Waiting for Wednesday

by Nicci French

  ‘We just want to talk,’ she said. There was no response. She handed her phone to Josef. ‘Try calling her. Say who you are.’

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘Who I am really?’

  ‘Say you’re the man who made the appointment.’

  He called and waited.

  ‘Leave message?’ he said.

  ‘No, don’t bother. She probably thought we were from Immigration or the police or someone who meant trouble.’

  ‘Is you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is you. She see woman, she think we do something to her.’

  Frieda leaned on the balcony railing and looked down. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘This was a stupid plan. I’m so sorry I dragged you out here for nothing.’

  ‘No. It’s not nothing. I keep your phone. You give me the map. I walk you back to café, you sit have nice tea and a cake. I will come back in one hour.’

  ‘I can’t ask you to do that, Josef. It’s not right. And it’s not safe.’

  Josef smiled at that. ‘Not safe? With you not protecting me?’

  ‘It feels wrong.’

  ‘We go now.’

  When they got back on to Carey Road, Frieda took some banknotes from her purse and gave them to him. ‘You should ask them if they know a girl called Lily Dawes. Lila. That’s what she mainly called herself, I think. I wish I had a picture to show them but I don’t know how to get one. Give them twenty pounds anyway, and another twenty if they tell you anything. Does that seem enough? I don’t know about these things.’

  ‘Is OK, I think.’

  ‘And be careful.’

  ‘Always.’

  Frieda left him there. After a few moments she glanced back and saw him talking on the phone. She went back into the café and ordered another cup of tea but didn’t touch it. What she really wanted was just to rest her head on her hands and sleep. She felt she should read, or think about something. She took the sketch pad out of her bag and spent twenty minutes making a sketch of the great plane trees in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She couldn’t get them right and told herself that she would go back there soon and do it from life. She put the pad away and looked around the café. There was a couple sitting at a table by the door. She met the eye of the man, who gave her a hostile look, so from then on she just stared in front of her. When she felt a touch on her shoulder she started as if she had been asleep but she was sure she couldn’t have been. It was Josef.

  ‘Is it an hour already?’ she said.

  He looked down at the phone before handing it to her. ‘An hour and a half,’ he said.

  ‘What happened? Did you find anything out?’

  ‘Not here,’ said Josef. ‘We go to pub. You buy me drink.’

  They could see a pub as soon as they were back on the pavement and they walked to it in silence. Inside there was noise from a games machine, with several teenage boys clustered around it.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Frieda.

  ‘Vodka. Big vodka. And cigarettes.’

  Frieda bought a double vodka, a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, and a glass of tap water for herself. Josef looked at his drink disapprovingly.

  ‘Is warm like the bathwater,’ he said. ‘But budmo.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It means we shall live always.’

  ‘We won’t, you know.’

  ‘I believe you will,’ he said sternly, and drank his vodka in a single gulp.

  ‘Can I get you another?’ she said.

  ‘Now we go for the cigarette.’

  They stepped outside. Josef lit one and inhaled deeply. Frieda thought of long-ago days outside the school gates at lunchtime. He offered the packet to her and she shook her head. ‘So?’ she said.

  His expression was sad, as he answered: ‘I talk to four women. There is one from Africa, I think maybe from Somalia. She speak English like me but much, much worse. I understand little. Man there also. He want more than twenty for her. Much more. Angry man.’

  ‘Oh, my God, Josef. What happened?’

  ‘Is normal. I explain.’

  ‘He could have had a gun.’

  ‘Gun would be problem. But no gun. I explain to him and I go. But no use. And then I see a girl from Russia and then one girl I don’t know where from. Romania, maybe. The last girl, the girl I just see, she say a few words and I have a strong feeling and I talk to her in Ukrainian. She have big shock.’ He gave a smile but there was harshness in his eyes.

  ‘Josef, I’m so sorry.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette on the pub wall and lit another. ‘Ah. It’s not so big a thing. You expect me to say, “Oh, it’s little girl from my own village.” I’m not a child, Frieda. It’s not just the plumbers and the haircutters who come here from my country.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘I do not say that it is a good job. I see her apartment. It is dirty and damp and I see the signs of drugs. That is not good.’

  ‘Do you want us to do something to help?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said again, dismissively. ‘You start there and you finish nowhere. I know this. It is bad to see but I know it.’

  ‘I should have been the one doing all of this. It’s my problem not yours.’

  Josef looked at her with concern. ‘Not good for you to do right now,’ he said. ‘You not well. We are both sad about her, about Mary. But you were damaged too. Not all better.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Josef gave a laugh. ‘That is what everybody says and it means nothing. “How are you?” “I’m fine.”’

  ‘It means you don’t need to worry. And I also want to say that I’m sorry I wasted your time.’

  ‘Waste?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry I dragged you all the way down here.’

  ‘No. Not wasted. The one woman, the Romanian. I think Romanian. She also have the drugs, I think. You see it in the eyes.’

