Tuesday's Gone fk-2

by Nicci French

  ‘We’ve talked to her. She definitely knew Robert Poole – probably best of anyone we’ve come across so far.’

  ‘Two: Frank and Aisling Wyatt.’

  ‘Who also knew him, though not so well.’

  ‘Three: Caroline Mallory and David Lewis, the couple in Brixton who were our initial lead and say that they met him just the once. Then four, there’s a name you’ll know: Jasmine Shreeve.’ Yvette paused, as if expecting a reaction.

  ‘Am I meant to know who she is?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘She presented a makeover show a few years ago. I think it was mainly broadcast in the day.’

  ‘When did you get the time to watch daytime TV?’

  ‘I never actually saw it. She told me about it. She said she had met Poole. She had no idea why anyone would want to kill him.’

  ‘We’ll need to interview these people in more detail,’ said Karlsson. ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘Those are the only ones who actually met him.’ Yvette looked down at her notes. ‘After that, there’s the Coles, out in Haywards Heath, a retired couple who have no idea who he is or any memory of meeting him; Graham Rudge, single, a head teacher of a private school, who lives up near Notting Hill, and also says he’s never met anyone called Robert Poole, although he wonders if someone of that name called him once – can’t remember where, can’t remember when. A young couple in Chelsea, Andrea and Lawrence Bingham, just back from their honeymoon, both something in the City. And someone called Sally Lea. We have no idea who she is.’

  ‘Is that the lot?’ asked Karlsson.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘These people, do they have anything in common?’

  ‘Chris and I talked about that. They all live in completely different parts of London, and a couple of them are outside the city. Mary Orton and Jasmine Shreeve live fairly near where he lived. The Wyatts live near where the body was found. They all have different occupations. They’re different ages, different social types. Some of them said they knew him, others didn’t. None of them know each other. There doesn’t seem to be any link, as far as we can see.’

  ‘So we have eight names and absolutely nothing to link them, not even knowledge of the victim.’

  ‘They’re all well-off,’ said Chris Munster, hesitantly.

  ‘Some are well-off and some are very well-off,’ agreed Yvette. ‘You should see where the Wyatts live. It’s like something in a magazine.’

  ‘I’ll pay them a visit.’

  ‘So.’ An hour later, Karlsson leaned forward across his desk. ‘What do you say? Are you in or out?’

  ‘I’m still not sure this should be on a formal basis.’

  ‘You know, Frieda, I think we’re doing a strange sort of dance. What you like is when I ask you not to do something and then you do it anyway, or when you go ahead and do something that you’re not meant to do, then tell me afterwards. You know what? If you were going to be your own therapist, you might decide that you have trouble committing yourself.’

  ‘You want me sign an oath and fill out all the right forms?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘I’m not really a team player, especially in a team that isn’t sure it wants me.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘What about Yvette Long?’

  ‘Yvette? What about her?’

  ‘She dislikes and disapproves of me.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Are you blind?’

  ‘She’s just protective of me.’

  ‘She thinks I’ll get you into trouble. She may be right.’

  ‘That’s my problem. But if you don’t want to work with me, fine. Just say so, once and for all, and I’ll not bother you again. But we can’t carry on in this half-arsed way with you popping in and out and nobody knowing quite what you’re up to. It’s decision time: yes or no?’

  Frieda looked at him and he looked back at her. At last, she nodded. ‘I’ll give it a try.’

  ‘Good,’ said Karlsson, seeming almost surprised by her decision. ‘That’s good. There’ll be some paperwork. You’ll need to sign a contract.’

  ‘Is this all to do with health and safety?’

  ‘No, it’s about police work, which mainly consists of filling out forms. And now you can come with me and visit the people on Robert Poole’s list who actually knew him. This nice young man doesn’t seem to have been so nice after all – and he doesn’t seem to have been Robert Poole after all, either.’

  ‘Can I ask you a favour before we go?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Alan Dekker.’

