Waiting for Wednesday (31 page)

‘Chloë.’

‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘There’s quite a mess in there.’

‘We were going to clear it up.’

‘I’ve been speaking to Olivia. You can stay here for one week.’

‘Great.’

‘But there are rules. This is my house and you have to respect it and me. You clear things up, for a start. Properly. You don’t smoke inside. Hello, Ted.’

He raised his face and stared at her. His eyes were red-rimmed and his lips were bloodless. ‘Hi,’ he managed.

‘How long have you been here?’

‘I was just going.’

‘Have you both been at school today?’

Chloë shrugged and gave her a defiant look. ‘Some things are more important than school, you know. In case you forgot, Ted’s mother was killed.’

‘I know.’

‘If you had to choose between double biology and helping your friend, which would you choose?’

‘Helping friends is something you do after double biology.’ She looked at Ted. ‘When did you last eat?’

‘We were going to have pancakes,’ said Chloë, ‘but they went wrong.’

‘I’ll make you some toast.’

‘I don’t want to talk to you about stuff, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘That’s all everyone seems to want. For me to talk about my feelings and weep and then you can hug me and tell me everything will be OK in the end.’

‘I’m just going to make toast. Does your father know you’re here and skipping school, Ted?’

‘No. I’m not a child.’

‘I know you’re not.’

‘My dad’s got his mind on other things. Mum was shagging another man.’

‘That’s a painful thing for you to find out.’

‘Do you want to know how I feel about it? Because I’m not going to talk about that. Or anything else.’

There was a knocking at the door, hard and insistent, although Frieda wasn’t expecting anyone.

‘Come inside now,’ she said, to the two of them. ‘I’ll see who’s here.’

Judith stood on the doorstep. She was wearing a man’s shirt over baggy jeans held up by rope, and broken flip-flops. There was a colourful bandanna wrapped round her chestnut curls. Her eyes, set wide in her face, seemed bluer than when Frieda had seen her at that awful interview, and there was vivid orange lipstick on her full mouth, which was turned down sullenly. ‘I’m here for Ted. Is he here?’

‘I’m making toast for him. Do you want some?’

‘OK.’

‘This way.’

Frieda led the girl into the kitchen. She gave a nod to Ted, who nodded back, then raised her hand in half-greeting to Chloë, whom she obviously knew.

‘Louise is clearing out Mum’s clothes.’

‘She can’t do that!’ Ted’s voice was sharp.

‘She is.’

‘Why can’t she fuck off to her own house?’

‘Dora’s shut herself in her room and she’s wailing. And Dad’s shouting.’

‘At you, or at Louise?’

‘Everybody, really. Or nobody.’

‘He’s probably drunk.’

‘Stop it!’ She put her hands up as if to cover her ears.

‘Face it, Judith. Mum was fucking another man and Dad’s a drunk.’

‘Don’t! Don’t be so cruel.’

‘It’s for your own good.’ But he looked ashamed of himself.

‘Will you come back with me?’ his sister asked. ‘It’s better if we’re there together.’

‘Here’s your toast,’ said Frieda. ‘Help yourself to the honey.’

‘Just butter.’

‘I’m very sorry about your mother.’

Judith shrugged her thin shoulders. Her blue eyes glittered in her freckled face.

‘At least you’ve got Ted,’ said Chloë, urgently. ‘At least you two can help each other. Think if you were alone.’

‘You were together when you found out, weren’t you?’ asked Frieda. ‘But since then have you talked about it to each other?’ Neither of them spoke. ‘Have you talked to anyone?’

‘You mean someone like you?’

‘A friend or a relative or someone like me.’

‘She’s dead. Words don’t change that. We’re sad. Words won’t change that.’

‘There’s this woman the police sent,’ said Judith.

‘Oh, yes.’ Ted’s voice was raw with contempt. ‘Her. She nods all the time as if she has some deep understanding of our pain. It’s crap. It makes me want to throw up.’ There were hectic blotches on his cheeks. He tipped himself back on his chair so he was balanced on only one of its legs and spun himself slowly.