  ‘Well, not always …’

  ‘I see it. I talk to her of your Lily. I think she know her.’

  ‘What do you mean you think?’

  ‘She know a Lila.’

  ‘What did she say about her?’

  ‘She know her a bit. But this Lila, she was not completely … What do you say when someone is a bit part of it but not complete?’

  ‘A hanger-on?’

  ‘Hanger-on?’ Josef considered the phrase. ‘Yes, maybe. This girl Maria knew Lila a bit. Lila also with the drugs, I think.’

  Frieda tried to digest what Josef had said. ‘Does she know where we can find her?’

  Josef shrugged. ‘She not see her for a while. For two months or three months. Or less or more. They are not like us with the time.’

  ‘Did she know where Lila had gone?’

  ‘She did not.’

  ‘She must have moved away,’ said Frieda. ‘I wouldn’t even know where to start. That’s fantastic, Josef. But I guess it’s the end of the trail.’ Then she noticed a faint smile on his face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘This Lila,’ he said. ‘She have a friend. Maybe a friend with the drugs or the sex.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Shane. A man called Shane.’

  ‘Shane,’ said Frieda. ‘Does she have a number for him? Or an address?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she know his second name?’

  ‘Shane, she said. Only Shane.’

  She thought hard and murmured something to herself.

  ‘What you say?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing much. That’s good, Josef. It’s amazing you found that out. I never thought we’d get anything. But what do we do
with it?’

  Josef gazed at her with his brown, sad eyes. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I know you need to rescue this girl. But you cannot do this. Is over.’

  ‘Is over,’ repeated Frieda, dully. ‘Yes. Perhaps you’re right.’ That evening, Frieda put the plug in her bath. She had bought oil to pour in and a candle that she would light. For a long time now, she had imagined lying in the hot foamy water in the dark, just the guttering candle and the moon through the window to give light. But now it came to it, she found she wasn’t in the right mood. It would just be a bath. She pulled out the plug and stood under the shower instead, briefly washing away the day. The bath would have to wait. It would be her reward, her prize.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Before interviewing Paul Kerrigan, Karlsson Skyped Bella and Mikey, sitting in his office and looking at their photographs in frames on his desk, and at their jerky images on the screen. They were excitable, distracted. They didn’t really want to be talking to him and their eyes kept wandering away to something out of sight. Bella told him about a new friend called Pia who had a dog. She had a large sweet bulging in her cheek and it was hard to hear what she was saying. Mikey kept twisting his head to mouth something urgently at whoever was in the room. Karlsson couldn’t think of anything to talk about. He felt strangely self-conscious. He told them about the weather and asked them about school, like some elderly uncle they’d barely ever met. He tried to make a funny face at them but they didn’t laugh. He ended the call early and went to the interview room.

  Kerrigan’s face was swollen from his attack. There was a purple and yellow bruise on one cheek and his lip was cut. There were also pouches of fatigue under his eyes and deep grooves bracketing his mouth, which was slack, like that of an old man. He was unshaven, the collar of his shirt grimy, and one of the buttons was undone so that his stomach showed through, shockingly white and soft. Sitting in the interview room, he had a lumpy, defeated air. The skin under his nostrils was red and he kept sneezing, coughing, blowing his nose. Karlsson asked him once more about his movements on Wednesday, 6 April, when Ruth Lennox had been murdered. He had a large white handkerchief that he buried his entire battered face in.

  ‘Sorry,’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t understand why you’re asking me this again. I’ve just been in hospital, you know.’

  ‘I’m asking because I want to get things clear. Which they are not. What did you do when you left Ruth Lennox?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I went back home.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Late afternoon, early evening. I had dinner with Elaine.’ He wrinkled his jowly face. ‘She made a pudding,’ he said slowly and clearly, as if his meal was his alibi.

  ‘You weren’t there until quite late that evening, Mr Kerrigan.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your wife has told us that you didn’t return home until nearly eight o’clock.’

  ‘Elaine said that?’

  ‘Yes. And that you had a shower and put your clothes in the wash.’

  Paul Kerrigan nodded slowly. ‘That’s not right,’ he said.

  ‘We just want to know what you did between the time that Ruth Lennox left the flat and the time that you returned home several hours later.’

  ‘She’s angry with me. She wants to punish me. You must see that.’

  ‘Are you saying she’s lying about the time you came back?’

  ‘Everything’s ruined,’ he said. ‘Ruth’s dead and my wife hates me and my sons have contempt for me. And she wants to punish me.’

  ‘Do you know what contraceptive Ruth Lennox used?’ Karlsson asked.

  Paul Kerrigan blinked. ‘Contraceptive? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You were sleeping with her for ten years. You must have known.’

  ‘Yes. She had the coil fitted.’

  ‘You’re telling me you knew she was using contraception.’

  ‘That’s what I just said.’

  ‘Yet your wife found condoms in your bicycle pannier.’ Karlsson looked closely at Kerrigan’s swollen, flushed face. ‘If your wife is no longer fertile and Ruth Lennox had an IUD, why would you have condoms?’

