‘What’s wrong?’
‘This way.’
They went through an open-plan room that was heaving with activity, phones ringing, chatter. A meeting was going on at one end. They stopped outside a door.
‘There’s someone you should see,’ Karlsson said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
He opened the door for her. Frieda was about to ask something and then stopped. The sight of Seth Boundy was so unexpected that for a moment she couldn’t remember who he was. He looked different as well. His hair was standing up in small peaks and his tie was pulled loose. His forehead was shiny with sweat. He stood up when he saw her, but sat down again at once.
‘Sorry, I don’t understand,’ said Frieda. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was simply being a responsible citizen,’ he said, in a murmur. ‘I simply expressed a concern, and I was whisked off to London. It’s really -’
‘Concern. What concern?’
‘One of my research students appears to have gone missing. It’s probably nothing. She’s a grown woman.’
Frieda took a seat opposite Boundy. She put her elbows on the table between them and gazed at him. His eyes shifted nervously from her face to the window and back again. When she spoke it was in a quieter, harder tone. ‘But why here? Why are you in London?’
‘I -’ He halted and pushed his fingers back into his hair. His glasses were crooked on his nose. ‘You see, it was such an opportunity. You’re not a scientist. These subjects are getting rarer and rarer.’
‘It was the addresses,’ Frieda said. He licked his lips and looked at her uneasily. ‘You sent someone to the addresses I gave you.’
‘It was just to make initial contact. Routine stuff.’
‘And you’ve not heard from her?’
‘She’s not picking up the phone,’ said Boundy.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It was just routine.’
‘Who is this student?’
‘Katherine Ripon. She’s very capable.’
‘And you sent her there on her own?’
‘She’s a psychologist. It was just a brief interview.’
‘Do you realize what you’ve done?’ said Frieda. ‘Don’t you know who this man is?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Boundy. ‘I just thought you were trying to keep them to yourself. You didn’t tell me anything about him.’
Frieda was about to shout at or slap him and then she stopped herself. Perhaps it was her fault as much as his. Shouldn’t she have realized what he might do? Wasn’t she meant to be good at reading people? ‘You really haven’t heard from her?’
Boundy didn’t seem to be listening.
‘She will be all right, won’t she?’ He spoke half to himself. ‘It’s not my fault. She will turn up. People don’t just vanish.’
Karlsson took a moment to get himself under control. He didn’t want to lose his temper or let his fear show. Anger should be a weapon to be used discriminately, not a weakness and a loss of control. Everything else was for later. He walked into the room, shutting the door carefully behind him, and sat down opposite Dean Reeve, observing him in silence for a few moments. He was so like the man who had just been sitting in his car that at first the similarities obscured any difference. They were both slightly on the short side, strong and stocky, with round faces; both had grey hair that had a cow-lick in the centre and still showed the faint coppery tint of the red it had once been – the red of Matthew Faraday and of the boy of Alan’s fantasies. They both had arresting brown eyes and skin that was marked with ancient freckles. They were both wearing checked shirts – although Alan’s was blue and green, he remembered, whereas Dean’s was more colourful. And they bit their nails, they had a habit of rubbing their hands against their thighs and of crossing and recrossing their legs. It was quite uncanny, like a strange and troubling dream where nothing is single, where everything resembles something else. Even the way he bit his lower lip was the same. But when Dean, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward, opened his mouth, he no longer reminded Karlsson of his twin brother, although the two of them had the same slightly muffled voice, blurred round the edges.
‘Hello again,’ he said.
Karlsson was holding a folder and placed it in front of him. He flapped it open, removed a photograph and placed it in front of Reeve, rotating it so that it was the right way up for him. ‘Look at it,’ he said.
He examined Reeve’s face for a response, a shimmer of recognition in the eyes. He saw nothing at all.
‘Is this him?’ asked Reeve. ‘I mean the boy you’re looking for.’
‘Don’t you read the papers?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Or watch TV?’
‘I watch the football. Terry watches the cooking programmes.’
‘And what about this? Do you recognize this girl?’
Karlsson placed the long-ago photograph of Joanna in front of Reeve, who looked at it for a few seconds, then shrugged.
‘Is that a no?’
‘Who is she?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘If I knew, why would I ask you?’
Reeve didn’t look at Karlsson but he didn’t seem to be avoiding his gaze either. Some people, when you get them into an interview, just crack immediately. Others show signs of stress: they sweat, they stumble over their words, they babble. Karlsson quickly saw that Reeve wasn’t one of them. If anything he looked indifferent, or perhaps slightly amused.
‘Haven’t you got anything to say?’ said Karlsson.
‘You haven’t asked me a question.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘You asked me that when you came to my house before. I told you then. And I still haven’t seen him.’
‘Have you any knowledge of his whereabouts?’
‘No.’
‘Where were you on the afternoon of Friday, November the thirteenth at around four o’clock?’
‘You’ve done this before. You’re just asking me the same question. And I’m going to give you the same answer. I don’t know. It’s a long time ago. I was probably at work, or on my way back from work. Or maybe I was already at home, ready for the weekend.’
‘Where were you working then?’
Reeve shrugged. ‘Dunno. I do a bit here, a bit there. I’m my own boss. That’s how I like it. No one can muck you around then.’
‘Perhaps you could try a bit harder to remember.’
‘Maybe I was working for myself that day. Terry’s always on at me to do up the house. Women, eh!’
‘Were you?’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’
‘Mr Reeve. We are going to be interviewing all your neighbours, anyone who might have seen you that day. Perhaps you could be a little more exact.’
He scratched his head with mock solemnity. ‘There aren’t many neighbours,’ he said. ‘And we keep ourselves to ourselves.’
Karlsson sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘There’s a woman called Katherine Ripon. She’s twenty-five years old. She was last seen three days ago when setting out from Cambridge to visit two addresses. One of them was yours.’
‘Who is she?’
