Waiting for Wednesday (15 page)

‘You don’t need to know.’ Frieda didn’t want anyone to know, and particularly not Karlsson, but she supposed that soon enough they all would, and the gossip, the glee, the happy, whispering pity would begin all over again.

The woman was Yvette Long.

‘Frieda. What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve been having cocoa with my niece, Chloë. And this is Ted.’

‘Yes,’ said Bradshaw, still smiling. ‘We do know Ted Lennox. Are you coming inside? I assume that’s what you want.’

‘No.’ Frieda was about to deny any connection, when she looked at the clenched, haunted figure of Ted standing with Chloë. It would have sounded like a betrayal. ‘I was on my way home.’

‘She can go where she pleases, can’t she?’ said Yvette, fiercely, turning her brown-eyed glare on Hal Bradshaw, who seemed unperturbed.

Frieda had to stop herself smiling at the novelty of Yvette defending her. And defending her from what?

Yvette and Bradshaw walked up the steps to the house but Karlsson stayed on the pavement, hovering awkwardly.

‘Are you involved in this somehow?’ he asked.

‘Chloë knows Ted,’ Frieda said. ‘She wanted me to have a word with him. That’s all.’

Karlsson muttered something to himself. ‘I’m glad to see you anyway,’ he said. ‘You look all right.’

‘Good,’ said Frieda.

‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you. To see you. But now I’ve got to …’ He gestured at the house.

‘That’s fine,’ said Frieda. She nodded goodbye to Chloë, turned and walked away in the direction of Primrose Hill.

Karlsson watched Frieda’s progress, then went with the others into the house. Munster and Riley were already inside. They followed Munster through into the kitchen. Yvette was taking folders from her bag and arranging them on the table. They all sat down. Karlsson thought of the Lennoxes sitting there, rowdy Sunday lunches, then tried not to. He looked at Bradshaw. ‘What was it that Frieda was saying to you?’

‘Just shop talk,’ said Bradshaw.

‘Right,’ said Karlsson. ‘Let’s sort out where we are.’

‘Are we really not charging Billy Hunt?’ said Munster.

‘It should be him,’ said Yvette. ‘It really should. But the CCTV puts him in Islington at just after four. The neighbour knocked on the door at four thirty and she didn’t answer.’

‘She might have been in the bath,’ said Munster. ‘She might have had headphones on.’

‘What do the forensics say about the time of death?’ said Karlsson, his eyes on Riley, whose expression was blank.

Yvette picked up a file and thumbed through the papers. ‘It’s not much use,’ she said. ‘She could have died any time between half an hour and three hours before she was found. But, look, we’re not taking the word of someone like Billy
Hunt, are we? I mean, nothing about his statement makes sense. For example, he says he set off the alarm. If he didn’t kill her, then why didn’t the person who did kill her set it off?’

‘Because she let him in,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Psychopaths are plausible, convincing.’

‘You said before that he was expressing rage against women.’

‘I stand by that.’

‘Why was the alarm on?’ said Yvette.

‘What do you mean?’ said Karlsson.

‘Why would the burglar alarm be switched on if she was home?’

‘That’s a good question.’ Karlsson stood up and walked to the front door. He opened it and stepped outside. Then he returned to the kitchen. ‘This house doesn’t have a fucking burglar alarm,’ he said. ‘We’re being idiots.’

‘There we are,’ said Yvette. ‘So Billy Hunt was lying. Again.’

Karlsson drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Why would he lie about that?’

‘Because he’s a psychopath,’ said Bradshaw.

‘He’s a thieving layabout,’ said Karlsson, ‘but he wasn’t lying.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Yvette.

‘Look,’ said Karlsson, pointing at the ceiling. ‘There’s a smoke alarm.’

‘How could Hunt set off a smoke alarm?’

‘He didn’t,’ said Karlsson. ‘Look at the scene-of-crime file. Riley, what will I find in the file?’

Riley’s eyes flickered nervously. ‘Do you mean, like, one thing in particular?’ he said.

‘Yes, one thing in particular. Oh, never mind. As far as I remember, there was a tray of burned something or other on top of the cooker. That’s what set off the alarm.’

Yvette flicked through the file. ‘That’s right,’ she said.

‘Are you saying Billy Hunt broke into the house and took some burned cakes out of the oven?’ Munster asked dubiously.

Karlsson shook his head. ‘You should talk to the little girl again, but I know what she’ll say. She came home, smelled burning, took the tray out of the oven. Then she found her mother. Check the smoke alarm in the living room, Chris. Hunt said there was an alarm in there as well.’

Munster left the room.

‘All right,’ said Yvette. ‘So that explains the alarm. It doesn’t help us with the time.’

‘Hang on,’ said Karlsson.

Munster came back into the kitchen.‘There isn’t one,’ he said.

‘What?’ said Karlsson. ‘Are you sure?’

‘There’s one in the hallway. That must be the other one he heard.’

Karlsson thought hard. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Anyway, if smoke sets off the smoke alarm, you don’t talk about alarms. You think of them as one alarm.’

‘Really?’ said Yvette.

‘Are Ruth Lennox’s effects here or at the station?’

‘At the station.’

‘All right,’ said Karlsson. ‘Give me a moment. I need to make a call.’

He stepped outside. After a long pause, Yvette spoke to Bradshaw. ‘Is something up with you and Frieda?’

‘Have you talked about it with her?’ he said.

‘What do you mean “it”?’

‘Your involvement with her incident, accident, whatever you call it.’

‘Sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘It’s just that I hope you don’t feel guilty about it.’

‘Look –’ Yvette began fiercely, and was interrupted by Karlsson coming back into the kitchen.

