Friday on My Mind by Nicci French Read Free Book Online

after. Did you
glimpse
him any time between when you saw him at the Warehouse on June the tenth and then?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You’re sure?’
    ‘I am sure.’
    ‘Any other forms of contact?’
    ‘Sandy called me on the phone occasionally.’
    ‘Occasionally?’
    ‘Sometimes.’
    ‘You know that we’ve seen his phone records?’
    ‘He wanted to stay in touch.’
    ‘You mean he wanted to get back together with you?’
    Frieda paused, hesitant. ‘I was always very clear that it was over.’
    ‘Was he angry about that?’
    When Frieda replied, it was with a forced calmness: ‘I cared for Sandy a great deal. I still do. I only wished him well.’
    ‘It sounds like there’s a “but” coming.’
    ‘But these things are always painfully difficult. You hear about break-ups that are civilized, with no hard feelings on either side. I’ve never seen one.’
    There was a ring at the front door. Frieda got up and answered it. Hussein heard voices, and when Frieda came back, she was accompanied by a man. He was large and imposing. Frieda’s living room suddenlyseemed smaller. He wore heavy, dusty boots, jeans and a grey-ribbed woollen sweater, in spite of the heat. His hair was dark brown and unkempt and his cheeks were stubbly.
    ‘This is a friend of mine,’ said Frieda. ‘Josef Morozov. This is Detective Chief Inspector Hussein. She’s here to talk about Sandy.’
    Josef held out his large hand, and as she shook it, Hussein felt it was rough, worn, stained. ‘Was very bad.’ He looked at Hussein with suspicion.
    ‘Sit down,’ said Frieda to Josef. ‘We’ll be done soon.’
    ‘Not
that
soon,’ said Hussein, tartly.
    Josef sat on a chair to one side, just out of Hussein’s eyeline. She felt certain that Frieda had invited him to be present while she was being interviewed. It made her feel as if she was being checked on and anger rose in her. She looked round at Josef, who was regarding her with utter impassivity.
    ‘Did
you
know Mr Holland, Mr Morozov?’
    ‘Three years,’ he said. ‘Four years. Frieda’s friend is my friend.’ And he gave her a nod, as if he were warning her.
    ‘Do you live here?’ she asked.
    ‘Here in England?’
    ‘Here in this house.’
    ‘No.’
    She turned back to face Frieda. ‘About a third of all his calls were to you,’ she said.
    ‘Is that a question?’
    ‘You might like to comment.’
    ‘I don’t know what to say.’
    ‘We found objects connected with you in his flat.’
    ‘What sort of objects?’
    ‘Photographs, for example.’
    ‘When you’ve spent years together, there are going to be remnants.’
    ‘Are there remnants of Mr Holland here?’
    ‘Probably.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘I don’t know. I can’t think of any just now.’
    ‘You sound defensive.’
    ‘What would I be defending myself from?’
    ‘You know what I don’t understand? If I had been close to someone and they had been found horribly murdered, and I’d been the one who identified the body and then the police had wanted to talk to me about it, I would be racking my brains and trying to come up with anything, anything at all, that could help them. I would produce any information that could be helpful. I’d probably try to help so much that it would almost be annoying.’
    ‘You’re saying that you want my help?’
    ‘From what I hear, that’s what you do. I was told that when you get interested in a case, nothing will stop you getting involved.’
    ‘I don’t think that’s quite all you heard. I assume you’re quoting Commissioner Crawford here and that he didn’t mean it as a compliment. But if you want my help, I’ll do anything I can. Of course I will.’
    ‘I don’t want your help,’ said Hussein. ‘I want you to do your duty as a citizen.’
    Now Frieda looked at Hussein with a sharpness in her dark eyes that was new. Her face was paler, her jaw clenched slightly. ‘All right,’ said Frieda, in a softer voice, so that Hussein had to lean forward to hear it.