  Karlsson’s expression became wary. He put his chin on his steepled hands and looked at Frieda. ‘We’ve been through this before …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to go on, Frieda. A feeling.’

  ‘I know Dean is alive.’

  ‘You don’t know. You believe.’

  ‘I firmly believe. If Alan’s out there, there must be obvious ways of tracking him down. That’s what you do, isn’t it?’

  Karlsson sighed heavily. ‘Tell me, Frieda,’ he said. ‘If we find something, what then?’

  ‘It’s simple. If you find Alan, we’ll know Dean is dead and I’ll admit I’m wrong.’

  ‘That’ll be a first.’

  ‘So will you do it?’

  ‘I’ll see. It’s sometimes difficult to find people who don’t want to be found.’

  In the car, Karlsson told Frieda what they knew so far of the man known as Robert Poole: that he had taken the identity of a man who had died six years ago. His real identity was still unknown. They’d found no evidence of any settled job or fixed income, yet he had had a large amount of money in his bank shortly before his death. His account had been emptied around the time of his murder. People spoke warmly of him but no one seemed to know much about him. They had found a notebook in his flat with several names in it, including those of Frieda’s couple in Brixton, and of Mary Orton.

  ‘Who are we seeing first?’ asked Frieda.

  ‘Frank and Aisling Wyatt. They live in Greenwich. We’ve rung ahead and they’ll both be in this time. Last time it was just her.’

  ‘What do you know about them?’

  ‘He’s an accountant in the City. She’s an interior designer. Part-time, probably a hobby. They have a couple of young kids at primary school.’

  The car drew up at a row of gleaming apartment blocks that looked out across the widening river; now the tide was low, the Thames a thinning flow of brown water between two banks of silt and sand.

  ‘They’re not badly off,’ said Karlsson.

  They took the paved river walkway that led to the Wyatts’ home. It was on two floors, with a wrought-iron balcony on the first, and the ground floor giving on to a small garden that was filled with a profusion of pots, some terracotta, others pewter and brass. Even on a grey, windy February day, Frieda could see that in the spring and summer it would be a riot of colour and scent. Today the only flowers visible were droopy white snowdrops and blue chionodoxa.

  Karlsson rapped on the door, which was quickly opened by a dark-haired, powerfully built man in his thirties, with a blue chin, grey eyes and beetling brows. He was wearing a beautifully cut dark suit, a flawlessly ironed white shirt and a red tie. He looked distrustful as Karlsson introduced himself and almost amused when he introduced Frieda.

  ‘Aisling’s through here. Can I ask you how long it will take? This is a working day.’ He looked at his watch, a flash of dials and shimmering metal.

  ‘We’ll be as quick as we can.’

  Frank Wyatt led them through a door into the main room, which took up the ground floor, an expanse of stripped wooden boards, throw rugs, pillowed sofas, soft pale curtains, vivid plants, a low table and at the far end a gleaming kitchen with stainless-steel hobs and surfaces winking in the light thrown from the river-view window. For a moment, Frieda thought of Michelle Doyce rooting through skips and bins just a little upriver. Then sh
e turned her attention to the woman, who rose from the sofa to greet them. Aisling Wyatt was tall and thin and aquiline, rich brown hair tied back from a face that was bare of makeup. She was wearing jogging pants and a cream cashmere jumper and her feet, which were long and thin like the rest of her, were bare. She had an air of self-assurance that seemed to go with the furniture.

  ‘Can I get either of you something? Tea or coffee?’

  They both declined. Karlsson stood with his back to the window. Frieda noted his air of never quite fitting in, whatever the setting, never being won over.

  ‘Aisling’s already talked to a police officer, you know. I’m not sure what more we can add.’

  ‘We just wanted to check a few things. As you know, Robert Poole was murdered.’

  ‘Awful,’ murmured Aisling. Frieda saw that there were little smudges under her eyes and her lips were bloodless.

  ‘We’re trying to build up a picture of him,’ continued Karlsson. ‘Can you tell us how you both met him?’

