Waiting for Wednesday (12 page)

‘Before I went to the house, where she was.’

‘Mrs Lennox.’

‘Right. I went to another place first.’

‘Which you haven’t told us about?’

‘Right.’ Billy bobbed his head up and down. ‘You’ll see why.’

‘Hang on, Billy. If you’re going to change your statement, we need to do this officially. I’ll come back.’

In the corridor, he met Riley.

‘Hey,’ said Riley.

‘What?’

‘I’ve just come from Margaretting Street,’ said Riley. ‘We found something. Under the mat. In fact, I found it. Munster thought you’d want to know.’

‘What is it?’

Riley held up a transparent evidence sachet. Inside was a used envelope on which was scrawled a message, written with a blunt pencil.

Karlsson took it and held it up: ‘Hello, Ruth, I’m here but where are you? Maybe in the bath. Give us a call when you read this, and we can have our tea.’ At the end there was what looked like two interlocking initials or perhaps a signature. ‘What’s this?’

‘Munster thinks it’s a “D” and an “M” but I think it’s “O” and “N”.’

‘It might have been there for months. Who’s following it up?’

‘DC Long, sir, and Munster. But I’m going back there later. It’s probably not so important, though, is it, even if it is recent? I mean, if Billy killed her, it doesn’t really matter what time exactly she died, right?’

‘No, it could be important,’ said Karlsson, thoughtfully.

‘You’re welcome, then,’ said Riley, with a cheerful smile.

Karlsson raised his eyebrows. ‘Just get back to Margaretting Street,’ he said.

Yvette Long showed the note to Russell Lennox, who stared at it, then shook his head. ‘I don’t recognize the writing.’

‘What about the initials?’

‘Are those initials? Is that a “G”?’

‘A “G”?’

‘Or maybe it says Gail.’

‘Do you know a Gail?’

‘I don’t think so. Or it could be Delia, or even Dell. I don’t know a Delia either, or a Dell. Or it could just be a squiggle.’

‘Which of your wife’s friends used to pop round during the day?’

‘Oh.’ Russell Lennox frowned. ‘Lots. I don’t know. She knew almost everyone in our neighbourhood. There are her friends and then people she’s friendly with – and she helps organize the street party every year, which means people are always coming in and out. And then there are her friends who aren’t so local. She was very popular, my wife. I was always amazed at how many people she kept in contact with. You should see her Christmas card list.’ He stared at Yvette and shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘I can’t believe I’m already using the past tense,’ he said. ‘Was. She was. As if it happened years ago.’

‘We’ve got her address book on her computer,’ said Yvette. ‘We can look through that. But if you think of anyone in the meantime –’

‘I thought you’d got the guy who did it?’

‘We’re just crossing the ‘t’s,’ said Yvette.

‘I’ve been trying to remember the last thing we said to each other. I think I said I’d be back a bit later than usual, and then she reminded me not to forget my cousin’s birthday.’

‘Well,’ Yvette said awkwardly.

‘At first I thought that was too prosaic. But it’s typical of her. She always remembered birthdays and anniversaries and stuff like that.’

‘Mr Lennox –’

‘I did forget my cousin’s birthday, of course. It was yesterday and I didn’t remember until now.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘I suppose so.’ His tone was dull.

Jennifer Wall said that Ruth had been the perfect neighbour, friendly without being nosy, always ready to lend eggs or sugar or milk, even nice when one of her boys had kicked a football through the Lennoxes’ kitchen window.

Sue Leadbetter remembered the time, not long ago, when Ruth had taken care of her while she’d had flu – bringing Lemsip and loo paper to the house, even getting papers and magazines for her.

Gaby Ford said she used to meet Ruth almost every morning when they both left for work. They would greet each other and sometimes exchange a few words. Ruth had a way, she said, of putting one arm on her shoulder for a few minutes, which she had always appreciated. She was often in a bit of a rush but she was always cheerful, and it was no different during the days leading to her death. She’d never known her down in the dumps or hung-over. They were such a nice family. A close family. You didn’t come across that so much nowadays.