‘Mum hated it when he did that.’ Judith waved at her brother. ‘It was like a family thing.’

‘Now I can do it as much as I want and no one will bother about it.’

‘No,’ said Frieda. ‘I agree with your mother about that. It is very irritating. And dangerous.’

‘Can we go home, please? I don’t want to leave Dad on his own with Louise being all sad and disapproving.’ She faltered. There were tears in her eyes and she blinked them away. ‘I think we should go home,’ she repeated.

Ted lowered his chair and stood up, a spindly, scruffy figure. ‘OK, then. Thanks for the toast.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘Bye,’ said Judith.

‘Goodbye.’

‘Can we come again?’ Judith’s voice was suddenly tremulous.

‘Yes.’ Chloë’s voice was loud and energetic. ‘Any time, day or night. We’re here for you – aren’t we, Frieda?’

‘Yes,’ said Frieda, a little wearily.

She trudged upstairs to the bathroom. The bath was there in all its glory. She turned on the taps and they worked. But there was no plug. She looked under the bath and in the cupboard, but it wasn’t there. The plug in the washbasin was too
small, and the one in the kitchen was an irritating metal kind that didn’t have a chain but twisted down. She couldn’t have a bath, after all.

Karlsson and Yvette arrived at the Lennox house shortly after Judith had left. The shouting was over, and in its place there was a curdled silence, an air of unease. Russell Lennox was in his study, sitting at his desk and staring blindly out of the window; Dora was in her room, no longer sobbing but lying curled into a ball, her face still wet and swollen from tears. Louise Weller had been cleaning up. She had washed the kitchen floor, vacuumed the stairs, and was just about to make a start on some of her sister’s clothes, when the doorbell rang.

‘We need to look through Mrs Lennox’s things one more time,’ explained Yvette.

‘I was making a start on her clothes.’

‘Perhaps not just yet,’ Karlsson told her. ‘We’ll tell you when you can do that.’

‘Another thing. The family want to know when the funeral can be.’

‘It won’t be long. We should be able to tell you in the next day or so.’

‘It’s not right.’

Karlsson felt an impulse to say something rude back to her but he replied blandly that it was difficult for everybody.

They made their way upstairs, into the bedroom that the Lennoxes had shared for more than twenty years. There were signs of Louise Weller’s work: there were several plastic bags full of shoes, and she seemed to have emptied most of the small amount of makeup Ruth had owned into the waste-paper bin.

‘What are we looking for?’ asked Yvette. ‘They’ve been through all this.’

‘I don’t know. There’s probably nothing. But this is a family full of secrets. What else don’t we know about?’

‘The trouble is, there’s so much,’ said Yvette. ‘She kept everything. Should we look through all those boxes in the loft with her children’s reports in? And what about the various computers? We’ve been through theirs, of course, but each child has a laptop and there are a few old ones that obviously don’t work any more but haven’t been thrown away.’

‘Here’s a woman who for ten years met her lover in their flat. Did she have a key? Or any documents at all that would shed light on this? Did she really never send or receive emails or texts? I’ve taken it for granted that this affair must have something to do with her death but perhaps there’s something else.’

Yvette gave a sarcastic smile. ‘As in, if she was capable of adultery, what else might she have done?’

‘That’s not exactly what I meant.’

Standing in the bedroom, Karlsson thought about how they knew so much about Ruth Lennox and yet didn’t know her at all. They knew what toothpaste she used and which deodorant. What her bra size was and her knickers and her shoes. What books she read and what magazines. They knew what face cream she used, what recipes she turned to, what she put in her shopping trolley week after week, what tea she favoured, what wine she drank, what TV programmes she watched, what box-sets she owned. They were familiar with her handwriting, knew what biros and pencils she wrote with, saw the doodles she made on the sides of pads; they had studied her face in the photographs around the house and in the albums. They had read the postcards she’d received from dozens of friends over dozens of years from
dozens of countries. Rifled through Mother’s Day cards and birthday cards and Christmas cards. Checked and double-checked her email, and were sure she’d never used Facebook, LinkedIn or Twitter.

