Waiting for Wednesday fk-3

by Nicci French

  But when he stood in front of his large map and peered again at the small flags he’d pinned to it, he felt the surge of excitement that had kept him going through this strange one-man investigation. For it seemed clear to him that there was a pattern before his eyes. But then – at the end of a day, when he sat in this room with his whisky, his fags, fugging up the window, surrounded by crumpled balls of paper, overflowing ashtrays, cartons of takeaways, half-finished mugs of coffee, piles of books thumbed through and then discarded – it faded away.

  He looked around him, for a moment seeing things as a stranger would see them. It was a mess, no doubt about it, but an obsessive mess. The walls were covered with maps, photographs of girls and young women, Post-it stickers with numbers scribbled on to them. It made him seem like a stalker, a psychopath. If his wife walked in now, or his children … He could picture their expressions of dismay and disgust. He was wearing shabby clothes, his face needed shaving, his hair needed cutting, he reeked of tobacco and drink. But if he was right, if these faces that stared at him from his walls had all been killed by the same person, then all of that would be justified and he would be a hero. Of course, if he was wrong, he would be a lonely fool and a pathetic failure.

  It was no good thinking like that: he’d come too far and done too much. He just had to hold on to his original instinct and keep going, holding his doubts at bay. He sighed and picked up his overnight bag, his car keys, his cigarettes, and shut the door on his stale, untidy house with relief.

  Brian and Tracey Gibbs lived in a first-floor flat in south London, at the point where the density of the city was petering out into suburbia. They were poor, Fearby could tell that at once. Their flat was small and the living room they showed him into needed a fresh coat of paint. He knew from the cutting that they were in their forties, but they looked older – and he felt a surge of anger. The comfortable middle classes can cheat time, while people like the Gibbses are worn down by it, rubbed away. Brian Gibbs was thin and apologetic. Tracey Gibbs was larger and at first more aggressive. She wanted to tell Fearby that they’d done their best, been good parents, never done anything to deserve this. Their only child. It wasn’t their fault. All the while, her husband sat mute and thin beside her.

  ‘When did you last see her?’ asked Fearby.

  ‘Six weeks ago. Give or take a few days.’

  ‘And when did you report her missing?’

  ‘Three and a half weeks ago. We didn’t know,’ she added quickly, defensively. ‘She’s an adult. She lives with us but she comes and goes as she pleases. Days could go by …’ She faltered. ‘You know how it is.’

  Fearby nodded. He did.

  ‘Could I see a picture of her?’

  ‘There.’ Tracey Gibbs pointed and he saw a framed photograph of Sharon: a round, pale face; dark hair in a neat, glossy bob; small mouth smiling for the camera. Fearby had seen too many young women smiling for the camera recently.

  ‘Is she going to be all right?’ Brian Gibbs asked, as if Fearby was God.

  ‘I hope so,’ he replied. ‘Do you think she went of her own accord?’

  ‘The police think so.’ This, bitterly, from the mother.

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘She got into bad company.’

  ‘What company was that?’

  ‘The worst was this Mick Doherty. I told her what I thought of him but she wouldn’t listen.’

  She plaited her hands tightly together; Fearby saw that the wedding ring was biting into her finger and that the varnish on her nails was chipped. She looked uncared-for. There were moth holes in Brian Gibbs’s ancient pullover. There was a hairline crack running up the mug of tea they had given him and a chip on its rim.

  ‘I see,’ he said, trying to sound neutrally cheerful.

  ‘I know where he works. The police weren’t bothered but I can tell you where to find him.’

  ‘All right.’

  He took the address. It wouldn’t do any harm, he thought, and there was nothing else left for him to do, nowhere else to go.

  FORTY-TWO

  Karlsson opened the file. Yvette was writing in her notebook. Riley and Munster looked bored. Hal Bradshaw was sending a text. He noticed Karlsson’s fierce glance and put the phone down on the table but continued to steal glances at it. Karlsson took his watch off and laid it next to the file.

