Free Friday on My Mind by Nicci French

few hundred yards from the station – it’s called the Waterhole. Come there. Then we’ll go into the station together and you will not say anything at all, apart from what you have agreed, in advance, with me.’
    She held out her hand and Frieda shook it.
    ‘I know this has been difficult,’ said Hopkins. ‘But I’m confident that we can achieve a resolution that we’ll all be satisfied with.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Frieda.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I don’t think I’ve been a good client. But I want to thank you for what you’ve done.’
    ‘Let’s not be premature.’
    ‘That’s my point,’ said Frieda. ‘I want to be clear that, whatever happens, I’m grateful.’
    Karlsson and Frieda walked down the stairs. Outside on the pavement they looked at each other warily.
    ‘So what just happened in there?’ said Karlsson.
    Frieda stepped forward and gave him a brief hug, then stepped back.
    ‘What was that?’ he said, with a nervous smile.
    ‘There was only one thing in there that really meant anything,’ she said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘That
you
were there.’
    ‘But I didn’t do anything.’
    ‘Yes, you did. You came. You broke the rules in a flagrant and unprofessional manner.’
    ‘Yes, I thought you’d appreciate that.’
    ‘Seriously. If it got out, I don’t know what would happen to you. It was an act of kindness and friendship and I’ll never forget it.’
    ‘That sounds a bit final.’
    ‘Well, you know, you should treat every moment as if it’s your last.’
    Karlsson’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘You’re all right?’
    ‘I’m going to walk home, alone, along the canal. How could I not be all right?’
    Karlsson stood and watched her go, straight-backed, hands in pockets, and he shivered, as if the weather had suddenly changed.



9
     
    Frieda Klein had a single session that afternoon, with Joe Franklin whom she had been seeing for years. She had only to see the set of his face as he entered through the door, the shape of his shoulders, the heaviness of his footfall, to know his mood. Today he was quiet and sad, but not despairing. He talked in a soft, slow voice about the things he had lost to his depression. He told her about the dog he had had when he was a child, a brindled mongrel with beseeching eyes.
    Before he left, Frieda said, ‘I may not be able to see you for some time.’
    ‘Not see me? For how long?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘But –’
    ‘I know that it will be painful for you, and if I could avoid it I would. But I’m going to give you a name. She’s someone I know, and I trust her. I want you to call her tomorrow. I’ll speak to her in advance. And I want you to see her instead of me until I return.’
    ‘When? When will you return? Why are you going?’
    ‘Something’s happened.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘I can’t explain now, Joe. But you will be in good hands. We’ve done well together, you and I. You’ve made progress. You are going to be all right.’
    ‘Am I?’
    ‘Yes. Remember to call that number. And take care.’
    She held out her hand. Normally she never made physical contact with her patients, and Joe took it in a kind of bafflement and held it for a moment. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ he said.
    Frieda spent the rest of that afternoon phoning patients, cancelling them and arranging for cover. To each, she said the same thing: that her absence would be indefinite. To each she recommended alternative therapists, and she called these colleagues to entrust her patients to their care, until she returned.
    Only when she was satisfied that she had left no one uncovered did she go home, walking through the back-streets. She stopped outside the café owned by her friends. She went to it almost every day, but today it was closed and forlorn-looking. A couple of minutes later she was back in the little cobbled mews where her narrow house stood squeezed between the lock-ups on its left, the council flats on its right. She turned