36
In those minutes of searching for Max and cutting him down and struggling to revive him, it had felt as if time was speeding up and slowing down, a wild night in which lights were flashing, sounds coming and going, loud and soft.
When the police arrived it felt as if normality was being restored, except that everything was slightly grey, everything was moving just a bit too slowly.There were three of them, two men and a woman. After they had introduced themselves to Frieda and taken her name, address and relationship to Max, they went upstairs in slow single file and into Max’s room. They picked up the severed rope and put it into a plastic bag. Then they looked around, opening drawers and lifting up books.
‘He didn’t leave a note,’ said Frieda.
‘You can’t be sure.’
‘I am.’
She could see them exchanging glances.
‘Have you moved or touched anything?’ they asked.
‘No.’
Frieda sat on the bed. It was hard to concentrate on anything while she didn’t know if Max was alive or dead, but she needed to order her thoughts. She felt a weight on the bed next to her. The female police officer had sat down beside her. She had light brown hair tied back behind her head and an eager freckled face. She was young and nervous. She couldn’t have been used to this.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Can we get you something?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Frieda. ‘But thank you.’
‘We’re almost done here,’ the woman said. ‘We need to check that you’re all right and that the premises are secure.’
‘Because it’s a crime scene?’ said Frieda.
‘Crime scene?’ said the officer. WPC Niven. That was her name, Frieda remembered. ‘He just tried to kill himself and it looks like he succeeded. Poor guy.’
Frieda knew that it was probably pointless, that it had all happened before. But she had to try.
‘You need to treat this as murder, or attempted murder if Max survives.’
‘What?’ said Niven. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You need to do a few things,’ she said.
Niven looked suddenly wary. ‘Like what?’
‘This hanging was staged …’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘So Max must have been drugged. You’ll need to organize a blood test. The sooner the better.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘A member of the public has alerted you, which means you need to investigate. You should write it down in your notebook. Just so you don’t forget it.’
Niven’s face had flushed. Frieda wasn’t sure whether it was out of anger or embarrassment. But Frieda saw her write the words ‘blood’ and ‘test’. Her handwriting was rounded, like that of a small child.
‘Also,’ Frieda continued, ‘you need to talk to Ewan Shaw.’
‘Is he a witness?’
‘He did it. Go on, write his name down.’
Niven seemed paralysed, so Frieda took her notebook out of her hand and wrote Ewan’s name, address and phone number, then handed it back to her.
‘There,’ she said.
‘Is he a friend of yours?’
‘I know him.’
‘Why would he have done that?’
Frieda hesitated. The crucial evidence – Becky’s toy – was no use at all. It would only incriminate Max.
‘What it can’t be,’ said Frieda, ‘is a suicide, or an attempt. Max was seen forty minutes ago at the party at Braxton High School. He was serving there, in good spirits. We found him here, unconscious, with no means of transport. When we arrived, I heard a car drive away at the back.’
‘Did you see it?’
‘No, but you could ask Ewan Shaw where he was in the last hour and who saw him.’
‘I’m not sure we can do that.’
‘I know how this works. I’ve notified you of a crime. I’ve informed you of a suspect. At least a witness. You need to respond. The more quickly you do it, the more likely you’ll turn something up.’
‘I’ll talk to my supervising officer,’ said Niven, standing up from the bed.
‘Do it tonight, not tomorrow,’ said Frieda. ‘And while you’re at it, ask him about the death of Rebecca Capel.’
Niven looked puzzled for a moment. ‘The girl who killed herself?’
‘She didn’t kill herself. If it would be any help, I could come with you to see Ewan Shaw.’
Niven looked down at her notebook. ‘Dr Klein,’ she said, ‘it doesn’t really work like that.’ She went across to the other two officers. Frieda saw them conferring, and the two young men glanced round at her. As she stood up, ready to leave, one approached her. He seemed almost resentful.
‘I’ve been talking to my colleague,’ he said. ‘We always investigate occurrences like this. And we’ll conduct interviews.’
‘Including Ewan Shaw.’
‘We’ll talk to him. If you have any relevant information, let us know.’ He wrote a number on a pad, tore it off and handed it to her.
‘Is this a direct line?’ Frieda said.
‘You’ll be put through to the right person.’
Frieda turned on her heel and walked out of the room, out of the front door and into the slanting rain. Her phone rang and she snatched it out. Lewis: only when she saw his name on her screen did she understand how scared she was, clogged with fear for the young man who looked so like the boy she had loved once, and who had touched her heart with his rawness and his troubles.
‘Lewis. Tell me.’
‘He’s alive.’ There was a strangled sound at the other end, and she realized that Lewis was weeping. ‘He’s alive, Frieda.’
‘I’m so glad.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘All that can come later. Go back to him now.’
‘Yes. Yes. But, Frieda …’
‘Go to your son. He needs you.’
She ended the call and stood for a few moments, letting the knowledge seep through her. Max was alive. She had discovered her rapist, Becky’s killer. Her job was done now, although nothing seemed quite over. She walked through the maze of roads named after flowers, on to the road that looked down at the centre of Braxton, where the lights glinted in the darkness. Her mother was there, dying. Her school was there, with its corridors and classrooms and ancient, tainted memories. Her past was there, but not her future. She turned her back on the town and started to walk, pressing buttons on her phone as she did so.
‘Reuben?’ she said. She had left her coat at the school, and was wet and cold.
‘Frieda?’ His voice was thick with sleep.
‘Have you drunk anything?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Tonight.’
‘I was at the theatre. I had one glass of wine beforehand.’
‘Can you come and fetch me?’
‘Can’t you get a cab?’
‘I’m in Braxton.’
‘Hang on. Wait.’ She could picture him sitting up in bed, turning on his light. ‘From Braxton?’
‘Yes.’
There was a silence.
‘All right.’
‘Thank you, Reuben.’
‘You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘But you’re all right?’
‘Yes. I really am.’