Friday on My Mind by Nicci French Page A

Tuesday, June the tenth. Treat that as a question,’ she added, when Frieda just looked at her with her unnerving dark eyes.
    ‘Yes, that’s right.’
    ‘I want to know more about this last encounter with him. What was his mood?’
    Before Frieda could speak there was a knocking at the door. Hussein looked around angrily. She nodded at Bryant, who got up and opened it. He could be heard speaking to someone outside, then he returned. A man came in with him. He was dressed in a dark suit, with a sober dark blue tie. He had rumpled grey hair and tortoiseshell glasses and he gazed about the room blinking like an owl. He was carrying a brown file under his arm.
    ‘I wondered if I could sit in,’ he said.
    ‘This isn’t a public event,’ said Hussein.
    ‘I know, I know.’ He fumbled in an inside pocket and took out a small white card, which he handed to her. As Hussein examined it, he looked around, as if he were uncertain of where he was.
    ‘You’re not from the Met?’ said Hussein.
    ‘No,’ said the man.
    ‘I don’t quite understand who you are.’
    ‘There’s a number you can call, if you want,’ he said amiably.
    ‘I certain do want. Here, Glen.’ She handed the card over to Bryant. ‘Go and check this out, will you?’ She looked at the stranger. ‘We’ll wait until DC Bryant returns before we continue.’
    ‘Of course. Terribly sorry to be a nuisance.’
    Bryant went out of the room and Hussein waited, clenching and unclenching her fists on the desk. Frieda Klein sat still and upright opposite her. When Bryant returned a few minutes later, he had an expression of comic bewilderment on his broad face, but he nodded at Hussein and whispered a few words in her ear.
    Hussein’s mouth tightened with anger. ‘It looks like your friends are bigger than my friends,’ she said.
    ‘I’ll try not to be in the way.’
    He didn’t sit down. He walked to the far corner of the room and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and holding the file against his chest. His expression was impassive.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, to the room at large. ‘Ignore me. I’m not part of the inquiry.’
    ‘You’d better not be.’ Hussein turned to Frieda. ‘Where were we?’
    Frieda didn’t answer at once, but turned towards the man leaning against the wall, with a vague smile on his face. ‘I would prefer you to stand where I can see you, please.’
    ‘Fair enough.’ The man moved further into the room, so that he was to one side of Frieda. ‘Better?’
    Frieda nodded, then turned her gaze back to Hussein. ‘You were asking whether I remembered Sandy coming to the Warehouse,’ she said. ‘And the answer is, yes, I do remember.’
    ‘And behaving in a violent manner?’
    ‘I don’t think I would call it that.’
    ‘Shouting, throwing a bin bag at you, kicking the dustbin. What would you call it?’
    ‘Agitated.’
    ‘All right. Let’s all it agitated. Why did you not see fit to tell me about this
glimpse
of your former partner?’
    ‘I didn’t think it relevant.’
    ‘You do realize that this was one of the last known sightings of him before he disappeared? You can safely assume that he didn’t have long to live. A day or two at the most.’
    Frieda stared at her; her face was like a mask and her eyes glittered.
    ‘For eighteen months Alexander Holland has been harassing you, and then he is murdered. What have you got to say to that?’
    ‘That’s not a serious question,’ said Hopkins.
    ‘All right. I’m interested in how you seem to be surrounded by a network of violence and trauma. We’ve already talked about your previous history –’
    ‘Stop,’ said Hopkins. ‘If you have specific questions relating to the crime, Dr Klein can answer them.’
    ‘Can you tell me something about Miles Thornton?’
    Frieda Klein frowned and leaned forward slightly. ‘Miles? Has he been found?’
    ‘No.’ Bryant spoke for the first time. ‘But you reported him missing, and I understand that he