Waiting for Wednesday

by Nicci French

  ‘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.

  When she got out of the station, she had to use the street map to find her way and even that wasn’t simple. She rotated the map again and again to find which exit she had come out of. Even so, she walked in the wrong direction and had to look at the map again and orientate herself by seeing where Peel Way joined Clarence Avenue. She had to walk back past the station and then through a series of residential streets until she reached Ledbury Close. Number eight was a pebble-dashed detached house, indistinguishable from its neighbours, except that it was somehow more cared for – there was more precise attention to detail. Frieda noticed the new windows, the frames freshly painted in glossy white. On each side of the front door a purple ceramic pot contained a miniature bush, trimmed into a spiral. They were so neat, they looked as if they had been done with scissors.

  Frieda pressed the doorbell. It didn’t seem to make a sound, so she pressed it again and still heard nothing. She stood there, feeling irritated and uncertain. Either no one was in or the doorbell was broken and she was standing there pointlessly, or it wasn’t broken and she was annoying someone even before she had met them. She wondered whether she should ring the bell again and possibly make the situation worse or bang on the door with her fist and make it worse still or just keep waiting and hope for the best. And she wondered why she was even worrying about something like that. Then she heard a sound from somewhere inside and saw a blurred shape through the frosted glass of the door. It opened, revealing a large man, not fat but big so that he seemed to fill the doorway. He was almost completely bald with messy grey hair around the fringes of his head. His face was flushed with the red of someone who spent time outside and he
was dressed in bulky grey work trousers, a blue and white checked shirt and heavy dark leather boots that were yellow with dried mud.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if the bell was working,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Everyone says that,’ said the man, his face crinkling around the eyes. ‘It rings at the back of the house. I have it like that because I spend a lot of time in the garden. I’ve been out there all morning.’ He gestured up at the blue sky. ‘On a day like this.’ He looked at Frieda questioningly.

  ‘Are you Lawrence Dawes?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘My name is Frieda Klein. I’m here because …’ What was she going to say? ‘I’m here because I’m trying to find your daughter, Lila.’

  Dawes’s smile faded. He suddenly seemed older and more frail.

  ‘Lila? You’re looking for my Lila?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know where she is,’ he said. ‘I lost touch with her.’

  He raised his hands helplessly. Frieda saw his fingernails, dirty from the garden. Was that it? Had she come all the way to Croydon just for that?

  ‘Can I talk to you about her?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I met someone who used to know her,’ said Frieda. ‘An old friend of hers called Agnes Flint.’

  Dawes nodded slowly. ‘I remember Agnes. Lila used to go around with this little gang of girls. She was one of them. Before things went wrong.’

  ‘Can I come in?’ said Frieda.

  Dawes seemed to be thinking it over, then gave a shrug. ‘Come through to the garden. I was just about to have some tea.’

  He led Frieda through the house. It was clearly the home of a man – a very organized man – living alone. Through a door she saw a large flat-screen TV and rows of DVDs on shelves. There was a computer. Underfoot was a thick cream-coloured carpet, so that all the sounds were muffled.

  Five minutes later they were standing on the back lawn, holding mugs of tea. The garden was much larger than Frieda had expected, going back thirty, maybe forty, metres from the house. There was a neat lawn with a curved gravel path snaking through it. There were bushes and flowerbeds and little flashes of colour: crocuses, primroses, early tulips. The far end of the garden was wilder and beyond it was a large, high wall.

  ‘I’ve been trying to tidy things up,’ said Dawes. ‘After the winter.’

  ‘It seems pretty tidy to me,’ said Frieda.

  ‘It’s a constant struggle. Look over there.’ He pointed to the garden next door. It was full of long grass, brambles, a ragged rhododendron, a couple of ancient fruit trees. ‘It’s some kind of council house. There’ll be a family of Iraqis or Somalians. Nice enough people. Keep themselves to themselves. But they stay a few months and move on. A garden like this takes years. Do you hear anything?’

  Frieda moved her head. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Dawes walked along the path away from the house. Now Frieda could hear a sound, a low murmuring that she couldn’t make out, like a muttered conversation in another room. At the end of the garden, there was a fence and Frieda stood next to Dawes and looked over it. With an improbability that almost made her laugh, she saw that there was dip on the other side and in the dip a small stream trickled along the end of the garden with a path on the other side, then the high wall she had already seen. She saw Dawes smiling at her surprise.

  ‘It makes me think of the children,’ he said. ‘When they were small, we used to make little paper boats and put them on the stream and watch them float away. I used to tell them that in three hours’ time, those boats would reach the Thames and then, if the tide was right, they’d float out to sea.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Frieda.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘I’m from north London. Most of our rivers were buried long ago.’

