Frieda stood up and opened the door for him. She watched him blunder down the stairs, his laces flapping, and then she stood at her window and saw him come out on to the street. He walked past a woman who didn’t pay him any special attention. Frieda looked at her watch. She was going out. She needed to get ready. Well, there was no hurry.
Eight hours later Frieda swung her legs out of a bed that wasn’t hers. ‘Is there anything to drink?’ she said.
‘There’s some beer in the fridge,’ said Sandy.
Frieda walked into the kitchen and took a bottle from the fridge door. ‘Is there an opener?’ she called.
‘If we went to your place, you’d know where things were,’ he said. ‘The drawer next to the stove.’
Frieda flipped the top off the beer and walked back into the bedroom of Sandy’s small Barbican flat. She looked out of the window at the lights shimmering in the dark. Her mouth felt dry. She took a sip of the beer and swallowed. ‘If
She walked back to the bed. Sandy was lying wrapped in the tangled sheets. She sat on the edge and gazed down at him. He didn’t look like a Sandy; he had a more Mediterranean appearance, with olive skin and hair that was blue-black like a raven’s wing, except for a few streaks of silver. He held her stare without smiling.
‘Oh, Frieda,’ he said.
Frieda felt that her heart was like some old chest that had been heaved up from the seabed, its barnacled lid prised open after all this time. Who knew what treasures she would find inside? ‘Do you want some beer?’
‘Give me some from your mouth.’
She tipped the bottle and took a swig, then leaned over him, their lips almost touching. She felt the cool liquid trickle into his mouth. He gulped at it, coughed and laughed.
‘It’s probably better from the bottle,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s better from your mouth.’
They smiled at each other, and then the smiles faded. Frieda put her hand on his smooth chest. They started to say something at the same time and both apologized, then tried to speak at the same time again.
‘You first,’ said Frieda.
He touched the side of her face. ‘I wasn’t ready for this,’ he said. ‘It’s happened so quickly.’
‘You make that sound like a bad thing.’
He pulled her down on to the bed beside him and leaned over her, running a hand down her body. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘But I feel I don’t know where I am.’ There was a pause. ‘Say something.’
‘I think I was going to say the same thing. This wasn’t part of the plan.’
Sandy smiled. ‘You have a plan?’
‘Not really. I spend my time helping people sort the story of their lives. Give them a narrative. But I don’t know what mine is. And now I feel I’m being carried away on something. I’m not sure what it is.’
Sandy kissed her on the neck and the cheek, and then deeply, mouth to mouth. ‘Are you going to stay the night?’
‘One day,’ said Frieda. ‘But not now.’
‘And can I come to yours?’
‘One day.’
Chapter Five
Detective Constable Yvette Long looked across at her boss, Detective Chief Inspector Malcolm Karlsson. ‘Are you ready for this?’ she said.
‘Does it matter?’ he said, and they stepped outside.
It was the side door of the court but there was no escaping the reporters and the cameras. He tried not to flinch at the lights. It would make him look shifty and defeated when it was shown on the news. He could make out some of the faces from the press gallery over the previous weeks. He heard a muddle of questions being shouted at him.
‘One at a time,’ he said. ‘Mr Carpenter.’ This was addressed to a bald man clutching a microphone.
‘Is the acquittal a personal humiliation or a failure of the system?’
‘I decided on a prosecution in conjunction with the Crown Prosecution Service. That’s all I’ve got to say.’
A woman put up her hand. She was from one of the quality papers. He couldn’t remember which.
‘You’ve been accused of bringing the case prematurely. What’s your response?’
‘I was in charge of the inquiry. I take full responsibility.’
‘Are you restarting your inquiry?’
‘Investigating officers will consider any new evidence.’
‘Do you think this operation was a waste of manpower and public money?’
‘I thought we assembled a compelling case,’ said Karlsson, trying to suppress a feeling of nausea. ‘The jury apparently disagreed.’
‘Will you resign?’
‘No.’
Later that day there was, following tradition, a wake at the Duke of Westminster pub. A group of officers formed a noisy huddle in the corner, under a display of nautical knots in a glass case. DC Long sat down next to Karlsson. She was holding two glasses of whisky, then saw that he had barely touched the one he already had.
Karlsson looked across at the other officers. ‘They’re in quite a good mood,’ he said. ‘Considering.’
‘Because you took all the blame,’ she said. ‘Which you shouldn’t have done.’
‘That’s my job,’ he said.
Yvette Long looked around and gave a start. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Crawford’s here. The cunt that dropped you in it. He’s actually here.’
Karlsson smiled. He’d never heard her swear before. She must be really angry. The commissioner hovered at the bar, then came over and sat with them. He didn’t notice DC Long glaring at him. He slid a glass of whisky across to Karlsson. ‘Add that to your collection,’ he said. ‘You deserve it.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Karlsson.
‘You took one for the team today,’ Crawford said. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice. I know I pushed you. There were political reasons. We needed to be seen to be doing something.’
Karlsson pushed his glasses together, as if he were considering which one to drink from first. ‘It was my decision,’ he said. ‘I was in charge.’
‘You’re not talking to the press now, Mal,’ said Crawford. ‘Cheers.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘Can’t stop,’ he said. ‘There’s a dinner with the home secretary. You know the sort of thing. I’ll just wander over and commiserate with the lads.’ Then he leaned closer to Karlsson, as if he was confiding something personal. ‘Still,’ he said. ‘You’re due a result. Better luck next time.’
Reuben McGill still smoked like it was the 1980s. Or the 1950s. He took a Gitanes from his packet, lit it and snapped his lighter shut. At first he didn’t speak and Frieda didn’t either. She sat opposite his desk and scrutinized him. In a way he looked better than he had when she had first met him, fifteen years earlier. His full head of hair was now grey, his face was more wrinkled, even jowly, but that just added to his vagrant charm. He still wore jeans and an open-necked shirt. This was a man who was telling you – telling his patients – that he wasn’t part of the system.
‘Good to see you,’ he said.
‘Paz rang me.’
‘Did she now? It’s like being surrounded by spies. Are you a spy as well? So, what do you think? Now that you’ve been summoned.’
‘I’m on the board of the clinic,’ said Frieda. ‘It means that if someone expresses a concern, I need to respond.’
‘So respond,’ said Reuben. ‘What should I do? Tidy my desk?’
