Waiting for Wednesday fk-3

by Nicci French

  He stepped inside and immediately was reminded of his early days in the force when he had spent much of his time in places like this. It was a smell of mustiness, damp, some food going off somewhere. It was the smell of not bothering, of giving up. He recognized it all. The grubby linoleum, the dirty sofas and chairs in the living room, everything grubby and old, except the large new flat-screen TV. In the kitchen, the sink was full of dishes; there was a greasy frying pan on the hob. He was seeking something that didn’t fit, something different from the usual crap, and it didn’t seem as if he was going to find it. Had Hunt got rid of everything? He should probably send some officers round for a proper search, if he could get them. Because Hunt was right. Legal aid had been cut and now it was the police’s turn. But then he went into the bathroom and there, finally, was something. He pulled on his plastic gloves. It was too big for an evidence bag. He called Riley and Hunt inside.

  ‘What’s that doing here?’

  ‘It’s a cog,’ said Riley. ‘It looks like it should be in some big old machine.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be in a bathroom?’ said Hunt. ‘It looks nice. Shiny. It’s a decoration.’

  ‘You weren’t admiring its shininess,’ said Munster. ‘You were washing it. Where did you get a thing like this from? It’s hardly usual.’

  ‘It was from that guy.’

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention it?’

  ‘It wasn’t on your list.’

  ‘Why were you washing it?’

  ‘So that it would be nice and shiny when I sold it.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Munster.

  Karlsson, when Munster returned with the cog, held it for a moment, turning it over, feeling its heft and weight. Then he went to see Russell Lennox, who was sitting slack and passive in an armchair, staring ahead with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Mr Lennox,’ he said, holding the cog, which was cold in his gloved hands. ‘Do you recognize this object?’

  Russell Lennox gazed at the cog for several seconds without speaking. His lips were bloodless.

  ‘Is that –’ He stopped and pressed the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. ‘Is that what she was killed with?’

  ‘We believe so. Yes. But you didn’t mention it among the items that were stolen.’

  ‘No. I didn’t notice it was gone. It was just a thing we had on our mantelpiece. Ruth picked it up from some skip a couple of years ago. She said it would scrub up nicely, unlike me and Ted.’ His face worked and he made a visible effort to control his emotions. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Your wife’s blood was on it.’

  ‘I see.’ Russell Lennox turned away. ‘I don’t want to look at it any more.’

  Munster restarted the recorder. ‘We’ve been busy,’ he said. ‘Things have changed. Now, this is your last chance to co-operate. Where did you get the cog?’

  Hunt’s eyes flickered between him and Riley. ‘I said. From Dave.’

  ‘All right. That’s enough of this crap.’ Munster stood up and left the room.

  Hunt looked at Riley. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘He’s cross,’ said Riley. ‘You don’t want to make him cross.’

  ‘Fucking shut up,’ said Hunt. ‘So is this some trick so I suddenly think you’re my friend?’

  ‘I was just saying.’

  A few moments later Munster came back into the room with Karlsson. He pulled a chair across and the two of them sat down. Munster placed a closed brown cardboard file on the table and looked across at Hunt. ‘Let it be noted that DCI Karlsson has joined the interview,’ he said. ‘William Hunt, the next time you want to wash blood off a murder weapon, I’d pop it in the dishwasher. If you rinse it under the tap, you always leave a bit. As you did.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Russell Lennox has identified it. They kept it on their mantelpiece as a sort of work of art. A dense and heavy work of art. Three days ago it was used to fatally assault one Ruth Lennox. You’ve been identified disposing of articles that were taken from the murder scene. The murder weapon has been found at a flat where you were staying. You’ve admitted attempting to clean it. It has your fingerprints on it. We are about to charge you with the murder of Ruth Lennox and with the burglary. Now, Mr Hunt, have you got anything to say? It’ll make it a great deal easier for all of us if you just admit what you did, write out a statement and the judge will regard you with some degree of sympathy.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘There wasn’t anyone called Dave,’ said Hunt.

  ‘Of course there wasn’t anyone called Dave,’ said Munster. ‘And?’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I did the burglary.’

  Another pause.

  ‘And? What about Ruth Lennox?’

  ‘You won’t believe me,’ said Hunt.

  ‘Believe you?’ said Munster. ‘You’ve been lying solidly ever since we met you. Just own up.’

  There was another, even longer, pause. To Riley it appeared that Hunt was doing a complicated mental calculation.

  ‘I did the burglary,’ he said finally. ‘But I didn’t kill her. I admit, I broke in, I took the stuff from the kitchen. But I was only there for a minute. The alarm was going so I was in a rush. I went into the other room and she was on the floor. I just ran.’

  ‘You didn’t just run,’ said Munster. ‘We found you with the object that was used to kill her.’

  ‘I picked it up. On the way out.’

  Karlsson stood up. ‘We’ve got you at the scene. And you’ve been lying all the way along the line. You’re going away for this one.’ He nodded at Munster. ‘Just get the paperwork ready.’