  ‘That was Aisling.’ Frank nodded at his wife.

  ‘Mrs Wyatt?’

  ‘It was because of the garden,’ said Aisling.

  ‘We saw it on the way in,’ Frieda said. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I love it.’ Aisling turned to her and smiled for the first time, her thin face losing its haughtiness, its air of weary disdain. ‘It’s my passion. Frank works very long hours and it’s what I do when the children are at school. I have a job of sorts but, to be honest, people don’t want to spend their money on interior design at the moment.’

  ‘Hard times for everyone, even the better-off,’ said Frank, pacing to a chair and studying it as if undecided whether it was worth his while to sit down.

  ‘So.’ Frieda concentrated her attention on Aisling. ‘You met Robert Poole through your interest in gardens?’

  ‘It’s funny to hear him called Robert. We knew him as Bertie,’ said Aisling. ‘He was walking past one day and saw me planting a particular rose I love. I’ve grown it along the wall where it sort of folds over it. He stopped and we got talking. He said he worked quite a lot with garden design. He was interested in what I’d done in such a small space. He noticed even the smallest touches.’ Her eyes slid to Frank, who was now sitting in the chair opposite, but had perched on its edge as if to demonstrate his impatience to be out of there and back to work.

  ‘He passed again a day or two after,’ said Aisling. ‘He said he often walked this way to visit local clients. But he had time to chat. After that, we often talked. He had coffee a couple of times and showed me plant catalogues. He was just setting up in business himself. He even suggested that we joined up, so I could be the interior and he could be the exterior designer. It was a joke, of course. But it was nice to have someone take me seriously.’

  ‘Did you meet him as well?’ Karlsson turned to Frank.

  ‘A couple of times,’ said Frank. ‘Nice guy.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’ asked Frieda.

  ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘Tell us anyway.’

  Frank suddenly seemed embarrassed. ‘The only time I was actually on my own with him, we talked about going to boarding school when we were very little. I’ve put it behind me, so I don’t normally talk about it. He knew what it was like because he’d been to one himself. Don’t know which.’

  ‘So he was easy to talk to,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Did he talk about his job?’

  ‘No,’ said Frank.

  Aisling shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she agreed.

  ‘So you were both friends of his.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say friends,’ Frank said.

  ‘Mrs Wyatt?’

  ‘No-o.’ She drew the word out so it seemed like a tired sigh. ‘Not a friend. A friendly acquaintance.’

  ‘How many times did you meet him?’

  ‘Why do you want to know all of this?’ Frank asked, his voice suddenly harsh and his nostrils flaring. ‘He’s dead. We’re shocked and sorry, of course, but we barely knew him. There must be dozens – hundreds – of people who knew him better than us.’

  ‘Not many times,’ Aisling said, ignoring her husband’s outburst. ‘Six, seven. He just passed by every so often, on his way.’

  ‘On his way where?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘From where?’

  ‘I told you, from where he lived.’

  ‘Tooting,’ said Karlsson. ‘Which isn’t exactly round the corner.’

  ‘He never said he lived nearby.’

  ‘There seem to be a lot of things he didn’t say,’ said Karlsson. ‘We know almost nothing about him. But he had your name in his notebook. That’s why we’re talking to you.’

  ‘Why would he have our names?’

  ‘Did he ever work for you?’ asked Frieda.

  ‘He helped with the garden a bit,’ said Aisling.

  ‘Did you pay him?’

  The Wyatts said no at the same time.

  ‘And there’s nothing you can tell us about him?’

  ‘We barely knew him,’ said Frank, standing up. ‘And we’ve told you what we know.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ said Frank. ‘He just used to drop by.’

  ‘You can’t remember, then?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘The twenty-first of January,’ said Aisling Wyatt.

  ‘That’s very precise.’

  ‘It was the day I had to take my son to the hospital. I talked to him about it.’

  ‘The twenty-first of January.’

  ‘Yes. A Friday.’

