Friday on My Mind by Nicci French Read Free Book Online Page A

‘This mightnot be the help you’re wanting, but I believe I know who murdered Sandy.’
    ‘And who is that?’
    ‘A man called Dean Reeve.’ Frieda paused for a moment, as if waiting for a response. ‘I’m not a detective, but when someone identifies a suspect in a murder case, I at least expect you to get out a notebook and write the name down. Otherwise it might not appear on the record and I want this on the record.’
    ‘I don’t need to write it down. I’ve read your file.’
    ‘I’m surprised I’ve got a file. It’s not as if I’ve been convicted of anything.’
    ‘Well, if you take information from here and there and print it out and gather it together, it becomes a file. And one of the things that emerge in this file is your repeated accusations against Dean Reeve for various murders and attacks. The problem being that Dean Reeve died five years ago.’
    ‘If you’ve read the file, you’ll also know that I don’t accept he’s dead.’
    ‘I saw that.’
    ‘Dean Reeve is still alive and he is a very dangerous man. He has some warped notion of looking after me, or perhaps of controlling me. If he believed that Sandy was pestering me, he could easily have killed him. He would do it with pleasure.’ She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and gazed at Hussein, waiting for her response.
    ‘I have heard what you say,’ said Hussein, eventually.
    ‘All I ask,’ said Frieda, ‘is that you look at this file of mine with your own eyes, not Crawford’s or Bradshaw’s.’
    Hussein stood up. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I will. But I expect you to be straight with me as well.’
    ‘Straight with you? Why wouldn’t I be?’
    ‘I told you. I’ve read your file.’



7
     
    The couple who lived in the flat under Alexander Holland’s hadn’t known him very well but he’d been a pleasant, friendly, unobtrusive neighbour. He’d had visitors but they were never loud; several women had come to see him but they weren’t aware of any particular one. They often saw him early in the morning when he went for a run. His assistant at the university, Terry Keaton, a round-faced youngish woman with blonde hair cut in a fringe, hadn’t seen him since the summer holidays began. She had liked him a lot and was obviously distraught. She didn’t know of any tensions either at work or in his personal life – but he kept himself to himself, although he was always friendly and respectful. She hadn’t come across Frieda Klein. His oldest friend, Daniel Lieberman, whom he had been at primary school with, said that he had last seen him on Sunday, June the eighth, twelve days before his body had been found. They had played squash and then gone for a couple of drinks; he had been fine. Yes, Lieberman had met Frieda Klein a few times. He confirmed that his friend had been upset at the separation – and added that he had returned from the States to be with her, which had made it doubly traumatic when they broke up. When Sophie Byrne asked him what he had made of Dr Klein, Lieberman had pulled a face. ‘You wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her. But Sandy adored her.’
    His colleagues were shocked and mystified. His sister was full of grief and a pent-up rage against Frieda Klein for whom he’d given up his prestigious job in America and who had shortly after ended their relationship. His doctor confirmed he had been in good health as far as he knew. He had money in the bank.
    One woman came forward when she heard about his death, saying she had met him in a bar at the end of May, on Friday the thirtieth. She had gone back with him and they had had several more drinks before they spent the night together. She hadn’t seen him again; he obviously hadn’t been interested in anything beyond a one-night stand.
    On 11 June, nine days before his body was found, he had taken two hundred pounds from a cash machine. He had bought groceries at the Turkish shop on Caledonian Road. He had sent two