Blue Monday

Chapter Nineteen

Frieda stepped into her house with a small sigh of relief, letting the shopping bag drop to the floor while she took off her coat and scarf. It was cold and dark outside, frost in the air and the sense of winter closing in, but inside was snug. There was a light on in the living room and the fire was laid ready; she lit it before going into the kitchen with the bag. Reuben always said that there were two types of cook: the artist and the scientist. He was clearly the artist, flamboyant with improvisations, and she was the scientist, exact and a bit fussy, following every recipe to the letter. A level teaspoon had to be level; if a recipe said red wine vinegar then nothing else would do; pastry dough had to be left in the fridge for the full hour. She very rarely cooked. Sandy had been the cook in their relationship and now … Well, she didn’t want to think about Sandy because that hurt the way a toothache hurt, flaring up suddenly and taking her breath away with its electric sharpness. She just assembled ingredients on her plate and tried not to think of him with his pots and pans and wooden spoons, making meals for one. But today she was following a simple recipe that Chloë had inexplicably emailed her, with urgent instructions to try it, for a curried cauliflower and chickpea salad. She looked doubtfully at it.

She put on her apron, washed her hands, drew down the blinds, and was chopping the onion when her doorbell rang. There was nobody she was expecting and people didn’t often turn up at her house unannounced, except young men with dodgy smiles selling dusters, twenty for a fiver. Perhaps it was Sandy. Did she want it to be? She quickly remembered it couldn’t be. He had gone on the Eurostar to Paris this morning for a conference. She still knew those kinds of things about him and so she was able to imagine him in the life she had vacated. Soon enough that would change. He would do things she knew nothing about, see people she had never met or heard of, wear clothes she had never seen, read books he wouldn’t discuss with her.

The doorbell rang again and she laid down the knife, rinsed her hands under cold water, and went to answer.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ asked Karlsson.

‘Obviously.’

‘It’s a bit cold out here.’

Frieda stood back and let him walk into her hall. She noticed how he wiped his shoes – rather elegant black ones, with blue laces – on her mat before hanging his black coat, splattered with rain, next to hers.

‘You were cooking.’

‘Brilliant. I can see why you became a detective.’

‘This will only take a minute of your time.’

She led him into her living room, where the fire was still feeble and lacking warmth. She crouched before it and carefully blew its flames before taking a seat opposite Karlsson and folding her hands carefully on her lap. He noticed how straight she sat, and she noticed that one of his front teeth was very slightly chipped. This surprised her: Karlsson seemed otherwise punctilious about his appearance, almost dandyish: his soft charcoal-grey jacket, his white shirt, and a red tie so thin it was like an ironic stripe down his chest.

‘Is it about Alan?’ she said.

‘I thought you would want to know.’

‘Have you talked to him?’

She sat up straighter in her chair. Her expression didn’t waver, and yet Karlsson had the impression that she was holding back a wince of anticipated distress. She was paler than the last time they had met, and tired as well. He thought she looked unhappy.

‘Yes. His wife, too.’

‘And?’

‘He didn’t have anything to do with the disappearance of Matthew Faraday.’

He could sense a release of tension.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Matthew disappeared on Friday, November the thirteenth. I believe Mr Dekker was with you that afternoon?’

Frieda thought for a moment.

‘Yes. He would have left at two fifty.’

‘And his wife says that she met him shortly after that. They went home together. A neighbour came round just after they got back and stayed for a cup of tea. We checked.’

‘So that’s that,’ Frieda said. She bit her lower lip, holding back the next question.

‘They were shocked to be questioned,’ he said.

‘I imagine.’

‘You’re probably wondering what I told them.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I said they were part of a routine inquiry.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s just one of those phrases.’

‘I’ll tell him myself.’

‘I thought you might.’ Karlsson stretched his legs out in front of the fire, which was crackling away now. He half wished Frieda would offer him a cup of tea or a glass of wine so that he could stay in this cocoon of dimly lit warmth, but she didn’t seem about to do that. ‘He’s a curious man, isn’t he? All jangled up. But nice. I liked his wife.’

Frieda shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about him. She had probably done enough damage already. ‘I’m sorry I wasted your time,’ she said neutrally.

