Nicci French: Blue Monday

Karlsson rang Frieda at home. He told her about the body, about the note.

‘Somehow I never imagined him sitting in a courtroom.’

‘I don’t know what that means,’ said Karlsson. ‘Anyway, I said I’d keep you informed. So, you’re informed.’

‘And I’ll keep you informed,’ said Frieda.

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Frieda. ‘If anything happens, I’ll get back to you.’

After Frieda put down the phone, she sat entirely still. On the table in front of her was a white earthenware coffee cup. The light through the window hit it so that one side was in shadow, a shadow that was almost blue. She had a pad of paper and a piece of charcoal and she was trying to capture it before the light moved, the shape of the cup changed and the image was lost. She looked at the cup and looked down at the page. It was wrong. The shadow on her drawing was like a shadow was meant to look; it wasn’t the shadow she was actually looking at. She ripped the page out and tore it in half and then in half again. She was wondering whether she could bear to start again when the phone rang. It was Sasha Wells.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she said. ‘I’ve got news for you.’

They arranged to meet in Number 9, which was just around the corner from where Sasha worked. As Frieda came into the coffee shop she looked at the tinsel and stars and little globes that had been hung around the room. Kerry greeted her and pointed at the window display. ‘You like our Santa Claus?’

‘I’d like to see him nailed to a cross,’ Frieda said.

Kerry looked shocked and disapproving. ‘It’s for the children,’ she said. ‘And Katya did it.’

Frieda ordered the strongest black coffee they could manufacture. When Sasha came in, Frieda thought how different she looked from the shaking, tremulous young woman she’d met a few weeks earlier. Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean she was better, but she was wearing a suit, her hair was tied back, and she was dressed to face the world. When she caught sight of Frieda, her face broke into a wide smile. Frieda got up, introduced her to Kerry and ordered a herbal tea and a muffin for her. They sat down at the table together. Sasha’s smile turned to a look of concern.

‘When did you last sleep?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been working,’ Frieda said. ‘Well?’

Sasha took a bite of the muffin and a gulp of tea almost simultaneously. ‘I’m starving,’ she mumbled, with her mouth full, and then swallowed. ‘Well, I want to say first how grateful you should be to me. I’m in genetics but I don’t do testing. However, I know someone who knows someone and furthermore I dragged them out of a Christmas party and got them to do it in about thirty seconds. So basically we’ve done the test.’

‘What was the result?’

‘You’ve got to say, “Thank you.” ’

‘I’m very grateful, Sasha.’

‘Admittedly, I do owe you massively for punching that creep and risking going to prison but even so. You’re welcome. And at the risk of being extremely tiresome, I need to preface everything by saying that this is completely unofficial, between ourselves.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And I’m also going to say that I’m torn between wondering why you want to know about this piece of tissue paper and suspecting that it’s better if I know as little as possible.’

‘I promise you that it’s essential,’ said Frieda. ‘And it’s secret.’

‘And of course you’re a doctor, blah blah blah, and you know that there are legal issues here, issues of privacy, and that if part of any legal proceedings, this is entirely off the record.’

‘Don’t worry. That’s not a problem.’

‘What I mean is that it’s great to hear from you, and I’d been hoping we’d meet for a drink and a chat, but I really hope I’m not suddenly going to be asked to testify somewhere.’

‘No. I promise.’

‘So why did you want the mitochondrial DNA test?’

‘Isn’t that obvious?’

‘I suppose so, in a way, but it’s very unusual.’

There was a pause. Frieda felt her voice tremble. ‘So what was the result?’

Sasha’s expression was suddenly serious.

‘It was positive.’

‘Ah.’ Frieda let her breath out in a long sigh.

‘So. That’s that,’ said Sasha, watching her closely.

‘What does that mean? What does it really mean? DNA tests are a balance of probability, aren’t they?’

Sasha’s expression relaxed. ‘Not in this case. You’re a medical doctor, aren’t you? You’ve studied biology. The mitochondrial DNA is passed unchanged through females. It matches or it doesn’t. In this case, it does.’

‘So I can be certain.’

‘I’m not sure I want to know, but where do these samples come from?’

‘You’re right, you don’t want to know. Thank you – thank you so much for your help.’

‘I didn’t help you.’

‘But you did.’

‘That was me being like a spy,’ said Sasha. ‘I mean, I’ve not kept the samples or the documentation. I’ve told you the result. That’s all.’

‘Of course,’ said Frieda. ‘I promised that from the beginning. I just needed to know.’

Sasha drank the last of her tea. ‘So what are you doing for Christmas?’

‘It just got a bit more complicated.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Don’t you have anything better to do on Christmas Eve?’ Karlsson was standing at the door of the interview room. He was tired, his eyes felt gritty and his throat sore, as if he was coming down with something. It was eight o’clock. At last, the police station was almost deserted, half its rooms in darkness.

‘Not just at the moment,’ said Frieda.

‘This had better be good. I was on the point of going home.’

In truth, he didn’t really want to go home to his empty flat on the night before Christmas. He let himself think of his kids, hectic with excitement, putting a mince pie out for Santa without him.

‘Has she said anything?’

‘Not really. Nothing about Kathy.’

Frieda went into the interview room. A young police officer was sitting on a chair in the corner, rubbing her eyes surreptitiously. Terry was slumped in her chair, her face blotchy and tired under her harsh blonde hair. She looked at Frieda with indifference.

‘I’ve nothing to say to you. He’s dead. You lot did that. And you’ve got the boy. What more do you want? I’ve identified the body. Isn’t that enough for you? Just leave me in peace.’

‘I’m not here to talk about Dean.’

‘I told him.’ Jerking her head towards Karlsson, who stood by the door with his arms folded. ‘I’m not saying nothing. Like his letter said, I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘You must be glad Matthew is alive,’ said Frieda, looking at Terry’s ragged nails, her tired white flesh.

Terry shrugged.

‘It must have felt distressing to you, knowing that he was trapped underground and not being able to help.’

Terry yawned widely. Her teeth were nicotine-stained. Behind her, Frieda heard Karlsson stir with impatience.

‘Does it help you to know that, in a way, you saved him by going back there?’

‘Come on, Frieda,’ said Karlsson, stepping forward and speaking in a stifled whisper. ‘We’ve been over this. If she can’t help us with Kathy, what’s the point?’

Frieda ignored him. She leaned over the table and stared into Terry’s brown, dulled eyes. ‘A tiny child, snatched from his home and hidden away. Matthew would have become Simon and forgotten his first mother, his first father, all the days before the day he was snatched out of one life and put into another. Poor thing. Poor child. What does someone become, after such a terrifying wrench? How does one deal with one’s self, when one’s self has been so lost and so changed? Perhaps it’s a bit like being buried alive for the rest of one’s time here. Is there really nothing you want to say to me, Terry? Dean is dead. There’s nothing left for him to do. You have only yourself now, the self you have had to bury. No? You have nothing to say? All right.’