Waiting for Wednesday

by Nicci French

  ‘Please,’ said Dora. ‘We’ll be very quiet and we won’t make a mess.’

  Ted and Judith were silent, just gazing at her and waiting.

  ‘Frieda,’ said Sasha, warningly. ‘No. This isn’t fair on you.’

  ‘One night,’ said Frieda. ‘One night only. Do you hear? And you have to ring home and tell your aunt and your father, if he’s in a state to understand.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And when the cab arrives I’ll send it away but tell them to come back first thing tomorrow to take you home. You are all going to school. Yes?’

  ‘We promise.’

  ‘Where can we sleep?’ asked Dora.

  Frieda thought of her lovely calm study at the top of the house that was now strewn with Chloë’s mess. She thought of her living room, with the books on the shelves, the sofa by the grate, the chess table by the window. Everything just so. Her refuge against the world and all its troubles.

  ‘Through there,’ she said, pointing up the hall.

  ‘Have you got sleeping bags?’

  ‘No.’ She stood up. Her body felt so heavy it took an enormous effort of will to move at all. Her head thudded. ‘I’ll get some duvets and sheets, and you can use the cushions from the sofa and chair.’

  ‘I’ll sort all of that.’ Sasha sounded urgent. She looked at Frieda with an expression of concern, even alarm.

  ‘Can I have a bath?’ asked Ted.

  Frieda stared at him. The new plug was in her bag. ‘No! You can’t. You mustn’t! Just the washbasin.’

  The bell rang again and Sasha went to cancel the cab. Then, almost immediately, Chloë came in, in her usual high pitch of angry excitement after seeing her father. She threw her arms around Ted, around Frieda, around Sasha.

  ‘Out of here,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m going to clean the kitchen, then go to bed.’

  ‘We’ll tidy,’ Chloë shouted gaily. ‘Leave it to us.’

  ‘No. Go into the other room and I’ll do it. You’re all to go to sleep now – you’re getting up at seven and leaving shortly after that. Don’t make a noise. And if anyone uses my toothbrush I’ll throw them out whatever time of night it is.’

  You seem to have gone off radar. Where are you? Talk to me! Sandy xxxxx

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘It’s fun, isn’t it?’ said Riley.

  ‘In what way?’ asked Yvette.

  ‘We’re looking through people’s things, opening their drawers, reading through their diaries. It’s all the stuff you want to do, but you’re not meant to. I wish I could do this at my girlfriend’s flat.’

  ‘No, it’s not fun,’ said Yvette. ‘And don’t say that aloud, even to me.’

  Riley was going through the filing cabinet in the Kerrigans’ living room. They’d searched the main bedroom and the kitchen already. Paul Kerrigan had stayed in hospital only one night after he was beaten up and now he was out, but his wife had let them in, tight-lipped and silent. She hadn’t offered them coffee or tea, and as they searched among the couple’s possessions, lifting up underwear, turning on computers, reading private letters, noticing the tidemark in the bath and the moth holes in some of Paul Kerrigan’s jumpers, they could hear her slamming doors, banging pans. When Yvette had last met her, she had been dazed and wearily sad. Now she seemed angry.

  ‘Here,’ she said, coming into the room. ‘You might not have found these. They were in his bike pannier in the cupboard under the stairs.’

  She was holding a small square packet between forefinger and thumb, with an air of distaste. ‘Condoms,’ she said, and dropped them on to the table, as if they’d been used. ‘For his Wednesday dates, I assume.’

  Yvette tried to keep her expression neutral. She hoped Riley wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t react. ‘Thank you.’ She picked up the packet to put in the evidence bag.

  ‘He didn’t use them with you?’ said Riley, in a bright voice.

  ‘I had cancer several years ago and the chemotherapy meant that I’m now infertile,’ said Elaine Kerrigan. Briefly, her stiff expression changed to one of distress. ‘So, no, he didn’t.’

  ‘So …’ Yvette began.

  ‘There’s something else I should say. Paul didn’t get home until quite late on that day.’

  ‘We’re talking about the sixth of April.’

  ‘Yes. I was here a long time before him. I remember because I made a lemon meringue pie and I was worried it would spoil. Funny the things you worry about, isn’t it? Anyway, he was late. It must have been gone eight.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that before?’’

  ‘It’s hard to remember everything at once.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Yvette. ‘We’ll need you to make a new statement.’

  She glanced at Riley. There was a gleam about him, almost as if he were suppressing a smile.

  ‘He had a long shower when he came in,’ continued Elaine, ‘and put his clothes straight into the wash. He said he’d had a hard day on site and had to wash away the grime before supper.’

  ‘It’s important you tell us everything you know,’ said Yvette. ‘I know how angry you must be, but I want to be clear that there is no connection between you finding this and your new account of events. Which is quite damaging to your husband’s situation.’

  ‘I’m angry with Paul, if that’s what you mean,’ said Elaine. ‘I’m quite glad someone beat him up. It feels like they were doing it for me. But I’m just telling you what I remember. That’s my duty, isn’t it?’

  As they were leaving, they met the two Kerrigan sons. They had their father’s face and their mother’s eyes and they both stared at Yvette and Riley with what looked to Yvette like hatred.

  Meanwhile, Chris Munster was searching the flat where Paul Kerrigan and Ruth Lennox had met every Wednesday afternoon for the past ten years, barring holidays. He was making an inventory. Dutifully, he wrote down everything he found: two pairs of slippers, his and hers; two towelling robes, ditto; a single shelf full of books in the bedroom – an anthology of poems about childhood, an anthology of writings about dogs, Winston Churchill’s History of the English-Speaking People, a collection of humorous pieces, a volume of cartoons that Munster didn’t find particularly amusing – all books that he supposed were meant to be read in snatches. The bed linen had been removed for traces of bodily fluids, but there was a brightly patterned quilt thrown over the small chair and a woven strip of rug running along the floor. The curtains were yellow-checked, very cheery. The stripped-pine wardrobe was empty except for two shirts (his) and a sundress with a torn zip.

