Waiting for Wednesday fk-3

by Nicci French

  ‘I’m very glad,’ said Frieda. ‘Really.’

  ‘Good! I know you’ll like each other. He thinks you’re terrific. But I’m not just here to gush about Frank, like a teenager. I’ve got something else I need to say. I haven’t told anyone else but –’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Who can that be? It’s too early for it to be Chloë and, anyway, she has a key.’

  The bell rang once more, and then someone knocked. Frieda wiped her mouth on the paper napkin, took a gulp of wine and stood up. ‘Whoever it is, I’ll send them away,’ she said.

  Judith Lennox was standing at the door. She was wearing an oversized man’s jacket and what looked to Frieda like jodhpurs. Dora was beside her, her long brown hair in a French plait, her face pinched and pale.

  ‘Hello,’ Judith said, in a small voice. ‘You said I could come.’

  ‘Judith.’

  ‘I didn’t want to leave Dora alone. I thought you wouldn’t mind.’

  Frieda looked from one face to the other.

  ‘My dad’s gone out drinking,’ said Judith. ‘And I don’t know where Ted is. I can’t spend any more time in the house with Aunt Louise. There’ll be a second murder.’

  Dora gave a strangled sob.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said Frieda. She didn’t know which feeling was stronger – pity for the two girls on her doorstep or a stifling sense of anger that she had to look after them.

  ‘Sasha, this is Judith and Dora.’ Sasha looked up, startled. ‘They are friends of Chloë’s.’

  ‘Not really,’ put in Judith. ‘Ted’s a friend of Chloë’s. I know her a bit. Dora’s never met her, have you, Dora?’

  ‘No.’ Dora’s voice was a whisper. She was almost translucent, thought Frieda – blue veins under pale skin, blue shadows under eyes, neck that seemed almost too thin to hold up her head, bony knees, skinny legs with a big bruise on one shin. She’d been the one who’d found her mother dead, she remembered.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Dora.

  ‘Not since breakfast,’ said Judith. ‘And you didn’t eat any breakfast, Dora.’

  ‘Here.’ Frieda got out two extra plates and pushed them in front of the girls. ‘We’ve got plenty to go round.’ She glanced at Sasha’s bemused face. ‘Judith and Dora’s mother died very recently.’

  Sasha leaned towards them, her face soft in the guttering candlelight. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Someone killed her,’ said Judith, harshly. ‘In our house.’

  ‘No! That’s dreadful.’

  ‘Ted and I think it was her lover.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Dora, piteously.

  Frieda noticed how in Ted’s absence Judith took on his anger, his corrosive bitterness.

  ‘Can I have some wine?’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fifteen. You’re not going to tell me that I shouldn’t drink wine because I’m only fifteen?’ She gave an ugly snort. Her blue eyes glittered and her voice scratched.

  ‘This is a school night and I hardly know you. I’ll give you some water.’

  Judith shrugged. ‘Whatever. I don’t really feel like it actually.’

  ‘Dora, have some rice,’ said Sasha. She had a cooing note to her voice. She’s broody, thought Frieda. She’s fallen in love and she wants babies.

  Dora put a teaspoon of rice onto her plate and pushed listlessly at it. Sasha put her hand over the young girl’s, at which she put her head on the table and started crying, her thin shoulders shaking, her whole starved body shuddering.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Sasha. ‘Oh, you poor thing.’ She knelt beside the girl and cradled her. After a few moments, Dora turned urgently towards her, pressing her wet face into Sasha’s shoulder, holding on to her like a drowning person.

  Judith stared at them, her expression blank.

  ‘Can I speak to you?’ she hissed to Frieda, above the hiccuping sobs.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Out there.’ Judith jerked her head towards the yard.

  Frieda rose and opened the back door. The air was still quite gentle after the warmth of the day and she could smell the herbs she had planted in their tubs. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  Judith looked at her, then away. She seemed both older than her years, and younger: an adult and a child at once. Frieda waited. Her curry would be a congealing oily mass.

  ‘I’m not feeling well,’ said Judith.

  The air seemed to cool around them. Frieda knew what she was going to say. This was the kind of thing she should be telling her mother.

  ‘In what way?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m feeling a bit sick.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘Are you pregnant, Judith?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Her voice was a sullen mumble.

  ‘Have you done a test?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You ought to do one as soon as possible. They’re very reliable.’ She tried to make out the expression on the girl’s face. ‘You can buy them across the counter at a chemist’s,’ she added.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘But you’re scared because then you’d know for certain.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘If you were pregnant, do you know how far gone you are?’

  Judith shrugged. ‘I’m just a few days late.’

  ‘Is it just from one sexual encounter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have a boyfriend?’

  ‘If that’s the right word.’

  ‘Have you told him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor your father?’

  She gave her laughing snort – derisive and unhappy. ‘No!’

  ‘Listen. You must find out if you’re pregnant first of all, and if you are, you have to decide what you want to do. There are people you can speak to. You won’t have to deal with it alone. Are there other adults you could speak to? A family member, a teacher?’

  ‘No.’