Jodie Daniels, one of her oldest friends, had seen her at the weekend. They had gone to the garden centre together and then had coffee. Ruth was just normal – unaffected, interested in other people, a bit concerned that Judith wasn’t working properly for her GCSEs. They had talked about whether or not she should dye her hair now that it was rapidly turning grey and Ruth had decided she wouldn’t. She had said she wanted to grow old gracefully. Oh, God.

Graham Walters had bumped into Ruth’s car, two days before she died, and scraped it. She had been incredibly understanding, which was typical. That was the last time he had seen her.

She had bent down and stroked Elspeth Weaver’s dog the morning of her death, then got into her car.

She had reversed down the road to make way for Robert Morgan, driving in the opposite direction.

She had phoned that morning from work and told Juliet Melchett that she and Russell would love to come to the Melchetts’ party.

At eleven a.m., also from work, she had ordered a bunch of flowers from John Lewis to be sent to Russell’s aunt, who had broken her hip.

But none of those people had gone round there and pushed a note through the door.

However, with Dawn Wilmer, who lived two streets away and whose eldest son was in the same class as Ruth’s youngest daughter, they finally struck lucky. She recognized the note as hers.

‘You pushed this through her door?’

‘Yes.’

‘On the day she died.’

‘Wednesday. Yes. Should I have said? I mean, I spoke to an officer and said I hadn’t seen anything suspicious, and I thought I said I was round by her house earlier, but perhaps I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t go in or anything. I didn’t see anything strange or suspicious.’

‘What time would this have been?’

‘I don’t know, just after four. Before four thirty, anyway. I’m sure of that because Danny – that’s my son – comes home late that day and I knew Dora did as well. That was why Ruth suggested I go round for tea – we didn’t know each other that well. I’m quite new in the neighbourhood and my son’s only just started at the school. It was nice of her.’

‘So – you went round for tea, as arranged, and she wasn’t there.’

‘She was there. She just didn’t come to the door.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Her car was there. All the lights were on.’

‘Did you wait for a long time?’

‘A minute or so, no more. I knocked and rang the bell – I even shouted through the letterbox. I didn’t have my phone with me so I couldn’t call her and that was why I pushed the note through.’

‘Between four and half past four, you say?’

‘After four and before four thirty.’ The woman’s face wrinkled anxiously. ‘Do you think – is it possible – that she was in there dead?’

‘We’re just trying to establish timings,’ said Yvette, neutrally. ‘You’re sure you didn’t see anything unusual?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And you stood at the door for about a minute?’

‘Yes.’

‘You saw no broken window? Next to the front door.’

‘No. I’m sure I would have noticed that.’

‘All right. Thank you very much for your help.’

Billy Hunt dragged the back of his hand against his nose. ‘I was somewhere else.’

‘Before you went to the house in Margaretting Street?’

‘That’s right. I just want to say that this sounds worse than it was. There weren’t any kids there.’

‘Where?’

‘There’s this nursery school. But it was empty. It’s not finished yet.’

‘Why did you go there?’

‘Why d’you think?’

‘All right, what did you take?’

‘Nothing,’ said Hunt, holding out his palms as if to prove it. ‘It was empty.’

‘Did you break in?’

‘Through the back. I broke one pane of glass and that was all it took. They need to tighten their security before they open. Cut my hand, though.’

‘What was the name of this nursery?’

‘Busy Bees.’

‘And where is it?’

‘Over in Islington, just up from the Caledonian Road.’

‘What time?’

‘I don’t know. About four maybe.’

‘So at about four o’clock last Wednesday you claim you were breaking into a children’s nursery in Islington. What did you do then?’

‘I was going to walk back home along the canal but it started to rain. I saw a bus and jumped on it. The one five three. It took me to Camden. I was having a smoke so they threw me off and I walked up from there. I was just going along the road and ringing on a few doorbells until I found one where they didn’t answer.’