  Now there was a long silence. Karlsson waited patiently, impassively.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said Kerrigan, finally.

  ‘Then you’d better explain it to me.’

  ‘I love my wife. You won’t believe that. And we’ve had a good marriage, until now. Ruth didn’t alter that. I had two parallel lives and they didn’t touch. If Elaine hadn’t found out, none of this would have mattered. I just wanted to keep my marriage safe from harm.’

  ‘You were going to explain about the condoms.’

  ‘I don’t know how to say this out loud.’

  ‘But you’re going to have to.’

  ‘I have needs that my wife can’t meet.’

  Karlsson was starting to feel almost queasy but he had to proceed.

  ‘Which was what Ruth Lennox was for, I suppose.’

  Kerrigan made a hopeless gesture. ‘She was at first. But then it became like another marriage. I liked it, in a way. But I needed something else.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s been someone else. For a while.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Do you need to know?’

  ‘Mr Kerrigan, you don’t need to worry about what I need to know. Just answer my questions.’

  ‘Her name’s Sammie Kemp. Samantha. She’s done some casual admin work for my company. That’s how we met. It was just fun.’

  ‘Did Ruth Lennox know of your relationship with Samantha Kemp?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly a relationship.’

  ‘Did she know?’

  ‘She may have suspected.’

  ‘You should have told us this before.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with anything.’

  ‘Did she confront you about it?’

  ‘What did she expect? She knew I was being unfaithful. She knew I was sleeping with my wife. So …’

  Karlsson almost laughed at that. ‘That’s really quite a clever way of almost convincing yourself. But Ruth Lennox didn’t see it like that?’

  ‘It’s not as if she didn’t know things had run their course.’

  ‘You were going to leave her?’

  ‘Not according to her,’ Paul Kerrigan said bitterly, before he could stop himself. A flush spread over his face.

  ‘Let me get this clear. You were having an affair with another woman, Samantha Kemp, and you wanted to end your relationship with Ruth Lennox but she wouldn’t accept that.’

  ‘I wanted it to be mutual. No recriminations. Ten good years. Not many people manage that.’

  ‘But Ruth Lennox didn’t see it that way. Was she angry? Did she even threaten to tell your wife?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have behaved like that.’

  ‘Shall we stick for the moment to what you actually did, rather than what you’re claiming she would have done if she hadn’t been murdered?’

  ‘I was with Sam that Wednesday.’

  ‘With Samantha Kemp?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t tell us this before.’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘So you went from your Wednesday afternoon with Ruth Lennox to another assignation with Samantha Kemp.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At her flat.’

  ‘I’ll need her contact details.’

  ‘She’s got nothing to do with any of this.’

  ‘She has now.
’

  ‘She won’t be pleased.’

  ‘You realize this changes everything? You had a secret that only one other person knew. You and Ruth Lennox had to trust each other. That was probably easy as long as you both wanted to continue your affair. For ten years you protected each other from being discovered. The problem arose when one of you wanted to leave.’

  ‘That’s not how it was.’

  ‘She had power over you.’

  ‘You’re making a mistake. She didn’t threaten to expose me and I was with Samantha Kemp from the moment I left the flat until the time I came back home. Check it if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we will.’

  ‘If that’s all, I have things to do.’

  He stood up from the chair, scraping it across the floor. Karlsson stared at him and waited, and eventually he lowered himself once more.

  ‘I haven’t done anything except be stupid,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve lied to us.’

  ‘Not because I killed Ruth. I loved her.’

  ‘But you were planning to leave?’

  ‘Not planning in the way you mean. Just aware things were coming to an end.’

  ‘She could have wrecked your marriage.’

  ‘She has anyway, hasn’t she? From beyond the grave.’

  ‘How was she going to make you stay with her?’

  ‘I’ve already said that she wasn’t. She was just angry. You’re twisting words to suit your suspicions.’

  ‘I think you’re still withholding information. We will find it out in the end.’

  ‘There’s nothing to find out.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘I tell you there’s nothing. Under the mess is just more mess.’

  Further along the corridor, Yvette was interviewing Zach Greene, Judith Lennox’s boyfriend. He worked part time for a software firm based in a converted warehouse just off Shoreditch High Street. He was a tall, skinny man with small pupils in eyes that were almost yellow. He had bony wrists, long, nicotine-stained fingers, and his brown hair was shaved close to his skull in a soft bristle. Yvette could see a V-shaped scar running from his crown to just above his delicate left ear. He had rosebud lips and shapely eyebrows, like a woman’s, a nose stud and a tattoo just visible above his shirt. Everything about him contradicted everything else: he looked soft and rugged, feeble and aggressive, older than his years and much younger. He smelt of flowers and tobacco. His shirt was a pastel-green and on his feet were stout army boots. He was oddly attractive and a bit creepy, and he made Yvette feel dowdy and deeply unsure of herself.