by Nicci French
‘I said I’ll be there.’
Karlsson put the phone back in its holster, already regretting his sharpness. It wasn’t Yvette’s fault.
Later, after Mikey and Bella had been collected by their mother and he’d gone for a run, he paced the garden with one of his illicit cigarettes. Birds were singing in the dusk, but that just made him feel sourer and more defeated. He went indoors and picked up the phone, then sat on the sofa where his children had been just a couple of hours previously. He held the phone and stared at it as if it could tell him something. At last, before he could change his mind, he called Frieda’s number. He had to talk to someone and she was the only person he could bear to unburden himself to. The phone rang and rang; he could almost hear it echoing in her tidy, empty house. She wasn’t there. He called her mobile, although he knew that she almost never turned it on or even listened to messages left there – sure enough, it went straight to voicemail.
He closed his tired, sore eyes and waited for the feeling to recede. The thought of work was a relief from the thought of life.
‘What was it like?’ said Sasha, later that evening.
‘When I got out of the tube,’ said Frieda, ‘on the way back from the airport, it was quite strange. For just a moment, London seemed different. It looked grubby and stunted and quite poor. It was like moving to the third world.’
‘I was really asking you about New York.’
‘You’ve seen the movies,’ said Frieda. ‘You’ve probably been there several times. You know what it’s like.’
‘When I was asking you about New York, I was really asking you about Sandy.’
‘He thinks I should move there,’ said Frieda. ‘He says I should be somewhere that’s less dangerous.’
‘And be with him.’
‘Yes. That too.’
‘Are you tempted?’
‘I said no before,’ said Frieda. ‘Now – I don’t know. I miss him. But I’ve got things to do here. Things that need finishing. Now, when am I going to meet this new man of yours?’
Frieda, my dearest heart, it all feels like a dream. You here in this city, this flat, this bed. Everything feels different now. Thank you for being here and remember everything I said. We’ve come too far together to stop now. We’re on a journey together.
TWENTY-THREE
At twenty past eight, Karlsson was standing on the edge of a vast crater in the heart of the city, looking at the activity in front of him: small diggers trundled across mashed earth, cranes lowered huge pipes into trenches, men in yellow jackets and hard hats gathered in groups, or sat on top of machines, operating their articulated metal arms. Around the site were several Portakabins, some of them seeming almost as permanent as the buildings they were next to.
He saw Yvette walking towards him. She looked solid and competent to him, with her robust shoes and her brown hair tied tightly back. He wondered what he looked like to her: he felt fragile, incomplete. His head banged from the three whiskies he’d drunk last night, and his stomach felt hollow.
‘Morning,’ she said cheerfully.
‘Hi.’
‘He said he’d meet us in the office.’ Yvette jerked her head towards the main Portakabin, a few yards away, with wooden steps leading up to the door.
They made their way over the rutted ground and up the steps, then Yvette knocked at the door, which was opened almost at once. The man in front of them was also wearing a yellow jacket, although his was over a pair of brown corduroy trousers and a grey-striped shirt. He was solidly built, with a creased face and brown eyes. Although he could only have been in his mid-forties, his hair was a thick silver-grey.
‘Paul Kerrigan?’
‘That’s me.’
Yvette held up her ID. ‘I’m DC Yvette Long,’ she said. ‘We spoke on the phone. And this is DCI Malcolm Karlsson.’
Karlsson looked into the man’s soft brown eyes and felt a tremor of anticipation. He nodded at him.
‘You’d better come in.’
They entered the Portakabin, which smelt of wood and coffee. There was a desk in there, a trestle table and several chairs. Karlsson sat to one side and let Yvette ask the questions. He already knew that they had reached a watershed: he could feel the inquiry shifting under their feet, turning into something altogether different and unexpected.
‘We were given your name by Michael Reader.’
‘Yes.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘He said you rented thirty-seven A Shawcross Road from him and had done for almost ten years.’
Kerrigan’s eyes flickered. Karlsson looked at him closely.
‘That’s right. Since June 2001.’ He looked down at his large, calloused hands.
‘The reason we’re asking you is because we want to trace the last movements of Ruth Lennox, who was murdered twelve days ago. A taxi driver delivered her to that address on the day she died.’
‘Yes,’ he said again. He seemed passive and defenceless. He was simply waiting for the truth to emerge, lie in front of the three of them.
‘Were you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘You knew Ruth Lennox?’
There was a silence in the room. Karlsson listened to the sounds coming from the building site: the roar of engines and the shouts of the men.
‘Yes,’ said Paul Kerrigan, very softly. They could hear the sound he made when he swallowed. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come before. I should have done. But I didn’t see the point. She was dead. It was finished. I thought I could stop the hurt spreading.’
‘Were you having a relationship?’
He glanced from Yvette to Karlsson, then put both hands on the table in front of him. ‘I have a wife,’ he said. ‘I have two sons who are proud of me.’
‘You understand this is a murder inquiry,’ said Yvette. Her eyes were bright.
‘Yes, we were having a relationship.’ He blinked, folded his hands together. ‘I find it hard to say that out loud.’
‘And you saw her on the day she was killed?’
