Waiting for Wednesday

by Nicci French

  When he had finished, he made himself a cup of instant coffee and removed a biscuit from its plastic wrapping. It was then that he remembered his first visit to Conley at Mortlemere. ‘This is the beginning,’ he’d said, ‘not the end.’ He looked at the file. He thought of the room full of files at home. He thought of his marriage, the squabbles, the silences and then the ending. It had seemed sudden, but it turned out that Sandra had been planning it for months, finding a new flat, talking to a solicitor. ‘What will you do when it ends?’ she had said – referring not to their marriage but to this case, in the days when they still talked of such things. It was more like an accusation than a question. Because there never really were endings. He’d been thinking he could produce a new edition of his book if Conley was released. But it felt wrong now. The book was just negatives: why this hadn’t happened, why that wasn’t true, why this was misleading.

  The question now was different and new: if George Conley hadn’t killed Hazel Barton, who had?

  ELEVEN

  ‘Northern countries,’ said Josef. ‘They all drink the same.’

  ‘What do you mean, drink the same?’

  Josef was driving Frieda in his old van. They were on the way to Islington because Olivia had rung in a near-hysterical state to say that the washbasin in the upstairs bathroom had been ripped off the wall during the party and she needed it repaired. Urgently. And she was never, ever going to have teenagers in her house again. Josef had agreed to abandon the bathroom briefly to help Olivia. Frieda felt strangely torn in her emotional reaction. There was Josef taking a break from doing up her bathroom for nothing in order to help her sister-in-law. Not for nothing: Frieda would insist on that, if she had to pay for it herself. At the same time he was constantly in her house, which had stopped being her own. And each time she looked at what once had been her bathroom, its state seemed to be getting worse rather than better.

  ‘In the south, they drink wine and stay upright. In the north they drink clear liquid and fall down.’

  ‘You mean they drink to get drunk.’

  ‘Forget cares, lose sorrow, escape darkness.’

  Josef swerved to avoid a man who stepped blithely out into the road, his ears encased in giant yellow headphones.

  ‘So, at this party, were there lots of people drinking clear liquid and falling down?’

  ‘They learn too young.’ Josef gave a huge, sentimental sigh. ‘The recovery position.’

  ‘That sounds ominous.’

  ‘No. no. This is just life. People fight, people dance, people kiss and hold, people talk about dreams, people break things, people are sick.’

  ‘All in a few hours.’

  ‘Chloë, she did not have such a good time.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She kept trying to clear the mess. No one should clear the mess before the party is over. Except for broken glass.’

  Josef drew up outside Olivia’s house and they got out of the van. Olivia opened the door before Frieda rang. She was wearing a man’s dressing-gown and her face was tragic.

  ‘I just had to go to bed,’ she said. ‘Everything’s such a mess.’

  ‘It was quite a mess before,’ said Frieda. ‘You said you wouldn’t notice a bit extra.’

  ‘I was wrong. It’s not only the washbasin. My blue lamp is broken. My wheelbarrow is broken because they tried to see how many people could fit in it and still be moved – that, apparently, was your friend Jack’s idea. How old is he? I thought he was an adult, not a toddler. And my nice coat has disappeared, Kieran’s favourite hat he left before he went away has a cigarette burn in the crown.’ Kieran was her mild and patient boyfriend – or perhaps her ex. ‘The neighbours have complained about all the bottles dumped in their gardens and the noise, and someone has peed into my ornamental orange tree in the hall.’

  ‘I will fix the washbasin anyway,’ said Josef. ‘And perhaps the wheelbarrow too.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Olivia, fervently.

  ‘Don’t let him take the washbasin away,’ said Frieda.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is a joke,’ said Josef. ‘Is a joke against me by Frieda.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Josef, I didn’t mean that.’ She looked at the wheelbarrow. ‘How many did it hold?’

  Olivia gave a shaky giggle. ‘Something ludicrous, like seven. Standing up. It’s lucky nobody got themselves killed.’