  NINE

  The drilling had stopped but it was replaced by a hammering that wasn’t just loud but shook the house. Frieda made tea for Josef so the noise would stop for a few minutes. Josef sat on the stairs and cradled his mug in his large, dirty hands.

  ‘Under everything, this is a good house,’ he said. ‘The walls are good, fine bricks. Give me six months to rip away all the rubbish, all the plasterboard and –’

  ‘No, no, don’t even say that!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Six months. Those words are very frightening to me.’

  ‘I was talking. Just talking.’

  ‘All right, and while we’re just talking, I thought you said you were going to put a new bath in. I hear lots of banging and the bathroom looks like it’s been demolished and there’s no sign of a bath.’

  ‘It is all fine. I do everything, I sort everything perfectly. Then, at the end, put the bath in. Click click. Just like that.’

  Suddenly there was a jangling electronic tone of an old pop song that Frieda couldn’t quite place. Josef’s phone was on the table beside her. She picked it up. There was a name – Nina – flashing on the screen. She handed it to him but he saw the name and shook his head.

  ‘Is she someone you’re avoiding?’ said Frieda.

  Josef was flustered. ‘Someone I see a bit. But she ring and ring.’

  ‘It’s usually best to tell people what you feel,’ said Frieda. ‘But I’m not going to give you advice on anything except finishing this bathroom.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Josef. He handed his mug to Frieda and went back upstairs.

  When she was alone, Frieda swallowed two paracetamol with water. Then she turned to her work email. Most messages she deleted or simply ignored. But there was one from Paz at the clinic she regularly worked for. She asked if Frieda could call her. And there was another she hesitated over. It was from a woman called Marta, who was writing on behalf of her old friend and Frieda’s patient Joe Franklin. She was apologetic: Joe didn’t know she was writing and she felt bad about doing so – but did Frieda have any idea when she would be returning to work? Joe wouldn’t see the therapist she had recommended, and he was in a bad way. He hadn’t got out of bed fo
r several days.

  Frieda thought of her doctor and her friends, who were all insistent that she shouldn’t return to work for several weeks yet. She thought of Joe Franklin sitting in her consulting room with his head in his hands, tears seeping through his fingers. She frowned and wrote an email: ‘Dear Joe, I can see you at the usual time tomorrow, Tuesday, if that would suit you. Let me know and best wishes, Frieda Klein.’

  Then she picked up the phone and called the Warehouse, as the clinic was called. Paz answered and immediately questioned her about how things were going and her health, the way everyone did nowadays. It was like an obstacle she had to get past over and over again.

  ‘Reuben is worried about you,’ said Paz. ‘We all are.’

  Reuben was the man who had founded the Warehouse. As a young man, he had been a charismatic spokeperson for a new kind of therapy, and had been Frieda’s supervior. These days he was rather battered and disillusioned.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I wanted to see how you were. Someone contacted us. He wanted to see you. I mean as a patient. I said you weren’t well.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Paz, could you stop handing out my medical details?’

  ‘But he pleaded. He sounded desperate.’

  ‘I’ll call him.’

  ‘You’re sure about this, Frieda?’

  ‘It’s not-working that’s the problem.’

  He was called Seamus Dunne. When Frieda dialled his number he answered instantly. She introduced herself. ‘Is it a good time to talk?’

  ‘Yes. It’s fine.’ He sounded suddenly tense.

  ‘You want to come and see me?’

  ‘Yes. I do. I think – I feel it’s urgent. I would like it to be as soon as possible.’

  ‘How did you find my name?’

  ‘A friend of a friend recommended you,’ said Seamus. ‘Very highly.’

  ‘We can meet for an assessment session,’ said Frieda. Then you can decide if I’m the right person for you, and I can decide if I think I can help you. All right?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Can you make eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a pause. ‘I think you’ll find me a very interesting person.’

  A nasty little headache screwed its way up Frieda’s temple. Cockiness. It wasn’t a good start.

  Seamus Dunne was a young man, slim and neat, with even features and shiny brown hair, slicked back. He was wearing a dark, tailored jacket, black cords and a purple shirt that shimmered under the light. Frieda wondered how long he had taken to get ready for their meeting. He had a firm though slightly damp handshake and a clipped, emphatic way of speaking. His smile, when he produced it, seemed disconnected from what he was saying. He used her name slightly too often.

  ‘So, Frieda, how do we do this?’ he asked, after he had taken a seat opposite her and put his hands, palms down, on his knees.

  ‘I’d like to know a few details about you and then I’d like you to tell me why you’re here.’

  ‘Details. Right. Age, occupation, things you put on a form?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’m twenty-seven. I’m in sales and marketing, and very good at it. I get people to buy things they didn’t even know they wanted. Perhaps you disapprove of that, Frieda, but, really, it’s how the world works. You don’t find out what people need and give it to them. You create the need in them and then you fulfil it.’

  ‘Do you live in London?’

  ‘Yes. Harrow.’

  ‘Tell me something about your family.’

