Waiting for Wednesday

by Nicci French

‘Chloë knows Ted,’ Frieda said. ‘She wanted me to have a word with him. That’s all.’

  Karlsson muttered something to himself. ‘I’m glad to see you anyway,’ he said. ‘You look all right.’

  ‘Good,’ said Frieda.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you. To see you. But now I’ve got to …’ He gestured at the house.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Frieda. She nodded goodbye to Chloë, turned and walked away in the direction of Primrose Hill.

  Karlsson watched Frieda’s progress, then went with the others into the house. Munster and Riley were already inside. They followed Munster through into the kitchen. Yvette was taking folders from her bag and arranging them on the table. They all sat down. Karlsson thought of the Lennoxes sitting there, rowdy Sunday lunches, then tried not to. He looked at Bradshaw. ‘What was it that Frieda was saying to you?’

  ‘Just shop talk,’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘Right,’ said Karlsson. ‘Let’s sort out where we are.’

  ‘Are we really not charging Billy Hunt?’ said Munster.

  ‘It should be him,’ said Yvette. ‘It really should. But the CCTV puts him in Islington at just after four. The neighbour knocked on the door at four thirty and she didn’t answer.’

  ‘She might have been in the bath,’ said Munster. ‘She might have had headphones on.’

  ‘What do the forensics say about the time of death?’ said Karlsson, his eyes on Riley, whose expression was blank.

  Yvette picked up a file and thumbed through the papers. ‘It’s not much use,’ she said. ‘She could have died any time between half an hour and three hours before she was found. But, look, we’re not taking the word of someone like Billy Hunt, are we? I mean, nothing about his statement makes sense. For example, he says he set off the alarm. If he didn’t kill her, then why didn’t the person who did kill her set it off?’

  ‘Because she let him in,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Psychopaths are plausible, convincing.’

  ‘You said before that he was expressing rage against women.’

  ‘I stand by that.’

  ‘Why was the alarm on?’ said Yvette.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Why would the burglar alarm be switched on if she was home?’

  ‘That’s a good question.’ Karlsson stood up and walked to the front door. He opened it and stepped outside. Then he returned to the kitchen. ‘This house doesn’t have a fucking burglar alarm,’ he said. ‘We’re being idiots.’

  ‘There we are,’ said Yvette. ‘So Billy Hunt was lying. Again.’

  Karlsson drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Why would he lie about that?’

  ‘Because he’s a psychopath,’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘He’s a thieving layabout,’ said Karlsson, ‘but he wasn’t lying.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Yvette.

  ‘Look,’ said Karlsson, pointing at the ceiling. ‘There’s a smoke alarm.’

  ‘How could Hunt set off a smoke alarm?’

  ‘He didn’t,’ said Karlsson. ‘Look at the scene-of-crime file. Riley, what will I find in the file?’

  Riley’s eyes flickered nervously. ‘Do you mean, like, one thing in particular?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, one thing in particular. Oh, never mind. As far as I remember, there was a tray of burned something or other on top of the cooker. That’s what set off the alarm.’

  Yvette flicked through the file. ‘That’s right,’ she said.

  ‘Are you saying Billy Hunt broke into the house and took some burned cakes out of the oven?’ Munster asked dubiously.

  Karlsson shook his head. ‘You should talk to the little girl again, but I know what she’ll say. She came home, smelled burning, took the tray out of the oven. Then she found her mother. Check the smoke alarm in the living room, Chris. Hunt said there was an alarm in there as well.’

  Munster left the room.

  ‘All right,’ said Yvette. ‘So that explains the alarm. It doesn’t help us with the time.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Karlsson.

  Munster came back into the kitchen.‘There isn’t one,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Karlsson. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘There’s one in the hallway. That must be the other one he heard.’

  Karlsson thought hard. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Anyway, if smoke sets off the smoke alarm, you don’t talk about alarms. You think of them as one alarm.’

  ‘Really?’ said Yvette.

