Frieda Klein 2 - Tuesday's Gone by Nicci French Page A

you’ve made the wrong career choice and you don’t seem to want to
     change.’
    ‘What should I change?’ They
     were walking past sparkling new gabled houses with front gardens and balconies. It felt
     a long way from Deptford.
    ‘I think that the first thing you need
     to do is stop lying inbed, letting down people who badly need you. You
     get up however you feel, and you go to work.’
    Jack looked at her, his cheeks flushed in
     the cold. ‘I thought you dealt with feelings.’
    ‘You can think about that. We can talk
     about it. In the meantime, you do your job.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Jack.
    ‘Because that’s what we
     do.’ Frieda stopped and nudged him. ‘On a normal day I’d show you the
Cutty Sark
but it’s still being mended so you can’t see a
     thing.’ It was true: the ship was completely hidden from view by boards.
    ‘It’s better this way,’
     said Jack. ‘It’s all a fake anyway.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘There was a fire, remember? What I
     heard is that there was nothing left. When it’s rebuilt, it’ll be like a
     Madame Tussaud’s replica of the real
Cutty Sark
. It’ll be another
     fake bit of London for the tourists to look at.’
    ‘Does it matter?’
    ‘Don’t you care if people
     mistake a crappy heritage museum for real life?’
    Frieda glanced at Jack’s wretched
     face. Maybe breakfast at her local coffee shop would have been a better idea.
     ‘Real life is an overrated idea,’ she said.
    ‘Is that supposed to comfort
     me?’
    ‘Comfort? No, Jack. We’re going
     down here.’
    They entered a doorway in a small domed
     building by the river, and entered a battered, creaky lift operated by a man wearing
     headphones, singing along to a song that only he could hear. Jack didn’t speak as
     it descended. The doors opened and he saw the tunnel stretching ahead of them in a long
     gentle curve.
    ‘What is this?’ Jack said.
    ‘The tunnel under the
     river.’
    ‘Who uses
     it?’
    ‘It used to be for the dockers to walk
     to work on the Isle of Dogs. It’s mostly empty now.’
    ‘Where are we headed?’
    ‘I thought I’d buy you
     lunch.’
    Jack was surprised. They’d never eaten
     lunch together before. ‘Aren’t you working?’
    ‘A patient cancelled. Anyway, I need
     to think things through. Walking helps me think.’
    ‘Even when I’m here moaning
     about my problems.’
    ‘Even then.’
    Jack listened to the echoes of their steps
     in the tunnel and tried not to think of the weight of the water above. ‘You mean,
     think about this dead man?’
    ‘I’m thinking about the woman
     they found him with. The one who was looking after him.’
    They entered the lift at the other end. The
     operator was reading a magazine. Jack looked at Frieda. ‘I guess that some jobs
     are worse than mine.’
    They came out into the wind and rain on the
     north side of the river.
    ‘Don’t do that again,’
     Frieda said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Talk about someone like him as if
     he’s deaf, as if he’s too stupid to understand.’ She walked swiftly,
     in long, smooth strides, looking suddenly stern.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said humbly.
     ‘You’re right. But what can you do about the woman?’
    ‘She clearly didn’t kill
     him,’ said Frieda.
    ‘She’s in an institution now,
     right? And that’s where she’ll stay, whatever happens. So …’
    ‘You sound like a policeman,’
     said Frieda. ‘Like the commissioner.’
    Frieda led them on a path
     along the bank of the Isle of Dogs. On the left side there were flats, converted
     warehouses, compact modern houses. On the right was the widening river and beyond, on
     the other side, scrubby wasteland. They walked briefly along a busier road, then Frieda
     turned off into a smaller street and suddenly they were in an old inn: a warm,
     oak-beamed room, the chink of wine glasses, the rise and fall of conversation and the
     crackle of an open fire; young women in white aprons sailing past with dishes held high