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

texts to Frieda Klein and rung her once that same day – and also talked to his sister and to a friend in the States late in the evening. The pub at the end of his road thought he might have gone in there for a drink around then. The mail hadn’t been opened since then. It was likely, therefore, that he had been murdered on 12 or 13 June.
    ‘Is that what we’ve got?’ asked Hussein.
    It wasn’t quite. That afternoon, a woman called Diane Foxton had walked into Altham police station, saying she needed to speak to an officer about Alexander Holland. Hussein went to talk to her. The woman was obviously having chemotherapy: she had lost her hair and had mauve patches under her eyes; she was painfully thin.
    ‘I didn’t know whether I should come – I thought it was probably nothing – but my husband persuaded me. So here I am.’ She made a gesture with her skeletal hands.
    ‘It’s about Alexander Holland?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you know him?’
    ‘Oh, not at all. But when I saw his face on the TV, I recognized him.’
    ‘Where from?’
    ‘I only saw him the once, but I wasn’t going to forget it. I was walking home and he was suddenly there.’
    ‘There?’
    ‘Yes. He came tumbling onto the pavement, so he almost sent me flying. He was shouting. Properly shouting. His face was so angry it made me scared. I thought he was going to do something violent. He had a half-filled bin bag in his hand and he flung it at her. A few things fell out onto the pavement, a T-shirt and a book, and he bent down and picked them up and threw them at her as well. He looked half mad.’
    ‘Her, you say? He was shouting at a woman?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And it was her he threw the bag at?’
    ‘Yes. I assumed he was returning things to her or something.’
    ‘Was she with him on the pavement?’
    ‘Not with him but at the door, which is a few yards from the road, and –’
    ‘Hold on, Mrs Foxton. Can you tell me exactly where it was? What door?’
    ‘I thought I said. That medical place in Primrose Hill.’
    ‘Do you mean the Warehouse?’
    ‘I don’t know the name. It’s on Wareham Gardens.’
    ‘That’s the one. And the date?’
    ‘It was a week ago last Tuesday – I was on my way home from the doctor’s. Around three thirty.’
    Hussein made a mental calculation: 10 June. Ten days before Alexander Holland had been discovered floating in the Thames with his throat cut; at the most, three days before he died. And the same day that Frieda admitted to having ‘glimpsed’ him.
    ‘What did the woman look like?’
    ‘I didn’t really look at her. Pale-skinned. Dark hair, I think. Not blonde, anyway.’
    ‘Any idea of her age?’
    ‘Not really. Not very young but not old either. Mid-thirties or forty, perhaps.’
    ‘Was she responding?’
    ‘No. I don’t think she said much, if anything. Someone else came and joined her. A man. He looked as though he might get involved but she stopped him.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘Just put a hand on his arm or something. I’m not sure. I was more concerned with the man on the pavement. He was that far away from me.’ She held her hands apart to show Hussein. ‘I couldn’t get past him.’
    ‘Then what happened?’
    ‘The man kicked at a rubbish bin and strode away and she picked up the bin bag, put the book and T-shirt back into it, and tied it up. She seemed quite calm. Calmer than I would have been. Then she went back inside. That was it. So nothing actually happened. I just thought – well, I thought it might be helpful. Maybe I’m wasting your time.’
    ‘You’re not wasting our time. We’re grateful to you, Mrs Foxton.’
    ‘It gives me a shivery feeling, remembering his face. So angry. And then to know he’s been murdered. I’d have been less surprised if he’d been the one doing the murdering.’
    The next time that Hussein met Frieda Klein, the Tuesday after the body had been found, it was at the police station, and a solicitor was present. Hussein sat on one side of