  ‘We’re going to talk about this for five minutes,’ he said, ‘because that’s about all I can stand and then we should go our separate ways and try to solve this case. Do you know what I wish? I wish Billy Hunt had killed her and that he was safely in prison and that we hadn’t lifted the rock and found out about all the adultery and drink and drugs and underage sex.’

  ‘Maybe Billy Hunt really did it after all,’ said Riley.

  ‘Billy Hunt didn’t do it.’

  ‘Maybe his alibi is flawed. Maybe the timing on the CCTV wasn’t right.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Karlsson. ‘Check it out. If you can break his alibi, you’ll be a hero. Now, back in the real world. Remember when we first saw the body, all those days ago? I wondered who would kill this nice mother of three. Now the queue goes out the door. Who shall we start with? There’s Russell Lennox: betrayed husband, drink problem, tendency to violence.’

  ‘We don’t know it was him who beat up Paul Kerrigan.’

  ‘No, but I’d lay a bet on it.’

  ‘And he didn’t know about his wife’s affair,’ said Munster.

  ‘You mean he said he didn’t.’

  ‘His print was on the cog along with Billy’s,’ put in Yvette.

  ‘Because he owned it. But, still, that sounds most likely. Confronts his wife, picks up that cog thing. There’s the awkward matter of his alibi, of course. So let’s keep leaning on him. Their children were at school and they’re children. But now we’ve got Judith and her every-parent’s-nightmare boyfriend. Ruth discovers about him. Arranges a meeting at their house. Threatens him with the law. He picks up the cog. I don’t like Zach Greene. I don’t like him at all. Which unfortunately isn’t evidence. Any comments?’ He looked around. ‘Thought not. But we should lean on him some more. Where did he say he was that afternoon, Yvette?’

  Yvette turned pink. ‘He didn’t actually say,’ she muttered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I asked him. But, now you mention it, he didn’t give me an answer. He went on about them being consenting adults or something. He distracted me.’

  Karlsson stared at her. ‘Distracted you?’ he repeated pleasantly, coldly.

  ‘Sorry. It was stupid of me. I’ll get back to him.’

  He stared down at his papers for a moment. He didn’t want to shout at her in front of Riley and Bradshaw but it took an effort.

  ‘Moving on. We have the Kerrigans. He wants to break off with her. Or she discovers about his office affair. Confronts him. He picks up the cog.’

  ‘Would she do it at her house?’ said Yvette. ‘Wouldn’t the flat be more logical?’

  ‘She might have threatened him at the flat,’ said Bradshaw. ‘She could have said she would inform his wife. For him to confront and kill her in her own home would be a tit for tat. Exposing her in her own family home.’

  Karlsson frowned at Bradshaw. ‘I thought your theory was that the murderer was a loner, of no fixed abode, that he had no family connections, that the murder was a kind of love.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Bradshaw. ‘But in a real sense Kerrigan was a loner, estranged from his family, and because of this rented flat, he actually was of no fixed abode and the murder was, arguably, a last, desperate expression of love, the end of love.’

  What Karlsson really wanted to do was to lean across, take Bradshaw’s smart-phone and hit him over the head with it repeatedly. But he said nothing.

  ‘And then there’s Kerrigan’s wife, Elaine. Humiliated wife. Finds out about Ruth, confronts her, picks up cog.’

  ‘But she didn’t know about the affair,’ said Yvette. ‘Or Ruth’s name. Or
where she lived.’

  ‘Maybe she did know,’ said Munster. ‘They always do.’

  ‘What do you mean, they?’ Yvette glared at him.

  ‘Women.’ Munster was wary at Yvette’s sharp tone. ‘You know, when their husbands are unfaithful. They know. Deep down. At least, that’s what some people say.’

  ‘Crap,’ said Yvette, decisively.

  ‘Anyway, we suspect that someone knew,’ said Karlsson. ‘Someone might have pushed that cut-up doll through the Lennox letterbox as a warning.’

  ‘That could just be coincidence.’

  ‘In my world,’ announced Bradshaw with a modest smile, ‘coincidence is another word for –’

  ‘You’re right,’ cut in Karlsson, decisively. ‘It could be coincidence. It might have been Dora’s charming schoolfriends persecuting her. Did you talk to her again, Yvette?’