‘I just talked to the woman in Storage,’ he said. ‘And I found what I expected to find. What Hunt heard in the living room was Ruth Lennox’s phone. It had an alarm on it. It was set to go off at ten past four in the afternoon. That was the other alarm that Billy Hunt heard.’

‘It may have been,’ said Yvette.

‘It was,’ said Karlsson. ‘Put everything together. Look what we’ve got. Biscuits or cakes burning in the oven. A smoke sensor. And a phone alarm set for ten past four. It’s reasonable to suggest that the alarm was to remind her that they were ready.’

‘Possible.’

‘It’s also reasonable to suggest that when the alarm went off, Mrs Lennox was no longer able to respond to it. So she was dead by ten past four, at the very latest.’

There was a silence around the table.

‘Fuck,’ said Yvette.

FIFTEEN

She was expecting him. She glanced at herself in the mirror to make sure she was looking in control and reasonably healthy – she couldn’t stand the thought of anyone’s pity, and certainly not his – then ate the slice of quiche standing by the kitchen window, with the cat at her feet, rubbing its flank against her calves. The house was quiet now after a day of terrible bangs and tearing sounds and drilling. Stefan had been there again as he and Josef had carried two industrial-looking beams into the house. But they were gone now. Frieda didn’t know what she actually wanted, but she did know that she felt suddenly more alert and less jangled, as if a knob had been turned very slightly and her world had come into clearer focus.

The doorbell rang at ten minutes past nine.

‘Hello, Frieda,’ said Karlsson. He held out a bunch of red tulips, wrapped in damp paper. ‘I should have brought these to you weeks ago.’

‘Weeks ago I had far too many flowers. They all died at the same time. This is better.’

‘Can I come in?’

In the living room, he took one of the chairs by the empty grate. ‘I always think of you sitting by a fire,’ he said.

‘You’ve only really known me in the winter.’

There was a silence: they were both remembering the work they’d done together, and the way it had ended so violently.

‘Frieda …’ he began.

‘You don’t need to.’

‘I do. I really do. I haven’t been to see you since you left hospital because I felt so bad about what had happened that I went into a kind of lockdown about it. You helped us – more than that, you rescued us. And in return we got rid of you and then we nearly got you killed.’

‘
You
didn’t get rid of me and
you
didn’t nearly get me killed.’

‘Me. My team. Us. That’s how it works. I was responsible and I let you down.’

‘But I wasn’t killed. Look at me.’ She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, smiled. ‘I’m fine.’

Karlsson shut his eyes for a moment. ‘In this job you have to develop a thick skin or you’d go mad. But you can’t have a thick skin when it involves a friend.’

Silence settled around the word. Images of Karlsson flitted through Frieda’s mind: Karlsson at his desk, calm and in control; Karlsson striding along a road with a tight face; Karlsson sitting by the bed of a little boy who, they thought, was perhaps dying; Karlsson standing up to the commissioner for her; Karlsson with his daughter wrapped around his body like a frightened koala; Karlsson sitting beside her fire and smiling at her.

‘It’s good to see you,’ said Frieda.

‘That means a lot.’

‘Have your children left yet?’ she asked.

‘No. They go very soon, though. I was supposed to be spending lots of time with them. Then this case came up.’

‘Hard.’

‘Like a toothache that won’t go away. Are you really OK?’

‘I’m fine. I need a bit of time.’

‘I don’t mean just physically.’ Karlsson flushed and Frieda was almost amused.

‘You mean am I in a state of trauma?’

‘You
were
attacked with a knife.’

‘I dream about it sometimes.’ Frieda considered. ‘And I need to tell you that I also think about Dean Reeve. Something happened a few days ago that you should know. Don’t look anxious, I don’t want to talk about it now.’

There was a silence. Karlsson seemed to be weighing something up in his mind. To speak or not to speak.

‘Listen,’ he said finally. ‘That boy Ted.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘That’s not what I wanted to say. You know about the case?’

‘I know his mother was killed.’

‘She was a nice woman, with a decent husband, close family, good friends, neighbours who liked her. We thought we’d got the man who did it, all simple and straightforward. It turns out that he couldn’t have and we’re back where we started. Except that it makes even less sense.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Frieda said neutrally.

‘Dr Bradshaw has a theory.’

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Frieda said quickly. ‘That’s one of the perks of being pushed out.’

Karlsson looked suspicious. ‘Is there some problem with Bradshaw?’

‘Does it matter?’ Frieda didn’t say anything further, just waited.

‘You wouldn’t come to the house with me, would you? Just once? I’d like to discuss it with someone I trust.’

‘What about Yvette?’ asked Frieda, although she already knew she was going to say yes.

‘Yvette’s terrific – apart from the fact that she let you get nearly murdered, of course. She’s my trusted colleague, as well as my attack dog. But if I want someone to look at a house, just to get the smell of it, have a thought or two, I’d ask you – I
am
asking you.’

‘As a friend.’

‘Yes. As a friend.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow morning, when the house is empty?’

‘That would suit me fine.’

‘Are you serious? I mean, that’s great. Shall I send a car?’

‘I’ll make my own way.’

I met a neuroscientist called Gloria today, who I think you’d like a lot (you see, I’m making friends for you out here). We talked about free will – does it exist etc. She was arguing that with everything we know now about the brain, it’s impossible to believe there is such a thing, and yet it’s impossible not to believe in it at the same time and to live our life as if we have choices. A necessary delusion.

It’s a beautiful evening, with a full moon shining on the river. I wonder what it’s like in London – but, of course, it’s nearly morning for you now. You’re asleep. At least I hope you are. Sandy xxxx