‘If you feel you can’t, remember there are people who would like to be there for you.’
‘You hardly know me.’
‘I know enough.’
She lifted her glass and took a fiery sip. ‘I’m fine, really. Just a bit tired.’
‘Is it this case?’
‘Partly.’ She frowned to herself, then continued, ‘When I first got involved with the police, it was because of the disappearance of a child. Two children, in fact.’
‘I know,’ said Harry. ‘I read about it.’
‘That was a crime everybody wanted to solve. It’s different with this man, Robert Poole. All we know about him is that he cheated people and exploited them. As your sister noticed, though she seemed to be the only one who did. I think what they mainly feel is that he’s not worth the trouble. Mainly they wish the case would just go away.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I suppose I’m discovering that the police are like everybody else. There are some parts of their work that interest them more than others.’
‘That reminds me of my cleaner,’ said Harry. ‘She’s from Venezuela. She loves dusting and she loves putting things into piles. What she doesn’t like is washing the really nasty bits behind and under things.’
Frieda smiled. ‘In that analogy, Robert Poole is the bit behind the fridge that you can’t be bothered to wash because it means you have to move it.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever even thought of cleaning behind my fridge.’
‘But when you do move the fridge,’ said Frieda, ‘you’ll find something strange or something really important that you lost years ago.’
Harry looked puzzled. ‘Are we talking about cleaning now or is this something more profound?’
‘That’s probably enough of the fridge comparison.’
He touched her hand. ‘That stuff in the paper about Janet Ferris and Bob Poole: I’m sorry about it. You don’t deserve it.’
‘I wonder,’ said Frieda musingly. ‘But thank you. I must go now. It’s been a long day. I’m grateful to you, Harry.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said softly. ‘Will you be in touch?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
He watched her as she rose from her chair, gathered up her coat and bag, and walked with her swift, decisive steps from the bar. Outside, she passed by the window but didn’t turn her head towards him. He sat for a while after she had left, taking time over the last of his wine, thinking about Frieda’s face.
Forty-one
The Kerseys’ house was in Highgate, near the top of the hill. It was large and old, with gabled windows, uneven stone floors and low ceilings. From the kitchen where she sat, Frieda could see London spread out beneath her. An ancient spaniel lay curled near the fire. It twitched in its sleep and occasionally gave piteous murmurs. Frieda wondered what dogs had nightmares about.
‘Mervyn was going to be here as well, but at the last moment something came up. Well, actually, he just couldn’t face it.’ She grimaced at Frieda. ‘He’s taken this so hard. He feels it was his fault.’
‘What, exactly?’
‘Everything that happened with Beth. That’s being a parent for you, of course. Do you have children?’
‘No.’
‘You blame yourselves, of course you do. Anyway, it’s just me.’
‘Just you is fine. Thank you for seeing me. I work with Detective Chief Inspector Karlsson. I’m a doctor, not a detective.’
‘What kind of doctor?’
‘I’m trained as a psychiatrist but I work as a therapist.’
Frieda was used to the expressions that crossed people’s faces when she said this, but Lorna Kersey’s suggested something different – a flicker of anticipation, watchfulness.
‘Did your detective want you to talk to me because Beth was disturbed?’
‘Would you say your daughter was disturbed?’ Frieda asked. ‘Rather than simply unhappy and confused?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never known. I ask myself all the time. Was it because of her childhood? Were we bad parents? Did she need medical help or did she need understanding and kindness? I don’t know. I don’t know what the word means to people like you.’
‘Your daughter received treatment. Is that right?’
Lorna Kersey waved a hand in the air. ‘We were desperate. Counselling, therapy, drugs, you name it.’ She pinched the top of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, sharply, and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I hate to think of her out there, alone,’ she said. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how much I hate it. The thought of what she’ll do.’
‘Do you mean to herself?’
‘Well, yes. That too.’
‘To other people?’
‘I don’t know! I haven’t seen her for so long. I never thought she could manage on her own. I can’t imagine what she’s doing or how she is.’
‘What kind of drugs was she on?’
‘Why does that matter?’
‘What were they for? Were they anti-depressants?’
‘I can’t remember their name.’
‘But were they because she was depressed, or were they for something else?’
Lorna Kersey laid her hands flat on the table in front of her and stared at them. Then she looked up at Frieda. Her eyes seemed sore behind her round glasses. ‘She had these episodes,’ she said. ‘I’m an expert now. I’ve read the books, I’ve talked to experts. You’re not meant to say, “She’s a schizophrenic.” You say, “She had schizophrenic episodes.” That’s meant to make us feel better. Either way, they were terrifying.’
‘I know,’ said Frieda.
‘No,’ said Lorna Kersey. ‘If you don’t have a child, you can’t know.’
‘We’d like to try and help you find her.’
‘You think she may have killed him?’ whispered Beth’s mother. ‘You think my Beth may have murdered him?’
‘I’m not a detective.’
‘So what happens next?’
‘We need to find her for you.’
Forty-two
‘Are you ready for this?’ said Karlsson.
‘How do you mean?’ said Frieda.
‘I’m just trying to be encouraging. Wyatt’s got his lawyer with him. Don’t let him put you off.’
‘Put me off what?’
‘Nothing,’ said Karlsson. ‘I didn’t mean anything. Just be yourself. Remember, this is what you do, what you’re good at.’
‘What you want,’ said Frieda, ‘is for me to get Frank Wyatt to confess to killing Robert Poole.’
Karlsson held up his thumb and first finger, almost touching. ‘We’re this close to having the evidence to charge him. This close. But, yes, it would be helpful. I should warn you. I’ve just spent an hour with him. I dangled the idea of a manslaughter charge in front of him. I said he might even get a suspended sentence. But he’s not biting. So, it would be nice if you could work your magic on him.’
‘I’m interested in talking to him,’ said Frieda. ‘But I don’t want you to get your hopes up.’
‘No pressure,’ said Karlsson, as he opened the door and led her into the interview room. Frank Wyatt was sitting at a table. The jacket of his grey suit was draped over the back of his chair. He was wearing an open-necked white shirt. Beside him was a man dressed in a suit and tie. He was middle-aged, and not so much balding as thinning. His pale scalp showed through his short dark hair. As the door opened, they drew apart from each other, as if they had been caught saying something embarrassing.
‘Mr Joll,’ said Karlsson, ‘this is my colleague, Dr Klein.’ He waved Frieda towards the chair opposite the two men, then went and stood to one side, slightly in the background, so that Frieda felt he was looking over her shoulder, checking on her. As Frieda arranged herself on the chair, Karlsson stepped forward and pressed a button on the sound recorder on the table. She saw a digital counter but she couldn’t read the figures.