Sunday Silence Read online

  Epigraph

  Glendower. I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

  Hotspur. Why, so can I, or so can any man,

  But will they come when you do call for them?

  William Shakespeare,

  Henry IV Part One (Act III, Scene I)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Part One: The Body Under the Floor Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part Two: The Lost Weekend Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part Three: The Body Behind the Door Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by Nicci French

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  The Body Under the Floor

  1

  All at once the flat was full of noises. The phone rang, stopped, then rang again. The mobile rattled on the table. The doorbell sounded once, twice, and at the same time there was a thumping sound on the door itself. Detective Chief Inspector Karlsson lifted himself from his chair onto his crutches, moved to the door and opened it.

  A very short, very thin woman was looking at him with a frown. Her gingery-brown hair was cut almost to a bristle at the back, but with a long fringe that fell over one eye. She had a narrow, pale face, slightly asymmetrical, with colorless brows and eyes the brown of cinnamon. She was dressed in a black anorak, baggy gray jumper, dark trousers and orange trainers. Behind her the rain was falling. Her face was wet with it. The branches of a plane tree creaked above her.

  “I’m Chief Inspector Petra Burge.”

  She looked too young, Karlsson thought. But then he saw the fine lines around her eyes. And she had a scar on the left side of her head, running from her ear down her neck. “I’ve heard of you.”

  Burge didn’t seem surprised by that, or flattered. “I’ve got to take you to a crime scene.”

  Karlsson gestured at his crutches. “I’m on sick leave.”

  “It was the commissioner.”

  “Crawford sent you?”

  “He said to tell you that there’s a body in Saffron Mews.”

  “Saffron Mews?”

  It was like he’d been punched in the gut. He put out a hand to steady himself. “What’s happened?”

  “We’re going there now. I’ve got a car.”

  Burge turned to go but Karlsson reached out and grabbed her sleeve. “Is she dead?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a man.”

  A man, Karlsson thought. What man? As if he was observing himself from a distance, he heard himself tell Burge that he would come at once and felt himself turn in the doorway to take up his coat, checking his own ID was in the pocket, sliding his crutches under his armpits, pulling the door closed and smelling the potato in the oven as he did so. It would burn away to nothing. Let it.

  He slid into the back of the car, pulling his crutches after him, and saw that someone else was there.

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  In the darkness, it took him a few moments to recognize Detective Constable Yvette Long. She leaned toward him as if to take his hands. Her hair, usually tied back, was loose, and she was wearing a shapeless jumper and old jeans. There was a sob in her voice.

  He held up a hand to stop her talking. His leg hurt and his eyes were sore. He sat quite still and straight and looked at the road streaming toward them out of the wet darkness. “She’s alive,” he said.

  Burge got into the front seat. Beside her a driver was staring straight forward. From behind Karlsson could make out only his cropped hair, his neatly trimmed beard. Burge twisted around so that she was facing the passengers in the back.

  “Aren’t we going?” said Karlsson.

  “Not yet. What’s all this about?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Commissioner Crawford rings me at home. The commissioner. I’ve never met him, never even seen him. And he rings me at home, tells me to drop everything, go to a crime scene and head an investigation I’ve not even heard of. Not only that. On the way I’ve got to collect a DC I’ve never met and a DCI who’s on sick leave. ‘It’s Frieda Klein,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to watch yourself,’ he said. ‘It’s Frieda Klein.’”

  There was a pause.

  “So what’s your question?” said Karlsson, who was in an agony of impatience.

  “What am I getting myself into?”

  “If Crawford appointed you personally, then that must show he’s heard good things about you. So shouldn’t we get to this crime scene?”

  “Who’s Frieda Klein?”

  Karlsson and Yvette Long looked at each other.

  “Is that a difficult question?” said Burge.

  “She’s a psychotherapist,” said Karlsson.

  “And what’s your connection to her?”

  Karlsson took a deep breath. “She’s been involved in various police investigations.”

  “As an investigator or a suspect?”

  “A bit of both actually,” said Yvette.

  “That’s not fair,” said Karlsson.

  “Well, it’s true. I mean look at—”

  “Stop,” said Burge. “What I’m asking is: why is the commissioner getting personally involved? That’s not how things are done. And then why is he warning me?”

  Karlsson and Yvette looked at each other again.

  “I’ve worked with Frieda before,” he began.

  “We both have,” said Yvette.

  “Yes, we both have. She’s got abilities. Very particular abilities. But some people find her . . .” He paused. What was the right word?

  “Incredibly difficult,” said Yvette.

  “That’s putting it a bit strongly.”