  Although it was days later, the floor was still sticky underfoot. Pictures hung lopsidedly on the wall. There was the sweet smell of alcohol in the air, and Frieda saw dirty smudges on the paintwork and grime on the stair carpets.

  ‘It’s like one of those children’s picture books: spot the hidden object,’ said Olivia, pointing at a glass inside a shoe. ‘I keep finding unspeakable things.’

  ‘You mean condoms?’ asked Josef.

  ‘No! Oh, God, what happened that I don’t know about?’

  ‘No, no, is all right. I go on up.’ He bounded up the stairs, carrying his bag.

  ‘Let’s have something to drink,’ said Olivia, leading the way into the kitchen. ‘Sorry! I didn’t know you were back from school.’

  Chloë was sitting at the table, and opposite her was a gangly, dishevelled figure: a mop of greasy, dark-blond hair, feet in trainers with the laces undone, jeans sliding down his skinny frame. He turned his head and Frieda saw a thin, pallid face, hollow eyes. He looked bruised and wrung-out. Ted: the boy she had last seen retching over the toilet bowl. The boy who had just lost his mother. He met her gaze and a hectic blush mottled his cheeks. He muttered something incoherent and slumped further over the table with his face half hidden by one hand. Nails bitten to the quick. A little tattoo – or probably an ink drawing – on his thin wrist.

  ‘Hello, Frieda,’ said Chloë. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. It’s not chemistry today, you know.’

  ‘I’m here with Josef.’

  ‘The washbasin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It must have been loose anyway. It just came away.’

  ‘Because two people sat on it!’ Olivia lowered her voice. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’

  Chloë looked embarrassed. ‘This is Ted. Ted, my mum.’

  Ted squinted up at Olivia and managed a hello. Olivia marched up to him, grabbed his limp, unwilling hand and shook it firmly. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘I keep telling Chloë she should bring friends home. Especially handsome young men like you.’

  ‘Mum! That’s why I don’t.’

  ‘Ted doesn’t mind. Do you, Ted?’

  ‘And this is Frieda,’ said Chloë, hastily. ‘She’s my aunt.’ She cast a beseeching glance at Frieda.

  ‘Hello.’ Frieda nodded at him. If it were possible, he turned even more crimson and stuttered something incoherent. She could see that he wanted to run and hide from the woman who’d seen him vomiting – weeping too.

  ‘Shall we go to my room?’ Chloë asked Ted, and he slid off the chair, a raw-boned, awkward, self-conscious young man, all angles and sharp edges.

  ‘I heard about your mother,’ Frieda said. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  She felt Olivia stiffen. Ted stared at her, his pupils enormous. Chloë picked up one of his hands and held it between her own to comfort him. For a moment he seemed stranded in his emotions, unable to move or speak.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘It’s just … Thanks.’

  ‘I hope you’re all receiving proper help.’

  ‘What?’ hissed Olivia, as Chloë led Ted from the room, glancing back over her shoulder with bright eyes. ‘Is that –’

  ‘Her
friend whose mother was killed. Yes.’

  Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I didn’t make the connection. Poor boy. Poor, poor boy. What a dreadful thing. He’s quite attractive, isn’t he, in a grungy kind of way? Do you think Chloë’s in love with him? What a calamity. I mean what happened to him. At such an age, too. Just think of it! Let’s have that drink.’

  Billy Hunt stared up at Karlsson. His eyes were bloodshot and he was twitchier and thinner than ever, but he wasn’t budging.

  Karlsson sighed. ‘You’re making life hard for us and hard for yourself. You’ve admitted breaking and entering; the stolen items have been traced back to you; the murder weapon with your prints all over it, and Mrs Lennox’s blood, has been found. Just admit what you did.’

  ‘Unless I didn’t do it.’

  ‘The jury won’t believe you.’ Karlsson stood up. His head felt tight with weariness and irritation. Now his team would have to trawl through the evidence to put a watertight case together. The time he wanted to be spending with his children, Bella and Mikey, would be spent instead examining statements, going through the house again, talking to expert witnesses, making sure the correct procedures had been followed.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I wanted to say – there is somewhere I went just before.’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘Before … you know.’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘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.’