But they didn’t know why or how she had managed to conduct a ten-year affair under the nose of her family. They didn’t know if she’d felt guilty. They didn’t know why she had had to die.

On an impulse, he pushed open the door to Dora’s bedroom. It was very neat and quiet in there. Everything was put away and in its proper place: clothes neatly folded into drawers, paper stacked on the desk, homework books on the shelves above it, her pyjamas folded on the pillow. In the wardrobe, her clothes – the clothes of a girl who didn’t want to become a teenager yet – hung above paired, sensible shoes. It made Karlsson feel sad just to look at the anxious order. A thin spindle of pink caught his eye on the top of the cupboard. He reached up his hand and pulled down a rag doll, then drew in his breath sharply. It had a flat pink face and droopy legs, red cotton hair in plaits, but its stomach had been cut away and the area between its legs snipped open. He held it for several moments, his face grim.

‘Oh!’ Yvette had come into the room. ‘That’s horrible.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’

‘Do you think she did that herself? Because of what she found out about her mother?’

‘Probably.’

‘Poor little thing.’

‘But I’ll have to ask her.’

‘I think I’ve found something. Look.’ She opened her hand to show a little dial of tablets. Karlsson squinted at them.
‘This was in that long cupboard next to the bathroom – the one full of towels and flannels, body lotion, tampons and all sorts of bits and pieces they didn’t know what to do with.’

‘Well?’

‘The Pill,’ said Yvette. ‘Inside a sock.’

‘Funny place to keep your contraceptives.’

‘Yes. Especially when Ruth Lennox had a coil.’

Karlsson’s mobile rang. He took it out of his pocket and frowned when he saw who was calling. He had had two brief texts and one message from Sadie, asking him to get in touch. He was about to let it go to voicemail again. But then he hesitated: she clearly wasn’t going to give up and he supposed he might as well get it over with.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I’ve been busy and –’

‘No. You didn’t call me back because you didn’t want to see me again and you thought if you ignored my calls I might just go away.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Isn’t it? I think it is.’

‘I made a mistake, Sadie. I like you a lot and we had a nice evening, but it’s the wrong time for me.’

‘I’m not calling to ask you out, if that’s what you’re worried about. I got the message. But you need to meet me.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘It’s a very good idea. You need to sit down opposite me, look me in the eyes and explain yourself.’

‘Sadie, listen –’

‘No. You listen. You’re behaving like an awkward teenager. You asked me out, we had a nice evening, we made love – that’s what it felt like to me, anyway. And then you crept away, as if you were embarrassed. I deserve more than that.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I deserve an explanation. Meet me at the same wine bar at eight o’clock tomorrow. It’ll only take half an hour, less. You can tell me why you behaved like that, then you can go home and I won’t call you again.’

And she ended the call. Karlsson looked down at the mobile in his hand and raised his eyebrows. She was rather impressive, that Sadie.

THIRTY-FOUR

Frieda always felt a little strange when she went south of the river. But going to Croydon was like going to another country. She’d had to look it up on a map. She’d had to go to Victoria and get on an overground train. It had been full of commuters coming into London, but going out it was almost empty. London, this huge creature, sucked people in. It wouldn’t be until late afternoon that it blew them out again. As the train crossed the river, Frieda recognized Battersea, the derelict power station. She even saw, or nearly saw, where Agnes Flint’s flat must be, just near the huge market. After Clapham Junction and Wandsworth Common it gradually became vague and nameless for her, a succession of glimpsed parks, a graveyard, the backs of houses, a shopping centre, a breaker’s yard, a flash of someone hanging out washing, a child bouncing on a blue trampoline. Even though the streets had become unfamiliar, she continued to stare out of the window. She couldn’t stop herself. Houses and buildings didn’t hide from trains the way they did from cars. You didn’t see their smart façades but the bits behind that the owners didn’t bother about, that they didn’t think anyone would really notice: the broken fences, the piles of rubbish, abandoned machinery.