Frieda Klein 2 - Tuesday's Gone (28 page)

She couldn’t remember everything he
had said to her. What he had told her to do. They were inside her, his words, but she
couldn’t find them. She rummaged in the drawers of her mind and found odd things,
rags of memory. She didn’t need them any more.

Life had narrowed to this boat, this moment.
But she couldn’t remember why.

At half past two on the same day, acting on
a feeling that had been growing in her all morning, Frieda returned to Greenwich, to the
Wyatts’. She didn’t tell Karlsson and neither did she call in advance, even
though she knew it was likely that nobody would be there. But when she arrived at their
apartment, she saw Aisling through the large downstairs window, sitting at the piano and
playing. Even from where she stood, among the spring bulbs and the copper pots carefully
planted with herbs, Frieda could tell that her hands moved fluently over the keys. She
also saw that her posture was tense. She walked to the front door, rang the bell, and
the distant piano music stopped. After a few seconds, the door opened.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry to arrive
unannounced,’ said Frieda. ‘We’ve met before.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

Aisling looked uncertain. Her thin face was
strained and there were small lines around her mouth that Frieda hadn’t noticed
before. ‘The children will come back from school soon,’ she said. But she
stood aside and Frieda walked into the wide, clean spaces of the apartment, which felt
to her like a showhouse rather than a home. It was hard to believe the Wyatts had
children, and she wondered how many hours a day the cleaner came. Her feet slid on the
polished wood. On the low glass table, bright satsumas were arranged in a pyramid in a
carved wooden bowl.

‘Can I get you
something? Tea, coffee, anything herbal?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Frieda,
sinking into the soft sofa. She disliked furniture that swaddled her. She liked to sit
upright.

‘So. Do you have anything you want to
ask? Frank isn’t here, of course.’

‘That’s why I came. I assumed
he’d be at work and your children would be at school.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I wanted to talk about your affair
with Robert Poole.’

‘How dare you?’ She sprang to
her feet and stood in front of Frieda, thin and straight, quivering with distressed
rage. ‘How
dare
you?’

‘Someone killed him, Aisling. It might
be relevant.’

‘Get out of here.’

‘All right.’ Frieda stood and
picked up her coat from the arm of the sofa, feeling in its pocket. ‘But if you
want to tell me about it, here’s my card.’ She hesitated, then added,
‘I’m not going to say anything to the police at the moment.’

‘There’s nothing to
say.’

The two women stared at each other, then
Frieda nodded at her and left. Through the window, she could see Aisling still standing
where she’d left her, gazing down at the name card.

‘Come in, come in, come in!’
cried Olivia. She was in hostess mode, expansive and already slightly tipsy. Dressed in
green velvet, her hair tied up, earrings dangling, she pulled Frieda into the house and
kissed her on both cheeks, then rubbed off the lipstick marks with a licked finger. The
hall was full of shoes. There was also a mousetrap at the foot of the stairs, as yet
mouseless.

‘Is she here?’

‘Your solicitor
woman –’

‘Tessa Welles.’

‘Not yet. But she rang to say she was
on her way. She sounded
lovely.
She’s bringing her brother.’

‘Why? Is he a solicitor
too?’

‘No, but she’s going to the
theatre with him and they were coming from the same direction, so …’ Olivia
waved vaguely in the air. Her fingernails were chipped scarlet. ‘I said it would
be fine.’

‘Of course. Have you got all the
documents together?’

‘Well. You see. That’s a bit of
a problem. I’ve done my best. You know how these things are. Stuff just
disappears.’ And Olivia opened her eyes wide, as if she was a conjuror who’d
done a magic trick.

‘She must be used to it. Where’s
Chloë?’

‘She’s at some mobile club
thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I don’t really know,’
Olivia said vaguely. ‘It’s all done on Facebook and, anyway, she’s
with Sammy and Sammy’s brother and his friends and she
is
seventeen.’

The bell rang, and she went to the door,
throwing it open with such force that it banged back on itself, and Frieda caught a
glimpse of two surprised faces before it shut once more.

‘Sorry,’ said Olivia, reopening
it. ‘Do come in.’

They could only have been brother and
sister. It wasn’t just that both were tall and rangy, and had the same red-blonde
hair, although his was cut short and fading to a peppery grey. They had the same oval
face and grey-blue eyes.

