‘It’s awful, though,’ said Olivia. ‘You’ve done so much for me and I didn’t … I can’t …’ She started to blush and covered her confusion by taking an even deeper gulp of wine.
‘That’s all right,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve been clear from the start. Frieda is paying for this and, between you and me, I’m doing it at a reduced rate.’
‘I don’t see how you can make a living, if you keep doing favours like this.’
‘It’s for my sister. She was helping Frieda and I’m helping Tessa.’
‘I didn’t know Tessa was such a friend of Frieda’s.’
‘They only just met,’ said Harry. ‘But Frieda’s the sort of person you hit it off with.’
Olivia gave a knowing smile. ‘Yes, isn’t she?’ she said.
Harry laughed. ‘I’ve got no ulterior motives,’ he protested. ‘I promise.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Olivia. ‘I believe it. So what do you make of my sister-in-law? You’re intrigued, aren’t you? Admit it.’
Harry held up his hands. ‘Of course I admit it. I’ve got to know Frieda and spent time with her but I still don’t really know what makes her tick.’
‘And you think I do?’
‘I can’t help noticing that you were married to Frieda’s brother and you had what I take to be a troubled break-up.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Yet Frieda has stuck by you instead of her brother.’
Olivia picked up her glass but put it down again without drinking from it. ‘Maybe she feels she needs to keep an eye on her niece. Sometimes I’ve not been the most stable parent in the world.’
‘What about her brother?’
Olivia ran a finger round the rim of her glass. ‘I’ve never been able to get it to make that sound,’ she said, then looked drunkenly thoughtful. ‘Frieda has a very complicated relationship with her family.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’
‘I get the impression she doesn’t like being quizzed about her private life.’
‘She scared me when I first met her,’ said Olivia. ‘Sometimes she’d look at me or listen to me and I’d get the feeling she was looking right into me, knowing everything about me, all the things I didn’t want anyone to know. Like you, when you saw all my papers and cheque books that I’d kept hidden. I even used to wonder whether she had contempt for me. But when David left, I stopped hearing from quite a few people that I’d thought of as friends, but Frieda was there, admittedly sometimes being sarcastic or silent the way she can be, but she did things that were necessary. Or mostly necessary.’
‘Why does she do all this stuff with the police?’ asked Harry. ‘She’s been attacked, she’s been written about in the papers. Why does she put herself through it?’
Now Olivia took another gulp of wine and Harry topped up her glass once more. ‘Thanks. Is this how you normally meet with your clients? I hope not. Anyway, the thing is, when I decide to do something it’s because I know I can do it, and it won’t be too demanding and it won’t give me any grief. The basic way to understand Frieda is to look at me and then think the opposite. I don’t know why Frieda does these things, and when I hear that she’s done something, I never understand why. I don’t know why she helps me. I certainly don’t know why she puts herself through the purgatory of trying to keep Chloë on the straight and narrow.’ Another gulp of wine. Her voice was thickening now, as if her tongue was just slightly too large for her mouth. ‘For example. What was I saying?’ She paused for a moment. ‘Oh, yes. The newspaper article. I saw that, and if it had been about me I would have crawled into a hole and pulled the hole in after me. Whereas, Frieda, Frieda, she’s like one of those animals, a badger or a stoat. If you mess with their den, they become dangerous and … Well, I’m exaggerating. I’m making her sound feral. But she’s stubborn and bloody-minded. In a good way. Ninety-nine per cent of the time. Or ninety-five.’
Harry waited a moment. ‘I think Frieda has secrets,’ he said. ‘I mean, she’s someone with a hidden grief. Do you know what I mean?’
Now there was a long pause. Harry felt that Olivia was suddenly reluctant to meet his eyes. ‘It looks like you do know what I mean,’ he said. ‘And, as you can tell, I’m falling for her. I’d like to know.’
Finally she looked round. ‘Well, you know what happened with her father?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t.’
After Beth had finished with the photographs, there were his notes. There were pages and pages of them, and at first it was hard to make sense of what she was reading. Sometimes they seemed like short stories, and then they became lists – lists of odd things. Exercises to do to lose weight; plants and where to get them from. Some things had a neat tick by them, or were crossed off. There were figures but she couldn’t make any sense of those so after a while she stopped trying, although she knew that some of the numbers were quite long and had pound signs in front of them. Bit by bit she realized that she was reading about different people. They had names, addresses, dates of birth, relatives, jobs.
He had written about her parents and he had put down all the things they liked and didn’t like, all their hobbies, the charities they subscribed to and the events they attended. He had even done the same for her sisters. He had drawn a map of the house and garden, putting in the studio shed at the end where her mother played her cello sometimes and where her father kept his paints. She hadn’t grasped how closely he had listened to her and it made her eyes prick with tears to know that even when he’d seemed aloof he was thinking of her and looking out for her. He had left this for her, Beth thought, as a gift, and he had gone to such a lot of trouble – but why? She stared and stared at the words, until the lights in her eyes flickered and made her dizzy. She knew she had to find some food, make herself stronger.
She crawled out of the hatchway, her cheeks scraping against the metal rim of the opening. She hadn’t been out for a while and her body felt stiff, as though it had hardened into crookedness. She made herself jog up and down on the spot for a while, feeling how pain knifed in her chest and bounced up and down in her skull. Like those tennis balls she used to bounce on her tennis racket, counting up, trying to beat her record. When was that? She could almost see her fat child’s knees and the yellow sun, like a yolk, in the sky, but now everything was dim and dark and ragged, and the water was oily and when she walked, her body slid about on the muddy path.
She reached a boat she knew was inhabited. She wasn’t being careful enough, but perhaps it didn’t matter so much any more, because he was gone and everything was over, except the thing she had to do in his name. In his name. Like a disciple.
The lights were off and the boat felt deserted. There were bikes chained to the top, and when she scrambled on to the deck, the chains rattled and she lay quite still for a moment, flat against the icy wet wood, but nobody came. She pulled at the hatch and it creaked open, and she lowered her body into the snug interior. It was much, much nicer than hers. It was warm, neat, there was a good smell to it, of clean bodies and fresh food. You could call it a home. You couldn’t call hers a home. It was a hole. A dank ghastly pit. There was still enough light outside to see the shapes of things, and she found the small fridge and pulled it open. Milk. She took that out. Spreadable butter. Two wholemeal rolls. And there was half a chicken under shrink wrapping. Half a chicken. Golden skin. Plump thighs. Her mouth filled with saliva and she lifted the wrapping, tore off a piece of meat, stuffed it into her mouth and swallowed it almost without chewing. Blood roared in her head and she thought she might be sick. She tore another piece and pushed that in too. Her gashed lip hurt and her throat hurt and her stomach shrieked.