‘Yes.’
Karlsson spoke at last. ‘I think perhaps you’d better tell us the whole story.’
Paul nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I …’ He stopped.
‘What?’
‘I don’t want anyone to know.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how to do this.’
‘Perhaps you can just tell us in chronological order what happened. Begin at the beginning.’
He stared out of the window, as if he couldn’t start while looking at them. ‘I met Ruth ten years ago. We live quite near each other. We met at fundraising events for the mothers and toddlers.’ He smiled. ‘She was selling falafels and I was helping with the lottery tickets on the next-door stall. We got on. She was very easy to get on with – everyone liked her. She was kind and practical and made you feel everything was going to be all right. I didn’t know that at the time, of course. I just thought she was nice. You probably think that nice isn’t a very romantic word. It wasn’t that kind of affair.’ He made a visible effort and went on with the story: ‘We met after, for coffee. It just felt natural.’
‘Are you saying,’ interrupted Yvette, ‘that you and Ruth Lennox were lovers for ten years?’
‘Yes. We got the flat after a few months. We chose that area because it wasn’t somewhere we’d bump into anyone we knew. We never went to each other’s houses. We met on Wednesday afternoons.’
Yvette leaned forward. ‘You’re saying that every Wednesday afternoon, for ten years, you and Ruth Lennox met at this flat?’
‘Except when we were on holiday. Sometimes we couldn’t make it.’
‘And no one knew?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact my partner knows. I mean, my work partner. At least, he knows that every Wednesday I’m not available. He turns a blind eye. He probably thinks it’s funny –’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Nobody else knew anything. We were careful. Once or twice we’d see each other on the streets near our homes and we’d ignore each other. Not even a smile. Nothi
ng. We never phoned each other or sent each other messages.’
‘What if one of you had to cancel?’
‘We’d tell each other the week before, if we could. If one of us went to the flat and the other hadn’t turned up after fifteen minutes, we’d know something had happened.’
‘That all sounds very neat,’ Yvette said. ‘A bit cold-blooded.’
He unplaited his hands. ‘I don’t expect you to understand, but I love my wife and Ruth loved her husband. We wouldn’t have hurt them for the world. Or our kids. This was separate. Nobody would be affected. We never even talked about our families when we were together.’ He turned back to the window. ‘I can’t believe I’ll never see her again,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I won’t go to the door and open it and she’ll be standing there with her smiling face. I dream about her, and when I wake I feel so calm, and then I remember.’
‘We need you to tell us about that last Wednesday,’ said Yvette.
‘It was the same as always. She came about half past twelve. I was already there. I always get there before her. I’d bought some bread and cheese for lunch and some flowers, which I’d put in a vase she’d bought the year before, and I’d put the heating on because although it was a warm day the flat felt a bit chilly.’
‘Go on.’
‘So.’ He seemed to find it hard to speak now. ‘She came and – do you need to know everything?’
‘Just the bare facts for now. You had sex, I take it.’ Yvette sounded harsh, even to herself.
‘We made love. Yes. Then we had a bath together before we ate the food. Then she left and I locked up and left about half an hour after her.’
‘What time would this be?’
‘She left at about three, maybe a touch earlier, ten to three or something. Like she always did. So I left at three thirty or a quarter to four.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘I don’t think so. We never met the other people in the building.’
‘Do you know where she was going?’
‘She always went home straight away.’
‘And you?’
‘Sometimes I went back to work. That day I went home.’
‘Was your wife there?’
‘No. She arrived at about six, I think.’
‘So you saw no one between leaving Shawcross Street and your wife arriving home two hours or so later?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘When did you hear about Ruth Lennox’s death?’ asked Karlsson.
‘It was in the papers the next day. Elaine – my wife – showed me. Her photo was there, and she was smiling. At first I had this stupid idea that it was about us – that someone had discovered and put it in the papers. I couldn’t speak. She said: “Isn’t this terrible? Did we ever meet her?”’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I don’t know. Elaine said, “Doesn’t she have a nice face? Poor children.” Things like that. I don’t know what I said. It’s all a blur now. I don’t know how I got through the evening. The boys were there and there was a general noise and bustle and they had their homework, and Elaine made a meal. Shepherd’s pie. And I put it in my mouth and swallowed it. And I had a shower and just stood there for ages and nothing seemed real.’
‘Did you feel guilty?’
‘What about?’
‘About having an affair for ten years.’
‘No.’
‘Although you’re married.’
‘I never felt guilty,’ he repeated. ‘I knew Elaine and the boys would never know. It wasn’t hurting anyone.’
‘Did Ruth feel guilty?’
‘I don’t know. She never said she did.’
‘You are certain your wife didn’t know?’
‘I’d know if she knew.’
‘And Ruth’s husband, Russell Lennox? Did he know anything or have suspicions?’
‘No.’
‘Did Ruth Lennox tell you that?’
‘She would have told me if he’d suspected, I’m sure.’ He sounded uncertain, though.
‘And that day, did she seem any different?’
‘No. She was the same as always.’
‘And how was that?’
‘Calm. Cheerful. Nice.’
‘She was always calm and always cheerful and nice? For ten years?’