  ‘It’s the Wandle,’ said Dawes. ‘You must know the Wandle.’

  ‘I know the name.’

  ‘It rises a mile or so back. From here it goes past old factories and rubbish dumps and under roads. I used to walk along the path beside it, years ago. The water was foamy and yellow and it stank back then. But we’re all right here. I used to let the children paddle in it. That’s the problem with a river, isn’t it? You’re at the mercy of everybody who’s upstream from you. Whatever they do to their river, they do to your river. What people do downstream doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Except to the people further downstream,’ said Frieda.

  ‘That’s not my problem,’ said Dawes, and sipped his tea. ‘But I’ve always liked the idea of living by a river. You never know what’s going to float by. I can see you like it too.’

  ‘I do,’ Frieda admitted.

  ‘So what do you do, when you’re not looking for lost girls?’

  ‘I’m a psychotherapist.’

  ‘Is it your day off?’

  ‘In a way.’ They turned and walked back down the garden. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I do this,’ said Dawes. ‘I do my garden. I do up the house. I do things with my hands. I find it restful.’

  ‘What did you do before that?’

  He gave a slow smile. ‘I was the opposite, the complete opposite. I was a salesman for a company selling photocopiers. I spent my life on the road.’ He gestured to Frieda to sit down on a wrought-iron bench. He sat on a chair close by. ‘You know, there’s an expression I never understood. When people say something’s boring, they say, “It’s like watching grass grow.” Or “It’s like watching paint dry.” That’s exactly what I enjoy. Watching my grass grow.’

  ‘I’m really here,’ said Frieda, ‘because I’d like to find your daughter.’

  Dawes put his mug down very carefully on the grass next to his foot. When he turned to Frieda, it was with a new intensity. ‘I’d like to find her as well,’ he said.

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was all I wanted. All of that driving around, all that work, doing things I hated – what I wanted was to be a father and I was a father. I had a lovely wife and I had the two boys and then there was Lila. I loved the boys, kicking a ball with them, taking them fishing, everything you’re supposed to do. But when I saw Lila, the moment she was born, I thought, You’re my little …’ He stopped and sniffed, and Frieda saw that his eyes were glistening. He coughed. ‘She was the loveliest little girl, smart, funny, beautiful. And then, well, why do things happen? Her mum, my wife, she got ill and was ill for years and then she died. Lila was thirteen. Suddenly I couldn’t get through to her. I’d thought we had a special bond and then it was like I was talking a foreign language. Her friends changed, she started going out more and more and then staying away from home. I should have done more but I was away so much.’

  ‘What about her brothers?’

  ‘They’d left by then. Ricky’s in the army. Steve lives in Canada.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Dawes spread his hands helplessly. ‘I got it wrong,’ he said. ‘Whatever I did, it wasn’t enough or it wasn’t what she needed. When I tried to put my foot down, it just drove her away. If I tried to be nice, it felt like it was too late. The more I wanted her to be there, the more she rejected me. I was just her boring old dad. When she was seventeen, she was mainly living with friends. I’d see her every few days, then every few weeks. She treated me a bit like a stranger. Then I didn’t see her at all. I tried to find her, but I couldn’t. After a while, I stopped trying, although I never stopped thinking of her, missing her. My girl.’

  ‘Do you know how she was suppo
rting herself?’

  Frieda saw his jaw flexing. His face had gone white.

  ‘She was having problems. I think there may have been drugs. She hadn’t been eating properly. Not for years.’

  ‘These friends. Do you know their names?’

  Dawes shook his head. ‘I used to know her friends when they were younger. Like Agnes, the one you’ve met. They were lovely the way girls are together, laughing, going shopping, thinking they’re more grown-up than they are. But she dropped them, took up with a new crowd. She never brought them back, never introduced me to them.’

  ‘When she moved out for good, have you any idea where she lived?’

  He shook his head again. ‘It was somewhere in the area,’ he said. ‘But then I think she must have moved away.’

  ‘Did you report her missing?’

  ‘She was almost eighteen. One time I got so worried, I went to the police station. But when I mentioned her age, the policeman at the desk wouldn’t even write a report.’

  ‘When was this? I mean, the last time you saw her?’

  He knitted his brow.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said at last. ‘It’s more than a year now. It was November of the year before last. I can’t believe it. But that’s one of the things I think about when I’m working out here. That she’ll walk through the door, the way she used to.’

  Frieda sat for a moment, thinking.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Dawes asked.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Maybe it takes one to know one, but you look tired and pale.’

  ‘You don’t know what I normally look like.’

  ‘You said it’s your day off. Is that right?’