  Frieda half closed her eyes. She let the weight settle on her. ‘OK. You can do the test here, if you want, and then we’ll talk about it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘And maybe you should think about talking to your father.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘He might not react the way you think.’

  ‘I’m his little girl. He doesn’t want me to wear makeup! I know how he’ll react. Mum dying, police everywhere, and now this. It’ll kill him. As for Zach –’ She stopped and grimaced. Her small face worked with her emotions.

  ‘Is Zach your boyfriend?’

  ‘He’ll be furious with me.’

  ‘Why? It takes two, you know, and you’re the one who has to deal with the consequences.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be on the Pill. I am on the Pill. I just forgot for a bit.’

  ‘Is Zach at your school?’

  She pulled a face.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means no.’

  Frieda stared at her and Judith stared back.

  ‘How old is Zach?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Judith?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘I see. And you’re fifteen. That’s a big age gap.’

  ‘Thanks. I can do the maths.’

  ‘You’re underage.’

  ‘That’s just a stupid rule old people make up to stop young people doing what they did when they were young themselves. I’m not a child.’

  ‘Tell me something, Judith. Did your mother know about Zach?’

  ‘I never told her. I knew what she’d say.’

  ‘So she had no idea?’

  ‘Why would she?’ Judith gazed back into the lit kitchen. Dora was sitting with her head propped on her hand, talking; Sasha was listening intently. ‘Except,’ she added.

  ‘Exce
pt?’

  ‘I think she may have discovered I was on the Pill.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I knew she’d find them if I put them anywhere obvious. She had a talent for it – sniffing out other people’s secret things. If I’d put them in my underwear drawer or in my makeup bag or under the mattress, she’d have dug them out at once. Like Ted’s weed. So I put them in a sock in the cupboard next to the bathroom, which nobody opens from one year to the next except to chuck stuff in. But I think she found them. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I think she changed the dial so the arrow was pointing to the right day. I just used to take one and not bother about the day matching up, but someone changed it. Twice. I’m sure they did.’

  ‘Perhaps it was her way of telling you she knew.’

  ‘I dunno. It seems a bit stupid to me. Why wouldn’t she just say?’

  ‘Because she knew you’d be angry with her and clam up?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Judith turned. ‘So you think she knew?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And she was waiting for me to confide in her?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘But I never did.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I feel like she’s someone I never knew. I can’t remember her face properly.’

  ‘It’s very hard.’ Frieda made up her mind. ‘Listen, Judith. There’s a late-night chemist a couple of minutes away. If I can, I’m going to buy you a Predictor kit, and then you can do it here, at once.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘At least you’ll know. The worst thing is not knowing.’ Her old mantra. Wearing a bit thin now. The girl’s strained face glimmered in the darkness. Frieda put a hand on her shoulder and steered her into the kitchen.

  ‘Your curry’s all cold,’ said Sasha, coming over to her and putting a comforting hand on her arm.

  ‘Yes, well. We’ll go to a restaurant next time. I’ve just got to go out for a few minutes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just to the chemist’s to get a few things.’

  ‘She thinks she’s pregnant, doesn’t she?’ Sasha asked, in a low voice.

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’

  ‘Are you going to get a Predictor?’

  ‘Yes. If it’s open.’

  Sasha said, turning away and speaking in a casual voice: ‘I’ve got one in my bag she can use.’

  ‘Oh, Sasha!’ Images flashed through Frieda’s mind – Sasha not lifting her glass, Sasha talking to Dora in a new voice of maternal tenderness, Sasha’s hesitation earlier that evening, as if she was about to tell her something. ‘That’s what you wanted to tell me!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Let’s talk later.’

  Judith wasn’t pregnant. Her sickness and her lateness were, Frieda told her, probably to do with shock and grief. But she needed to think about this properly, she said, not simply continue as she had been doing. She was fifteen and in a relationship with a man who was more than thirteen years older than her. ‘You need to talk to someone,’ she said.

  ‘I’m talking to you, aren’t I?’

  Frieda sighed. Tiredness was making her head pound. ‘Someone who’s not me,’ she replied.

  She made Judith a mug of tea, and Dora, who was limp from crying, some hot chocolate. ‘I’ll order you a cab,’ she said. ‘Your father and aunt will be worried.’

  Judith snorted.

  Then the doorbell rang again.

  ‘That’ll be Chloë,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Sasha rose and put a hand on Frieda’s shoulder, then went to the door.

  It wasn’t Chloë, it was Ted. He was clearly stoned.

  ‘Isn’t Chloë back yet?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’m just ordering a cab,’ Frieda told him, putting her hand over the receiver. ‘You can all go home together.’ She gave the taxi company her address and put the phone down.

  ‘No way. No way in the world. Dad’s drunk out of his head and Aunt Louise is very, very angry in a stomping kind of way. I’m not staying there tonight.’

  ‘Well, then, I’m not either,’ said Judith. Her blue eyes blazed with a kind of scared excitement. ‘Nor will Dora. Will you, Dora?’

  Dora stared at her. She looked stricken.

  ‘The cab will be here in about five minutes. You’re all going home.’

  ‘No,’ said Ted. ‘I can’t go there.’

