‘The good thing about all these options is that they work just the same whether I did it or I didn’t.’

Hopkins was in the middle of a complicated doodle of cubes and cones; she paused and lifted her head. ‘If I weren’t so sweet-tempered, I might give you a lecture about the importance of a system that gives the accused the benefit of the doubt and doesn’t compel her to give evidence against herself or to reveal irrelevant personal information.’ She gave a smile. ‘But I am. So I won’t.’ She stood up. ‘We’ll meet at nine thirty tomorrow. There’s a café on the canal, just a few hundred yards from the station – it’s called the Waterhole. Come there. Then we’ll go into the station together and you will not say anything at all, apart from what you have agreed, in advance, with me.’

She held out her hand and Frieda shook it.

‘I know this has been difficult,’ said Hopkins. ‘But I’m confident that we can achieve a resolution that we’ll all be satisfied with.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Frieda.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t think I’ve been a good client. But I want to thank you for what you’ve done.’

‘Let’s not be premature.’

‘That’s my point,’ said Frieda. ‘I want to be clear that, whatever happens, I’m grateful.’

Karlsson and Frieda walked down the stairs. Outside on the pavement they looked at each other warily.

‘So what just happened in there?’ said Karlsson.

Frieda stepped forward and gave him a brief hug, then stepped back.

‘What was that?’ he said, with a nervous smile.

‘There was only one thing in there that really meant anything,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘That you were there.’

‘But I didn’t do anything.’

‘Yes, you did. You came. You broke the rules in a flagrant and unprofessional manner.’

‘Yes, I thought you’d appreciate that.’

‘Seriously. If it got out, I don’t know what would happen to you. It was an act of kindness and friendship and I’ll never forget it.’

‘That sounds a bit final.’

‘Well, you know, you should treat every moment as if it’s your last.’

Karlsson’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘You’re all right?’

‘I’m going to walk home, alone, along the canal. How could I not be all right?’

Karlsson stood and watched her go, straight-backed, hands in pockets, and he shivered, as if the weather had suddenly changed.

9

Frieda Klein had a single session that afternoon, with Joe Franklin whom she had been seeing for years. She had only to see the set of his face as he entered through the door, the shape of his shoulders, the heaviness of his footfall, to know his mood. Today he was quiet and sad, but not despairing. He talked in a soft, slow voice about the things he had lost to his depression. He told her about the dog he had had when he was a child, a brindled mongrel with beseeching eyes.

Before he left, Frieda said, ‘I may not be able to see you for some time.’

‘Not see me? For how long?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But –’

‘I know that it will be painful for you, and if I could avoid it I would. But I’m going to give you a name. She’s someone I know, and I trust her. I want you to call her tomorrow. I’ll speak to her in advance. And I want you to see her instead of me until I return.’

‘When? When will you return? Why are you going?’

‘Something’s happened.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘I can’t explain now, Joe. But you will be in good hands. We’ve done well together, you and I. You’ve made progress. You are going to be all right.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes. Remember to call that number. And take care.’

She held out her hand. Normally she never made physical contact with her patients, and Joe took it in a kind of bafflement and held it for a moment. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ he said.

Frieda spent the rest of that afternoon phoning patients, cancelling them and arranging for cover. To each, she said the same thing: that her absence would be indefinite. To each she recommended alternative therapists, and she called these colleagues to entrust her patients to their care, until she returned.

Only when she was satisfied that she had left no one uncovered did she go home, walking through the back-streets. She stopped outside the café owned by her friends. She went to it almost every day, but today it was closed and forlorn-looking. A couple of minutes later she was back in the little cobbled mews where her narrow house stood squeezed between the lock-ups on its left, the council flats on its right. She turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, stepping into the cool hallway with the same relief she always felt. But now she saw her house – the living room with its chess table and the fire she lit each day in winter, the bathroom with the magnificent bath her friend Josef had installed without her permission and with a large amount of chaos, the small study under the roof where she sat and thought and made pencil and charcoal drawings – with fresh eyes. She didn’t know when she would see it again.

She made herself a pot of tea and sat with it, the tortoiseshell cat she had unwillingly inherited on her lap, thinking, making a list in her head. There was so much she had to do. For a start, someone would have to feed the cat and look after her plants. That was simple. She picked up the phone and punched in the number.

‘Frieda, is me. All good?’ He was from Ukraine, and although he had lived in London several years now, his accent was still thick.

‘There’s something I need to ask you.’

‘Ask anything.’ She could picture him laying his large hand over his heart as he spoke.

‘Tomorrow morning I have an appointment with the police. They are going to charge me with Sandy’s murder.’

There was a silence, then a loud bellow of protest. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but certainly threats of violence and pledges of protection were in there.

‘No, Josef, that’s not –’

‘I come now. This moment. With Reuben. And with Stefan too, yes?’ Stefan was his Russian friend, who was large and strong and of dubious occupation. ‘We sort it out.’

‘No, Josef. I do need your help, but not like that.’

‘Then tell.’

‘I need someone to look after the cat and –’

‘The cat! Frieda. You joke.’

‘No. And water the plants. And,’ she continued, over his yelps, ‘there is one more thing I want to ask you.’

She went through her list: first of all, she wrote a long, careful email to her niece Chloë, whom she had kept a close eye on over the years since Chloë’s father – Frieda’s estranged brother David – had left Olivia. Chloë had been a troubled child, a reckless and needy teenager, but was now twenty and had dropped out of studying medicine and was planning instead to be a carpenter and joiner. She then wrote a much shorter but equally careful email to Olivia, whom she didn’t want to talk to: Olivia would become hysterical, then probably drunk and would want to rush round and weep. She was about to call Reuben but he beat her to it, having been told by Josef what was going on. To her surprise Reuben was calm. He offered to come to the police station with her the next morning but she told him her solicitor wanted to meet her beforehand. He said he would come round at once, to be with her, but she said that she needed to be alone that evening and he didn’t press her. He was steady, consoling, and she was reminded of what a good supervisor he had been to her, all those years ago.