place.’
Frieda thought for a moment. It all felt so long ago, as if it had happened to someone else.
‘A patient came to see me. He turned out to be a fake. It was part of a newspaper story. But he told me a story about cutting his father’s hair as a child. That sounded strange and there was something real about it. I wanted to discover where that story came from. That’s all.’
‘Golly,’ said Levin, vaguely.
‘Is that what you came to ask?’ said Hussein. ‘About a two-year-old investigation?’
‘No. I wanted to see Dr Klein in person,’ said Levin. ‘So fascinating, you know.’
‘What for?’ said Hussein. ‘What are you doing here, aside from being fascinated?’
Levin didn’t answer. He just looked at Frieda with an expression of puzzlement. ‘I’m awfully sorry about all this,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry too,’ said Frieda.
8
Hussein had been involved in many searches and she had become familiar with the different ways that suspects behaved. Sometimes they were angry, sometimes upset, even traumatized. Rummaging through drawers in front of them could feel like a constant, insistent, repeated violation. Sometimes the suspect accompanied her around the property, telling her about it, as if she were a prospective buyer.
Frieda Klein was different. As the officers moved around her house, through to the kitchen, upstairs, opening cupboards and drawers, she just sat in her living room, playing through a chess game on the little table with an air of deep concentration that surely must have been fake. Hussein looked at her. Was she in shock, or angry, or in denial, or stubborn, or sulking? Once Klein looked up and caught her eye and Hussein felt that she was looking right through her.
There was a thumping sound, someone coming down the stairs two at a time. Bryant came into the room and placed something on the table. Hussein saw that it was a leather wallet.
‘We found that upstairs,’ said Bryant. ‘It was in a clothes drawer. At the bottom, wrapped in a T-shirt. I’ll give you one guess who it belonged to.’
Hussein looked at Klein. She couldn’t see any hint of shock or surprise or concern. ‘Is it yours?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know whose is it?’
‘No.’
Then why do you have it? And why do you keep it hidden?’
‘I’ve never seen it before.’
‘How did it get there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Shall we look inside?’ continued Hussein. She thought that she should be feeling triumph.
Frieda looked at her with her dark eyes burning and didn’t say anything.
Hussein snapped on her rubber gloves and Bryant handed her the wallet. He was grinning broadly. She opened it up.
‘No money,’ she said. ‘No credit cards. But several membership cards.’ She pulled one out and held it up so that Frieda could see. ‘The British Library,’ she said. ‘Dr Alexander Holland, expiry date March 2015.’ And another. ‘The Tate, expires November 2014. This is not an old wallet.’ She looked at Frieda. ‘You don’t seem very surprised. How did it get here, Dr Klein?’
‘I don’t know. But I can guess.’
‘Guess then.’
‘It was planted, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘By Dean Reeve.’
Glen Bryant gave a loud snort. Hussein laid the wallet on the table.
‘I think you’ll need to talk to your lawyer again.’
Tanya Hopkins looked puzzled when Frieda arrived for their Thursday morning meeting with a middle-aged man ina suit and dismayed when she introduced him as Detective Chief Inspector Malcolm Karlsson.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Hopkins.
‘I’m here as a friend,’ said Karlsson. ‘To give advice.’
‘I thought that was
my
job.’
‘It’s not a competition.’
Hopkins was clearly dubious. ‘If DCI Hussein knew that a colleague was attending a meeting with a suspect and her lawyer …’
‘This is my day off. I’m simply meeting a friend.’
Hopkins turned to Frieda, who had walked over to the window and was staring out.
Frieda thought for a moment. It all felt so long ago, as if it had happened to someone else.
‘A patient came to see me. He turned out to be a fake. It was part of a newspaper story. But he told me a story about cutting his father’s hair as a child. That sounded strange and there was something real about it. I wanted to discover where that story came from. That’s all.’
‘Golly,’ said Levin, vaguely.
‘Is that what you came to ask?’ said Hussein. ‘About a two-year-old investigation?’
‘No. I wanted to see Dr Klein in person,’ said Levin. ‘So fascinating, you know.’
‘What for?’ said Hussein. ‘What are you doing here, aside from being fascinated?’
Levin didn’t answer. He just looked at Frieda with an expression of puzzlement. ‘I’m awfully sorry about all this,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry too,’ said Frieda.
8
Hussein had been involved in many searches and she had become familiar with the different ways that suspects behaved. Sometimes they were angry, sometimes upset, even traumatized. Rummaging through drawers in front of them could feel like a constant, insistent, repeated violation. Sometimes the suspect accompanied her around the property, telling her about it, as if she were a prospective buyer.
Frieda Klein was different. As the officers moved around her house, through to the kitchen, upstairs, opening cupboards and drawers, she just sat in her living room, playing through a chess game on the little table with an air of deep concentration that surely must have been fake. Hussein looked at her. Was she in shock, or angry, or in denial, or stubborn, or sulking? Once Klein looked up and caught her eye and Hussein felt that she was looking right through her.
There was a thumping sound, someone coming down the stairs two at a time. Bryant came into the room and placed something on the table. Hussein saw that it was a leather wallet.
‘We found that upstairs,’ said Bryant. ‘It was in a clothes drawer. At the bottom, wrapped in a T-shirt. I’ll give you one guess who it belonged to.’
Hussein looked at Klein. She couldn’t see any hint of shock or surprise or concern. ‘Is it yours?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know whose is it?’
‘No.’
Then why do you have it? And why do you keep it hidden?’
‘I’ve never seen it before.’
‘How did it get there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Shall we look inside?’ continued Hussein. She thought that she should be feeling triumph.
Frieda looked at her with her dark eyes burning and didn’t say anything.
Hussein snapped on her rubber gloves and Bryant handed her the wallet. He was grinning broadly. She opened it up.
‘No money,’ she said. ‘No credit cards. But several membership cards.’ She pulled one out and held it up so that Frieda could see. ‘The British Library,’ she said. ‘Dr Alexander Holland, expiry date March 2015.’ And another. ‘The Tate, expires November 2014. This is not an old wallet.’ She looked at Frieda. ‘You don’t seem very surprised. How did it get here, Dr Klein?’
‘I don’t know. But I can guess.’
‘Guess then.’
‘It was planted, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘By Dean Reeve.’
Glen Bryant gave a loud snort. Hussein laid the wallet on the table.
‘I think you’ll need to talk to your lawyer again.’
Tanya Hopkins looked puzzled when Frieda arrived for their Thursday morning meeting with a middle-aged man ina suit and dismayed when she introduced him as Detective Chief Inspector Malcolm Karlsson.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Hopkins.
‘I’m here as a friend,’ said Karlsson. ‘To give advice.’
‘I thought that was
my
job.’
‘It’s not a competition.’
Hopkins was clearly dubious. ‘If DCI Hussein knew that a colleague was attending a meeting with a suspect and her lawyer …’
‘This is my day off. I’m simply meeting a friend.’
Hopkins turned to Frieda, who had walked over to the window and was staring out.
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