Blue Monday

‘Madame?’ he said.

‘I’m here to see someone,’ she said, looking around the room. What if he wasn’t there? What if she didn’t recognize him? There he was. She’d seen him at a couple of conferences, and in photographs accompanying an interview in a magazine. He was sitting in the far corner with a woman. They were apparently on their main course and deep in conversation. She walked across the room and stood by the table. He looked round. He was dressed in dark trousers and a beautiful shirt, a black and white pattern that shimmered. He had very short dark hair and was just slightly unshaven.

‘Dr Rundell?’ Frieda said.

He got up from his chair. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘My name’s Frieda Klein.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Frieda Klein. Yes, I’ve heard of you but…’

‘I’ve just been talking to a patient of yours. Sasha Wells.’

He still looked puzzled, but also wary. ‘What do you mean?’

Frieda had never hit anyone before. Not really. Not with her fist, not using the full weight of a punch. It caught him right on the jaw and he fell backwards, across his own table, bringing it down on top of him with the food and the wine and the water and the bottles of oil and vinegar. Even Frieda, standing over him, panting, her blood humming in her ears, was startled by the havoc she had caused.

As he stepped through the door of the interview room, Detective Chief Inspector Karlsson tried to force his features into a frown.

‘When you get your phone call, it’s traditional to use it for your lawyer,’ he said. ‘Or your mother.’

Frieda glowered up at him. ‘You were the only person I could think of,’ she said. ‘On the spur of the moment.’

‘You mean, in the heat of battle,’ said Karlsson. ‘How’s your hand?’

Frieda held up her right hand. It was wrapped in a bandage but some spots of blood had started to show through.

‘It’s not like in the movies, is it? When you punch someone, they don’t just get up. It damages them and it damages you.’

‘How is he?’ asked Frieda.

‘Nothing’s broken,’ said Karlsson. ‘No thanks to you. But he’s got one hell of a set of bruises and they’re going to look even worse tomorrow and probably even worse the day after.’ He leaned over and took hold of Frieda’s right hand. She flinched slightly. ‘Can you move your fingers?’ She nodded. ‘I’ve seen people shatter their knuckles with a punch like that.’ He gave her hand a little pat, which made her flinch again, and let it go. ‘And have you ever heard the expression about not kicking a man when he’s down? I understand that Dr Rundell is a fellow psychoanalyst. Is this how you settle your professional disagreements?’

‘If you’re here to charge me,’ said Frieda, ‘just get it over with.’

‘This isn’t my area,’ said Karlsson. ‘But I suppose that in normal circumstances you’d be facing a charge of actual bodily harm and criminal damage. I’m assuming – God knows why – that you’ve got a clean record. So you might get away with a month or so in Holloway.’

‘I’m happy to go to trial,’ said Frieda.

‘Well, sadly, I think you may be denied your day in court. I’ve just been talking to the arresting officer and apparently Dr Rundell is very insistent on not pressing charges. My colleague is not a happy man. He’s not happy at all.’

‘What about the restaurant?’

‘Indeed,’ said Karlsson. ‘I’ve even seen the photographs. You know, in the past when I’ve encountered crime scenes of this kind, when the victim has refused to press charges, it’s usually involved gang intimidation of some kind. Is there something you’re not telling us?’ His attempt to suppress a smile now failed. ‘Drug deal gone wrong?’

‘It’s a private matter.’

‘And even then,’ said Karlsson, ‘I’ve never heard of the victim insisting on paying for all the damage himself.’ He paused. ‘You’re not the kind of person I’d expect to be arrested for brawling in public. And now you don’t seem to be particularly happy that you’ve escaped the sort of thing that most people would be afraid of, you know, like being put on trial and convicted and sent to prison, that sort of thing.’

‘I’m not bothered,’ said Frieda.

‘You’re a hard one,’ he said. Then his expression changed. ‘Is there something I should know about this? Something criminal?’

Frieda shook her head.

‘What’s he been up to, then?’ said Karlsson. ‘Sleeping with his patients?’

Frieda’s expression didn’t change.

‘I can’t condone this,’ said Karlsson. ‘This isn’t Sicily.’

‘I don’t care whether you condone it or not.’

‘You were the one who rang me.’

Frieda’s expression softened. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. And thank you.’

‘I’ve come to say that you can go and, in fact, to give you a lift back – but look,’ he said, a little desperately. ‘What would the world be like if everyone settled things like this?’

Frieda stood up. ‘What is the world like?’ she said.

Chapter Twenty-two

On Tuesday afternoon, Frieda said to Alan, ‘Tell me about your mother.’

‘My mother?’ He shrugged. ‘She was…’ He stopped, frowned, look at the palms of his hands as if he could find the answer there. ‘… a nice woman,’ he finished lamely. ‘She’s dead now.’

‘I mean, your other mother.’

It was as if she had punched him very hard in the stomach. She even heard the whoosh of surprised pain that escaped him, and he bent forward slightly, his face screwed up. ‘What do you mean?’ he managed.

‘Your birth mother, Alan.’

He made a faint and querulous sound.

‘You were adopted, weren’t you?’

‘How did you know?’ he whispered.

‘Not by magic. I just saw the photograph of them in your house.’

‘And?’

‘They both have blue eyes. Yours are brown. It’s genetically impossible.’

‘Oh,’ he said.

‘When were you going to tell me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Never?’

‘It’s not got anything to do with this.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘I was adopted. End of story.’

‘You are longing to have a child of your own, so acutely that you have vivid fantasies about it, and prolonged attacks of acute anxiety. And you think that the fact that you were adopted isn’t relevant?’

Alan shrugged. He lifted his eyes to hers, then dropped them again. Outside, the crane’s arm lifted higher in the hard blue sky. Great gobbets of mud dropped from its serrated jaw. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.

‘You want a son who looks exactly like you. You reject the idea of adopting a child. You want your own – with your genes, your red hair and freckles. As if you want to adopt yourself, rescue yourself and look after yourself.’

‘Not that.’ Alan looked as though he would like to jam his fingers into his ears.

‘Is it such a secret?’