  ‘Are Ruth Lennox’s effects here or at the station?’

  ‘At the station.’

  ‘All right,’ said Karlsson. ‘Give me a moment. I need to make a call.’

  He stepped outside. After a long pause, Yvette spoke to Bradshaw. ‘Is something up with you and Frieda?’

  ‘Have you talked about it with her?’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean “it”?’

  ‘Your involvement with her incident, accident, whatever you call it.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘It’s just that I hope you don’t feel guilty about it.’

  ‘Look –’ Yvette began fiercely, and was interrupted by Karlsson coming back into the kitchen.

  ‘I just talked to the woman in Storage,’ he said. ‘And I found what I expected to find. What Hunt heard in the living room was Ruth Lennox’s phone. It had an alarm on it. It was set to go off at ten past four in the afternoon. That was the other alarm that Billy Hunt heard.’

  ‘It may have been,’ said Yvette.

  ‘It was,’ said Karlsson. ‘Put everything together. Look what we’ve got. Biscuits or cakes burning in the oven. A smoke sensor. And a phone alarm set for ten past four. It’s reasonable to suggest that the alarm was to remind her that they were ready.’

  ‘Possible.’

  ‘It’s also reasonable to suggest that when the alarm went off, Mrs Lennox was no longer able to respond to it. So she was dead by ten past four, at the very latest.’

  There was a silence around the table.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Yvette.

  FIFTEEN

  She was expecting him. She glanced at herself in the mirror to make sure she was looking in control and reasonably healthy – she couldn’t stand the thought of anyone’s pity, and certainly not his – then ate the slice of quiche standing by the kitchen window, with the cat at her feet, rubbing its flank against her calves. The house was quiet now after a day of terrible bangs and tearing sounds and drilling. Stefan had been there again as he and Josef had carried two industrial-looking beams into the house. But they were gone now. Frieda didn’t know what she actually wanted, but she did know that she felt suddenly more alert and less jangled, as if a knob had been turned very slightly and her world had come into clearer focus.

  The doorbell rang at ten minutes past nine.

  ‘Hello, Frieda,’ said Karlsson. He held out a bunch of red tulips, wrapped in damp paper. ‘I should have brought these to you weeks ago.’

  ‘Weeks ago I had far too many flowers. They all died at the same time. This is better.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  In the living room, he took one of the chairs by the empty grate. ‘I always think of you sitting by a fire,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve only really known me in the winter.’

  There was a silence: they were both remembering the work they’d done together, and the way it had ended so violently.

  ‘Frieda …’ he began.

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  ‘I do. I really do. I haven’t been to see you since you left hospital because I felt so bad about what had happened
that I went into a kind of lockdown about it. You helped us – more than that, you rescued us. And in return we got rid of you and then we nearly got you killed.’

  ‘You didn’t get rid of me and you didn’t nearly get me killed.’

  ‘Me. My team. Us. That’s how it works. I was responsible and I let you down.’

  ‘But I wasn’t killed. Look at me.’ She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, smiled. ‘I’m fine.’

  Karlsson shut his eyes for a moment. ‘In this job you have to develop a thick skin or you’d go mad. But you can’t have a thick skin when it involves a friend.’

  Silence settled around the word. Images of Karlsson flitted through Frieda’s mind: Karlsson at his desk, calm and in control; Karlsson striding along a road with a tight face; Karlsson sitting by the bed of a little boy who, they thought, was perhaps dying; Karlsson standing up to the commissioner for her; Karlsson with his daughter wrapped around his body like a frightened koala; Karlsson sitting beside her fire and smiling at her.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ said Frieda.

  ‘That means a lot.’

  ‘Have your children left yet?’ she asked.

  ‘No. They go very soon, though. I was supposed to be spending lots of time with them. Then this case came up.’

  ‘Hard.’

  ‘Like a toothache that won’t go away. Are you really OK?’

  ‘I’m fine. I need a bit of time.’

  ‘I don’t mean just physically.’ Karlsson flushed and Frieda was almost amused.