‘What then?’

‘I told you all that before. I broke the window, opened the door. The alarm was going, so I was in a rush. There were alarms everywhere. There was one in the hallway and one in the room where … you know, she was. I just grabbed a few things and headed off.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not my fault. If it hadn’t been raining, I wouldn’t have caught the bus and I wouldn’t have been there.’

Karlsson switched off the recorder. ‘And Mrs Lennox would still have been alive.’

‘No,’ said Hunt. ‘That’s not what I said. Put the tape back on.’

‘Forget about the bloody tape.’

TWELVE

As Frieda approached her front door, key in hand, she saw that it was already open. She couldn’t see at first what was happening but then saw there was a man at one end of a large, undeniably impressive bath, and then she saw that the man was Josef’s friend, Stefan, and that Josef was at the other end. The second thing Frieda noticed was that the bath was almost too wide for the doorway. She could see that by the grey scraping marks on the doorpost. The third thing she noticed was that they were carrying the bath outwards rather than inwards.

‘Frieda,’ said Stefan, panting slightly. ‘I can’t shake hands.’

‘Are you having trouble getting it in?’

‘No,’ said Josef, from the other end. ‘We take in fine and upstairs. But problem. Now we take it out and back.’

‘What do you mean “back”?’ said Frieda.

‘Wait.’

With much groaning and a suppressed scream when Josef got his fingers trapped between the bath and the doorway, they got it outside and laid it down on the cobblestones.

‘That bath is fucking heavy,’ said Stefan, then looked at Frieda guiltily. ‘Sorry. It is big, though.’

‘But why are you taking it out?’

‘Is heavy,’ said Josef. ‘Hard for floor, I think. We check it now. Probably need joist.’

Frieda heard the phone ringing inside. ‘You mean a steel girder?’ she said.

‘So you don’t fall through floor in bath.’

‘Well, you’d know about that,’ said Frieda. ‘Are you sure?’

Stefan smiled. ‘We are sure.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Frieda. The phone was still ringing. ‘Hang on.’ She pushed past them, but before she could reach the phone, it had stopped. It was almost a relief, something that didn’t have to be dealt with, someone who didn’t have to be talked to. She stood still for a moment, watching Josef and Stefan pushing the bath back into Josef’s van. It seemed to sag under the weight of it. And then the phone rang again, insistently, like a person jabbing at her. She picked it up and heard a woman’s voice.

‘Can I speak to Dr Frieda Klein, please?’

‘Who is this?’

‘My name’s Jilly Freeman. I’m calling from the
Sunday Sketch
.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m sorry. Are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ said Frieda.

‘We’re running a story in tomorrow’s paper and we’d like to hear your comments on it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it concerns you.’

Frieda felt a stab of dread and at the same time a numbness, as if she was receiving a blow on a part of her body that had been hit before and then had partially healed. She felt an impulse to smash the phone rather than continue the conversation. Was it something to do with the attack? Were the police reconsidering it? Were the press trying to sniff something out?

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘You’ve seen a patient called Seamus Dunne.’

This was so unexpected that Frieda had to think, just to recall the name. At the same time, Josef stepped into her line of sight and gestured that they were leaving.

‘We need to talk,’ she said to him.

‘Soon.’ Josef backed away.

‘What?’ said the woman on the phone.

‘I was talking to someone else. How do you know about Seamus Dunne?’

‘Dr Klein, it might be better if I could come round to your house and conduct a proper interview in person.’

Frieda took a deep breath and, as she did so, caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass of a picture on the wall. Was that person really her? The thought of someone else, anyone else, coming round to her house made her feel sick. ‘Just tell me what this is about.’

‘All we’re doing is reporting on some new psychological research which we think is really important. As you know, some people think that psychoanalysts aren’t sufficiently accountable to the public.’ Jilly Freeman left a silence that Frieda didn’t break. ‘Well, anyway, there’s this academic called Hal Bradshaw who has been conducting research. Do you know him?’