Nicci French: Blue Monday

‘Not really. He said something stupid. To remember there were worse things than being dead.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What was his manner? Was he agitated?’

‘I was in a state, but he was calm. He didn’t seem in a hurry. It was like he knew where he was going.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No. He patted me on the shoulder, said it was nice to meet me, and then he just left.’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘I don’t know. I saw him turn off the high street. It leads to the bus depot and that waste bit of ground where they’re building the superstore.’

‘He didn’t tell you where he was going?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not protecting him?’

‘I wouldn’t do that. He’s a bad man. There was something about him.’ This with sudden venom.

‘After you saw him leave, you went home?’

‘I rang Carrie to say I was OK and he’d left. I felt strange but it was like a relief as well. Like something had gone out of my life, like I was free of him.’

‘You didn’t go anywhere or speak to anyone after you saw him go?’

‘No. Nobody.’

‘And there’s nothing else you can think of?’

‘That’s everything. I’m sorry. I know I’ve done wrong.’

Karlsson stood up. ‘DC Long is going to stay here for the time being, and I’ll send another officer over as well. Just do what they say.’

‘Will he come back?’ Carrie’s hands flew to her mouth.

‘It’s just a precaution.’

‘You think we’re in danger.’

‘He’s a dangerous man. This might not be over yet. I wish you’d called us.’

‘Sorry. I just – I had to see him. Just the once.’

Karlsson ordered a redeployment around the area where Reeve had met his brother. He didn’t feel hopeful, though. It was early afternoon and the paltry day was already fading back into darkness. In houses and flats, Christmas lights glowed in the windows and garlands hung from knockers. There were gaudy trees in shops and the streets were bright with neon bells, reindeers and characters from children’s cartoons. A small group of men and women were singing carols outside Tesco Direct and rattling buckets. Once again, spits of snow drifted in the bitter air. It would be a white Christmas of a kind, thought Karlsson, but for him Christmas was an unreal thing. Dimly, he imagined his children in their house far from here: the tree with the presents stacked underneath, the smell of mince pies, their hectic cheeks, family life continuing but without him in it. Matthew had been rescued and was safe, a fact beyond everyone’s wildest hopes. The papers would herald him as the best Christmas present his parents would ever have. A miracle. In truth, it felt like a miracle to Karlsson. He had long ago given Matthew up as dead. He knew he was tired, but he didn’t feel it. He felt stingingly awake, more clear-headed than he had felt in days.

Frieda was still at the police station when he returned. She was sitting in an empty interview room, quite straight-backed, with her hair newly brushed, drinking from a mug. He smelt peppermint. She looked up expectantly.

‘They’re still looking. He’s out there somewhere. Where can he go?’

‘Is Alan all right?’

‘Very shocked. Who wouldn’t be? He’s gone through a traumatic experience and it isn’t over yet. His wife’s a strong woman.’

‘He’s lucky to have her.’

‘By the look of him, he’ll be in touch with you soon.’

‘Perhaps, though I might be the last person in the world he wants to see. I’d like to see him. Apart from anything else, he’ll soon have the most hated face in the country.’

‘I know. And that lot out there…’ He nodded towards the front of the station, where a crowd was still gathered. ‘They’re not the most forgiving lot in the world.’

Karlsson left the room and before Frieda even had time to start thinking about what she should do, whether it was time to go home and try to sleep, he burst back in. ‘They’ve found him,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘In an old dock off the side of the canal just along from where he met Dekker. Under a bridge. He was hanging from it.’

The car couldn’t get Karlsson all the way to the canal. He stopped at a bridge that intersected it. An officer was waiting for him and led him down the steps to the towpath.

‘Who found the body?’ Karlsson asked.

‘Some old man walking his dog,’ said the officer. ‘He didn’t have a mobile and he couldn’t find a phone box, so he walked all the way home and he’s got a bad leg. It took an hour for someone to get there. If he’d had a mobile, maybe the paramedics could have done something.’

Ahead, Karlsson could see people on the towpath, kids mostly, trying to get a view. He and the officer stepped under the police tape and turned off the main towpath along the small inlet, a watery cul-de-sac. Once it had been a wharf for barges to tie up next to a factory. Now it was abandoned and desolate with bushes growing out of the cracked walls. Several officers were clustered ahead but there was no sense of urgency. One of them said something that Karlsson couldn’t hear and the others laughed. Further along the path Karlsson could see one of his team, Melanie Hackett, talking to an officer. He called her over.

‘They cut him down,’ she said. She gestured at a green tarpaulin on the ground. ‘You want a look?’

Karlsson nodded. She pulled the sheet back. He was prepared but he still flinched. The eyes stared upwards at nothing, the pupils enlarged; the swollen tongue protruded between the teeth. Hackett pulled the sheet back further. The rope was gone but the ligature mark along the neck leading behind the ear was clear to see.

‘He never even got changed,’ she said. ‘He’s wearing the same clothes he wore in the station.’

‘He never went home,’ said Karlsson.

Karlsson pulled a face. There was a distinct smell of shit. Hackett saw his expression and pulled the sheet back across.

‘It’s what happens when you hang yourself,’ she said. ‘If people knew that, it might put them off doing it.’

Karlsson looked around. There were some windows in the old factory but they had all been blocked up long ago.

‘Is the area overlooked from anywhere?’

‘No,’ said Hackett. ‘This bit of the canal’s quiet enough and nobody comes up here.’

‘I guess that’s why he came here.’

‘He knew the game was over,’ said Hackett.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘There was a letter in his pocket.’

‘What kind of letter?’

‘We’ve got it over in the box with the rest of the stuff we found in his pockets.’ She walked over to a small blue crate and pulled out a transparent folder. ‘He had a mobile phone, packet of cigarettes, lighter, a pen and this. It was in an envelope with nothing written on the front.’

She handed him the folder. Karlsson could read the note without opening the folder. He moved along the path out of the bridge’s shade. It was a small page torn out of a ring-backed notebook. He recognized the large looping handwriting from the signature he’d seen at the bottom of Reeve’s witness statement. It was short and easy to read:

I know what’s in store. I don’t want any of that. Tell Terry sorry. Sorry to leave you, doll. She knows she was always the one for me. She wasn’t part of any of this. She won’t stand up for herself. Tell her I did my best. Time to go.

Dean Reeve

Karlsson looked over at Melanie Hackett. ‘He’s left her to it,’ he said.

‘So what do we do?’ she asked.

‘Lean on her as hard as we can. She’s all we’ve got.’