Waiting for Wednesday (50 page)

FIFTY-FOUR

‘I’d like to see Malcolm Karlsson,’ said the woman, speaking loud and fast.

‘I think DCI Karlsson is rather busy at the moment. Do you have –’

‘Or Yvette Long. Or that other one.’

‘Can you tell me what it’s about?’

‘My name is Elaine Kerrigan. It’s about the murder of Ruth Lennox. There is something I need to say.’

Yvette sat opposite Elaine Kerrigan. She saw the hectic blotches on the woman’s normally pale cheeks and the brightness of her eyes. Her glasses, hanging round her neck on a chain, were smudged and her hair hadn’t been brushed.

‘You told the officer on the desk there was something you needed to say.’

‘Yes.’

‘About the murder of Ruth Lennox?’

‘That’s right. Can I have a glass of water first, please?’

Yvette left the room and bumped into Karlsson. He looked awful and she touched him on the elbow. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘No reason. I’m in there –’ she jerked her head in the direction of the room ‘– with Elaine Kerrigan.’

‘What for?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just going to get her some water. She seems agitated.’

‘Does she indeed?’

‘Have you finished with Russell Lennox?’

‘I’m taking a break for an hour or so. It won’t do him any harm to wait and worry.’ His face grew grim. ‘There’s something I have to do.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You wouldn’t understand. You’d think I’d gone mad. Sometimes I think I’ve gone mad myself.’

There was nothing to do but wait. Fearby said he had people he needed to see while he was in London and drove off once more, leaving Frieda unsure of what to do with herself. In the end she did what she always did at times of uncertainty or distress, when dark thoughts filled her: she walked. She found herself going towards King’s Cross, weaving along minor streets to avoid the roar of traffic, then took the road that led to Camden Town, which made her think again of the house where the Lennox family used to live, in clutter and a sort of happiness, but which now stood empty. Russell was in prison; Ted, Judith and Dora were at their aunt’s house, many miles away. At least it was neat.

She turned on to the canal. The houseboats moored by the path had pot plants and herbs on their decks. On a couple of them dogs lay in the sunshine; on one, Frieda saw a parrot in a large cage, eyeing her. Some were open to the public, selling banana bread and tie-dye scarves, herbal tea and recycled jewellery. People passed her on bikes; runners pounded by. Summer was coming. She could feel it in the warm air, see it in the thin brightness of the light and the sappy greenness of unfolding leaves on the trees. Soon Sandy would be back and they would have weeks together, not days.

She thought these things but couldn’t feel them. Indeed, the clear light and the happy people seemed unreal, far off,
and she belonged to a different world – one in which young women had been dragged out of their lives by a man who had a smiling, sympathetic face. He had killed his daughter, Lila, Frieda was sure of it now – and yet he had seemed genuinely grief-struck by her absence. A piece of chalked graffiti on the wall showed a huge mouth full of sharp teeth, and she shuddered, suddenly cold in spite of the warmth of the afternoon.

She walked along the canal as far as Regent’s Park. The houses on the other side were grand here, like small castles or mock châteaux. Who would live in such places? She walked through the park swiftly, scarcely noticing the gaggles of children, the courting couples, the young man with closed eyes doing some strange slow exercises on a roll-out mattress by the ornamental gardens.

At last, making her way through side-streets, she was at home. The phone was ringing as she opened the door and she half ran to get it, in case it was Karlsson.

‘Frieda? Thank God. Where the fuck –’

‘Reuben, I can’t talk now. I’m waiting for a call. I promise I’ll phone you as soon as I can, all right?’

‘Wait, did you hear about Bradshaw?’

‘Sorry.’

She slammed the phone down. How long would it take for Karlsson to go to Lawrence Dawes’s house? When would he call? Now? This evening? Tomorrow?

