Frieda Klein 2 - Tuesday's Gone (21 page)

Karlsson sighed heavily. ‘Tell me,
Frieda,’ he said. ‘If we find something, what then?’

‘It’s simple. If you find Alan,
we’ll know Dean is dead and I’ll admit I’m wrong.’

‘That’ll be a first.’

‘So will you do it?’

‘I’ll see. It’s sometimes
difficult to find people who don’t want to be found.’

In the car, Karlsson told Frieda what they
knew so far of the man known as Robert Poole: that he had taken the identity of a man
who had died six years ago. His real identity was still unknown. They’d found no
evidence of any settled job or fixed income, yet he had had a large amount of money in
his bank shortly before his death. His account had been emptied around the time of his
murder. People spoke warmly of him but no one seemed to know much about him. They had
found a notebook in his flat with several names in it, including those of Frieda’s
couple in Brixton, and of Mary Orton.

‘Who are we seeing first?’ asked
Frieda.

‘Frank and Aisling Wyatt. They live in
Greenwich. We’ve rung ahead and they’ll both be in this time. Last time it
was just her.’

‘What do you know about
them?’

‘He’s an
accountant in the City. She’s an interior designer. Part-time, probably a hobby.
They have a couple of young kids at primary school.’

The car drew up at a row of gleaming
apartment blocks that looked out across the widening river; now the tide was low, the
Thames a thinning flow of brown water between two banks of silt and sand.

‘They’re not badly off,’
said Karlsson.

They took the paved river walkway that led
to the Wyatts’ home. It was on two floors, with a wrought-iron balcony on the
first, and the ground floor giving on to a small garden that was filled with a profusion
of pots, some terracotta, others pewter and brass. Even on a grey, windy February day,
Frieda could see that in the spring and summer it would be a riot of colour and scent.
Today the only flowers visible were droopy white snowdrops and blue chionodoxa.

Karlsson rapped on the door, which was
quickly opened by a dark-haired, powerfully built man in his thirties, with a blue chin,
grey eyes and beetling brows. He was wearing a beautifully cut dark suit, a flawlessly
ironed white shirt and a red tie. He looked distrustful as Karlsson introduced himself
and almost amused when he introduced Frieda.

‘Aisling’s through here. Can I
ask you how long it will take? This is a working day.’ He looked at his watch, a
flash of dials and shimmering metal.

‘We’ll be as quick as we
can.’

Frank Wyatt led them through a door into the
main room, which took up the ground floor, an expanse of stripped wooden boards, throw
rugs, pillowed sofas, soft pale curtains, vivid plants, a low table and at the far end a
gleaming kitchen with stainless-steel hobs and surfaces winking in the light thrown from
the river-view window. For a moment, Frieda thought of Michelle Doyce rooting
through skips and bins just a little upriver. Then she turned her
attention to the woman, who rose from the sofa to greet them. Aisling Wyatt was tall and
thin and aquiline, rich brown hair tied back from a face that was bare of makeup. She
was wearing jogging pants and a cream cashmere jumper and her feet, which were long and
thin like the rest of her, were bare. She had an air of self-assurance that seemed to go
with the furniture.

‘Can I get either of you something?
Tea or coffee?’

They both declined. Karlsson stood with his
back to the window. Frieda noted his air of never quite fitting in, whatever the
setting, never being won over.

‘Aisling’s already talked to a
police officer, you know. I’m not sure what more we can add.’

‘We just wanted to check a few things.
As you know, Robert Poole was murdered.’

‘Awful,’ murmured Aisling.
Frieda saw that there were little smudges under her eyes and her lips were
bloodless.

‘We’re trying to build up a
picture of him,’ continued Karlsson. ‘Can you tell us how you both met
him?’

‘That was Aisling.’ Frank nodded
at his wife.

‘Mrs Wyatt?’

‘It was because of the garden,’
said Aisling.

‘We saw it on the way in,’
Frieda said. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I love it.’ Aisling turned to
her and smiled for the first time, her thin face losing its haughtiness, its air of
weary disdain. ‘It’s my passion. Frank works very long hours and it’s
what I do when the children are at school. I have a job of sorts but, to be honest,
people don’t want to spend their money on interior design at the
moment.’

‘Hard times for everyone, even the
better-off,’ said Frank, pacing to a chair and studying it as if undecided whether
it was worth his while to sit down.

