Waiting for Wednesday

by Nicci French

  ‘We’re interviewing you on suspicion of handling stolen property. I’m going to caution you that you don’t have to say anything, but that anything you say can be used in evidence. Also, if you remain silent, that fact can be presented to the court.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Hunt.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Munster. ‘And I probably do this sort of thing even more often than you do.’

  Hunt drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I guess I can’t smoke.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘I can’t think when I don’t smoke.’

  ‘You don’t need to think. You just need to answer some questions.’

  ‘And what about my lawyer?’

  ‘I was about to inform you that you are entitled to legal representation, and that if you don’t have representation of your own, we can arrange it for you.’

  ‘Of course I don’t have fucking legal representation of my own. So, yeah, get me one. I want a lawyer sitting here beside me.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that any more,’ said Munster. ‘Money’s tight. That’s what they’re telling us. We can bring you a phone and a phone number.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Hunt seemed baffled. ‘No cigs and no lawyers?’

  ‘You can talk to one on the phone.’

  ‘All right,’ said Hunt. ‘Get a phone.’

  It was twenty minutes before Billy Hunt had finished on the phone, Munster and Riley were back in the room and the recorder was on again.

  ‘So,’ Munster began. ‘You’ve talked to your lawyer.’

  ‘It was a bad line,’ said Hunt. ‘I couldn’t make out most of what she was saying. She had an accent as well. I don’t reckon English is her first language.’

  ‘But she gave you legal advice?’

  ‘Is that what you call legal advice? Why can’t I get a real lawyer?’

  ‘If you’ve got a problem, you can take it up with your MP. But that’s the way the system works now.’

  ‘Why is that window all boarded up?’

  ‘Because someone threw a brick at it.’

  ‘Can’t you get it mended?’

  ‘I don’t really think that’s your problem.’

  ‘And the room at the front – it’s like a building site. You’ll be next,’ he said. ‘You’ll be out looking for a real job like the rest of us.’

  ‘You’ve now officially got legal representation,’ said Munster. ‘Take a look at this.’ He slid a piece of paper across the table.

  Hunt examined it with a puzzled expression. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘An inventory.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A list of what was stolen. Including, as you’ll see, the silver forks you sold. Is there anything else there you remember?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Those forks were all I got.’

  ‘From Dave,’ said Munster.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So,’ Munster went on, ‘the items we retrieved were part of a larger haul, but you never saw the rest.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And your link to this theft was Dave, whose second name you don’t know, who you think lives south of the river, and who you have no means of contacting.’

  Hunt shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘You know the way things are,’ he said.

  ‘And your only alibi for the day of the burglary would be provided by a man called Ian, also with no second name, now currently on his travels. And uncontactable.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Hunt.

  ‘In other words,’ said Munster, ‘you can’t tell us anything we can check, apart from what we already know.’

  ‘You’re police,’ said Hunt. ‘I don’t know what you can check and what you can’t check.’

  ‘Of course, if you were to put us in touch with whoever passed that silver to you, we’d seriously consider dropping the charge against you.’

  ‘Then I wish I could put you in touch with him.’

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘Yeah. But I can’t.’

  ‘Is there anything at all you can tell us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hunt. ‘Just ask.’

  ‘Where did you spend last night? At least you can tell us that.’

  ‘I’ve been moving around,’ said Hunt. ‘I haven’t got anywhere regular.’

  ‘You can only sleep in one place at a time. Where did you sleep last night?’

  ‘It’s in these flats, down near Chalk Farm. There’s this friend of mine, friend of a friend. He’s away. He lets me doss down there.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Then take us there.’

  It was a short drive, then the three of them – Munster, Riley and Hunt – walked into the courtyard of the battered, dishevelled estate and up a staircase. On the third floor, Munster stopped and leaned on the balcony railing, looking across at the William Morris building. They were in the John Ruskin building. Beyond were houses that, even now, were worth more than a million pounds but here one in every three or four flats was boarded up, waiting for a renovation that had probably been put on hold until someone was ready to pay for it. Hunt walked along the balcony and stopped. He took out a key from his jacket pocket and unlocked a front door.

  ‘Stop,’ Munster said. ‘Don’t go in. You wait out here with DC Riley.’

  He stepped inside and immediately was reminded of his early days in the force when he had spent much of his time in places like this. It was a smell of mustiness, damp, some food going off somewhere. It was the smell of not bothering, of giving up. He recognized it all. The grubby linoleum, the dirty sofas and chairs in the living room, everything grubby and old, except the large new flat-screen TV. In the kitchen, the sink was full of dishes; there was a greasy frying pan on the hob. He was seeking something that didn’t fit, something different from the usual crap, and it didn’t seem as if he was going to find it. Had Hunt got rid of everything? He should probably send some officers round for a proper search, if he could get them. Because Hunt was right. Legal aid had been cut and now it was the police’s turn. But then he went into the bathroom and there, finally, was something. He pulled on his plastic gloves. It was too big for an evidence bag. He called Riley and Hunt inside.