‘Don’t be sorry.’ He raised his eyebrows at her: ‘ “Dreams are often most profound when they seem most crazy.” ’

‘You’re quoting Freud at me?’

‘Even coppers read sometimes.’

‘I don’t think dreams are profound. Usually I hate it when patients tell me their dreams as if they’re some magic fable. But in this case –’ She broke off. ‘Well, I was wrong. And I’m glad.’

Karlsson stood up and she did too.

‘I’ll let you get back to your cooking.’

‘Can I ask you one thing?’

‘What?’

‘Is this about Joanna Vine?’

Karlsson looked startled, then wary.

‘Don’t look so surprised. Twenty-two years ago. That was what made you jump. It took me five minutes online and I’m not even very good on a computer.’

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It seemed … I don’t know, odd.’

‘And that’s the end of it?’

‘Seems like it.’ He hesitated. ‘Can I ask you something now?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘As I’m sure you know, we live in an age where almost everything is contracted out.’

‘I was aware of it.’

‘You know the kind of thing, fewer staff on the books, even if it costs more in the end. Even we have to contract things out.’

‘And what has this got to do with me?’

‘I was wondering if you could give me a second opinion. We’d reimburse you, of course.’

‘A second opinion on what?’

‘Would you consider talking to the sister of Joanna Vine, who was nine when she went missing and who was with her when she vanished?’

Frieda looked speculatively at Karlsson. He seemed slightly embarrassed. ‘Why me? You know nothing about me and you must have people of your own who do this kind of thing.’

‘That’s true, of course. To be honest, it’s just a long shot. A whim.’

‘A whim!’ Frieda laughed. ‘That doesn’t sound very rational.’

‘It’s not rational. And you’re right, I don’t know you, but you made a connection –’

‘A false connection, as it turns out.’

‘Yes, well, that’s as may be.’

‘You must be desperate,’ said Frieda, not unkindly.

‘Most cases are pretty straightforward. You advance by routine investigation and you follow the rulebook. There’s blood, there are fingerprints, there is DNA, there are images caught on CCTV, there are witnesses. It’s all pretty obvious. But every so often you get a case where the rulebook just doesn’t seem to apply. Matthew Faraday’s disappeared into thin air, and there’s nothing to follow. We’re clueless. So now we have to take anything we’re given – any rumour, any idea, any possible connection with another crime, however tenuous.’

‘I still don’t see what I can do that someone else can’t.’

‘Probably nothing at all. As I said, it’s a long shot and I’ll most likely get hauled over the coals for wasting public money on duplicating work unnecessarily. But maybe, just maybe, you have insight that others don’t. And you’re an outsider. Possibly you’ll be able to see things we’ve become blind to because we’ve looked at them so hard and for so long.’

‘This whim of yours …’

‘Yes?’

‘The sister.’

‘Her name is Rose Teale. The mother remarried.’

‘Did she see anything?’

‘She says she didn’t. But she just seems paralysed by guilt about it.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda.

‘You mean, you don’t know if it could be helpful?’

‘It depends what you mean by helpful. When I hear that, what I want to do is deal with her guilt, help her move on. Do I think she’s got a memory hidden somewhere that someone could find? I don’t think memory really works as simply as that. Anyway, it’s not my thing.’

‘So what is your thing?’

‘Helping people with the stuff, the fears and desires and jealousies and sorrows, they have inside them.’

‘What about helping to find a lost boy?’

‘What I provide for my patients is a safe place.’

Karlsson looked around him. ‘This is a nice place,’ he said. ‘I can see why you wouldn’t want to step out of it into the mess of the world.’

‘The mess of someone’s mind isn’t so very safe, you know.’

‘Will you think about it?’

‘Certainly. But don’t expect me to call you.’

At the door, he said, ‘Our jobs are very similar.’

‘You think so?’

‘Symptoms, clues, you know.’

‘I don’t think it’s the same at all.’

When he had gone, Frieda returned to the kitchen. She was just painstakingly separating the cauliflower into florets as instructed by Chloë’s recipe when the doorbell rang once more. She paused and listened. It wouldn’t be Karlsson again. And it wouldn’t be Olivia, because Olivia usually hammered on the knocker as well as ringing, or even called through the letterbox, yoo-hooing imperiously. She lifted the pan of onions off the hob, thinking that she wasn’t very hungry anyway; all she wanted was a few crackers with cheese. Or nothing, just a mug of tea and bed. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

She opened the door a crack, leaving it on a chain.

