Waiting for Wednesday

by Nicci French

  ‘You mean illegally,’ someone shouted from the back.

  Steps had been taken, the officer continued. Reprimands delivered. Procedures tightened. The same mistakes would not be made again.

  ‘What about Mr Conley?’ asked a young woman in the front row.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He’s been in prison since 2005.’

  ‘And we’re sorry for the mistakes that were made.’

  ‘Has anyone been fired?’ called a voice.

  The inspector’s face tightened. ‘As I say, we have looked very carefully at the way the investigation was conducted. Individual officers have been reprimanded. But it would not be in anyone’s interest to make a scapegoat out of …’

  Fearby thought that the message was very clear. The police believed that Conley was the killer but had got off on a technicality. What was more, they were making sure that everyone else in the room understood that. He felt anger rise in him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he called out, in a loud voice. ‘I have a question for you.’

  Heads turned. There he was, Jim Fearby, the one who’d been obsessed with the case for years. A journalist who’d been around for decades, one of the old breed who got hold of a story and wouldn’t let go. He was in his sixties now, stooped and silver-haired. He looked a bit like a bird of prey, with his beaked nose and pale eyes, wind-blown and weather-blasted.

  ‘Mr Fearby,’ said the inspector, smiling with no warmth. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Now that George Conley has been released, an innocent man …’ he paused to let the words fill the room ‘… can you tell us what steps you will be taking to find out the real perpetrator? After all, a young woman was brutally murdered.’

  The inspector coughed again, a hard and hacking sound to give him time to prepare his answer. ‘At present, there are no new leads,’ he said eventually.

  ‘At present?’

  ‘As I said. Any more questions?’

  Fearby drove home through the gathering dusk. Conley’s last prison, unlike his previous ones, had been quite close to where he lived – in a small town just outside Birmingham. When Sandra had left him, he’d thought he would perhaps go somewhere different – the Lake District, perhaps, or even further north, where cold, clean winds blew off the hills. He could begin again. But in the end he’d stayed, surrounded by his files, his books, his pictures, his DVDs of old films. It didn’t matter so much where he lived; it was just a place to sleep, to think.

  He went into his study and gazed at the piles of notebooks and folders that were filled with the evidence of his obsession: police reports, legal reports, letters sent and received, petitions … He poured himself a large slug of gin because he’d run out of whisky and added water because he’d run out of tonic. What sailors used to drink, he thought – a sad, solitary drink to get you through the hours. He must have fallen asleep in his chair, because when the phone rang it felt at first like part of a dream.

  ‘Is that Jim Fearby?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I saw you at the press conference. Are you still writing about the case?’

  ‘What’s it matter?’ Fearby still felt only half awake.

  ‘I want to meet you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know a pub called the Philip Sidney?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can find it. I’ll be there at five tomorrow evening.’

  I tried to call you. When we see each other, I’m going to give you a short lesson in how to use your mobile! (Mainly, leave it turned on and have it with you.) Now it’s probably too late to try again. You’ll be asleep. Or perhaps you’ll be stalking the streets of London with that frown on your face. Speak soon and until then, take care of your dear self. S xxxxx

  THIRTEEN

  Karlsson sat opposite Billy Hunt. ‘You must be the world’s worst burglar,’ he said.

  ‘So you saw I was telling the truth?’

  ‘Busy Bees,’ said Karlsson. ‘Apart from the fact that it’s a nursery school that is being built for little children, and that stealing from them doesn’t seem right, what the hell did you expect to get from them? Stuffed toys?’

  ‘There was building work going on,’ said Hunt. ‘I thought there might be some tools around.’

  ‘But there weren’t.’

  ‘No. I didn’t find anything.’

  ‘On the bright side,’ said Karlsson, ‘it was a building site, which meant there were plenty of CCTV cameras and I saw the best images I’ve ever seen. You could have used some of them for your passport photo.’

  ‘I told you I was there.’

  ‘But, as we know, you were also at the murder scene. You need to tell us about that.’

  Hunt bit the side of his thumb. ‘If I tell you everything, will you drop the burglary charge?’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Karlsson. ‘I’m not even sure we’re dropping the murder charge. Just tell us everything and stop messing me about.’

  Hunt thought.

  ‘I needed some cash,’ he said. ‘I owed someone. Look, I’ve told you all this before.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘I ended up on Margaretting Street. I rang on a few doorbells, and when someone answered, I asked if Steve was in and then said I must have the wrong address. I got to that house. There was no answer. I got in.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I picked half a brick off a skip and smashed the window next to the front door. Then I opened it.’

  ‘Weren’t you surprised it wasn’t double-locked?’ said Karlsson. ‘Or locked on a chain?’

  ‘If it had been double-locked, I wouldn’t have been able to get in.’

  ‘But if it isn’t double-locked,’ said Karlsson, ‘that suggests someone is at home.’

