Frieda Klein 2 - Tuesday's Gone Read Free

her of the kind of
     uncomfortable rock you perched on at the beach when you were rubbing sand off your feet
     before pulling your shoes back on. ‘What’s it for?’
    ‘It’s protecting us.’
    Sasha gave a puzzled smile. ‘In what
     sense?’
    Frieda indicated a small sign beside it.
     ‘“So long as the Stone of Brutus is safe, so long shall London
     flourish.” It’s supposed to be the heart of the city, the point from which
     the Romans measured the scope of their empire. Some people think it has occult powers.
     Nobody really knows where it came from – the Druids, the Romans. Maybe it’s an old
     altar, a sacrificial stone, a mystical centre point.’
    ‘You believe that?’
    ‘What I like,’ said Frieda,
     ‘is that it’s in the side of a shop and that most people walk past without
     noticing it, and thatif it got mislaid, it would never be found
     because it looks like a completely ordinary piece of rock. And it means what we want it
     to mean.’
    They were silent for a few moments and then
     Sasha put a gloved hand on Frieda’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, if you were ever in
     distress, would you confide in anyone?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Would you confide in me?’
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘Well. You could, that’s
     all.’ She felt constrained, embarrassed by the emotion in her voice. ‘I just
     wanted you to know.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Frieda’s
     voice was neutral.
    Sasha dropped her hand, and they turned from
     the grille. The air had become notably colder, the sky blanker, as if it might snow.
    ‘I have a patient in half an
     hour,’ Frieda said.
    ‘One thing.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Tomorrow. You must be worried. I hope
     it goes all right. Will you let me know?’
    Frieda gave a shrug. Sasha watched as she
     walked away, slim and upright, into the swallowing crowds.

Three
    Detective Constable Yvette Long arrived a
     few moments before Karlsson. She had got the phone call just fifteen minutes previously
     but already a small crowd was gathering in the street: children who ought to be at
     school, young mothers with babies in buggies, men who seemed in no hurry to get
     anywhere. It was bitingly cold but many of them were not wearing overcoats or gloves.
     They looked excited, bright-eyed with curiosity. Two police cars were parked in front of
     number three and a barrier had been put up. Just behind it, a thin stringy man with a
     ginger ponytail was pacing up and down, up and down, with his barrel-chested dog. Every
     so often it sat down and yawned, saliva drooling from its jaws. There was another man,
     enormously fat, ripples of flesh encased in his T-shirt, behind the barrier. He was
     standing quite still, mopping his shiny forehead, as if it was high summer, not icy
     February. Yvette parked and, as she opened the door, DC Chris Munster came out of the
     house, holding a handkerchief to his mouth.
    ‘Where’s the woman who found
     him?’
    Munster took the handkerchief from his mouth
     and put it into his pocket. He made a visible effort to control the working of his face.
     ‘Sorry. It got to me for a bit. She’s there.’ He nodded towards a
     middle-aged African woman sitting on the pavement with her face in her hands.
     ‘She’s waiting to talk to us. She’s shocked. The other woman – the one
     who was with him – she’s in the car with Melanie. She keeps talking about tea.
     Forensics are on the way.’
    ‘Karlsson’s on
     his way too.’
    ‘Good.’ Munster lowered his
     voice. ‘How can they live like this?’
    Yvette and Karlsson pulled on paper
     overshoes. He gave her a reassuring nod and, for a moment, put his hand on the small of
     her back, steadying her. She took a deep breath.
    Later, Karlsson would try to separate all
     his impressions, put them in order, but now it was a jumble of sights and smells and a
     nausea that made him sweat. They walked through the rubbish, the dog shit, the smell,
     half sweet and so thick it caught in the back of the throat. He