‘Hello,’ said Tessa. She saw
Frieda and gave her a smile of recognition. ‘This is my brother, Harry
Welles.’

Harry shook Olivia’s hand and then
Frieda’s. ‘Don’t mind
me,’ he said. ‘I
can sit in the car, if you like, or just perch somewhere while you talk. I’ve got
plenty of work to be getting on with.’

‘Are you joining us?’ Tessa
asked Frieda.

‘I asked her here for moral
support,’ said Olivia. ‘I thought you might be some terrifying woman in a
pin-striped suit. But I think I’ll manage on my own. Come into the living room.
It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. Though I tried to clear things up a
bit.’

‘Where shall I put myself?’
Harry asked Frieda.

‘You could try the kitchen,’
said Frieda, dubiously. ‘It might not be in a suitable state. Shall we have a look
at it?’

‘Wow,’ said Harry, almost
admiringly, as they entered. ‘I see what you mean.’

‘I could clear you a space at the
table.’

‘Where are you going to be?’

‘I thought I might clear up a bit.
Although I’m not sure where to start.’

‘I tell you what, why don’t I
wash up?’

‘That’s out of the
question.’

‘Why? I like washing up. Are there any
gloves that would fit me?’

‘No.’

‘Yes. Here they are.’ He snapped
them on. ‘Perfect. Bring it on.’

‘This is inappropriate.’

‘Inappropriate?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re
uncomfortable.’

‘Yes.’

He peeled off the gloves. ‘I
don’t see why. Perhaps you could make us some tea?’

‘I don’t want tea.’

‘A glass of wine?
Tessa’s driving. There are about four opened bottles that I can see.’

‘All right. I’ll make you some
tea and you can sit at the table.’

She took the ashtray, the wine glasses, the
mugs and several smeared plates off the table, then collected the newspapers and
magazines into a pile. There were several unopened letters, bills as far as she could
tell, that she put on the side for Olivia to look at later. ‘Here. Take a
seat.’

‘You’re stubborn.’

‘Yes. I’ll just wipe the
surface.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall
I?’

‘Do you always make yourself at home
like this?’

‘Do I?’ He looked surprised.
‘I don’t know.’

Frieda made a pot of tea and Harry Welles
opened his briefcase and pulled out some papers that he put on the table in front of
him, but he didn’t seem inclined to work. Frieda could feel him watching her as
she stacked plates in the dishwasher.

‘What’s your job?’ she
asked at last.

‘I’m a financial adviser. There,
that usually shuts people up.’

‘What kind of people do you
advise?’

‘All sorts. Some who are wealthy and
want to know which offshore account to hide their money in, some who are struggling and
can’t make ends meet. I look after a few charities. You wouldn’t believe
what a mess people can get into with their money.’

‘I probably would.’

‘But you don’t. I mean, get into
trouble with your own money.’

‘No.’

‘Of course not. I hear you’re a
therapist.’

‘Yes.’

Often people responded to her profession
with a jokey, nervous comment about what she was reading in their behaviour and manner,
as if she had spooky X-ray vision. Harry Welles, propping his chin in his hands and
looking at her, said, ‘Yes. I can see how someone would trust you.’ Then he
added, with a casual ease, ‘Would you like to have dinner with me on
Friday?’

Frieda handed him his tea. ‘All
right.’

‘Good. Venue to be confirmed.
What’s your email?’

She gave it to him and he jotted it down.
Then he opened a folder, picked up a pencil, and started working. Frieda smiled to
herself and attacked a particularly encrusted pan.

Frieda made normal tea for herself –
builder’s, mahogany brown – and green tea for Aisling Wyatt. When she handed the
mug across, Aisling put her hands round it.

‘I feel I need to warm myself
up,’ she said. ‘It’s so cold. I’ve felt it the whole winter.
It’s been cold all the time. There were days when I’d walk along the river
and I’d expect it to freeze. It used to freeze, didn’t it, hundreds of years
ago? They’d skate on the Thames.’

‘And have fairs on it,’ said
Frieda. ‘Festivals.’

‘It should have frozen this
winter,’ said Aisling. ‘It was so bitter.’

