27
Frieda was woken by a smell she couldn’t quite recognize. Something was burning, but in a pleasant way. She looked at her watch. Quarter to seven. She pulled on her clothes and walked out into the yard. The light was on in Eva’s kitchen. She pushed open the door and two surprised faces looked round. Josef was sitting at the kitchen table and in front of him was a plate of eggs and bacon and sausages and another plate with toast, and above them a mug and a glass of orange juice. Eva was standing with a frying pan out of which she was spooning potatoes.
‘Frieda,’ said Josef, in a tone of reproof. ‘I let you sleep and then coming to wake you later with the coffee.’
‘I’ve just been hearing all about you,’ said Eva. ‘In exchange for food.’
‘I hope you got your money’s worth,’ said Frieda.
‘I can’t believe what a dramatic life you’ve been leading. I heard about your first meeting.’
‘Yes, it wasn’t the normal way of making friends,’ said Frieda.
‘What can I get you? Eggs? Bacon? Sausages?’
‘I’m not really a breakfast person. And I thought you didn’t eat meat.’
‘I don’t, but Josef does.’
‘Is the main meal for the whole day,’ said Josef.
Frieda surveyed the breakfast table. ‘It looks like the meal for the whole of today and the whole of tomorrow.’
She settled for coffee and a piece of toast. ‘I feel bad about this,’ she said. ‘I was fast asleep and you’ve driven down in the middle of the night and Eva’s met you and made you breakfast.’
‘I was glad to do it,’ said Eva. ‘Josef’s been telling me things: about you, about his family. And he says he’s going to have a look round the house. I was hoping he could do some work for me.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Frieda, but cautiously. She wasn’t sure she liked the way her two worlds were connecting.
‘He told me he did your bathroom.’
‘Yes. He …’ She paused for a moment. There were many ways in which she could continue the sentence. He had done it without asking. And removed the old bath. And damaged the pipework so that she was without a functioning bath for weeks. Eva and Josef gazed at her expectantly. ‘It was a very good job. Josef is someone you can rely on. At least, I find myself relying on him.’
‘You’ll probably curse me for stealing him from you,’ said Eva.
‘He’s a free agent.’
‘No,’ said Josef. ‘No stealing.’
On the way to Thornbury, Josef told Frieda about what he’d seen in his quick survey of Eva’s house. The cracks in the outer wall, the damp, the missing roof tiles, the peeling window frames, the exposed wires. ‘Everywhere you look,’ he said, ‘you see the bad things. If you have million pounds, you could spend million pounds easy.’
‘Josef, I don’t think Eva has a million pounds.’
‘We talk. We make plan.’
‘Make sure you see the money upfront.’
Josef’s expression turned stern. ‘Frieda, you be the detective and I be the builder.’
‘I’m not being the detective.’
‘What are you being?’
‘I don’t know. There’s a darkness in my past. I need to find out what happened.’
Thornbury was near the coast but not actually on it. Josef drove past caravan parks and streets of red-brick council housing, an industrial estate. It felt like a town composed entirely of outskirts but with no centre. They stopped twice to ask people and were directed into a new housing development that had evidently been built on fields at the edge of the town. Frieda knocked at number forty-eight and a large woman opened the door. She seemed to be in her early sixties, dark hair tied up in a bun, and her clothes were just one size too tight for her, as if her obesity had been sudden and unexpected. Frieda felt a tug of recognition: there was something vaguely familiar about her, although she couldn’t put her finger on it. She had an expression of concern, as if Frieda’s appearance alarmed her.
‘I was hoping to see Stuart Faulkner.’
‘What about?’
‘I was given the address by an old colleague of Mr Faulkner’s.’
‘Which colleague?’
‘Tom Helmsley.’
‘I know Tom,’ said the woman, still wary. ‘What’s it about?’
‘I met your husband many years ago. I need to ask him something. Is he at home?’
‘He’s gone to the supermarket.’
‘I’ll go and see him there. What does he look like?’
‘Ordinary. But I thought you’d met him.’
‘Briefly, long ago. I’ll see if I can find him.’
Almost reluctantly, Faulkner’s wife gave Frieda directions to Thornbury’s retail park. When they got there Josef dropped Frieda off and went to the auto-part store.
It was a quiet day in the supermarket. Faulkner proved easy to find. There were a number of late-middle-aged men but they were all with their wives, a few steps behind, disconsolate, almost embarrassed to be there in the middle of the day. But there was one man alone, tall, distinguished, short grey hair, grey trousers and a green windcheater. He was at the till with his laden trolley. Frieda walked over and introduced herself. After a few suspicious questions, Faulkner led her to the supermarket café. It was almost full – women with children, women with other women, elderly couples.
‘They do a nice lunch,’ said Faulkner. ‘In the summer you can sit outside.’ They both looked through the giant plate-glass window at the parking area surrounded by other stores: pets, bicycles, DIY, furniture.
‘It’s not exactly the Mediterranean,’ Faulkner admitted, ‘but you get good value.’
Frieda bought a black coffee for herself, a cappuccino and a cinnamon Danish pastry for Faulkner. He peeled off part of the pastry and dipped it into his coffee.
‘I’m impressed,’ said Frieda.
‘What about?’
‘To see you doing the household shopping.’
‘You met Lorna?’