  “She gets people’s backs up.”

  “It’s not her fault,” said Karlsson. “Not entirely. Is that enough for you?”

  Burge nodded at the driver and the car moved forward. “When did you last see her?” she asked.

  Karlsson glanced at his watch. “About three hours ago.”

  Burge looked around sharply. “What?”

  “She’d been involved in an investigation.”

  “What sor
t of investigation?”

  “She was trying to get an innocent person out of a hospital for the criminally insane.”

  “Which innocent person?”

  “It was the Hannah Docherty case.”

  “The Docherty case? That was Frieda Klein?”

  “Yes.”

  “It didn’t go well.”

  “No.”

  There was silence for a moment. Karlsson’s mind was racing. There were so many questions to ask. “This body,” he said. “Is it someone Frieda knows?”

  “Why do you ask?” said Burge. “Do you suspect something?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  No more was said until the car turned away from the traffic of Euston Road and then they saw a haze of flashing blue lights. As the car pulled to the curb, Burge twisted around once more. “Are the two of you here to help her or to help me?”

  “Can’t we do both?”

  “We’ll see. At some point maybe you can explain to me why you’re employing a psychotherapist on criminal investigations.”

  “I’m not exactly employing her.”

  “Don’t judge her by your first impression,” said Yvette. “Or your second impression, in fact.”

  Burge shook her head in irritation, then opened her door and walked quickly forward. It took longer for Karlsson to edge his way out of the car and raise himself onto his crutches. Yvette followed him. He could hear her breathing heavily. A crowd of people had already gathered on the pavement, held back by the tapes and by several uniformed police officers. So it was true. All at once, he felt himself growing calm and detached. This was his world. He steadied himself on his crutches and swung rapidly toward the scene. There were flashes of light. The media had already arrived. How did they know? One of them had climbed up onto a wall and was crouched with his camera at the ready.

  A young officer was controlling access behind the perimeter. Burge moved quickly past him, flashing her ID. Karlsson felt like an old, sick man, fumbling for his own ID while leaning on one of his crutches. The man took it and began laboriously copying Karlsson’s name into his logbook.

  “Why didn’t you stop her?” he said, pointing at Burge.

  “She’s in charge,” the man said. “We were expecting her.” Then he looked at his watch and added the time before handing back the ID, then did the same with Yvette’s. Karlsson suddenly felt that he was back but not really back.

  He was into the mews now, his crutches sliding on the wet cobbles. An ambulance was parked outside the lockups, its doors open and a paramedic inside, bending over something. As they made their way toward the house, another ambulance drove into the mews, its lights making the narrow space unfamiliar, pooled with blue, then fading back into darkness. Around him were figures, purposeful but silent. He could see faces at the opposite windows, staring down.

  A man stood by the side of the door, leaning against the wall. He was dressed in white overalls, but his hood was pulled back and his face mask hung from his neck. He was smoking, dragging on the cigarette urgently, exhaling, dragging again.

  “Where’s the SOCO?” asked Burge.

  “That’s me,” said the man.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “I needed a minute.”

  “You’re meant to be in there.”

  The man looked up at Burge and then at her two companions. Even in the light from the cars and the street lamps, they could see that his face was a gray color, sweaty. He looked as if he was going to be sick. “I do robberies mainly,” he said. “Crashes. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Burge looked round at Karlsson and Yvette and grimaced.

  “We need to go in,” said Yvette, sharply.

  The officer led them to the open door of a police van. Karlsson felt frantic with impatience and dread; he needed the help of Yvette and a crime-scene officer to pull the overalls over his suit and get the plastic shoes on, then the mask and the latex gloves. Yvette tried to support him as he walked toward the door but he pushed her away. He rang the bell, as he had done many times before, and the door was pulled open.

  2

  Karlsson took a deep breath and stepped inside. He was blinded by the tungsten lights arranged on stands and hit by the smell, like a blow in the face. He had a sudden sense memory. A hot summer, lifting the lid of a plastic rubbish bin where scraps of fish and meat had been left for days, a sweet, rotting gasp of air that made you lurch and gag.

  He could see human shapes, white-suited. Burge approached one. She was speaking to the shape but Karlsson couldn’t make out the words. The other held a bulky camera. It flashed and flashed again, leaving blue floating swirls in Karlsson’s visual field. He had been in this room many times but the walls and ceiling seemed unfamiliar in this laboratory light, every ripple, every line and flaw exposed.