  ‘What’s that doing here?’

  ‘It’s a cog,’ said Riley. ‘It looks like it should be in some big old machine.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be in a bathroom?’ said Hunt. ‘It looks nice. Shiny. It’s a decoration.’

  ‘You weren’t admiring its shininess,’ said Munster. ‘You were washing it. Where did you get a thing like this from? It’s hardly usual.’

  ‘It was from that guy.’

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention it?’

  ‘It wasn’t on your list.’

  ‘Why were you washing it?’

  ‘So that it would be nice and shiny when I sold it.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Munster.

  Karlsson, when Munster returned with the cog, held it for a moment, turning it over, feeling its heft and weight. Then he went to see Russell Lennox, who was sitting slack and passive in an armchair, staring ahead with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Mr Lennox,’ he said, holding the cog, which was cold in his gloved hands. ‘Do you recognize this object?’

  Russell Lennox gazed at the cog for several seconds without speaking. His lips were bloodless.

  ‘Is that –’ He stopped and pressed the bridge of
his nose between forefinger and thumb. ‘Is that what she was killed with?’

  ‘We believe so. Yes. But you didn’t mention it among the items that were stolen.’

  ‘No. I didn’t notice it was gone. It was just a thing we had on our mantelpiece. Ruth picked it up from some skip a couple of years ago. She said it would scrub up nicely, unlike me and Ted.’ His face worked and he made a visible effort to control his emotions. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Your wife’s blood was on it.’

  ‘I see.’ Russell Lennox turned away. ‘I don’t want to look at it any more.’

  Munster restarted the recorder. ‘We’ve been busy,’ he said. ‘Things have changed. Now, this is your last chance to co-operate. Where did you get the cog?’

  Hunt’s eyes flickered between him and Riley. ‘I said. From Dave.’

  ‘All right. That’s enough of this crap.’ Munster stood up and left the room.

  Hunt looked at Riley. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘He’s cross,’ said Riley. ‘You don’t want to make him cross.’

  ‘Fucking shut up,’ said Hunt. ‘So is this some trick so I suddenly think you’re my friend?’

  ‘I was just saying.’

  A few moments later Munster came back into the room with Karlsson. He pulled a chair across and the two of them sat down. Munster placed a closed brown cardboard file on the table and looked across at Hunt. ‘Let it be noted that DCI Karlsson has joined the interview,’ he said. ‘William Hunt, the next time you want to wash blood off a murder weapon, I’d pop it in the dishwasher. If you rinse it under the tap, you always leave a bit. As you did.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Russell Lennox has identified it. They kept it on their mantelpiece as a sort of work of art. A dense and heavy work of art. Three days ago it was used to fatally assault one Ruth Lennox. You’ve been identified disposing of articles that were taken from the murder scene. The murder weapon has been found at a flat where you were staying. You’ve admitted attempting to clean it. It has your fingerprints on it. We are about to charge you with the murder of Ruth Lennox and with the burglary. Now, Mr Hunt, have you got anything to say? It’ll make it a great deal easier for all of us if you just admit what you did, write out a statement and the judge will regard you with some degree of sympathy.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘There wasn’t anyone called Dave,’ said Hunt.

  ‘Of course there wasn’t anyone called Dave,’ said Munster. ‘And?’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I did the burglary.’

  Another pause.

  ‘And? What about Ruth Lennox?’

  ‘You won’t believe me,’ said Hunt.

  ‘Believe you?’ said Munster. ‘You’ve been lying solidly ever since we met you. Just own up.’

  There was another, even longer, pause. To Riley it appeared that Hunt was doing a complicated mental calculation.

  ‘I did the burglary,’ he said finally. ‘But I didn’t kill her. I admit, I broke in, I took the stuff from the kitchen. But I was only there for a minute. The alarm was going so I was in a rush. I went into the other room and she was on the floor. I just ran.’

  ‘You didn’t just run,’ said Munster. ‘We found you with the object that was used to kill her.’

  ‘I picked it up. On the way out.’

  Karlsson stood up. ‘We’ve got you at the scene. And you’ve been lying all the way along the line. You’re going away for this one.’ He nodded at Munster. ‘Just get the paperwork ready.’

  NINE

  The drilling had stopped but it was replaced by a hammering that wasn’t just loud but shook the house. Frieda made tea for Josef so the noise would stop for a few minutes. Josef sat on the stairs and cradled his mug in his large, dirty hands.

  ‘Under everything, this is a good house,’ he said. ‘The walls are good, fine bricks. Give me six months to rip away all the rubbish, all the plasterboard and –’

  ‘No, no, don’t even say that!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Six months. Those words are very frightening to me.’

