Blue Monday

‘Jack. You know.’

‘You don’t know Jack.’

‘I do.’

‘You only met him once for about thirty seconds.’

‘Before you hustled him out of my sight. Yeah. But we’re Facebook buddies now.’

‘You are, are you?’

‘Yeah. We’re going to meet when he gets back. Is that a problem?’

Was it a problem? Of course it was a problem. Her trainee and her niece. But it was a problem for later, not now. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.

‘You know how old I am. Sixteen. Old enough.’

Frieda bit her lip. She didn’t want to ask, Old enough for what?

‘We could play charades,’ said Chloe, cheerfully. ‘What time shall we arrive?’

‘What do you think?’

‘How about early afternoon? That’s what other families do. They open their presents and mooch around a bit and then they have a blow-out meal in the afternoon or early evening. We could do that.’

‘Right.’

She pulled off her slippers; holding the phone between chin and hunched shoulder, she pulled off her skirt and tights.

‘We’re bringing the champagne. Mum said. That’s her contribution. What about crackers?’

Frieda thought of Alan’s parting remark and gave herself a mental shake. ‘I’ll bring the crackers,’ she said firmly. ‘And it won’t be turkey.’

‘So what -’

‘It’s a surprise.’

Before she left the house she called Reuben. Josef answered. Loud music was playing in the background. ‘Will you and Reuben come and have Christmas dinner at my house?’ she asked, without preamble.

‘Already we are.’

‘Sorry?’

‘We agreed. You cook me an English Christmas. Turkey and plum pudding.’

‘I was thinking about something a bit different. Like me not cooking it. What do you do in Ukraine for Christmas?’

‘It is my honour to prepare for my friends. Twelve foods.’

‘Twelve? No, Josef. One is fine.’

‘Twelve foods is mandatory in my home.’

‘But that’s too much.’

‘Never too much.’

‘If you’re sure,’ said Frieda, doubtfully. ‘I just thought something simple. Meatballs. Isn’t that Ukrainian?’

‘No meat. Never meat on the day. Fish is good.’

‘Maybe you can get Reuben to help. Another thing: what are you doing right now?’

‘I must shop for my meal.’

‘I’ll pay for the ingredients. It’s the least I can do. But before that, Josef, do you want to go on a walk with me?’

‘Outside is wet and cold.’

‘Not as cold as in the Ukraine, surely. I could do with another pair of eyes.’

‘Where are we walking together?’

‘I’ll see you outside the tube station. Reuben can tell you how to get there.’

Frieda pulled the collar of her coat up to protect her face from the wind.

‘Your shoes are wet,’ she said to Josef.

‘And the feet,’ he said. He was wearing a thin jacket that she thought belonged to Reuben, no gloves, and a bright red scarf that he’d wrapped several times round his neck and lower face so his voice was muffled. His hair, damp from the sleet, was flat against his skull.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, and he made his curious little bow, side-stepping a puddle.

‘And why is it?’ he said.

‘A walk around London. It’s what I do. It’s a way of thinking. Normally I do it on my own but this time I wanted someone with me. Not just anyone. I thought you could help me. The police have been knocking on doors, looking for Matthew and Kathy, or the bodies of Matthew and Kathy. I needed to come here, just for the smell of it, really.’

She thought of Alan’s words. Boarded-up buildings, abandoned workshops under arches, lock-ups, tunnels. That kind of thing. Put yourself in this man’s shoes. Think how he’d feel, panicking, casting around for a hiding place. A place where no one will look; a place where if someone cries out for help, they won’t be heard. She looked helplessly around at the flats and houses, a few of which were lit up and festooned with Christmas decorations, at the shops with their doors wide open, belting heat into the winter streets, the clogged roads, the shoppers milling past clutching bags full of presents and food. ‘Behind thick walls, under our feet. I don’t know. We’ll start together, then separate. I’ve got a kind of route planned.’

Josef nodded.

‘A couple of hours and then you can go and buy your food.’

Frieda opened up her A-Z and found the right page. She pointed at a spot. ‘We’re here,’ she said. She moved her finger half an inch across. ‘I think he was kept here. Dean had to move the boy quickly. So I’m going to say that he would take him somewhere not more than half a mile. Maybe a mile.’

‘Why?’ said Josef.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why one mile? Why not five mile? Why not ten mile?’

‘Reeve had to think quickly. He had to think of a hiding place nearby. Somewhere he knew.’

‘He take him to a friend?’

Frieda shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I think you could take an object to a friend, but not a child. I don’t believe he’d have that kind of friend. I think he’d put Matthew somewhere. Somewhere he knew he could get back to. But then he was being watched and he couldn’t go there.’

Josef crossed his arms as if protecting himself against the cold. ‘Many guesses,’ he said. ‘Maybe he took the boy. Maybe the boy is alive. Maybe he hide him near the house.’

‘They aren’t guesses,’ said Frieda.

‘A mile,’ said Josef. He put his finger on the map on the spot where Dean Reeve lived. He moved it out. ‘A mile?’ he said, again, then traced a circle around the spot. ‘Six miles square. More, I think.’

‘I brought you here to help me,’ said Frieda. ‘Not to tell me what I already know. If it were you, what would you do?’

‘If I steal, I steal equipment. A drill, a sander, sell it for a few pounds. I don’t steal a little child.’

‘But if you did.’

Josef made a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘A cupboard or a box or a locked room. A place with no people.’

‘There are lots of places with no people around here,’ said Frieda. ‘So? Shall we go for a walk?’

‘Which way?’

‘We don’t know where he is and we don’t know where to look, so it doesn’t matter. I thought of going in a spiral outwards from his house.’

‘Spiral?’ said Josef.

Frieda gestured a spiral with her finger. ‘Like water running into a hole,’ she said. She pointed along the street. ‘This way.’ They started to walk along the edge of a housing estate named after John Ruskin. She looked up at the terraces. More than half of the flats had metal grilles across the doors and windows to seal them. Any of those would be a possible hiding place. At the end of the housing estate there was a gasworks, with rusted chains across the front gate. An old sign on the railings announced that the site was patrolled by dogs. It seemed unlikely. They were now heading north, and at the end of the road they turned right and east alongside a lorry depot and then a scrap-metal yard.