  The shapes weren’t looking at the walls. They were looking down and Karlsson followed their gaze. This didn’t make sense: why were the boards up? Why was the smell so strong, so terrible? Karlsson felt a ripple of dread and then, as he glimpsed what lay in the gash in the floor, a rush of relief that ran through his body, like a pulse of electricity. He leaned on his crutches, utterly confused.

  Burge had already told him that it wasn’t Frieda, that Frieda Klein wasn’t dead. But, still, it felt different to see it for himself. He could hear Yvette saying something next to him, calling him by his name, but he couldn’t make out the words. He couldn’t think or even feel. He simply stood and let the world come back into focus. Then he made himself examine the scene.

  It was all askew and strange. There was no floor. The boards in the center of the room had been removed and piled on one side, haphazardly, not neatly in a pile. Karlsson leaned across and peered down. He could see the beams. Or were they joists? His brain seemed to be working slowly. Keep calm, he told himself. Breathe. Think. This is when your training kicks in. He could see the improbable London soil underneath. Houses are such thin, fragile things, keeping the world out.

  There it was, crammed into one of the rectangular spaces. It was the body of a man, but it was somehow all wrong. The eyes were yellow and opaque, staring upwards. The skin on the face was waxy, off-white, stained with patches of blue. The torso was inflated, bulging against the blue shirt, which had dark, oozing patches. There were traces of movement, bloated fat flies, and on the soil around the body, maggots, some coiling in on themselves, some still. Dead, probably. Karlsson didn’t want to, but he looked more closely. There was something in one of the hands. It was dried and damaged and it had lost its color. But it was a flower. A daffodil, he thought. Seasonal. It was March. He stared at the terrible face: it was missing both ears. Someone had cut them off.

  A figure in a suit was kneeling by the gap, rummaging in a medium-sized white box. Karlsson recognized it. It contained evidence bags, containers for wet and dry evidence. He started to speak and quickly realized that his voice would be nothing more than a mumble. He pulled the mask away from his mouth and suddenly there were more smells, sicklier, sweeter. Karlsson thought he might vomit. You’re a chief inspector, he told himself. Don’t be the one to throw up over a crime scene. He took a breath and regretted it. “How long has this been here?” he said.

  The figure looked up and said something he couldn’t make out. He gestured helplessly.

  “Pathologist on his way,” said the voice, which sounded like it might be female.

  Karlsson was aware that Burge was beside him. “Where’s Klein?” she said.

  The figure pointed away from the room, toward the back of the house. Karlsson pulled his mask back on against the terrible smell. He and Burge went through the door into the kitchen. Frieda Klein was sitting at the table, her back quite straight. It seemed strange to step from that scene of destruction and decay and crime into this space of order, where a pot of basil stood on the windowsill, a cat was delicately lapping water from a bowl on the floor and there were orange tulips, not yet fully opened, in an earthenware jug. For
a moment it felt to Karlsson like a stage set and behind him was the awfulness of reality. Quite slowly Frieda turned and looked at the two of them with the alert dark eyes that had always unnerved him, even when they were smiling, and now they weren’t. Her skin was even paler than usual. There was something different about her expression, Karlsson thought. And then he understood: she didn’t recognize him even though he was on his crutches. He pulled back his hood and tugged off the mask that was covering his nose and mouth. She gave the faintest smile but said nothing. Burge stepped forward. She introduced herself and then she sat at the kitchen table facing Frieda.

  “Are you able to talk?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Frieda.

  “You’ll need to give a full statement but first I need to ask you a few questions. Can you manage that?”

  “Can I talk to my friends first?”

  “You need to talk to me first.”

  “All right.”

  “You seem rather calm,” said Burge.

  Frieda’s eyes seemed to darken. “Is that a problem?”

  “A body has been found in your house. Most people would find that distressing, shocking.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Frieda, in a low voice. “I’m not good at putting on a show.”

  There was a sound from outside and Burge, turning her head, saw that a figure was standing in Frieda’s small backyard in the heavy rain. The end of the cigarette glowed and faded.

  “Who’s that?”

  “A friend of mine. He’s called Josef Morozov. He found the body and is a bit shaken.”

  “How did he come to find it?”

  Frieda lifted her hands and gently rubbed her temples. Burge saw that she was just about holding herself together.

  “I came back a few hours ago after a difficult day. There was a smell. I didn’t know where it was coming from. Josef is a builder. He helps me out sometimes. He came around and took up a floorboard. I thought it would be a rat.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Yes. He’s an ex-policeman called Bruce Stringer.”

  Burge paused for a moment. She barely knew where to start. “Have you any idea who did this? And why they would put the body of an ex-policeman in your house?”