  ‘I was talking. Just talking.’

  ‘All right, and while we’re just talking, I thought you said you were going to put a new bath in. I hear lots of banging and the bathroom looks like it’s been demolished and there’s no sign of a bath.’

  ‘It is all fine. I do everything, I sort everything perfectly. Then, at the end, put the bath in. Click click. Just like that.’

  Suddenly there was a jangling electronic tone of an old pop song that Frieda couldn’t quite place. Josef’s phone was on the table beside her. She picked it up. There was a name – Nina – flashing on the screen. She handed it to him but he saw the name and shook his head.

  ‘Is she someone you’re avoiding?’ said Frieda.

  Josef was flustered. ‘Someone I see a bit. But she ring and ring.’

  ‘It’s usually best to tell people what you feel,’ said Frieda. ‘But I’m not going to give you advice on anything except finishing this bathroom.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Josef. He handed his mug to Frieda and went back upstairs.

  When she was alone, Frieda swallowed two paracetamol with water. Then she turned to her work email. Most messages she deleted or simply ignored. But there was one from Paz at the clinic she regularly worked for. She asked if Frieda could call her. And there was another she hesitated over. It was from a woman called Marta, who was writing on behalf of her old friend and Frieda’s patient Joe Franklin. She was apologetic: Joe didn’t know she was writing and she felt bad about doing so – but did Frieda have any idea when she would be returning to work? Joe wouldn’t see the therapist she had recommended, and he was in a bad way. He hadn’t got out of bed for several days.

  Frieda thought of her doctor and her friends, who were all insistent that she shouldn’t return to work for several weeks yet. She thought of Joe Franklin sitting in her consulting room with his head in his hands, tears seeping through his fingers. She frowned and wrote an email: ‘Dear Joe, I can see you at the usual time tomorrow, Tuesday, if that would suit you. Let me know and best wishes, Frieda Klein.’

  Then she picked up the phone and called the Warehouse, as the clinic was called. Paz answered and immediately questioned her about how things were going and her health, the way everyone did nowadays. It was like an obstacle she had to get past over and over again.

  ‘Reuben is worried about you,’ said Paz. ‘We all are.’

  Reuben was the man who had founded the Warehouse. As a young man, he had been a charismatic spokeperson for a new kind of therapy, and had been Frieda’s supervior. These days he was rather battered and disillusioned.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I wanted to see how you were. Someone contacted us. He wanted to see you. I mean as a patient. I said you weren’t well.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Paz, could you stop handing out my medical details?’

  ‘But he pleaded. He sounded desperate.’

  ‘I’ll call him.’

  ‘You’re sure about this, Frieda?’

  ‘It’s not-working that’s the problem.’

  He was called Seamus Dunne. When Frieda dialled his number he answered instantly. She introduced herself. ‘Is it a good time to talk?’

  ‘Yes. It’s fine.’ He sounded suddenly tense.

  ‘You want to come and see me?’

  ‘Yes. I do. I think – I feel it’s urgent. I would like it to be as soon as possible.’

  ‘How did you find my name?’

  ‘A friend of a friend recommended you,’ said Seamu
s. ‘Very highly.’

  ‘We can meet for an assessment session,’ said Frieda. Then you can decide if I’m the right person for you, and I can decide if I think I can help you. All right?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Can you make eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a pause. ‘I think you’ll find me a very interesting person.’

  A nasty little headache screwed its way up Frieda’s temple. Cockiness. It wasn’t a good start.

  Seamus Dunne was a young man, slim and neat, with even features and shiny brown hair, slicked back. He was wearing a dark, tailored jacket, black cords and a purple shirt that shimmered under the light. Frieda wondered how long he had taken to get ready for their meeting. He had a firm though slightly damp handshake and a clipped, emphatic way of speaking. His smile, when he produced it, seemed disconnected from what he was saying. He used her name slightly too often.

  ‘So, Frieda, how do we do this?’ he asked, after he had taken a seat opposite her and put his hands, palms down, on his knees.

  ‘I’d like to know a few details about you and then I’d like you to tell me why you’re here.’

  ‘Details. Right. Age, occupation, things you put on a form?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’m twenty-seven. I’m in sales and marketing, and very good at it. I get people to buy things they didn’t even know they wanted. Perhaps you disapprove of that, Frieda, but, really, it’s how the world works. You don’t find out what people need and give it to them. You create the need in them and then you fulfil it.’

  ‘Do you live in London?’

  ‘Yes. Harrow.’

  ‘Tell me something about your family.’

  ‘My father died when I was seventeen. I didn’t mind. He was useless anyway and he always had it in for me. I was glad when he went. My mum, she’s another story. She adores me. I’m the baby of the family. I’ve got two older sisters and then there’s a gap and there’s me. She still does my washing for me, would you believe? And I go there every Sunday for lunch. Just me and her.’