She made herself some toast and marmalade and ate it in the living room, listening to the phone ringing over and over and the answering machine playing messages: Chloë, plaintive; Sasha, anxious; Reuben, furious; Sandy – oh, God, Sandy. She hadn’t even told him what she was up to. She’d gone into a different world, of terror and darkness, and hadn’t even thought to confide in him. She didn’t pick up,
but let him leave his message asking her, yet again, to contact him,
please
. Josef, drunk; Olivia, drunker.

The day darkened and still Karlsson hadn’t called. Frieda went upstairs to her study and sat at the desk that looked out over the great sprawl of the city, now lit up and glittering under the clear sky. In the countryside, the sky tonight would be thick with stars. She picked up her pencil and opened her sketch pad, made a few indeterminate lines, like ripples. She thought of the stream at the bottom of Lawrence Dawes’s garden.

Perhaps she should have that long-delayed bath now. She was as tired as she had ever been, but far from sleep. Indeed, it felt as though sleep would never come again and she was trapped for ever in this dry, hissing wakefulness where thoughts were knives.

And then the phone rang again.

‘Yes?’

‘Frieda.’

‘Karlsson? What did you find?’

‘Nothing.’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘One very bewildered and distressed father, and a house in which there is no evidence of any kind whatsoever that he has ever done anything wrong.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you? I felt very sorry for him.’

‘Something’s not right.’

‘Frieda, I think you need help.’

‘Are you sure there was nothing at all?’

‘Listen to me. You have to walk away from all of this. And I need to placate the commissioner, who’s not a happy man, I can tell you. He wants to drag me in front of some official hearing.’

‘I’m sorry about that but –’

‘Draw a line under everything.’ His voice was horribly gentle. ‘No more following your instincts. No more trying to rescue people who don’t want to be rescued. No more teaming up with some mad old hack. Go back to the life we dragged you out of. Try and recover.’

He ended the call and Frieda sat for a long time in her garret room, staring at the kaleidoscope of lights spread out before her.

Dear Sandy, I think I am in trouble, in the world and in my head or my heart –

But she stared at the few words for a long time and then pressed the delete button.

Karlsson and Yvette sat in front of Elaine Kerrigan. Her face was unyielding and she repeated, in a wooden tone: ‘I killed her.’

‘Ruth Lennox?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me how it happened,’ said Karlsson. ‘When did you discover your husband’s affair?’

‘Why does it matter? I killed her.’

‘Did your sons tell you?’

‘Yes.’ She took a sip of water. ‘They told me and I went there and killed her.’

‘With what?’

‘An object,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything except I killed her.’

‘Take us through it,’ said Yvette. ‘We have plenty of time. Start from the beginning.’

‘She’s protecting her sons,’ said Karlsson.

‘So you think one of them did it?’

‘She does, anyway.’

‘And you?’

‘Fuck knows. Maybe everyone joined up together to do it, like in that book.’

‘I thought you believed it was Russell Lennox.’

‘I’m sick of this case. It’s too full of misery. Come on, let’s get a coffee. Then you’re going home. I don’t know when you last had any sleep.’

FIFTY-FIVE

Frieda phoned Fearby and told him what had happened – or hadn’t happened. There was a pause and then he said he was still in London and he was coming right over. Frieda gave him her address, then tried to tell him it wasn’t necessary, that there was nothing more to say, but he had already rung off. In what seemed like a few minutes, there was a knock at the door and Fearby was sitting opposite her with a glass of whisky. He asked her to tell him exactly what Karlsson had said. Frieda reacted impatiently.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘They went to Lawrence Dawes’s house. They turned it upside down. They didn’t find anything suspicious at all.’

‘How did Dawes react?’

‘You know what? I didn’t ask. The police appeared out of the blue and searched his house and all but accused him of killing his daughter. I imagine he was shocked and distressed.’ Frieda felt a tiredness that was actually painful. ‘I can’t believe it. I sat in his garden with him and he talked about what he’d been through and I set the police on him. Karlsson is furious with me as well. And rightly so.’

‘So where do we go from here?’ said Fearby.