  ‘But I’d already tried the doorbell.’

  ‘Forget it. Go on, then.’

  ‘I went in. Took some stuff from the kitchen. Then I went into the other room and … you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was lying there.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hunt. ‘I was in shock.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call an ambulance?’

  Hunt shook his head. ‘The alarm was going off. I just got out.’

  ‘Except you took the cog.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Although it had been used as the murder weapon and was covered with her blood.’

  ‘I had a couple of plastic shopping bags from the kitchen.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call the police?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Because I was being a burglar,’ said Hunt. ‘I mean, I’m not a burglar but at that moment I was in the middle of taking things. Anyway, I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I got out. Ran away.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I had this stuff to sell. I told you, I needed cash.’

  ‘So you sold all the silver?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Except the cog?’

  ‘It needed, you know …’

  ‘The blood cleaning off it?’

  ‘I felt bad about it,’ said Hunt. ‘Seeing her there. What was I meant to do?’

  Karlsson stood up. ‘I don’t know, Billy. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Frieda?’

  ‘Hello, Chloë.’ Frieda walked through to the living room with the phone and eased her sore body into the armchair by the hearth where in the winter she lit a fire every day. Now that it was spring and the weather was balmy, the sky a delicate washed blue, it sto
od empty. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I need to see you.’

  ‘Before Friday?’ Friday was the day that Frieda taught her chemistry, which Chloë loathed with a scowling intensity.

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  It was nearly six o’clock. Frieda thought of the pot of tea, the slice of quiche she’d bought from Number 9 for her supper, the quiet evening in the dimly lit cocoon of her house that she’d planned, sitting in her study with her soft-leaded pencils and her thick-grained paper, the answering machine turned on and no demands on her, then the softness of her pillows and the sealing darkness. Maybe no dreams, just oblivion. She could say no.

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  ‘I’m not at home. I’m in a café near the Roundhouse. You can’t miss it. It’s got this giant upside-down aeroplane hanging outside and it’s an alternative art gallery as well.’

  ‘Hang on, Chloë –’

  ‘Thanks, Frieda!’ Chloë interrupted enthusiastically, then ended the call before Frieda could change her mind.

  The café was named, for no obvious reason, Joe’s Malt House, and there was indeed a large upside-down plane nose-diving down its outside wall. Frieda pushed open the door and went into a long, dark room, cluttered with tables and mismatched chairs, the walls hung with paintings she could barely make out in the gloom. People were sitting at tables and milling about at the bar that cut across the middle of the room. Music played, throbbing and insistent; the air was thick with the smell of beer, coffee and incense.

  ‘Do you need a table?’ asked a young woman, dressed in shredded black, with a lightning streak tattooed down her cheek. Her accent was upper-class Estuary. Her boots were like the Terminator’s.

  Frieda heard her name and squinted up the room. She made out Chloë at the far end, waving her arms in the air to attract her attention.

  ‘This had better be important.’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Or tea. They do herbal teas here.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I had to get you here. It’s Ted.’

  ‘Ted? You mean the young man?’

  ‘He needs help.’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’

  ‘But the thing is, he won’t do anything about it. He just gets angry when people tell him, so I thought I’d have to do it for him.’

  ‘I can give you names, Chloë, but he’s got to want to –’

  ‘I don’t need names, Frieda. I’ve got you.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’

  ‘You have to help.’

  ‘I don’t. This is not the way to do it.’

  ‘Please. You don’t understand. I really like him and he’s so messed up.’ She grabbed Frieda’s hand. ‘Oh, fuck, he’s here already. He’s just come in.’

  ‘You haven’t done what I think you’ve done?’

  ‘I had to,’ hissed Chloë, leaning forward. ‘You wouldn’t have come if I’d told you and neither would Ted.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You can make him better.’

  ‘His mother’s been killed, Chloë. How can I make him better?’

  Frieda stood up, and as she did, Ted stumbled past the bar and saw them both. He stopped and stared. He was in the same dishevelled, undone state as before – clothes flapping, trousers slipping down, laces trailing, hair falling over his pale face, the hectic blotches on his cheeks. He stared from Chloë to Frieda, then back again.

  ‘You?’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

  Chloë scrambled to her feet and went over to him. ‘Ted,’ she said. ‘Listen.’

  ‘What’s she doing here? You tricked me.’

  ‘I wanted to help you,’ said Chloë, desperately. For a moment Frieda felt very sorry for her niece. ‘I thought if you two could just talk a bit …’

  ‘I don’t need help. You should see my sisters. They’re the ones who need help. I’m not a little kid any more.’ He looked at Chloë. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ said Frieda, sharply. He turned his wretched, sneering face towards her. ‘I agree Chloë acted wrongly. But she did it because she is your friend and she cares. Don’t lash out at her. You need your friends.’