‘She had ups and downs, like anyone.’
‘And was she up or down on that Wednesday?’
‘Neither.’
‘Just in the middle, you mean?’
‘I mean she was fine.’
Yvette looked at Karlsson to see if he had any further questions. ‘Mr Kerrigan,’ said Karlsson. ‘Your relationship with Ruth Lennox sounds oddly like a marriage to me, rather than an affair. Domestic, calm, safe.’ Placid, he thought, almost dull.
‘What are you saying?’ Now he looked angry. His hands curled into fists.
‘I don’t know.’ Karlsson thought of Frieda: what would she ask this man, who was sitting passively in front of them, his shoulders slumped and his big hands restless? ‘You do understand this alters everything?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You aren’t stupid. Ruth Lennox had a secret. A great big secret.’
‘But nobody knew.’
‘You knew.’
‘Yes. But I didn’t kill her! If you think that – look, I swear to you, I didn’t kill her. I loved her. We loved each other.’
‘Secrets are difficult to keep,’ said Karlsson.
‘We were careful. Nobody knew.’
Karlsson took in Kerrigan’s sad, uneasy face. ‘Is it possible that she was going to end it?’
‘No. It’s not possible.’
‘So nothing had changed.’
‘No’ His face was swollen with misery. ‘Will they have to know?’
‘You mean her husband? Your wife? We’ll see. But it may be difficult.’
‘How long?’
‘For what?’
‘How long do I have before I have to tell her?’
Karlsson didn’t answer. He looked at Paul Kerrigan for a few moments, then said musingly, ‘Everything has a consequence.’
TWENTY-FOUR
When Rajit Singh opened the door, he was wearing a heavy black jacket. ‘It’s the heating,’ he said. ‘Someone was meant to come today to fix it.’
‘I’ll only be a minute,’ said Frieda. ‘I won’t even need to take my coat off.’
He led her through to a sitting room in which every piece of furniture, the chairs, a sofa, a table, seemed to jar with everything else. On the wall was a picture of the Eiffel Tower in brightly coloured velvet. He noticed her expression.
‘When I was an undergraduate, I stayed in the residence that was right in the West End. Everything’s sorted for you, where you sleep, where you eat, who you become friends with. But once you’re doing your postgraduate work, you’re left to fend for yourself. I was lucky to get this, believe it or not. I’m sharing it with a couple of Chinese engineering students who I never see.’
‘You live all over the place,’ said Frieda.
‘Me?’ said Singh. ‘I just live here.’
‘No, I mean you and the rest of you. Seamus Dunne, the one who came to see me, he lives in Stockwell. I saw Duncan Bailey at his flat in Romford. Later I’m going to Waterloo to see Ian Yardley.’
Singh sat in the armchair and gestured at the sofa. Frieda preferred to stand up so she could move around. Even though it was sunny in the street outside, it was icy in the house.
‘We’re not a gang,’ he said. ‘We don’t exactly hang out together.’
‘You’re just Professor Bradshaw’s students.’
‘That’s right. We’re the ones who volunteered for his clever experiment. The one that seems to have got under your skin.’
‘Which therapist did you see?’
Singh’s face tightened. ‘Are you trying to trap me?’ he said. ‘Are you going to sue us?’
‘No,’ said Frieda. ‘This i
s all for my benefit. Let’s just say I’m curious.’
‘Look,’ said Singh, ‘we didn’t have anything to do with that stuff in the newspaper. I thought it would appear in a psychology journal that no one would read and that would be the end of it. I don’t know how that happened.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m not bothered with that. Just tell me about your part in it.’
‘I ended up with the therapist who passed the test. She’s a woman called Geraldine Fliess. Apparently she wrote some book about how we’re all really psychopaths, or something like that. Anyway, I went and saw her, gave the spiel about having been cruel to animals and that I had fantasies of hurting women. Later she got back in touch with me, asking me who my doctor was and other things like that.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Professor Bradshaw told us that if anyone took us up on what we had said, if they really picked up on the danger, we should just refer them to him and he would tell them about the experiment. You know, to avoid us getting arrested.’
‘What would you have been arrested for?’ Frieda asked.
‘All right, all right,’ said Singh, irritably. ‘She got it right and you didn’t. It’s not the end of the world. Just let it go.’
‘But I’m interested in the story you all told. How was that done?’
‘There was nothing clever about it. Bradshaw gave us the things on the psychopath checklist and we just had to agree on a story, rehearse it and perform it.’
‘I don’t care about the checklist,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m more interested in the other details. Where did all the bits that had nothing to do with the checklist come from? Things like that story about cutting hair. What was that about?’
‘What does it matter?’
Frieda thought for a moment and looked around her. The room wasn’t just cold. There was a smell of damp. There didn’t seem to be a single object that hadn’t been left there by the landlord and that was the sort of stuff – abandoned, unloved – you’d pick up in car-boot sales, house clearances.
‘I think it’s difficult to pretend to be a patient,’ Frieda said. ‘For most people, the difficult bit is to ask for help in the first place. Once they’re sitting in a room with me, they’ve already made a painful decision. I think it’s just as difficult to pretend to ask for help.’