They stepped into a small square room. The air was muggy and smelt of disinfectant. There were bars over the window. Frieda was struck by the bareness. Was that what a life boiled down to? A narrow bed, a picture of the Bridge of Sighs on the wall, a single bookshelf holding a leather-bound Bible, a china dog, a vase with no flowers in it, and a large silver-framed photograph of the son she had chosen to keep. In an armchair by the wardrobe there was a stocky figure in a flannel dressing-gown and thick brown support tights.
June Reeve was short, her feet barely reaching the floor, and she had the same faded grey hair that Alan and Dean had. When she turned her head towards them, Frieda couldn’t at first see the likeness to her picture. Her face had spread. Its shape seemed to have disappeared and all that was left were features in flesh – a sharp chin, a small dry mouth, brown eyes that were her sons’ eyes but looked cloudy. It was impossible to tell how old she was. Seventy? A hundred? Her hands and her hair seemed young; her aimless gaze and her voice much older.
‘Visitors for you,’ Daisy said loudly.
‘What’s she done to her hands?’ asked Karlsson.
‘She chews at her fingers until they bleed, so we put mitten bandages on her.’
‘Hello, Mrs Reeve,’ said Frieda.
June Reeve didn’t reply, although she gave a curious jerk with her shoulders. They advanced further into the room, which was barely large enough to contain the four of them.
‘I’ll leave you, then,’ said Daisy.
‘Mrs Reeve?’ said Karlsson. He was grimacing and stretching his mouth, as if clear enunciation would carry the sense to her. ‘My name is Malcolm Karlsson. This is Frieda.’
June Reeve’s head swivelled. She fixed her milky gaze on Frieda.
‘You’re Dean’s mother,’ said Frieda, kneeling on the floor beside her. ‘Dean? Do you remember Dean?’
‘Who’s asking?’ Her voice was slurred and hoarse, as if her vocal cords were damaged. ‘I don’t like busybodies.’
Frieda looked into her face and tried to read a story from the wrinkles and folds. Had that face been there twenty-two years earlier?
June Reeve rubbed her mittened hands against each other. ‘I like my tea strong, with lots of sugar.’
‘This is hopeless,’ said Karlsson.
Frieda leaned in close to the old woman’s sour smell. ‘Tell me about Joanna,’ said Frieda.
‘Never you mind that.’
‘Joanna. The little child.’
June Reeve didn’t reply.
‘Did you take her?’ Karlsson’s tone was harsh. ‘You and your son. Tell us about it.’
‘That’s not going to help,’ said Frieda. She said gently, ‘It was outside the sweetshop, wasn’t it?’
‘Why am I here?’ asked the old woman. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Did you give her sweets?’
‘Lemon sherbet,’ she said. ‘Jelly babies.’
‘Is that what you gave her?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Then you put her in a car,’ said Frieda. ‘With Dean.’
‘Have you been a naughty girl?’ Something like a lewd grin appeared on her face. ‘Have you? Wetting yourself like that. Biting.
‘Was Joanna naughty?’ asked Frieda. ‘June, tell us about Joanna.’
‘I want my tea.’
‘Did she bite Dean?’ Pause. ‘Did he kill her?’
‘My tea. Three sugars.’ Her face puckered as if she would cry.
‘Where did you take Joanna? Where is she buried?’
‘Why am I here?’
‘Did he kill her at once, or did he hide her somewhere?’
‘I wrapped him in a towel,’ she said belligerently. ‘Somebody would have found him and taken him. Who are you to judge?’
‘She’s talking about Alan,’ Frieda said quietly to Karlsson. ‘He was found bundled up in a little park on a housing estate.’
‘Who are you, anyway? I didn’t ask you in here. People should mind their own business. Butter wouldn’t melt.’
‘Where’s the body?’
‘I want my tea, I want my tea.’ She raised her voice until it cracked. ‘Tea!’
‘Your son, Dean.’
‘No.’
‘Dean hid Joanna somewhere.’
‘I’m not telling you anything. He’ll look after me. Muckrakers. Nosy-parkers. Bloody stuck-up ponces.’
‘She’s upset.’ Daisy had appeared in the door. ‘You won’t get any more out of her now.’
‘No.’ Frieda got to her feet. ‘We’ll leave her in peace.’
They left the room and walked back up the corridor.
‘Has she ever said anything about a girl called Joanna?’ Karlsson asked.
‘She keeps herself to herself,’ Daisy said. ‘Spends most of her time in her room. She doesn’t really talk much at all, except to complain.’ She grimaced. ‘She’s pretty good at that.’
‘Have you ever thought she seemed guilty about anything?’
‘Her? She just feels angry. Put-upon.’
‘What about?’
‘You heard a bit of it. People interfering.’
As they made their way out, Karlsson didn’t speak.
‘Well?’ said Frieda.
‘Well what?’ said Karlsson bitterly. ‘I’ve got a woman trying to reconstruct a face after twenty-two years of not remembering it. I’ve got an identical twin with disturbing dreams and fantasies, and now I’ve got a woman with Alzheimer’s talking about lemon sherbet.’
‘There were things in what she said. Fragments.’
Karlsson pushed the front door open with too much force so that it gave a bang.
‘Fragments. Oh, yes. Bits of nonsense, shadows of memories, strange coincidences, odd feelings, half-baked intuitions. That’s what this whole fucking case boils down to. I could ruin my career over this, like Joanna’s detective twenty-two years ago.’
They stepped into the cold and stopped.
‘Morning,’ said Dean Reeve. He was freshly shaved and his hair had been combed away from his face. He was smiling amiably at them. It felt like a challenge.
Frieda couldn’t speak. Karlsson nodded curtly.
‘How’s my ma today?’ He held up a grease-spotted brown-paper bag. ‘I’m bringing her a doughnut. She likes her doughnut on Sunday. Her appetite is the one thing she hasn’t lost.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Karlsson, in a hoarse voice.
‘I’m sure we’ll see each other again,’ said Dean, politely. ‘One way or another.’
And as he passed them, he gave Frieda a wink.
Chapter Thirty-three
Just after ten, Frieda was sitting alone in her consulting room. She looked at her watch. Alan was late. Was that a surprise? After what he had learned about himself and about her own deceptive behaviour, did she really expect him to come back at all? He had been neglected by one therapist and deceived by a second. What would he do now? Perhaps he would just give up on therapy. It would be a logical conclusion. Or he could make a complaint.