  Yvette nodded. ‘She said she’d assumed it was for her. And she thinks it arrived around lunchtime. She got distressed. But she didn’t want to talk about it really – apparently things are better at school since her mother was killed. Everyone wants to be her friend suddenly.’ She made a grimace of disgust.

  ‘OK. So, the doll’s either a clue or it isn’t. Maybe we can talk to the head teacher and see if she can throw any light on it. Moving on, what about the sons?’

  ‘Josh and Ben Kerrigan?’ Yvette wrinkled up her face. ‘They’re both pretty contemptuous and angry. But Josh seems to have been in Cardiff – although he hasn’t been able to come up with any concrete alibi apart from being in bed with his girlfriend, who confirms that was probably the case. No sign on his bank statements that he used his card for a train ticket or anything. But that doesn’t mean much – as he himself pointed out, he could have used cash. His younger brother Ben was in a lesson. Apparently. His teacher can’t remember his being there, but she can’t remember his not being there and she thinks she would have noticed.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘What about Louise Weller?’ asked Yvette. ‘She was on the scene pretty quickly.’

  ‘On the scene?’ Karlsson shook his head. ‘She came round to help.’

  ‘It’s a common expression of guilt,’ Bradshaw explained comfortably. ‘Perpetrators like to involve themselves in the inquiry.’

  ‘What? Mother of three kills sister?’

  ‘You can’t rule it out,’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘I’m the one who rules people in or out.’ Karlsson spoke quickly. ‘But you’re right. We’ll talk to her again. And the Kerrigan boys. Anything else?’

  ‘Samantha Kemp,’ said Riley.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The woman Kerrigan had his affair with.’

  ‘Yes, I know who she is, but …’ Karlsson paused. ‘You’ve got to talk to her anyway, to check Kerrigan’s claim he was with her that afternoon. Maybe it’ll turn out she has a jealous boyfriend.’ He slammed the file shut. ‘Right, that’s it. Yvette, check that alibi. Chris, you talk to this Samantha Kemp. Now, for God’s sake, one of you go out and get me something.’

  FORTY-THREE

  Yvette was still smarting as she left the room. She could feel Chris Munster looking at her sympathetically, which made it worse. She snapped at him when he asked her if she wanted a coffee and slammed herself down at her desk.

  First, she rang Zach at his workplace in Shoreditch, but the woman who answered the phone said he wasn’t in that day – he didn’t work full time and as a matter of fact he wasn’t the most reliable of employees. So she rang his mobile and went straight to voicemail, then his landline, which rang and rang. She sighed and pulled on her jacket.

  On her way out, she met Munster once more.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘To see Samantha Kemp. You?’

  ‘To see bloody Zach Greene.’

  ‘Would you like me to –’

  ‘No, I would not.’

  Samantha Kemp was doing some work for a digital-camera company just off Marble Arch. She met Munster in the small room set aside for visitors on the first floor; its window overlooked a sari shop.

  When she came into the room, Munster was surprised by how young she was. Paul Kerrigan was a plump, greying, middle-aged man, but Samantha Kemp was in her twenties, neatly dressed in a black skirt and a crisply ironed white shirt. A ladder ran up her tights, from her ankle to her shapely knee. She had fluffy silver-blonde hair that framed her round pale face.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me. This won’t take long.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  Munster saw she was nervous: she kept sliding her palms down her skirt.

  ‘Is it true that you know Paul Kerrigan?’

  ‘Yes. I do work for his company sometimes. Why?’ A flush spread over her fair skin, and even when the colour receded it left faint blotches on her cheeks. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Can you remember what you were doing on Wednesday, the sixth of April?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Well?’

  ‘I heard you. I just don’t know what you’re getting at. Why should I tell you anything about my private life?’

  ‘Mr Kerrigan says that you were with him on the afternoon and evening of Wednesday, the sixth of April.’

  ‘With him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘He might be married, but that’s his look-out, not mine.’

  ‘Wednesday, the sixth of April.’