  ‘Good,’ said Karlsson. ‘That’s very helpful. If you think of anything else …’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Frank Wyatt was impatient for them to be gone. ‘We’ll be in touch. Of course.’

  ‘What did you think of them?’ asked Karlsson, once they were in the car.

  ‘Rich.’

  ‘That goes without saying.’

  ‘She’s lonely.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yes. And they never looked at each other. Not once.’

  That evening, when Frieda returned from a meal with friends, she opened the door of her house to the sound of the phone ringing. She hadn’t left the answering machine on and she didn’t get to it in time, but even before she was able to do a last-number recall, it rang again.

  ‘Yes? Frieda here.’

  ‘God, at last! Where have you been? I’ve been trying and trying to get hold of you. At home, your mobile, email.’

  ‘Hello, Olivia.’

  ‘I even tried that number you gave me at work.’

  ‘That’s for emergencies.’

  ‘Well, this is a fucking emergency. I’m going to be out on the streets. So is Chloë.’

  Frieda sat down and shifted the phone to her other ear. She eased off her boots and rubbed her feet: she had walked several miles home.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What’s wrong? Your brother is what’s wrong.’

  ‘David.’

  ‘Do you have other brothers I was married to who are trying to ruin my life? Isn’t it enough he leaves me for some bimbo, humiliates me, abandons me to loneliness, dumps his only child, without this?’

  ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘He said he’s talked to some lawyer and that he’s going to reduce what he pays me.’ Olivia was talking fast now, between tearful gulps. Frieda imagined she was also knocking back the wine. ‘Can he do that, Frieda?’

  ‘Don’t you have a legal agreement?’

  ‘I thought so. Oh, I don’t know. I was such a mess at the time. I didn’t think. He says he’ll continue to pay towards Chloë’s upkeep but that it isn’t fair to expect him to pay for me. He says I should get full-time work. Doesn’t he think I’m trying? Doesn’t he know there’s a recession? What am I supposed to do? I’m forty-one, I don’t have a profession, I’m a single mother. Hone
stly, Frieda, it’s a brutal world out there. Who’d choose me when they could have a twenty-something graduate doing it for half the price – or for nothing but the good of their CV?’

  ‘I know it’s hard,’ said Frieda. ‘Did you tell this to David?’

  ‘Do you think that bastard cares? He’s got his new life now.’

  ‘Do you have letters from solicitors, bank statements, things like that?’

  There was silence at the other end.

  ‘Olivia?’

  ‘I just wanted to get rid of everything. I might have some of it – but I’ve no idea where. I don’t exactly have a filing cabinet. Things just get, you know, put down. Can’t you ring him?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to David for years.’

  ‘He’ll listen to you. They’re all scared of you.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Frieda, grimly.

  She thought about it. She paced around the living room in her bare feet, frowning. She picked up the phone, rang his number, even heard the ringing tone and slammed it down. She felt clammy and sick. There had to be another way.

  Twenty-four

  Jasmine Shreeve treated Karlsson and Frieda as if she was conducting the interview, and she became even more animated when she discovered that Frieda was a psychotherapist.

  ‘You remember when I used to do House Doctor?’ she asked. She paused and Karlsson mumbled something. She looked at Frieda.

  ‘Was it a medical programme?’ Frieda asked.

  ‘You really didn’t …’ Shreeve began. ‘It was some time ago, but it was very important at the time. I was teamed with this famous psychologist called Lenny McMullen. Dr Mac. You must know him.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Miss, er …’

  ‘Call me Jasmine.’

  ‘I don’t think I know him.’

  ‘He’s very respected in his field,’ said Jasmine. ‘And he was a TV natural. He was famous for his sweaters. So you never saw the programme?’ She looked baffled and thought for a moment. ‘Well, what we used to do was go to someone’s home and, while they were outside, Lenny and I would walk around the house and he would diagnose their psychological problems just by looking at the decorations and the furniture and the pictures on the wall. We would bring the person or the couple or the family back in and Lenny and I would talk to them about their problems and then about how they could solve them.’