put on tens of thousands in circulation if they have front-page news about him. This could run and run.’

‘Blood money.’

‘Easy to say. Who here’s been offered money yet?’

‘What – for leaking information?’

‘You will be. Just wait.’

‘The boss is not going to be happy.’

‘Nor his boss. I know for a fact that the commissioner is taking a very personal interest in the case.’

‘Crawford’s just a fucker.’

‘A fucker who can make life pretty uncomfortable.’

‘Karlsson’s the real copper. If anyone can solve this case, he can.’

‘Then it looks like no one can, doesn’t it?’

Twenty-two years: but when Karlsson told Deborah Teale who he was he saw the hope in her eyes, and the fear as well. She put two fingers on her lower lip and leaned against the door jamb as if the earth was shifting under her.

‘There really is no news about your daughter,’ he said quickly.

‘No, of course not,’ she said. She gave a small, shaky laugh, pressing a hand against her chest. ‘You said that when you called. It’s just…’ And she trailed to a halt because what was there to say, after all? It’s just that… how do you stop waiting, how do you stop hoping and dreading? Karlsson couldn’t stop himself thinking of what it must be like for her, even after all these years. The discovery of a little body in a ditch would be a relief to her. At least she would know, and there would be a grave where she could lay flowers.