‘Where do we go? We go nowhere. I’m sorry, but are you incapable of seeing what’s in front of your nose?’

‘Have you stopped trusting your instincts?’

‘It was my instinct that got us into this.’

‘Not just your instinct,’ said Fearby. ‘I’d been following a
trail and we found we were on the same trail. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

Frieda sat back in her chair and sighed.‘Have you ever been out in the countryside and you were walking on a path and then you realized it wasn’t really a path at all, it just looked like one, and you were lost?’

Fearby smiled and shook his head. ‘I never was much for walking.’

‘For all we know, Sharon Gibbs is somewhere reasonably happy, not wanting to be found. But, whatever the truth, I think we’re done.’

Fearby shook his head again, but he didn’t seem dismayed or angry. ‘I’ve been doing this too long to get put off by something like this. I just need to go over my files again, make some more enquiries. I’m not going to give up now, not after all I’ve done.’

Frieda looked at him with a kind of horror. Was he a bit like her? Was this the way she appeared to other people? ‘What would it take for you to give up?’

‘Nothing,’ said Fearby. ‘Not after all this, after what George Conley suffered, after Hazel Barton’s murder.’

‘But what about what you’ve suffered? Your marriage, your career?’

‘If I give up now, that won’t bring my job back. Or my wife.’

Suddenly Frieda felt as if she was trapped in a disastrous therapy session where she couldn’t find the right thing to say. Should she try to convince Fearby that everything he had sacrificed his life for had been an illusion? Did she even believe it? ‘You’ve already done so much,’ she said. ‘You got George Conley out of prison. That’s enough.’

Fearby’s expression hardened. ‘I need to know the truth. Nothing else matters.’ He caught Frieda’s eye and gave a
slightly embarrassed smile. ‘Just think of it as my hobby. It’s what I do instead of having an allotment or playing golf.’

When Fearby got up to go, Frieda felt as if she was someone he had sat next to on a train journey and struck up a conversation with and now they were arriving at the station and would part and never meet again. They shook hands at the door.

‘I’ll let you know how things progress,’ he said. ‘Even if you don’t want me to.’

When Fearby was gone, Frieda leaned against her door for a few minutes. She felt as if she needed to catch her breath but couldn’t, as if her lungs wouldn’t work properly. She forced herself to concentrate and take long, slow breaths.

Then, at last, she went up to her bathroom. She’d been waiting for the right time but there was never a right time. There was always something left to do. She thought of Josef, her shambolic and eager friend, all the work he’d put into this for her. It was his act of friendship. She had good friends, but she hadn’t turned to them, not even to Sandy. She could listen but she couldn’t talk; give help but not ask for it. It was strange that in the last days she had felt closer to Fearby, with his neglected home, his huge filing system and his wreck of a life, than she had to anyone else.

The doorbell rang and for a moment she thought she wouldn’t answer. But then, with a sigh, she turned away from the bath, and went to the front door.

‘Delivery for you,’ said the man, half obscured by a tall cardboard box. ‘Frieda Klein?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sign here, please.’

Frieda signed and took the box into the living room, levering open its top. As she did so, she was hit by a smell whose powerful sweetness reminded her of funeral parlours and
hotel lobbies. Carefully, she lifted out an enormous bouquet of white lilies, tied at the bottom with purple ribbon. She had always hated lilies: they were too opulent for her and their fragrance seemed to clog her airways. But who had sent them?

There was a miniature envelope with the flowers and she opened it and slid out the card.

We couldn’t let him get away with it.

The world narrowed, the air cooled around her.
We couldn’t let him get away with it.

Bile rose in her throat and her forehead was clammy. She put out one hand to steady herself, made herself breathe deeply. She knew who had sent her these flowers. Dean Reeve. He had sent her daffodils before, telling her it wasn’t her time, and now he had sent her these lush, pulpy lilies. He had set fire to Hal Bradshaw’s house. For her. She pressed her hand hard against her furious heart. What could she do? Where could she turn? Who would believe her, and who would be able to help?