‘And that I’m entitled to a lawyer.’
‘You’ve not been arrested, Dr Klein.’
‘What was the “actual bodily harm”?’ said Frieda. ‘Was she injured?’
‘I believe there was bruising and some medical attention was needed.’
‘Does that count as actual bodily harm?’ said Frieda.
‘It is alleged,’ said the woman, ‘that psychological harm was caused. Sleep problems. Distress.’
‘Psychological harm,’ said Frieda. ‘Is it possible that Dr Hal Bradshaw was connected with the assessment?’
‘I can’t comment on that,’ said the man. ‘But you admit that you were present at the incident.’
‘Yes,’ said Frieda. ‘Haven’t they waited rather a long time to report it?’
‘From what I’ve heard,’ said the man, ‘Miss Welsh was at first too traumatized to talk about it. She needed reassurance and treatment before she was able to come forward. We’re trying to be more sensitive in our response to women who suffer violence.’
‘Well, that’s a good thing,’ said Frieda. ‘Do you want to know what happened?’
‘We would be interested in your version of events, yes,’ said the man.
‘I arranged to see Ian Yardley to ask him some questions,’ said Frieda.
‘You were angry with him, I understand. You felt humiliated by him.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘That’s what our enquiries suggest.’
‘I wasn’t angry with him. But his friend …’
‘Miss Welsh.’
‘She was aggressive as soon as I arrived. She jabbed at me and tried to push me out of the flat. I pushed back. When she tried to retaliate, I think she fell over a chair. It all happened very quickly. And then I left. End of story.’
The man looked down at his notebook.
‘One report claims that you pushed Miss Welsh against a wall and held her there. Is that accurate?’
‘Yes, that’s right. She started pushing at me. I told her to stop, and when she wouldn’t, I pushed her against the wall. But not roughly. Just to make her stop. Then I let her go and she came at me and fell over. I wasn’t even touching her.’
‘She just fell,’ said the woman.
‘That’s right.’
The man looked back at his notes. ‘Do you have a history of fighting in public?’
‘What do you mean?’
He turned a page. ‘You know a man called James Rundell?’ he said. ‘We’ve heard something about a fight in a restaurant, significant damage done. And it ended with you being arrested.’
‘Where did you hear about that?’
‘It’s information we’ve received.’
‘What’s the relevance?’
‘We’re just trying to establish a pattern. And isn’t James Rundell involved in this case as well?’
‘That’s right,’ said Frieda. ‘Rundell is one of the other therapists who were targeted in this …’ She stopped, trying to think of an appropriate word. ‘Project,’ she said finally.
“Targeted”. That sounds like you’re angry about it.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Frieda.
The man wrote something in his notebook. ‘You get angry with Rundell and you confront him in a restaurant and attack him. You get angry with Ian Yardley and you confront him in his home and a fight ensues. Do you see a pattern?’
‘The two cases have nothing in common,’ said Frieda. ‘And there was no fight in Ian Yardley’s flat.’
Suddenly the man glanced round, like a dog that had caught a scent. ‘What’s that?’ he said.
It was the banging from upstairs in the bathroom. It had become so much a part of Frieda’s life that she had almost stopped hearing it. ‘Do you really need to know?’ she said. ‘After all, I’ve got an alibi. I’m down here with you.’
The female officer frowned at her. ‘There’s nothing funny about violence against women,’ she said.
‘That’s it,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m done. If you want to charge me, then go ahead. Otherwise, we have nothing left to talk about.’
With a grimace of concentration, the man wrote several lines of notes, then closed his book and stood up. ‘Between ourselves,’ he said, ‘if I were you, I would talk to a solicitor. We’ve put weaker cases than this one in front of a jury. But even if we don’t, you might well be facing a civil case.’
‘What if I need to reach you?’ Frieda asked.
‘I was about to tell you,’ said the man. He wrote in his notebook, tore a page out and handed it to Frieda. ‘If you’ve anything more to say. But we’ll be in touch anyway.’
When they were gone, Frieda sat for several minutes staring in front of her. Then she looked through her address book and dialled a number. ‘Yvette,’ she said. ‘Sorry, it’s Frieda. Have you got a moment?’
Thank you for your letter. I carry it around with me. It’s so like you to write a real letter – on good-quality paper, in ink, with proper grammar and no abbreviations. I can’t remember the last time anyone sent me a letter. My mother, maybe, years ago. She used to write to me on very thin airmail paper, gummed down. I could never read her tiny, cramped handwriting.
My mother; yours. All the things we’ve never told each other yet. I think we need to spend a month in a lighthouse, with rough seas all round us, and enough food and drink never to have to leave. We could talk and read and sleep and make love and share secrets. Make up for all the lost time. Sandy xxxx
TWENTY-SEVEN
Yvette and Karlsson walked together from the Lennoxes’ house to the Kerrigans’. It took less than ten minutes. Yvette struggled to keep pace with his long stride. She had a bad cold: her throat was sore, her glands ached and her head throbbed. Her clothes felt tight and itchy.
The house was smaller than Ruth and Russell’s, a red-brick terraced building up a narrow side-street, with a tiny front garden that had been gravelled over. Elaine Kerrigan opened the door before the chime had died away. She stood before them, a tall woman with a long, pale face and fading hair caught up in a loose bun; glasses hung round her neck on a chain. She was wearing an oversized checked shirt over loose cotton trousers. The sun caught her as she gazed at them, and she raised her hand – wedding ring and engagement ring on the fourth finger – to shield her from its dazzle.
She knows, Yvette thought. Her husband must have sat her down and told her.
She led them into the living room. Sun streamed through the large window and lay across the green carpet and the striped sofa. There were daffodils on the mantelpiece, doubled by the mirror. Yvette caught a glimpse of her own face there – flushed and heavy, with dry lips. She licked them. Elaine Kerrigan took a seat and gestured for them to do the same. She laid her long, delicate hands in her lap and sat up straight.
‘I’ve been thinking about how to behave,’ she said, in a voice that was low and pleasant, with a faint burr of an accent that Yvette couldn’t place. ‘It all seems unreal. I know I’m the wronged wife, but I can’t feel that yet. It’s just so …’ She looked down at her hands, lifted her eyes again. ‘Paul doesn’t seem the sort of man someone would choose to have an affair with.’
‘When did he tell you?’ asked Yvette.
‘When he came back yesterday. He waited till his tea was on the table and blurted it out. I thought he was joking at first.’ She grimaced. ‘It’s mad, isn’t it? It can’t be happening to me. And this woman’s dead. Did he say that I was the one who told him about it? I saw the story in the paper? I thought she had a nice face. I wonder if she thought about me when it was all happening.’