‘Don’t you trust your own facial-recognition system?’
‘I don’t mean the facial-recognition system. I brought you in here because I thought you might be able to hypnotize her or something. Wave a needle in front of her eyes. I thought you could do some of your psychological stuff and dredge up hidden memories. Instead you got her to make up a face.’
‘I did some research work a few years ago,’ said Frieda. ‘I was working with people who had areas of blindness in their visual field. What we did was show them a collection of dots that were in the area of their visual field that wasn’t functioning. They couldn’t see them, but we asked them to take a guess at the number. In most cases, they would guess right. The input was bypassing their conscious mind but was still being processed. There was no point in going over Rose’s conscious memories. She’s spent her life going over and over them. By now they’ve been hopelessly contaminated even if she did see something. I thought this might be a way of bypassing all that.’
Karlsson looked across at Tom Garret. ‘What do you think? This is all bullshit, right?’
‘You’re talking about blindsight, right?’ Tom asked Frieda.
‘That’s right,’ said Frieda.
‘Bullshit,’ Karlsson repeated. He was clearly very angry.
‘I haven’t heard about it applying to memory,’ Tom said.
‘I thought it was worth a try.’
Karlsson sat in the chair and looked at the screen, at the middle-aged woman in a scarf staring back at him. ‘Did you really?’ His tone was thick with sarcasm. ‘This is just playing stupid fucking games. Blindsight!’
‘Can we print it out?’ Frieda asked Tom, pointedly ignoring Karlsson, but he took the sheet of paper as it came out of the printer and waved it in her face.
‘This is so much rubbish. Rose probably just made it up. To be helpful. She’s the helpful kind. She doesn’t want to disappoint us.’
‘Right,’ said Frieda. ‘That’s the most likely.’
‘And if she didn’t make it up, if you really did tap into some memory of the day, this might just be the face of a woman who was out doing her shopping.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And if, and it’s about the biggest fucking if I’ve ever come across, this woman was involved, then what we have is a picture of someone from twenty-two years ago with no suspects to compare it with, no witnesses to ask.’
‘You could show the picture to other people who were around at the time, to see if they remember anything.’
‘And? If they did – which they won’t – what use will that be? Can you bring them in here and put them in a trance and get them to imagine an address?’
‘That’s up to you,’ said Frieda. ‘You’re the detective.’
‘This is what I think.’ Karlsson balled up the print-out and flung it towards the metal bin, but missed.
‘That’s clear, at least,’ said Frieda.
‘You’re just wasting my time.’
‘No.
‘You can leave now. Some of us have got real work to do.’
‘Gladly,’ said Frieda. She stooped and picked up the screwed-up paper.
‘What do you want that for?’
‘A souvenir, maybe.’
Rose was outside, sitting on a chair with her hands in her lap, staring into the distance.
‘We’re done,’ said Frieda. ‘And we’re very grateful to you.’
‘I don’t think I helped much.’
‘Who knows? It was worth a try. Are you in a hurry?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ten minutes.’ Frieda took her by the forearm and steered her out of the station. ‘There’s a cafe down the road.’
She got a pot of tea for two and a muffin in case Rose was hungry, but it lay untouched between them.
‘Have you ever had counselling?’
‘Me? Why? Do you think I need it? Is it that obvious?’
‘I think anyone would need it who had gone through what you went through. Did you never have any help after your sister disappeared?’
Rose shook her head. ‘I talked to a policewoman a bit, when it happened. She was nice.’
‘But nothing else?’
‘No.’
‘You were nine years old. Your sister disappeared from under your nose. You were supposed to be looking after her – at least, that’s what you thought. In my view, a nine-year-old can’t be responsible for someone. She never came back and you’ve felt guilty ever since. You think it was your fault.’
‘It was,’ Rose said, in a whisper. ‘Everyone thought so.’
‘I very much doubt that – but what matters now is that’s what you thought. What you think now. You’re like someone whose psyche has developed around the central overwhelming fact of your loss. But it’s not too late, you know. You can forgive yourself.’
Rose looked at her and shook her head slowly from side to side, tears gathering in her eyes.
‘Yes, you can. But you need help to do it. I can make sure you don’t have to pay for it. It would take time. Your sister is dead and you need to say goodbye to her and build your own life now.’
‘She haunts me,’ whispered Rose.
‘Does she?’
‘It’s as if I’m never without her. She’s like a little ghost beside me. Always the same age. We’re all getting older, and she’s there, a tiny girl. She was such a worried little thing. So many things scared her – the seaside, spiders, loud noises, cows, the dark, fireworks, going in lifts, crossing the road. The only time she didn’t look anxious was when she was asleep – she used to sleep with her cheek resting against her hands, which she pressed together, as if she was praying. She probably
She gave a small laugh and then a wince.
‘It’s all right to laugh about her, and it’s all right to remember the ways in which she wasn’t perfect.’
‘My father’s made her into a saint, you know. Or an angel.’
‘Hard for you.’
‘And my mother doesn’t mention her.’
‘Then it’s time for you to find someone else to talk to about her.’
‘Could I come and talk to you?’
Frieda hesitated. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’ve been involved with your case from the point of view of the police. It would blur the boundaries. But I can recommend someone who I know is good.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So it’s a deal?’
‘All right.’
Chapter Twenty-five
In eight days’ time, it would be the shortest day of the year. The clinic would close until the beginning of the next year. Patients had to put their troubles on hold. And when they returned, Reuben would probably be there to meet them, if she told Paz he was fit to resume his duties. So here she was on a Sunday afternoon, walking towards his house, ostensibly to return some of the folders he’d left in his room, but he wouldn’t be fooled by that for very long. This was Reuben, after all, with his cool, appraising eye and his mocking smile.
