Friday on My Mind Read Free

quite upright, staring down.
    ‘I know who this is,’ she said. Her voice was soft and calm. ‘This is Sandy. Alexander Holland. I know him by his shoes.’
    ‘You’re quite sure?’ asked Hussein.
    ‘I know him by his shoes,’ Frieda Klein repeated.
    ‘Dr Klein, are you all right?’
    ‘I am, thank you.’
    ‘Have you any idea why he was wearing your old hospital ID round his wrist?’
    She looked at Hussein and then back at the corpse. ‘We used to be in a relationship. A long time ago.’
    ‘But not now.’
    ‘Not now.’
    ‘I see,’ said Hussein, neutrally. ‘I’m grateful to you. This can’t be easy. Obviously, we’ll need all the details you can give us about Mr Holland. And your details too, so we can contact you again.’
    She gave a slight tip of her head. Hussein had the impression she was making the greatest effort to keep herself under control.
    ‘He was murdered?’
    ‘As you see, his throat has been cut.’
    ‘Yes.’
    When she left, after they had taken her details, Hussein turned to Bryant. ‘There’s something odd about her.’
    Bryant was hungry and he was in need of a smoke. He stood on the balls of his feet, then subsided again. ‘She was calm. I’ll give her that.’
    ‘Her reaction when she saw the shoes – it was strange.’
    ‘In what way?’
    ‘I don’t know. We need to keep an eye on her, though.’



3
     
    When Alexander Holland’s sister opened the door, Hussein noticed several things at the same time. That Elizabeth Rasson was getting ready to go out: she was wearing a lovely blue dress but no shoes and she had a flustered air, as if she’d been interrupted. That there was a child crying somewhere in the house, and a man’s voice soothing it. That she was tall, dark-haired, rather striking in an angular kind of way, and that Bryant, standing just behind her, was stiffly upright, like a soldier on parade. She felt that he was holding his breath, waiting for her to say the words that would change this woman’s life.
    ‘Elizabeth Rasson?’
    ‘What is it? It’s really not a good time. We’re on our way out.’ She glanced beyond them, down the street, letting out an exasperated sigh.
    ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Hussein. This is my colleague Detective Constable Bryant.’ And they both held out their IDs.
    Moments like this always got Hussein between the shoulder blades and in the thickening of the throat. However calm she felt and prepared she was, it never became automatic, just part of the job, to look into a person’s face and tell them that someone they loved was dead. She had come here straight from this woman’s brother, lying swollen and decomposing on the slab.
    ‘Police?’ the woman said. Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s this about?’
    ‘You’re the sister of Alexander Holland?’
    ‘Sandy? Yes. What’s happened to him?’
    ‘Can we come in?’
    ‘Why? Is he in trouble?’
    Say it plainly, clearly, with no room left for doubt: that’s what they had all been told during training, many years ago now. That was what she did, each time, looking into the person’s eyes and telling them without a quaver that someone they had known, perhaps loved, had died.
    ‘I’m very sorry to tell you that your brother is dead, Mrs Rasson.’
    Suddenly Elizabeth Rasson looked bewildered. Her face screwed up in an expression that was almost comic, cartoonish.
    ‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ Hussein said gently.
    ‘I don’t understand. It’s not possible.’
    Behind them, a young woman came running along the pavement and in through the gate to the front garden. Her ponytail was crooked and her round cheeks flushed.
    ‘I’m sorry, Lizzie,’ she gasped. ‘The bus. Friday evening. I got here as quickly as I could.’
    Hussein gestured sharply at Bryant, who stepped forward and took her by the arm, steering her away from the front door.
    ‘We were supposed to be going out,’ said Lizzie Rasson. Her voice was dull. ‘To dinner with