Frieda made herself smile. ‘I’m just a doctor.’ She looked around. ‘I guess he’s some kind of builder. Is that right?’
‘He does a bit of that,’ said Terry. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I just met someone who knows him.’ She heard how feeble her words sounded. ‘I wanted to ask him a question. Get some information. I’ll go in a minute, if he’s not back.’
‘I’ve got things to do,’ said the woman. ‘I think you’d better go now.’
‘I’ll go in a minute.’ Frieda gestured with the cigarette. ‘When I’ve finished this. Do you work?’
‘Get out of my house.’
And then she heard the sound of the front door. She heard a voice from outside the room.
‘In here,’ called Terry.
A shape appeared in the door. Frieda saw a flash of leather jacket, jeans, work boots and then, as he stepped into the light, it was unmistakable. The clothes were different, except for the brightly checked shirt, but there was absolutely no doubt.
‘Alan,’ she said. ‘Alan. What’s going on?’
‘What?’
‘It’s me…’ said Frieda, and then she stopped. She realized how very, very stupid she had been. Her mind became a fog. She didn’t know what to say. She made a desperate effort to pull herself together. ‘You’re Dean Reeve.’
The man looked between the two women.
‘Who are you?’ His voice was quiet, uninflected. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I think there’s been a mix-up,’ said Frieda. ‘I met someone who knows you.’
She thought of the woman in the orange jacket and thought of Terry. Dean’s wife. She looked at his expressionless face, his dark brown eyes. She tried another smile but the man’s expression changed.
‘How did you get in here? What are you up to?’
‘I let her in,’ said Terry. ‘She said she wanted to talk to you.’
The man stepped towards Frieda and raised his hand towards her, not as if he was going to hit her but as if he was going to touch her to see if she was really there. She took a step back.
‘I’m sorry. I think there’s been a mistake. Mistaken identity.’ She paused. ‘Has that happened to you before?’
The man looked at her as though he could see inside her. It felt as if he were touching her, as if she could feel his hands on her skin.
He knew he had to warn her. They would catch her and turn her into something else as well. She wouldn’t be a dancer any more. They would tie her feet up. They would block her mouth.
He tried to shout but only made his humming that was trapped inside his mouth and at the back of his throat. He stood up, swaying and with the nasty taste in his mouth that never went away, and jumped up and down, up and down, until there was red in his eyes and his head swam and the walls leaned in towards him and he fell on the floor again. He banged his head against the wood. She would hear him. She must.
‘Who are you?’
The voice was the same as well. A bit more sure of itself, but the same.
‘Sorry,’ said Frieda. ‘My mistake.’ She held up the cigarette. ‘Thanks for this. I’ll let myself out, shall I? Sorry to mess you around.’ She turned and, as casually as she could, walked out of the room and tried to open the front door. At first she couldn’t work out which handle to pull but then she found the right one, opened the door and stepped outside. She tossed the cigarette down and walked slowly at first and then, when she turned the corner, broke into a run and ran all the way to the station, even though her chest was hurting and she could hardly breathe and the bile was rising in her throat. She felt as though she was running through a thick mist that obscured all the familiar signposts and made the world uncanny, unreal.
He saw her go. Slow, then faster, then she danced. She had escaped and she would never come back because he had saved her.
The door behind him opened.
‘You’ve been a very naughty little boy, haven’t you?’
When she was safely on the train, she wished, for the first time in her life, that she had a mobile phone. She looked around. There was a young woman a few seats down who looked harmless enough so she stood up and walked over to her.
‘Excuse me.’ She tried to sound matter-of-fact, as if this was an ordinary request. ‘Could I please borrow your mobile?’
The woman pulled her earplugs out of her ears.
‘What?’
‘Could I borrow your mobile, please?’
‘No, you fucking can’t.’
Frieda pulled her wallet out of her bag. ‘I’ll pay you,’ she said. ‘A fiver?’
‘Ten.’
‘OK. Ten.’
She handed it over and took the woman’s mobile, which was very small and thin. It took her several minutes to grasp how to make a single call. Her hands were still shaking.
‘Hello. Hello. Please put me through to Detective Inspector Karlsson.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Dr Klein. Frieda.’
‘Will you hold on a moment?’
Frieda waited. She gazed out of the window at the scarred buildings flowing past.
‘Dr Klein?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.’
Frieda remembered their last meeting; his anger with her. ‘It’s urgent,’ she said. ‘There’s something he needs to know.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I mean,
‘Do you want to talk to someone else?’
‘No!’
‘Can I take a message for you?’
‘Yes. Tell him to ring me at once. I’m on a mobile. Oh, but I don’t know the number.’
‘It’s on my display,’ said the voice at the other end.
‘I’ll be waiting.’
She sat with the phone in her hand, waiting for it to ring. The train stopped and a group of scruffy, spotty teenagers crowded into the carriage, all boys with jeans pulled down below their concave buttocks, except for one scrawny girl who, under her clumsy makeup, looked about thirteen. As Frieda watched, one of the boys held a can of white cider to her lips and tried to make her drink it. She shook her head, but he persisted, and after a few seconds, she opened her mouth and let him pour some in. The liquid dribbled down her small chin. She was wearing an unzipped fur-lined parka and under that, Frieda saw, just a halter-neck top over her flat breasts and sharp collarbone. She must be freezing, the poor pinched-looking brat. For a moment, Frieda considered going over and hitting the sniggering youths with her umbrella, then thought better of it. She’d done enough for one day.
The train juddered to a halt outside the next station. Snow was falling again, improbably large occasional flakes spinning past her window. Frieda squinted: was that a heron on the bank, tall and still and elegant among the brambles? She stared at the mobile, willing it to ring, and when it didn’t she phoned again, heard the same voice at the other end, once more asked for Karlsson, and was once more told – in a voice stiff with politeness – that he was still not available to take her call.
‘Who was she?’
His voice was calm, but still she shrank away from him.
‘I don’t know. She just rang on the doorbell.’
