Friday on My Mind Read Free Page A

friends.’
    ‘Can I come in for a minute?’
    ‘Dead, you say? Sandy?’
    Hussein led her into the living room.
    ‘Will you sit down?’
    But Lizzie Rasson remained standing in the middle of the room. Her attractive face had taken on a bony, vacant look. Upstairs the child’s screaming got louder and higher, piercing enough to break glass; Hussein could picture the furious red face.
    ‘How did he die? He was healthy. He went running most days.’
    ‘Your brother’s body was found in the Thames earlier today.’
    ‘In the Thames? Sandy drowned? But he was a good swimmer. Why was he in the river anyway?’
    Hussein paused. ‘His throat was cut.’
    Suddenly the crying stopped. The room filled with silence. Lizzie Rasson looked around her as if she were searching for something; her blank gaze drifted across furniture, books, family photographs. Then she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said assertively. ‘Absolutely not.’
    ‘I know this is a terrible shock, but there are questions we need to ask you.’
    ‘His throat?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Lizzie Rasson sat down heavily in one of the armchairs, her long legs splayed. She looked suddenly clumsy. ‘How do you know it’s him? It could be someone else.’
    ‘He has been identified.’
    ‘Identified by whom?’
    ‘Dr Frieda Klein.’
    Hussein was watching Lizzie Rasson’s face as she spoke. She saw the involuntary flinch, the tightening of the mouth.
    ‘Frieda. Poor Sandy,’ she said, but softly, as if to herself. ‘Poor, poor Sandy.’
    They heard footsteps running down the stairs and a solid, open-faced man with reddish hair came into the room.
    ‘You’ll be glad to know he’s asleep at last. Was that Shona at the door?’ he said, then saw Hussein, saw his wife’s stricken face, stopped in his tracks.
    ‘Sandy’s dead.’ Saying the words seemed to make them true for the first time. Lizzie Rasson lifted a hand to her face, held it against her mouth, then her cheek. ‘She says his throat was cut.’
    ‘Oh, my God,’ said her husband. He put a hand against the wall as if to steady himself. ‘He was killed? Sandy?’
    ‘That’s what she says.’
    He crossed the room and squatted beside the chair in which she was sprawled, lifting both her slim hands in his large, broad-knuckled ones and holding them tightly. ‘Are they certain?’
    She gave a strangled, angry sob. ‘Frieda identified him.’
    ‘Frieda,’ he said. ‘Jesus, Lizzie.’
    His arm was round her shoulders now and her blue dress was crumpled. Tears were gathering in her eyes and starting to roll down her cheeks.
    ‘I know.’ She gave a gulp, swiped her wrist under her nose.
    He turned to Hussein at last. ‘You don’t need to believe everything that woman tells you,’ he said. His pleasant face had hardened. ‘Why did she identify him, anyway?’
    Bryant entered the room and stood beside Hussein; by smell, she knew he had smoked a cigarette before coming back in again. He hated things like this.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hussein. ‘But there are questions we need to ask you, and the sooner we do so the better for the investigation.’
    She looked at the couple. It wasn’t clear if they understood what was being said to them. Bryant had taken out his notebook.
    ‘First of all, can you confirm your brother’s full name, date of birth and current address – and can you tell us the last time that you saw him?’
    By the time they left the Rassons’ house, the sky was dark although the air was still soft and warm against their skin.
    ‘What do we know?’ asked Hussein, climbing into the car.
    Bryant took a large bite from the sandwich he’d bought. Tuna mayonnaise, thought Hussein – that was what he always had, that or chicken and pesto.
    ‘We know,’ she continued, not waiting for him to answer, ‘that Alexander Holland was forty-two years old, that he was an academic at King George’s and his subject was neurology. He came back from the US a couple of years ago after a brief