  ‘I’m not going to lie on your fucking couch.’

  ‘Of course you’re not.’

  ‘And I’m not going to cry and say my life is over now I don’t have a mother.’ But his voice rose dangerously high as he stared at her defiantly.

  ‘No. And it isn’t. Maybe we can just get out of here, the three of us, and have some tea or a mug of hot chocolate or something in the little place across the road, which is quiet and doesn’t have dreadful paintings on the wall, and then we can all go back to our separate homes, and no real harm done.’

  Chloë sniffed and gazed pleadingly at him.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had hot chocolate for years. Not since I was a kid.’ As if he was a middle-aged man.

  ‘Sorry.’ Chloë’s voice was small.

  ‘It’s all right, I guess.’

  ‘Good,’ said Frieda. ‘Now can we get out of here?’

  Chloë and Ted had a mug of hot chocolate each and Frieda had a glass of water.

  ‘I don’t think it makes things better,’ said Ted, ‘just because you talk about them.’

  ‘It depends,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I think it makes things worse, like jabbing a wound to keep it bleeding. Wanting it to bleed.’

  ‘I’m not here to make you see someone you don’t want to see. I just think you should drink your hot chocolate.’

  ‘Don’t you get sick of spending your days with rich, narcissistic wankers going on about childhood traumas, endlessly fascinated by all their noble, manufactured suffering?’

  ‘Your suffering isn’t manufactured, though, is it?’

  Ted glared at her. His face had a peeled look, as if even the air would sting him. ‘It’ll pass,’ he said. ‘That’s what my mum would have said. One fucking day at a time.’

  ‘That’s one of the sad things about people dying,’ said Frieda. ‘We talk about them in the past tense. We say what they would have done. But if that’s what she would have said, it’s not stupid. Time does pass. Things change.’ She stood up. ‘And now I think we’re done,’ she said.

  Chloë drained her mug. ‘We’re finished as well,’ she said.

  When they were outside, Frieda was ready to say goodbye but Chloë seemed reluctant to let her go. ‘Which way are you going?’

  ‘I’ll walk back through the park.’

  ‘You’re going in the same direction as us. Past Ted’s house. Except he’s not staying there. They’re staying with neighbours.’

  ‘I can speak for myself,’ said Ted.

  ‘All right,’ said Frieda, and they started walking, an uneasy trio, with Chloë in the middle.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Chloë said. ‘This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have done this. I’ve embarrassed you both.’

  ‘You can’t force help on people,’ said Frieda. ‘But that’s all right.’

  ‘Frieda walks everywhere. She’s like a taxi driver. You could name any two places in London and she could walk between them.’ Chloë was talking as if she was frightened by the idea of a moment’s silence. ‘And she’s really critical of it as well. She thinks it all went wrong after the Elizabethan age or the Great Fire of London. This is Ted’s road. This is where it all happened. I’m sorry, I don’t want to start it up all over again. I’ve done enough damage.
This is actually his house, I mean his parents’ house, but I’m going along the road with him to say goodbye and sorry and then …’ She turned to Frieda, who had suddenly stopped. ‘Frieda, are you all right?’

  Frieda had been about to make way for a group of people – two men and a woman – getting out of a car, but she had recognized them at the very moment they recognized her.

  ‘Frieda …’ Karlsson seemed too surprised to say anything else.

  The other man appeared more contemptuously amused than surprised. ‘You can’t stay away, can you?’ said Hal Bradshaw. ‘Is that some sort of syndrome?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I was going to ask how you are,’ Bradshaw continued. ‘But I think I already know.’

  ‘Yes. Your journalist rang me up.’

  Bradshaw smiled. He had very white teeth. ‘Perhaps I should have warned you. But it would have spoiled things.’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Karlsson. He seemed both uncomfortable and distressed.

  ‘You don’t need to know.’ Frieda didn’t want anyone to know, and particularly not Karlsson, but she supposed that soon enough they all would, and the gossip, the glee, the happy, whispering pity would begin all over again.

  The woman was Yvette Long.

  ‘Frieda. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve been having cocoa with my niece, Chloë. And this is Ted.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bradshaw, still smiling. ‘We do know Ted Lennox. Are you coming inside? I assume that’s what you want.’

  ‘No.’ Frieda was about to deny any connection, when she looked at the clenched, haunted figure of Ted standing with Chloë. It would have sounded like a betrayal. ‘I was on my way home.’

  ‘She can go where she pleases, can’t she?’ said Yvette, fiercely, turning her brown-eyed glare on Hal Bradshaw, who seemed unperturbed.

  Frieda had to stop herself smiling at the novelty of Yvette defending her. And defending her from what?

  Yvette and Bradshaw walked up the steps to the house but Karlsson stayed on the pavement, hovering awkwardly.

  ‘Are you involved in this somehow?’ he asked.