  ‘You can’t make us,’ added Judith. Dora put her head on the kitchen table again and closed her eyes. Her lids seemed transparent.

  ‘No. I can’t. Where are you going, then?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes. You’re eighteen now, I think, and a boy, and you can look after yourself – theoretically at least. Judith is fifteen and Dora thirteen. Look at her. Have you got a friend you can stay with?’

  ‘Can’t we stay here?’ Dora said suddenly. ‘Can’t we be in your house for a night? It feels safe here.’

  ‘No,’ said Frieda. She could feel Sasha’s eyes on her.

  She considered picking up a plate and throwing it against the wall; she imagined taking a chair and smashing it against the window so that clean air streamed into this hot kitchen, with its smell of curry and sweat and grief. Or better still, just running out of her house, shutting the door behind her – she’d be free, in the April night, with stars and a moon and the wind soft in her face, and they could deal with their own chaotic sadness without her.

  ‘Please,’ said Dora. ‘We’ll be very quiet and we won’t make a mess.’

  Ted and Judith were silent, just gazing at her and waiting.

  ‘Frieda,’ said Sasha, warningly. ‘No. This isn’t fair on you.’

  ‘One night,’ said Frieda. ‘One night only. Do you hear? And you have to ring home and tell your aunt and your father, if he’s in a state to understand.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And when the cab arrives I’ll send it away but tell them to come back first thing tomorrow to take you home. You are all going to school. Yes?’

  ‘We promise.’

  ‘Where can we sleep?’ asked Dora.

  Frieda thought of her lovely calm study at the top of the house that was now strewn with Chloë’s mess. She thought of her living room, with the books on the shelves, the sofa by the grate, the chess table by the window. Everything just so. Her refuge against the world and all its troubles.

  ‘Through there,’ she said, pointing up the hall.

  ‘Have you got sleeping bags?’

  ‘No.’ She stood up. Her body felt so heavy it took an enormous effort of will to move at all. Her head thudded. ‘I’ll get some duvets and sheets, and you can use the cushions from the sofa and chair.’

  ‘I’ll sort all of that.’ Sasha sounded urgent. She looked at Frieda with an expression of concern, even alarm.

  ‘Can I have a bath?’ asked Ted.

  Frieda stared at him. The new plug was in her bag. ‘No! You can’t. You mustn’t! Just the washbasin.’

  The bell rang again and Sasha went to cancel the cab. Then, almost immediately, Chloë came in, in her usual high pitch of angry excitement after seeing her father. She threw her arms around Ted, around Frieda, around Sasha.

  ‘Out of here,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m going to clean the kitchen, then go to bed.’

  ‘We’ll tidy,’ Chloë shouted gaily. ‘Leave it to us.’

  ‘No. Go into the other room and I’ll do it. You’re all to go to sleep now – you’re getting up at seven and leaving shortly after that. Don’t make a noise. And if anyone uses my toothbrush I’ll throw them out whatever time of night it is.’

  You seem to have gone off radar. Where are you? Talk to me! Sandy xxxxx

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘It’s fun, isn’t it?’ said Riley.

  ‘In what way?’ asked Yvette.

  ‘We’re looking through people’s things, opening
their drawers, reading through their diaries. It’s all the stuff you want to do, but you’re not meant to. I wish I could do this at my girlfriend’s flat.’

  ‘No, it’s not fun,’ said Yvette. ‘And don’t say that aloud, even to me.’

  Riley was going through the filing cabinet in the Kerrigans’ living room. They’d searched the main bedroom and the kitchen already. Paul Kerrigan had stayed in hospital only one night after he was beaten up and now he was out, but his wife had let them in, tight-lipped and silent. She hadn’t offered them coffee or tea, and as they searched among the couple’s possessions, lifting up underwear, turning on computers, reading private letters, noticing the tidemark in the bath and the moth holes in some of Paul Kerrigan’s jumpers, they could hear her slamming doors, banging pans. When Yvette had last met her, she had been dazed and wearily sad. Now she seemed angry.

  ‘Here,’ she said, coming into the room. ‘You might not have found these. They were in his bike pannier in the cupboard under the stairs.’

  She was holding a small square packet between forefinger and thumb, with an air of distaste. ‘Condoms,’ she said, and dropped them on to the table, as if they’d been used. ‘For his Wednesday dates, I assume.’

  Yvette tried to keep her expression neutral. She hoped Riley wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t react. ‘Thank you.’ She picked up the packet to put in the evidence bag.

  ‘He didn’t use them with you?’ said Riley, in a bright voice.

  ‘I had cancer several years ago and the chemotherapy meant that I’m now infertile,’ said Elaine Kerrigan. Briefly, her stiff expression changed to one of distress. ‘So, no, he didn’t.’

  ‘So …’ Yvette began.

  ‘There’s something else I should say. Paul didn’t get home until quite late on that day.’

  ‘We’re talking about the sixth of April.’

  ‘Yes. I was here a long time before him. I remember because I made a lemon meringue pie and I was worried it would spoil. Funny the things you worry about, isn’t it? Anyway, he was late. It must have been gone eight.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that before?’’

  ‘It’s hard to remember everything at once.’