‘So.’ Frieda
concentrated her attention on Aisling. ‘You met Robert Poole through your interest
in gardens?’

‘It’s funny to hear him called
Robert. We knew him as Bertie,’ said Aisling. ‘He was walking past one day
and saw me planting a particular rose I love. I’ve grown it along the wall where
it sort of folds over it. He stopped and we got talking. He said he worked quite a lot
with garden design. He was interested in what I’d done in such a small space. He
noticed even the smallest touches.’ Her eyes slid to Frank, who was now sitting in
the chair opposite, but had perched on its edge as if to demonstrate his impatience to
be out of there and back to work.

‘He passed again a day or two
after,’ said Aisling. ‘He said he often walked this way to visit local
clients. But he had time to chat. After that, we often talked. He had coffee a couple of
times and showed me plant catalogues. He was just setting up in business himself. He
even suggested that we joined up, so I could be the interior and he could be the
exterior designer. It was a joke, of course. But it was nice to have someone take me
seriously.’

‘Did you meet him as well?’
Karlsson turned to Frank.

‘A couple of times,’ said Frank.
‘Nice guy.’

‘What did you talk about?’ asked
Frieda.

‘Nothing important.’

‘Tell us anyway.’

Frank suddenly seemed embarrassed.
‘The only time I was actually on my own with him, we talked about going to
boarding school when we were very little. I’ve put it behind me, so I don’t
normally talk about it. He knew what it was like because he’d been to one himself.
Don’t know which.’

‘So he was easy to talk to,’
said Frieda.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Did he talk about
his job?’

‘No,’ said Frank.

Aisling shook her head. ‘Not
really,’ she agreed.

‘So you were both friends of
his.’

‘I wouldn’t say
friends
,’ Frank said.

‘Mrs Wyatt?’

‘No-o.’ She drew the word out so
it seemed like a tired sigh. ‘Not a friend. A friendly acquaintance.’

‘How many times did you meet
him?’

‘Why do you want to know all of
this?’ Frank asked, his voice suddenly harsh and his nostrils flaring.
‘He’s dead. We’re shocked and sorry, of course, but we barely knew
him. There must be dozens – hundreds – of people who knew him better than us.’

‘Not many times,’ Aisling said,
ignoring her husband’s outburst. ‘Six, seven. He just passed by every so
often, on his way.’

‘On his way where?’

She shrugged.

‘From where?’

‘I told you, from where he
lived.’

‘Tooting,’ said Karlsson.
‘Which isn’t exactly round the corner.’

‘He never said he lived
nearby.’

‘There seem to be a lot of things he
didn’t say,’ said Karlsson. ‘We know almost nothing about him. But he
had your name in his notebook. That’s why we’re talking to you.’

‘Why would he have our
names?’

‘Did he ever work for you?’
asked Frieda.

‘He helped with the garden a
bit,’ said Aisling.

‘Did you pay him?’

The Wyatts said no at the same time.

‘And there’s nothing you can
tell us about him?’

‘We barely knew
him,’ said Frank, standing up. ‘And we’ve told you what we
know.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘I couldn’t tell you,’
said Frank. ‘He just used to drop by.’

‘You can’t remember,
then?’

‘No idea.’

‘The twenty-first of January,’
said Aisling Wyatt.

‘That’s very precise.’

‘It was the day I had to take my son
to the hospital. I talked to him about it.’

‘The twenty-first of
January.’

‘Yes. A Friday.’

‘Good,’ said Karlsson.
‘That’s very helpful. If you think of anything else …’

‘Yes, yes.’ Frank Wyatt was
impatient for them to be gone. ‘We’ll be in touch. Of course.’

‘What did you think of them?’
asked Karlsson, once they were in the car.

‘Rich.’

‘That goes without saying.’

‘She’s lonely.’

‘You think?’

‘Yes. And they never looked at each
other. Not once.’

That evening, when Frieda returned from a
meal with friends, she opened the door of her house to the sound of the phone ringing.
She hadn’t left the answering machine on and she didn’t get to it in time,
but even before she was able to do a last-number recall, it rang again.

‘Yes? Frieda here.’

‘God, at last! Where have you been?
I’ve been trying and trying to get hold of you. At home, your mobile,
email.’

‘Hello, Olivia.’

‘I even tried that
number you gave me at work.’

