Nicci French - Blue Monday

‘We all want some kind of family.’ Frieda knew that she was the last person to say it.

‘Sounds like something you got out of a cracker,’ said Alan. ‘I suppose it’s the right time of year.’

‘I’m making the pudding,’ said Chloë. She sounded unusually animated. ‘Not Christmas pudding. I hate that, and anyway, it’s got about a gazillion calories a mouthful. And I would have had to make it weeks ago, which was when I thought I was going to my dad’s, before he found himself something better to do. I could buy one, I suppose, but that would be cheating. You have to cook your own Christmas dinner, don’t you, not just put something in the microwave for a few minutes?’

‘Do you?’ Frieda walked with the phone to stand in front of the large map of London that was pinned to the wall. She squinted in the poor light.

‘So I’m making this pudding I found online, with raspberries and strawberries and cranberries and white chocolate.’

Frieda put her finger on the area she was examining and traced a route.

‘What are you cooking?’ Chloë continued. ‘I hope it’s not turkey. Turkey doesn’t taste of anything. Mum said you definitely wouldn’t cook turkey.’

‘It’s not exactly definite.’ Frieda was going up the stairs now, to her bedroom.

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Just don’t. Please don’t. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I don’t care about presents or stuff; I don’t care what we eat, actually. But I don’t want you not to even think about it at all, as if it doesn’t matter to you one way or the other. I couldn’t bear that. Literally. This is Christmas, Frieda. Remember. All my friends are having great family reunions or going to Mauritius with their dads or something. I’m coming to yours. You have to make an effort so that it’s special.’

‘I know,’ said Frieda, forcing herself to respond. She pulled a thick sweater from her drawer and threw it on the bed, followed by a pair of gloves. ‘I will. I am. I promise.’ The thought of Christmas made her feel a bit sick: a lost boy and a missing young woman, Dean and Terry Reeve free, and she was supposed to eat and drink and laugh, put a paper crown on her head.

‘Is it just us three, or have you invited other people? That’s fine by me. In fact, I’d like it. It’s a pity Jack can’t come.’

‘What?’

‘Jack. You know.’

‘You don’t know Jack.’

‘I do.’

‘You only met him once for about thirty seconds.’

‘Before you hustled him out of my sight. Yeah. But we’re Facebook buddies now.’

‘You are, are you?’

‘Yeah. We’re going to meet when he gets back. Is that a problem?’

Was it a problem? Of course it was a problem. Her trainee and her niece. But it was a problem for later, not now. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.

‘You know how old I am. Sixteen. Old enough.’

Frieda bit her lip. She didn’t want to ask, Old enough for what?

‘We could play charades,’ said Chloë, cheerfully. ‘What time shall we arrive?’

‘What do you think?’

‘How about early afternoon? That’s what other families do. They open their presents and mooch around a bit and then they have a blow-out meal in the afternoon or early evening. We could do that.’

‘Right.’

She pulled off her slippers; holding the phone between chin and hunched shoulder, she pulled off her skirt and tights.

‘We’re bringing the champagne. Mum said. That’s her contribution. What about crackers?’

Frieda thought of Alan’s parting remark and gave herself a mental shake. ‘I’ll bring the crackers,’ she said firmly. ‘And it won’t be turkey.’

‘So what -’

‘It’s a surprise.’

Before she left the house she called Reuben. Josef answered. Loud music was playing in the background. ‘Will you and Reuben come and have Christmas dinner at my house?’ she asked, without preamble.

‘Already we are.’

‘Sorry?’

‘We agreed. You cook me an English Christmas. Turkey and plum pudding.’

‘I was thinking about something a bit different. Like me not cooking it. What do you do in Ukraine for Christmas?’

‘It is my honour to prepare for my friends. Twelve foods.’

‘Twelve? No, Josef. One is fine.’

‘Twelve foods is mandatory in my home.’

‘But that’s too much.’

‘Never too much.’

‘If you’re sure,’ said Frieda, doubtfully. ‘I just thought something simple. Meatballs. Isn’t that Ukrainian?’

‘No meat. Never meat on the day. Fish is good.’

‘Maybe you can get Reuben to help. Another thing: what are you doing right now?’

‘I must shop for my meal.’

‘I’ll pay for the ingredients. It’s the least I can do. But before that, Josef, do you want to go on a walk with me?’

‘Outside is wet and cold.’

‘Not as cold as in the Ukraine, surely. I could do with another pair of eyes.’

‘Where are we walking together?’

‘I’ll see you outside the tube station. Reuben can tell you how to get there.’

Frieda pulled the collar of her coat up to protect her face from the wind.

‘Your shoes are wet,’ she said to Josef.

‘And the feet,’ he said. He was wearing a thin jacket that she thought belonged to Reuben, no gloves, and a bright red scarf that he’d wrapped several times round his neck and lower face so his voice was muffled. His hair, damp from the sleet, was flat against his skull.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, and he made his curious little bow, side-stepping a puddle.

‘And why is it?’ he said.

‘A walk around London. It’s what I do. It’s a way of thinking. Normally I do it on my own but this time I wanted someone with me. Not just anyone. I thought you could help me. The police have been knocking on doors, looking for Matthew and Kathy, or the bodies of Matthew and Kathy. I needed to come here, just for the smell of it, really.’

She thought of Alan’s words. Boarded-up buildings, abandoned workshops under arches, lock-ups, tunnels. That kind of thing. Put yourself in this man’s shoes. Think how he’d feel, panicking, casting around for a hiding place. A place where no one will look; a place where if someone cries out for help, they won’t be heard. She looked helplessly around at the flats and houses, a few of which were lit up and festooned with Christmas decorations, at the shops with their doors wide open, belting heat into the winter streets, the clogged roads, the shoppers milling past clutching bags full of presents and food. ‘Behind thick walls, under our feet. I don’t know. We’ll start together, then separate. I’ve got a kind of route planned.’

Josef nodded.

‘A couple of hours and then you can go and buy your food.’

Frieda opened up her A-Z and found the right page. She pointed at a spot. ‘We’re here,’ she said. She moved her finger half an inch across. ‘I think he was kept here. Dean had to move the boy quickly. So I’m going to say that he would take him somewhere not more than half a mile. Maybe a mile.’

‘Why?’ said Josef.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why one mile? Why not five mile? Why not ten mile?’

‘Reeve had to think quickly. He had to think of a hiding place nearby. Somewhere he knew.’

‘He take him to a friend?’

Frieda shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I think you could take an object to a friend, but not a child. I don’t believe he’d have that kind of friend. I think he’d put Matthew somewhere. Somewhere he knew he could get back to. But then he was being watched and he couldn’t go there.’

Josef crossed his arms as if protecting himself against the cold. ‘Many guesses,’ he said. ‘Maybe he took the boy. Maybe the boy is alive. Maybe he hide him near the house.’