‘Your wife? She told me you were here.’
‘Didn’t you recognize her?’
‘No. Have I met her before?’
‘She taught biology at your school.’
‘At Braxton High?’
‘Yes. Under her maiden name, Miss Hopley.’
‘Miss Hopley. Of course.’ She had been thin then. Thin and cross.
‘She’s not well now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘She was always anxious, ever since we met. In the last few years it’s got worse. Depression. She’s got a diagnosis. She retired early. Now she doesn’t really like leaving the house.’
‘Is she getting treatment?’
‘Are you some kind of doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘She takes pills. They make her fatter. I don’t know if they make her better.’
‘It must be difficult for you.’
‘I’m retired now as well. I’ve got the time to look after her. But we’re not here to talk about my wife, are we, Frieda Klein?’
‘You say that as if you know who I am.’
‘I remember you, if that’s what you mean.’
Frieda needed a moment to gather her thoughts. This was a surprise. ‘It was more than twenty years ago. I was expecting you’d have forgotten all about it.’
‘Our cases aren’t just numbers. They’re real names, real faces. I remember them all.’
‘I’ve just read through the file.’
Faulkner frowned. ‘Who gave you that?’
‘Is it a problem?’
‘It’s unexpected.’
‘It was arranged for me. You’ll remember that I reported a serious sexual assault. I was interviewed by two young officers. Detective Constable Tom Helmsley and Detective Constable Kevin Locke. You weren’t directly involved. What is clear, though, is that you took an interest at some point. You read through the statements, underlining, making notes, and then you stopped the inquiry. Is that right?’
‘That’s right.’ Faulkner dipped another piece of pastry into his coffee and ate it. ‘I suppose you’re going to ask me why.’
‘I was going to get around to that. But first I was curious about why you took an interest in the case in the first place.’
‘It was my job.’
‘But these were just the very preliminary interviews. It seemed a strange moment for you suddenly to read through the file.’
Faulkner scratched his left cheek as if he’d felt a sudden itch. ‘I was doing a favour,’ he said. ‘I knew … well, I knew your parents.’
‘What?’
‘I was asked – by them – to have a look.’
‘You couldn’t have been asked by them.’ Her voice was harsh. ‘My father died before it happened.’
‘Of course. By her, then.’
‘My mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘You knew my mother?’
‘Well, I knew both of them – before that unfortunate accident.’
‘Before my father killed himself.’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you know them?’
‘Braxton’s a small world. I met your mother at a council event, I think. We knew each other.’
‘Did you know me?’
‘You?’
‘Yes. Did you ever meet me?’
‘I – I think I saw you. Yes.’ He was speaking slowly and carefully, as if feeling his way along a ledge.
‘I don’t remember you.’
‘I don’t think we actually met. But when this happened, it was natural for your mother to contact me to help her out.’
‘Lucky me,’ said Frieda. ‘Having a friend on the force. You stepped in and called a halt.’
‘I thought it was the best thing. For everybody.’
‘Based on what?’
‘I would have to look at the file again but, from what I recall, there was no evidence of any kind.’
‘Apart from my report.’
‘Apart from your report. And even there, you provided no description.’
‘It was in the dark.’
‘You waited several days to come forward.’
‘I was terrified.’
‘You seem to have recovered.’
Frieda had to overcome a strong impulse to pick up her coffee and throw it over the retired detective. ‘I’m fine,’ she said finally, in a quiet voice. ‘But I’m not sure you’re the one to make the judgement.’
‘I thought you’d left the area.’
‘Yes, I had. But I’m back. For a while, at least.’
‘Digging up the past?’
‘It’s not past, that’s the thing. Anyway, I’ve other business. My mother’s not well. But maybe you know that.’
‘We’ve lost touch. But none of us is getting any younger.’
Frieda shook her head. ‘It’s not that. She’s got a brain tumour. She’s dying.’
Faulkner started to say something but he still had some pastry in his mouth and he began to cough. It almost looked dangerous. By the time he had recovered himself, his face had gone a flaming red. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ he stammered. ‘She’s really dying?’
‘She’s really dying.’
‘Tell her … Send her my best wishes.’
Frieda looked Faulkner full in the face. Had she ever seen him all those years ago? Surely she would remember. In her mind she tried to strip away the signs of age, the streaked grey in the hair, the lines around his eyes and mouth. She felt an impulse to get away so she could calm herself down and think about all of this.
‘You know,’ she began, ‘that my mother didn’t believe me. She had a habit of not believing me, but in this case she didn’t believe me in a really big way.’
‘Your mother –’ He stopped himself and began again. ‘I’m sure that your mother always had your best interests at heart.’
‘That’s one theory,’ said Frieda. She had been playing with the coffee spoon, flipping it around between her fingers, and now she laid it down on the table. ‘Thank you, Mr Faulkner, for seeing me.’ She got up. ‘By the way, do you still go to Braxton? To visit old friends, that sort of thing?’
‘From time to time.’
‘I heard you took early retirement. Do you mind telling me why?’
‘It’s a bit of a sensitive subject. But I’m sure when you ask around, people will tell you.’
Outside, when Josef saw Frieda, he slammed down the open bonnet of his van and wiped his hands with his rag. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we should see your mother.’
‘That’s a very good idea.’