‘That’s for
emergencies.’

‘Well, this is a fucking emergency.
I’m going to be out on the streets. So is Chloë.’

Frieda sat down and shifted the phone to her
other ear. She eased off her boots and rubbed her feet: she had walked several miles
home.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong? Your brother is
what’s wrong.’

‘David.’

‘Do you have other brothers I was
married to who are trying to ruin my life? Isn’t it enough he leaves me for some
bimbo, humiliates me, abandons me to loneliness, dumps his only child, without
this?’

‘Tell me what’s
happened.’

‘He said he’s talked to some
lawyer and that he’s going to reduce what he pays me.’ Olivia was talking
fast now, between tearful gulps. Frieda imagined she was also knocking back the wine.
‘Can he do that, Frieda?’

‘Don’t you have a legal
agreement?’

‘I
thought
so. Oh, I
don’t know. I was such a mess at the time. I didn’t think. He says
he’ll continue to pay towards Chloë’s upkeep but that it isn’t
fair to expect him to pay for me. He says I should get full-time work. Doesn’t he
think I’m trying? Doesn’t he know there’s a recession? What am I
supposed to do? I’m forty-one, I don’t have a profession, I’m a single
mother. Honestly, Frieda, it’s a brutal world out there. Who’d choose me
when they could have a twenty-something graduate doing it for half the price – or for
nothing but the good of their CV?’

‘I know it’s hard,’ said
Frieda. ‘Did you tell this to David?’

‘Do you think that bastard
cares
? He’s got his new life now.’

‘Do you have letters from solicitors,
bank statements, things like that?’

There was silence at the
other end.

‘Olivia?’

‘I just wanted to get rid of
everything. I might have some of it – but I’ve no idea where. I don’t
exactly have a filing cabinet. Things just get, you know, put down. Can’t you ring
him?’

‘I haven’t spoken to David for
years.’

‘He’ll listen to you.
They’re all scared of you.’

‘I’ll think about it,’
said Frieda, grimly.

She thought about it. She paced around the
living room in her bare feet, frowning. She picked up the phone, rang his number, even
heard the ringing tone and slammed it down. She felt clammy and sick. There had to be
another way.

Jasmine Shreeve treated Karlsson and Frieda
as if she was conducting the interview, and she became even more animated when she
discovered that Frieda was a psychotherapist.

‘You remember when I used to do
House Doctor
?’ she asked. She paused and Karlsson mumbled something.
She looked at Frieda.

‘Was it a medical programme?’
Frieda asked.

‘You really didn’t …’
Shreeve began. ‘It was some time ago, but it was very important at the time. I was
teamed with this famous psychologist called Lenny McMullen. Dr Mac. You must know
him.’

There was another pause.

‘Miss, er …’

‘Call me Jasmine.’

‘I don’t think I know
him.’

‘He’s very respected in his
field,’ said Jasmine. ‘And he was a TV natural. He was famous for his
sweaters. So you never saw the programme?’ She looked baffled and thought for a
moment. ‘Well, what we used to do was go to someone’s home and, while they
were outside, Lenny and I would walk around the house and he would diagnose their
psychological problems just by looking at the decorations and the furniture and the
pictures on the wall. We would bring the person or the couple or the family back in and
Lenny and I would talk to them about their problems and then about how they could solve
them.’

‘By redecorating
their house?’ said Karlsson.

‘Sometimes,’ said Jasmine.
‘Don’t knock it. The places we live express us. Healing our house is the
first step to healing ourselves. That’s what Lenny used to say.’ She looked
at Frieda. ‘I know what you’re doing,’ she said.

‘What am I doing?’

‘You’re studying my house.
You’re trying to do on me what we used to do on
House Doctor
.’

‘I don’t think I’d be
qualified,’ said Frieda.

‘No need to be modest. I’ll tell
you what you’re seeing. Looking around the room, you’re seeing a living room
that’s surprisingly tasteful for a presenter of downmarket TV. The colour of the
wall is based on something I saw in Pompeii. There are a couple of photographs of me
with well-known personalities, but they were taken a suspiciously long time ago. Did you
know that when
House Doctor
went off the air, Channel Four didn’t even
have a website? Well, no, of course you didn’t because you hadn’t even heard
of it so I’m sure you haven’t seen the shows I’ve done for other
companies.’