‘Who is it?’

‘Is me.’

‘Is who?’

‘Is me, Josef.’

‘Josef?’

‘Is cold.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘Very cold.’

Frieda’s first impulse was to tell him to go away, then to slam the door. What was he doing coming around like this? Then she felt something she had felt ever since she was a girl. She imagined someone looking at her, judging her, commenting on her. What would she be saying? ‘Look at that Frieda. She rings him up, asks him a favour and he does it straight away, no questions asked. Then he comes to her, cold, lonely, and she just shuts the door against him.’ Sometimes Frieda wished the imaginary person would just go away.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

Frieda drew the chain off the bolt and opened the door. Biting wind and darkness gusted into her house and Josef fell in with them.

‘How did you know where I live?’ she asked suspiciously, before he lifted his face to her. She drew in her breath sharply. ‘What’s happened to you?’

Josef didn’t answer immediately. He crouched down and started trying to untie his laces, which were fused in a complicated sodden knot.

‘Josef?’

‘I mustn’t put dirt in your nice house.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘There.’ He pulled off one thick boot, whose sole was coming loose. His socks were red and patterned with reindeer. Then he started work on the next. Frieda examined his face. The left cheek was puffy and bruised and there was a gash on his forehead. The next boot was off now; he lined it up neatly with its pair and put them against the wall, then straightened.

‘This way,’ said Frieda, and led him into her kitchen. ‘Sit down.’

‘You are cooking?’

‘Not you, too.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I was, kind of.’ She ran cold water over a folded hand towel and gave it to him. ‘Press this against your cheek, and let me look at your head. I’m going to wash it first. It’ll sting.’

As she wiped away the blood, Josef just stared ahead of him. In his eyes she saw something fierce. What was he thinking? He smelt of sweat and whisky but didn’t seem altogether drunk.

‘What happened?’

‘There were some men.’

‘Have you been in a fight?’

‘They shout at me, they push me. I push back.’

‘Push?’ said Frieda. ‘Josef, you can’t do this. One day someone will pull a knife.’

‘They called me a fucking Pole.’

‘It’s not worth it,’ said Frieda. ‘It’s never worth it.’

Josef looked around. ‘London,’ he said. ‘It’s not all like your lovely house. Now, we can drink vodka together.’

‘I don’t have any vodka.’

‘Whisky? Beer?’

‘I can give you some tea before you go.’ She looked at the cut, still oozing blood. ‘I’ll put a plaster on that. I think you’ll get away without having stitches. You might have a small scar.’

‘We give help to each other,’ he said. ‘You are my friend.’

Frieda thought of arguing with that but it felt too complicated.

He knew the cat wasn’t really a cat. It was a witch pretending to be a cat. It was grey, not black like they usually are in books, and it had lumps of fur hanging from it, which normal cats didn’t have. Its eyes were yellow and they stared at him without blinking. It had a rough tongue and claws that pricked him. Sometimes it pretended to be asleep but then one yellow eye would open and it had been watching him all the time. When Matthew was lying on his mattress, it would climb onto his naked back and dig its claws into his skin, and its greasy grey fur would make him itch. It laughed at him.

When the cat was there, Matthew couldn’t look out of the window. It was hard to look out anyway because his legs shook too much and his eyes hurt in the light that came from behind the blind, the light from another world. That was because he was turning into something else. He was turning into Simon. There were red marks on his skin. And spots inside his mouth that stung when he drank water. Half of him was Matthew and the other half was Simon. He had eaten the food that was pushed into his mouth. Cold baked beans and floppy fat chips like worms.

If he pressed his head against the floor just by his mattress, he could hear sounds. Little bangs. Bad voices. Something humming. For a moment it reminded him of before, when he was whole, and his mummy – when she was still his mummy before he let go of her hand – cleaned the house and made things safe for him.

Today, when he looked out of the bottom corner of the window, the world had changed again and it was white and shining and it should have been beautiful but his head hurt too and beauty was only cruel.