  ‘My father died when I was seventeen. I didn’t mind. He was useless anyway and he always had it in for me. I was glad when he went. My mum, she’s another story. She adores me. I’m the baby of the family. I’ve got two older sisters and then there’s a gap and there’s me. She still does my washing for me, would you believe? And I go there every Sunday for lunch. Just me and her.’

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘On and off. I like living by myself. I don’t get lonely and I have lots of friends.’ He paused, looked up, flashed her a smile and then looked down at his hands again. ‘And girlfriends. Women seem to like me. I know how to make them happy.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘What?’ He was momentarily startled.

  ‘Make them happy.’

  ‘Yes. I was saying. For a while, but I don’t want to be tied down, you see. I’m not a faithful sort of man. I want variety, excitement. I like feeling my heart pound. I used to steal when I was a kid for the thrill of it. Are you shocked by that?’

  ‘Should I be shocked?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anyway, it’s the same with women. I like the beginning of things, the chase. That’s why I’m good at my job too. I get a kick out of persuading people to buy things they don’t need. I get a kick out of making women want me. It’s only with my mum that I’m calm and ordinary.’

  Frieda scrutinized him. There were beads of sweat on his forehead although the room was quite cool. ‘If you like your life so much, why are you here, with me?’

  Seamus sat up straighter and took a breath. ‘I like having power over people.’ She could see him swallow and when he spoke it was more slowly, as if he was considering every word. ‘I remember, when I was a boy, I used to cut my father’s hair. My father was a big man, much bigger than I am, and solid. He had a thick neck and broad shoulders and beside him I felt very small. But every so often I would be holding these sharp scissors and he would shut his eyes and let me snip his hair off.’ He paused for a moment, as if recollecting something. ‘I can remember the dampness of the hair and the smell of it. Pushing my fingers into it, feeling the skin underneath. It smelt of him. When he let me touch his hair, I knew he was giving me power over him. I can still hear the sound of the blades. I could have killed him with those scissors. I had power over him, and that made me feel strong and tender at the same time. Looking after him with something that could wound him.’

  He forced his eyes up and met Frieda’s gaze. He faltered slightly. ‘I’m sorry, is something wrong?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You look, I don’t know, puzzled?’

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘I used to hurt animals,’ he said. ‘That gave me the same feeling. Mostly little things, birds and insects. But sometimes cats, a dog once. And now women.’

  ‘You like hurting women?’

  ‘They like it too. Mostly.’

  ‘You mean, hurting them sexually?’

  ‘Of course. It’s all part of sex, isn’t it – hurting, pleasing, causing pain and pleasure, showing who’s master? But now – well, now there’s this woman I’ve met. Danielle. She says I’ve gone too far. I frightened her with what I did. She says she won’t see me any more unless I get help.’

  ‘You mean you’re here because Danielle told you to come?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘I’m interested by the way you describe yourself as someone who likes to have power over people. But you’ve listened to Danielle, you’ve responded to her concern and you’ve acted on it.’

  ‘She thinks I could do something – well, something that could get me into trouble. Not just killing a cat. And she’s right. I think so too.’

  ‘You’re telling me that you’re worried you could seriously hurt someone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is that all you have to tell me?’

  ‘All? Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Apart from Danielle’s worries, which you share, are there other things that are troubling you?’

  ‘Well.’ He shifted in his chair, glanced away and then back again. ‘I’m not great at sleeping.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I go to sleep all right but then I wake and sometimes that’s fine and sometimes I just know I won’t go back to sleep. I lie there and think about stuff.’

  ‘St
uff?’

  ‘You know. Little things seem big at three in the morning. But everyone goes through patches of not sleeping. And I’ve lost my appetite a bit.’

  ‘You don’t eat properly?’

  ‘That’s not why I’m here.’ He seemed suddenly angry. ‘I’m here because of my violent feelings. I want you to help me.’

  Frieda sat quite straight in her red armchair. The sun poured through the window, ran like a river through the room where she told patients who made their way to her that they could tell her anything, anything at all. Her ribs hurt and her leg ached.

  ‘No,’ she said at last.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I can’t help you.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I come here telling you I might seriously harm someone and you tell me you can’t help me.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m not the proper person.’

  ‘Why? You specialize in things like this – I’ve heard about you. You know about people like me.’

  Frieda thought about Dean Reeve, the man who had stolen a little girl and turned her into his submissive wife, who had stolen a little boy and tried to make him into his son, who through Frieda’s carelessness had snatched a young woman and murdered her just because she got in his way, who was still alive somewhere with his soft smile and his watching eyes. She thought of the knife slashing at her.

  ‘What are people like you like?’ she said.

  ‘You know – people who do bad things.’

  ‘Have you done bad things?’

  ‘Not yet. But I can feel them inside me. I don’t want to let them out.’

  ‘There is a paradox here,’ said Frieda.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The fact of asking me for help might suggest that you don’t really need it.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You’re worried about being violent, about a lack of empathy. But you listened to Danielle. And you’re asking for help. That shows insight.’

  ‘But what about torturing animals?’

  ‘You shouldn’t do that. But you said it was a long time ago. So: don’t do it again.’

  There was a pause. He looked confused. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘What about “goodbye”?’ said Frieda.