Saturday Requiem by Nicci French Page B

you,’ he said. ‘It’s been too long since I talked about the Dochertys. We don’t mention it in the family any more.’
    ‘Because it’s too painful?’
    ‘Too painful. Too strange. Too long ago.’
    ‘Goodbye.’
    ‘I haven’t asked,’ he said, laying a hand on her forearm. ‘Do you know how Hannah is?’
    ‘She’s not in a good state.’
    ‘Has she ever confessed?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Poor girl,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Poor everyone.’
    As Frieda approached the car, Emma Travis came hurrying out of her house. She knocked on Josef’s window and he wound it down.
    ‘Are you a builder?’ she asked.
    ‘I am a builder.’
    ‘Could you give me your card? It’s so hard to find anyone good in Dulwich.’
    Frieda looked suspiciously at Josef as he steered the car back northwards. ‘Are you going to work for her?’ she said.
    ‘Is difficult with the work now.’ Josef looked at her with a smile she didn’t quite trust. ‘All the Romanians coming here. And the Bulgarians.’
    Frieda heard a disapproving sound behind her from Yvette: something between a sigh and a grunt. She looked round. ‘Have you heard of Detective Chief Inspector Ben Sedge?’
    ‘No.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Actually, his name does ring a bell. Why would that be?’
    ‘He’s been in the news lately. He led the original investigation. I think I should talk to him.’
    Yvette gave a shake of her head and her expression turned to something like alarm. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘When police start investigating other police, it becomes delicate. It’s like family. People don’t like it.’
    ‘You mean they close ranks.’
    ‘It’s easy for you to say that.’
    ‘I’m not asking you to talk to him.’
    ‘Which would be completely out of the question.’
    ‘Which is why I’m not asking you. I just want to get a number. Or someone who can put me in touch with him. Can you do that? Discreetly?’
    ‘I’ll see. Maybe.’



TWELVE
    When Frieda arrived home she wanted a bath, she wanted tea, she wanted to pull the curtains on the world, but first she knew she had to call Levin. She had to tell him what she wanted to do.
    ‘What do you expect from him?’
    ‘I’m not exactly sure. But DCI Sedge ran the inquiry. Maybe he had some doubts.’
    ‘Even if he does, he probably won’t admit them to you.’
    ‘I wanted to make sure that you were all right with it.’
    ‘I trust you to do what you think is right,’ said Levin. ‘Until it all goes wrong.’
    ‘That’s a joke, I hope.’
    ‘You’re a psychotherapist,’ said Levin. ‘You know that there’s no such thing as a joke.’
    Frieda took the Overground through east London, though it felt more like the train was flying over it. When she had first moved to London she had lived out in Dalston and the area had felt as if the city had turned its back on it, left it for dead. Now the abandoned warehouses were studios and apartments. What had been lock-ups under the railway arches were now coffee shops and artisan bakeries. She got off at Shadwell and walked down towards the river. The Bear was easy to miss, the narrow façade of a pub in a small cobbled street. She pushed the door open. It was late morning and the interior was deserted, except for a young, dark-haired woman behind the bar, drying glasses.
    ‘I’m looking for –’ Frieda began, but the woman interrupted her.
    ‘Upstairs.’ She gave a nod at a doorway. Even in that single word, Frieda heard her accent and smiled to herself. Probably one of those Romanians or Bulgarians that Josef was worrying about. She walked up a creaking narrow wooden staircase that wound round to the left. On the walls were engravings of ancient prize fights, men in breeches holding up their bare knuckles. When she reached the first floor she looked around. There were several closed doors.
    ‘In here,’ said a voice.
    She opened the door in front of her and stepped inside. The worn old carpet on the floor, the old