She looked like a woman who got easily cold
– thin and highly strung.

‘It’s because of the old London
Bridge,’ said Frieda.

‘The old London Bridge? What did that
have to do with it?’

‘It slowed the flow of the
river,’ said Frieda.

Aisling looked around Frieda’s living
room as if she were gradually thawing out and becoming aware of her surroundings.
‘It’s nice here.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’ve got lovely things. Like
this.’ She picked up a green porcelain bowl. ‘Where did it come
from?’

‘It was a present.’

‘Is this where you see your
patients?’

‘No,’ said Frieda. ‘Mostly
I see patients at an office round the corner.’

‘Would you see
me?’ said Aisling.

‘That wouldn’t be right because
of the way we met. But why would you want to see me?’

‘Oh, just everything,’ said
Aisling. ‘Because everything is a mess, because I haven’t got the life I
thought I’d have, because I hate myself. Is that enough to be getting on
with?’

All the time she was talking, Aisling
wasn’t looking at Frieda. She looked into her tea, around the room, anything that
would avoid eye contact.

‘It sounds to me as if you should talk
to your doctor first,’ said Frieda. ‘But of course I could refer you to
someone.’

Finally, Aisling looked directly at Frieda.
‘I suppose you don’t want to,’ she said. ‘That’s
understandable. You’re working with the police. That’s your
priority.’

‘I
am
working with the
police.’

Aisling gave a bitter smile. ‘And I
read about you in the paper,’ she said. ‘It looks like you’ve got
troubles of your own.’

‘If I’ve got troubles of my own,
why did you want to talk to me?’

‘When you asked me about Bertie, I
thought you seemed sympathetic.’

‘And what do you think now?’

‘That girl in the story said you used
her. Is that true?’

‘I was involved in rescuing her. But
being rescued can be painful.’

‘Maybe what she meant,’ said
Aisling, ‘is that you go into people’s lives and shake things up and then
you leave and don’t take responsibility for what you’ve done.’

‘Is that what you feel I’ve done
to you?’

Aisling took a sip of her tea, then placed
the mug very carefully on the little table in front of her. ‘When I met Frank we
were both working in the same firm. In the same
department. If
anything, I was probably doing slightly better than he was. Then we had Joe and Emily
and, blah blah blah, suddenly I’m at home and he’s been promoted and
I’m boring myself even saying the words, it’s such a cliché. You know,
I’m not supposed to be boring. When I was at college, I was the person who found
other people boring. If when I was twenty-two I’d been able to see myself at
thirty-two, I would have … well, done something drastic. Run away to South
America.’ Now she gave Frieda a challenging look. ‘I know that you’ll
tell me to count my blessings. You’ll say I’ve got two lovely children, a
beautiful place to live, it was my own decision and I’ve got to take
responsibility for it. You’ll say that I must have subconsciously not enjoyed
working in an accountancy firm and I’m just using the children as an
excuse.’

Frieda put her own mug of tea on the table,
untasted. ‘Tell me about Robert Poole,’ she said.

‘When Frank comes home and I show him
things I’ve done in the garden or in the house, his eyes just glaze over. Bertie
was different. He was interested, he had ideas. He also listened to my ideas.’ She
paused, as if waiting for Frieda to speak, but Frieda stayed silent. She continued,
almost as if she were talking to herself, ‘I never thought I’d feel like
that again. I felt like I was being looked at. I know what you’re
thinking.’

‘You probably don’t.’

‘You’re thinking that I must be
feeling guilty for being a bad wife and a bad mother. Well, it’s not true. We made
love when the children were out of the house. Emily’s at nursery school four
mornings a week and she goes to a child-minder for three afternoons as well. And
we’d make love in the children’s bedroom. That was partly practical. I would
probably have worried about some kind of smell on the sheets and I’d have had to
wash them every time and even Frank might have noticed
something. But
it was more than that. When we were lying naked in the children’s room, with their
things around, their toys, I felt like I was saying, “Fuck off,” to all
that, to the idea that that was who I was. I suppose that shocks you.’

‘No. Did you think about leaving your
husband?’

‘Not really,’ said Aisling.
‘No, not at all. Anyway, the sex stopped after a while, although the feeling of
intimacy didn’t. We talked about working together.’