that seemed thinner and perhaps younger; large dark eyes. Strained, alert, unfamiliar. Herself and not herself; Frieda who was no longer Frieda. As she left the salon and stepped out onto the unknown street, she took the thickly framed spectacles she had bought from her bag and put them on. They were plain glass, yet the world looked quite different to her.
She walked over the road to a mini-supermarket. In the stationery section she found a small notebook with a picture of a horse on the cover and a small box of pens. She bought them and walked further along the road, past a betting shop and a showroom with second-hand office furniture. On the corner was a shop with a large, bright orange sign: ‘Shabba Travel Ltd. Cheap Tickets Worldwide. Money Transfer. Internet Café’. Taped to the window was a printout of the current conversion rate for the taka. She stepped inside. Frieda hadn’t realized that travel agents still existed, but it didn’t look like any travel agent she remembered. There were no posters on the walls, no brochures. And it didn’t look like a café either. There was an array of tables, each with its own computer terminal. On the left side of the room there was a laminated counter behind which was a wall of box files and a man talking on the phone. He was sweating, even though the day was cool, and his blue T-shirt was tight on him, as if it were two sizes too small. When he noticed Frieda, he looked at her suspiciously.
‘Can I use one of these?’ she said.
‘It’s fifty p for fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘One twenty for an hour.’
She put two coins onto the counter. ‘Which one do I use?’
He just waved vaguely at the room and continued talking. Only one table was occupied. Two young men were sitting at one of the terminals, one of them tapping at a keyboard, the other leaning across him, offering him loud advice. She sat at a terminal at the back, and turned the screen so that it faced away from everyone except her. She went straight to Google and typed in her own name. She looked down the list that appeared and felt a sudden tremor. The first item she saw was ‘Frieda Klein obituary’. It didn’t seem like a good omen. She clicked on a link that really did refer to her and saw the familiar photograph of her that the newspapers had used before:
COP DOC LINKED TO MURDER
INVESTIGATION GOES ON THE RUN
POLICE APPEAL FOR WITNESSES AS
FRIEDA KLEIN GOES ON RUN
Frieda had hoped that a psychotherapist failing to appear for a police interview might be a fairly minor news story, but she was wrong. The story appeared on site after site, always with the same photograph. One link was to a local TV news report. She clicked through and saw a blonde female newscaster mentioning her name. As she felt around the edge of the terminal to lower the volume, she suddenly caught her breath. The newscaster cut toDCI Hussein standing on the pavement at the entrance to the police station. Frieda’s photograph appeared once more and a number for members of the public to call. Then the report changed to footage of a royal visit to a London primary school. Frieda just stared for a few seconds at a group of very small children performing a folk dance in their playground. She got up.
‘You need to switch it off.’
‘What?’
She looked around. The man had finished his phone call and was leaning on the counter. Frieda switched the terminal off.
‘There’s no refunds,’ he said.
Frieda walked out onto the pavement. Which way should she go? Since it didn’t matter at all, she found it strangely hard to decide. She turned right and walked along the road, then right again along a residential street until she came to a small park. At one end was a children’s playground, but the rest was just rhododendron bushes and grass. She went and sat on a bench away from the playground. For a time she found it difficult to organize her thoughts. They felt more like images from a dream than anything
She walked over the road to a mini-supermarket. In the stationery section she found a small notebook with a picture of a horse on the cover and a small box of pens. She bought them and walked further along the road, past a betting shop and a showroom with second-hand office furniture. On the corner was a shop with a large, bright orange sign: ‘Shabba Travel Ltd. Cheap Tickets Worldwide. Money Transfer. Internet Café’. Taped to the window was a printout of the current conversion rate for the taka. She stepped inside. Frieda hadn’t realized that travel agents still existed, but it didn’t look like any travel agent she remembered. There were no posters on the walls, no brochures. And it didn’t look like a café either. There was an array of tables, each with its own computer terminal. On the left side of the room there was a laminated counter behind which was a wall of box files and a man talking on the phone. He was sweating, even though the day was cool, and his blue T-shirt was tight on him, as if it were two sizes too small. When he noticed Frieda, he looked at her suspiciously.
‘Can I use one of these?’ she said.
‘It’s fifty p for fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘One twenty for an hour.’
She put two coins onto the counter. ‘Which one do I use?’
He just waved vaguely at the room and continued talking. Only one table was occupied. Two young men were sitting at one of the terminals, one of them tapping at a keyboard, the other leaning across him, offering him loud advice. She sat at a terminal at the back, and turned the screen so that it faced away from everyone except her. She went straight to Google and typed in her own name. She looked down the list that appeared and felt a sudden tremor. The first item she saw was ‘Frieda Klein obituary’. It didn’t seem like a good omen. She clicked on a link that really did refer to her and saw the familiar photograph of her that the newspapers had used before:
COP DOC LINKED TO MURDER
INVESTIGATION GOES ON THE RUN
POLICE APPEAL FOR WITNESSES AS
FRIEDA KLEIN GOES ON RUN
Frieda had hoped that a psychotherapist failing to appear for a police interview might be a fairly minor news story, but she was wrong. The story appeared on site after site, always with the same photograph. One link was to a local TV news report. She clicked through and saw a blonde female newscaster mentioning her name. As she felt around the edge of the terminal to lower the volume, she suddenly caught her breath. The newscaster cut toDCI Hussein standing on the pavement at the entrance to the police station. Frieda’s photograph appeared once more and a number for members of the public to call. Then the report changed to footage of a royal visit to a London primary school. Frieda just stared for a few seconds at a group of very small children performing a folk dance in their playground. She got up.
‘You need to switch it off.’
‘What?’
She looked around. The man had finished his phone call and was leaning on the counter. Frieda switched the terminal off.
‘There’s no refunds,’ he said.
Frieda walked out onto the pavement. Which way should she go? Since it didn’t matter at all, she found it strangely hard to decide. She turned right and walked along the road, then right again along a residential street until she came to a small park. At one end was a children’s playground, but the rest was just rhododendron bushes and grass. She went and sat on a bench away from the playground. For a time she found it difficult to organize her thoughts. They felt more like images from a dream than anything
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