  ‘He’s not happy, you know.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘He’s not.’ To his horror, Munster saw that she was about to start crying: tears stood in her grey-blue eyes. ‘And I comfort him. I’m not going to be made to feel bad about that.’

  ‘The point is, did you comfort him on Wednesday, the sixth of April?’

  ‘Is he in trouble?’

  ‘Do you have a diary?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. I was with him on that Wednesday.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. It was the day after my birthday. He bought me a bottle of champagne.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘He arrived in the afternoon, about four. And we drank some champagne and then …’ Her face was flaming again. ‘He left at about seven or eight. He said he had to go back for his dinner.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can confirm this?’

  ‘My flatmate, Lynn. She came back at about six and had a bit of the champagne. I suppose you need her details as well.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Does she know about us? His wife, I mean? Is he in trouble?’

  Munster looked at her. Surely she must know about Ruth Lennox. But it was impossible to tell, and he didn’t want to be the one to break it to her. Paul Kerrigan should do his own dirty work.

  Zach Greene lived near Waterloo, a few roads south of the station on a road that was clogged with midday traffic: cabs and cars and vans and buses. Cyclists wove in and out of the queues, heads down against a strengthening wind. An ambulance blared past.

  Number 232 was a small terraced house set slightly back from the road, with steps leading up to a cracked green door. Yvette rang the bell, then knocked hard as well. She already knew he wouldn’t be in, so she was surprised when she heard footsteps and the rattling of a chain. A woman stood in front of her, clutching a baby in a striped all-in-one.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for Zach Greene,’ said Yvette. ‘Does he live here?’

  ‘He’s our tenant. He lives in the flat. You have to go through the garden.’ She came out in her slippers and took Yvette down the steps, pointing. ‘That little road takes you round the back and there’s a small garden with a gate that doesn’t shut properly. If you go through there, his flat’s to the side.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Yvette smiled at the baby, who stared at her in terror, then started to bawl. She’d never been good with babies.

  ‘Tell him to keep the noise down, will you? He was making a hell
of a racket last night, just after I’d got this one off to sleep at last.’

  Yvette found her way in through the rickety back gate. Wooden stairs led from the house she’d just been in, down to the small garden, where a child’s plastic tricycle lay tipped on its side. Tucked under the stairs was the door to the flat. Yvette rang the bell and waited. Then she knocked on the door and it creaked open a few inches.

  For a moment, Yvette stood quite still, listening intently. Outside, she could hear the clamour of traffic. From within, there was nothing.

  ‘Hello,’ she called. ‘Zach? Mr Greene? It’s Detective Long here.’

  Nothing. The wind blew a flurry of white blossom down on her where she stood. For a moment she thought it was snow. Snow in April: but stranger things happen. She pushed the door wider and stepped inside, onto a balding doormat. Zach Greene was not a tidy man. There were shoes on the floor, piles of junk mail, a couple of empty pizza boxes, a tangle of phone chargers and computer cords, a cotton scarf with tassels.

  She took a few more cautious steps.

  ‘Zach? Are you here?’ Her voice rang out in the small space. To her right, a tiny kitchen, a hob encrusted with ancient food, an army of mugs, granules of instant coffee. Two shirts hanging to dry on the radiator. A smell of something going off somewhere.

  It’s odd, she thought. How you know when there’s something wrong. You get a feel for it. Not just the open door, the smell. Something about the silence, as if it hummed with the aftermath of violence. Her skin prickled.

  Another shoe, a brown canvas one with yellow laces, on the floor, in the barely opened door that presumably led to Zach’s bedroom. She pushed the door with the tips of her fingers. The shoe was on a foot. The beginnings of the leg could be seen, encased in dark trousers and riding up to expose a striped sock, but everything else was covered with a patterned quilt. She took in the pattern: birds and swirling flowers; it looked Oriental, brightening up the grey and brown pokiness of the dingy flat.

  She looked at her watch and noted the time, then squatted down and very carefully drew off the quilt, feeling how damply sticky it was, seeing now that she was close up to it how its vivid pattern had obscured the stains.