‘Matthew disappeared on Friday, November the thirteenth. I believe Mr Dekker was with you that afternoon?’
Frieda thought for a moment.
‘Yes. He would have left at two fifty.’
‘And his wife says that she met him shortly after that. They went home together. A neighbour came round just after they got back and stayed for a cup of tea. We checked.’
‘So that’s that,’ Frieda said. She bit her lower lip, holding back the next question.
‘They were shocked to be questioned,’ he said.
‘I imagine.’
‘You’re probably wondering what I told them.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I said they were part of a routine inquiry.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s just one of those phrases.’
‘I’ll tell him myself.’
‘I thought you might.’ Karlsson stretched his legs out in front of the fire, which was crackling away now. He half wished Frieda would offer him a cup of tea or a glass of wine so that he could stay in this cocoon of dimly lit warmth, but she didn’t seem about to do that. ‘He’s a curious man, isn’t he? All jangled up. But nice. I liked his wife.’
Frieda shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about him. She had probably done enough damage already. ‘I’m sorry I wasted your time,’ she said neutrally.
‘Don’t be sorry.’ He raised his eyebrows at her: ‘ “Dreams are often most profound when they seem most crazy.” ’
‘You’re quoting
‘Even coppers read sometimes.’
‘I don’t think dreams are profound. Usually I hate it when patients tell me their dreams as if they’re some magic fable. But in this case -’ She broke off. ‘Well, I was wrong. And I’m glad.’
Karlsson stood up and she did too.
‘I’ll let you get back to your cooking.’
‘Can I ask you one thing?’
‘What?’
‘Is this about Joanna Vine?’
Karlsson looked startled, then wary.
‘Don’t look so surprised. Twenty-two years ago. That was what made you jump. It took me five minutes online and I’m not even very good on a computer.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It seemed… I don’t know, odd.’
‘And that’s the end of it?’
‘Seems like it.’ He hesitated. ‘Can I ask
‘Go ahead.’
‘As I’m sure you know, we live in an age where almost everything is contracted out.’
‘I was aware of it.’
‘You know the kind of thing, fewer staff on the books, even if it costs more in the end. Even we have to contract things out.’
‘And what has this got to do with me?’
‘I was wondering if you could give me a second opinion. We’d reimburse you, of course.’
‘A second opinion on what?’
‘Would you consider talking to the sister of Joanna Vine, who was nine when she went missing and who was with her when she vanished?’
Frieda looked speculatively at Karlsson. He seemed slightly embarrassed. ‘Why me? You know nothing about me and you must have people of your own who do this kind of thing.’
‘That’s true, of course. To be honest, it’s just a long shot. A whim.’
‘A whim!’ Frieda laughed. ‘That doesn’t sound very rational.’
‘It’s not rational. And you’re right, I don’t know you, but you made a connection -’
‘A false connection, as it turns out.’
‘Yes, well, that’s as may be.’
‘You must be desperate,’ said Frieda, not unkindly.
‘Most cases are pretty straightforward. You advance by routine investigation and you follow the rulebook. There’s blood, there are fingerprints, there is DNA, there are images caught on CCTV, there are witnesses. It’s all pretty obvious. But every so often you get a case where the rulebook just doesn’t seem to apply. Matthew Faraday’s disappeared into thin air, and there’s nothing to follow. We’re clueless. So now we have to take anything we’re given – any rumour, any idea, any possible connection with another crime, however tenuous.’
‘I still don’t see what I can do that someone else can’t.’
‘Probably nothing at all. As I said, it’s a long shot and I’ll most likely get hauled over the coals for wasting public money on duplicating work unnecessarily. But maybe, just maybe, you have insight that others don’t. And you’re an outsider. Possibly you’ll be able to see things we’ve become blind to because we’ve looked at them so hard and for so long.’
‘This whim of yours…’
‘Yes?’
‘The sister.’
‘Her name is Rose Teale. The mother remarried.’
‘Did she see anything?’
‘She says she didn’t. But she just seems paralysed by guilt about it.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda.
‘You mean, you don’t know if it could be helpful?’
‘It depends what you mean by helpful. When I hear that, what I want to do is deal with her guilt, help her move on. Do I think she’s got a memory hidden somewhere that someone could find? I don’t think memory really works as simply as that. Anyway, it’s not my thing.’
‘So what is your thing?’
‘Helping people with the stuff, the fears and desires and jealousies and sorrows, they have inside them.’
‘What about helping to find a lost boy?’
‘What I provide for my patients is a safe place.’
Karlsson looked around him. ‘This is a nice place,’ he said. ‘I can see why you wouldn’t want to step out of it into the mess of the world.’
‘The mess of someone’s mind isn’t so very safe, you know.’
‘Will you think about it?’
‘Certainly. But don’t expect me to call you.’
At the door, he said, ‘Our jobs are very similar.’
‘You think so?’
‘Symptoms, clues, you know.’
‘I don’t think it’s the same at all.’
When he had gone, Frieda returned to the kitchen. She was just painstakingly separating the cauliflower into florets as instructed by Chloe’s recipe when the doorbell rang once more. She paused and listened. It wouldn’t be Karlsson again. And it wouldn’t be Olivia, because Olivia usually hammered on the knocker as well as ringing, or even called through the letterbox, yoo-hooing imperiously. She lifted the pan of onions off the hob, thinking that she wasn’t very hungry anyway; all she wanted was a few crackers with cheese. Or nothing, just a mug of tea and bed. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.
She opened the door a crack, leaving it on a chain.
‘Who is it?’
‘Is me.’