  ‘You mean am I in a state of trauma?’

  ‘You were attacked with a knife.’

  ‘I dream about it sometimes.’ Frieda considered. ‘And I need to tell you that I also think about Dean Reeve. Something happened a few days ago that you should know. Don’t look anxious, I don’t want to talk about it now.’

  There was a silence. Karlsson seemed to be weighing something up in his mind. To speak or not to speak.

  ‘Listen,’ he said finally. ‘That boy Ted.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘That’s not what I wanted to say. You know about the case?’

  ‘I know his mother was killed.’

  ‘She was a nice woman, with a decent husband, close family, good friends, neighbours who liked her. We thought we’d got the man who did it, all simple and straightforward. It turns out that he couldn’t have and we’re back where we started. Except that it makes even less sense.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Frieda said neutrally.

  ‘Dr Bradshaw has a theory.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Frieda said quickly. ‘That’s one of the perks of being pushed out.’

  Karlsson looked suspicious. ‘Is there some problem with Bradshaw?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Frieda didn’t say anything further, just waited.

  ‘You wouldn’t come to the house with me, would you? Just once? I’d like to discuss it with someone I trust.’

  ‘What about Yvette?’ asked Frieda, although she already knew she was going to say yes.

  ‘Yvette’s terrific – apart from the fact that she let you get nearly murdered, of course. She’s my trusted colleague, as well as my attack dog. But if I want someone to look at a house, just to get the smell of it, have a thought or two, I’d ask you – I am asking you.’

  ‘As a friend.’

  ‘Yes. As a friend.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, when the house is empty?’

  ‘That would suit me fine.’

  ‘Are you serious? I mean, that’s great. Shall I send a car?’

  ‘I’ll make my own way.’

  I met a neuroscientist called Gloria today, who I think you’d like a lot (you see, I’m making friends for you out here). We talked about free will – does it exist etc. She was arguing that with everything we know now about the brain, it’s impossible to believe there is such a thing, and yet it’s impossible not to believe in it at the same time and to live our life as if we have choices. A necessary delusion.

  It’s a beautiful evening, with a full moon shining on the river. I wonder what it’s like in London – but, of course, it’s nearly morning for you now. You’re asleep. At least I hope you are. Sandy xxxx

  SIXTEEN

  So it was that the very next day Frieda once more walked past the Roundhouse, past the little café where Ted and Chloë had drunk hot chocolate the evening before and the larger one where an aeroplane nose-dived down the wall and music throbbed, into Margaretting Road. Karlsson was already outside, drinking coffee from a paper mug that he raised in salute as she came towards him. He noticed that she walked more slowly than she used to, and with a slight limp.

  ‘You came.’

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure no one’s in?’

  ‘I’m certain. The family has been staying with neighbours. The house is still officially a crime scene.’

  ‘And Hal Bradshaw?’

  ‘Fuck him.’ The vehemence of Karlsson’s response surprised her.

  Frieda followed Karlsson through the front door. Although the window was still broken, the barriers had been cleared away and the forensic team had gone. But the house had the special emptiness of an abandoned place, already neglected and musty from disuse – and, of course, it was the place where a woman (a wife, a mother, a good neighbour, Karlsson had said) had recently been murdered. As Frieda stood in the silent hallway, she felt that the house somehow knew it and felt abandoned.

  A large photograph, the frame cracked and the glass smashed, was propped against the wall and she bent down to look at it.

  ‘The happy family,’ said Karlsson. ‘But it’s usually the husband, you know.’

  Official family photographs that are framed and hung in the hall are always happy. Everyone has to stand close together and smile: there was Ted, not as gangly and dishevelled as she’d seen him, with the smooth face of youth; there was the elder of the girls, her arresting pale eyes and nimbus of coppery curls; the youngest daughter, skinny and anxious, but grinning despite her train-track braces, her head tipped slightly towards her mother’s shoulder. There was the husband and father, as proud and protective as a husband and father is meant to look when he’s standing with his family grouped around him for the picture that will represent them – he had greying brown hair, jowly cheeks, his eldest daughter’s eyes, eyebrows that tilted at a comic angle, a face that was made to be cheerful.

  And there she was, standing in the centre with her husband – in a flecked sweater, her soft hair tied back loosely, her candid face smiling out of the picture. One hand on the shoulder of her elder daughter, who sat in front of her, and one against her husband’s hip. It was a touching gesture for the official portrait, thought Frieda, casual and intimate. She bent closer and stared into the dead woman’s eyes. Grey. No makeup that she could see. Small signs of age drawing down her mouth and creasing her brow. Smile marks and frown marks, the map of our days.

  ‘Tell me about her. Describe her,’ she said to Karlsson.

  ‘Her name is Ruth Lennox. Forty-four years old. A health visitor, and has been since her younger daughter started school; she had several years out when the children were small. Married to Russell Lennox,’ Karlsson pointed to the man in the photo, ‘happily, from all accounts, for twenty-three years. He’s an executive in a small charity for children with learning difficulties. Three kids, as you see – your Ted, Judith, who’s fifteen, and Dora, thirteen. All at the local comp. Has a dragon of a sister who lives in London. Both her parents are dead. On the PTA.
Good citizen. Not rich, but comfortable, two modest but stable incomes and no big outgoings. Three thousand pounds in her current account, thirteen thousand in her savings account. Healthy enough pension pot. Donates to various charities by standing order. No criminal record. Clean driving licence. I’m using the present tense but, of course, last Wednesday she sustained a catastrophic injury to the head and would have died instantly.’

  ‘Who did you think it was, before you discovered it couldn’t be?’

  ‘A local druggie with a record, but it turns out that he has a rock-solid alibi. He was caught on CCTV somewhere else at the time of her death. He admitted to breaking in, stealing some stuff, finding her body and fleeing the scene. We didn’t believe him, but for once in his life he was telling the truth.’

  ‘So the broken window was him?’

  ‘And the burglary. There was no sign of a break-in when a neighbour came round earlier – we know Ruth Lennox must have been already dead. Obviously the implication is that she let the killer in herself.’

  ‘Someone she knew.’

  ‘Or someone who seemed safe.’

  ‘Where did she die?’

  ‘In here.’ Karlsson led her into the living room, where everything was tidy and in its proper place (cushions on the sofa, newspapers and magazines in the rack, books lining the walls, tulips in a vase on the mantelpiece), but a dark bloodstain still flowered on the beige carpet and daubs of blood decorated the near wall.

  ‘Violent,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Hal Bradshaw believes it was the work of an extremely angry sociopath with a record of violence.’

  ‘And you think it’s more likely to be the husband.’

  ‘That’s not a matter of evidence, just the way of the world. The most likely person to kill a wife is her husband. The husband, however, has a reasonably satisfactory alibi.’

  Frieda looked round at him. ‘We’re taught to beware of strangers,’ she said. ‘It’s our friends most of us should worry about.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Karlsson.

  They went through to the kitchen and Frieda stood in the middle of the room, looking from the tidily cluttered dresser to the drawings and photos stuck to the fridge with magnets, the book splayed open on the table. Then, upstairs, the bedroom: a king-sized bed covered with a striped duvet, a gilt-framed photo of Ruth and Russell on their wedding day twenty-three years ago, several smaller-framed photos of her children at different ages, a wardrobe in which hung dresses, skirts and shirts – nothing flamboyant, Frieda noticed, some things obviously old but well looked-after. Shoes, flat or with small heels; one pair of black leather boots, slightly scuffed. Drawers in which T-shirts were neatly rolled, not folded; underwear drawer with sensible knickers and bras, 34C. A small amount of makeup on the dressing-table, and one bottle of perfume, Chanel. A novel by her side of the bed, Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell, with a bookmark sticking out, and under it a book about small gardens. A pair of reading glasses, folded, to one side.