  In the clean, bare bathroom: two toothbrushes; two flannels; two towels, shaving cream, deodorant (his and hers), dental floss, mouthwash. He imagined the two of them carefully washing, cleaning their teeth, gargling with mouthwash, examining themselves in the mirror above the sink for traces of their activities, before getting back into their sensible clothes and going back to their other lives.

  In the kitchen-living room there were four recipe books, along with a set of basic cooking utensils (pots, pans, wooden spoons, a couple of baking trays) and a small number of plates, bowls, glass tumblers. Four mugs that looked to Munster much like the mugs he had seen in the Lennox house. She might well have bought them at the same time. There was a bottle of white wine in the little fridge and two bottles of red wine on the surface. There was a dead hyacinth tilting in its dried-up soil. Two onions shrivelling on the windowsill. A striped tablecloth thrown over the wooden table in the centre of the room. Jigsaws on the side, several, of different levels of difficulty. A pack of cards. A digital radio. A wall calendar with nothing written on it. A red sequined
cushion on the two-seater sofa.

  Ten years of lying, he thought. Just for this.

  ‘Kerrigan no longer has an alibi,’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Well, maybe he doesn’t,’ said Yvette. ‘I’m not sure which of Mrs Kerrigan’s stories I believe.’

  ‘So you’re taking his side.’ There was a sound to his left, a sort of cackle. It came from Riley.

  ‘Yvette’s definitely not taking Kerrigan’s side. She can’t stand him.’

  ‘And what did he need condoms for?’ said Karlsson. ‘Not for his wife.’

  ‘And not for Mrs Lennox,’ said Yvette. ‘We know she had an IUD fitted.’

  ‘He still could have worn a condom,’ said Riley.

  ‘What for?’ said Karlsson.

  Riley looked uneasy now. Karlsson shouldn’t need to be told this.

  ‘You know,’ he said. ‘To stop him catching something from Ruth Lennox. You know what they say, when you sleep with someone, you’re sleeping with all their partners and their partners’ partners and their partners’ parners …’

  ‘Yes, we get the idea,’ said Yvette.

  Karlsson suddenly thought of Sadie. It had been bad enough already. It wasn’t possible, was it? He suppressed the idea. It was too terrible to think about. ‘Do you think so?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Yvette, firmly. ‘If the condoms had been for Ruth Lennox, they would have been in the flat and Munster didn’t find any there. There must have been someone else.’

  ‘That sounds right,’ said Karlsson. ‘The question is, did Ruth Lennox know about that?’

  ‘The other question is why she had that dial of pills in her cupboard.’

  ‘Also,’ said Yvette, ‘I’ve been thinking about the doll.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We’re assuming it was sent to Ruth Lennox and it was a warning. Which would mean that someone was on to them.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What if it was meant for Dora all the time? We know she was being badly bullied at school in the months leading up to her mother’s death. Maybe kids who knew she was ill and would be alone in the house did it.’

  ‘Why?’ Riley sounded indignant.

  ‘Because kids are cruel.’

  ‘But that’s just horrible.’

  ‘They would think it was just a game,’ said Yvette. Everyone noticed the note of bitterness in her voice and her colour rose.

  ‘You may be right.’ Karlsson spoke quickly to cover the awkwardness. ‘We might be leaping to conclusions.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Riley. ‘Whichever it was.’

  ‘The pills belonged to Judith Lennox,’ said Frieda.

  She had come to the police station first thing that morning. Karlsson noticed the rings around her eyes, the strain in her face. She wouldn’t sit down, but stood by the window.

  ‘That clears up one mystery.’

  ‘She’s fifteen.’

  ‘It’s not so unusual for a fifteen-year-old to be sexually active,’ said Karlsson. ‘At least she’s being careful.’

  ‘Her boyfriend is much older, in his late twenties.’

  ‘That’s a big gap.’

  ‘And Judith thinks perhaps her mother found out about them.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I thought you should know. I told Judith I would pass on the information.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘His name is Zach Greene.’ She watched Karlsson scribble the name on the pad in front of him.

  ‘Do you want some coffee?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She considered the question, wondering whether to tell him about Dean, and her fear that he had been in Olivia’s house. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she answered at last.

  ‘I think it does.’

  ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘You’re not back at work yet, are you?’

  ‘Barely.’

  ‘So please sit down for a few minutes and tell me what’s up.’

  ‘I have to go. There are things I have to do.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m going to have it.’

  Sasha and Frieda were sitting in a small café beside Regent’s Canal. Ducks leading flotillas of ducklings steered through the litter and twigs that bobbed in the brown waters.

  ‘You’ve decided.’

  ‘We’ve decided.’

  ‘It’s been so quick,’ said Frieda. ‘A month ago, you barely knew him.’

  ‘I know – but don’t look so worried. I want you to be glad for me.’

  ‘I am glad.’

  ‘I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life, or so happy. If it had been only a week, I’d still be certain. I’m going to move in with Frank and I’m going to have a baby. My whole life is changing.’

  ‘You deserve your happiness,’ said Frieda, sincerely. And she thought of Sandy in America. He seemed very far off now. Sometimes she could barely remember his face or the sound of his voice.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I can’t knit.’

  ‘You don’t need to knit.’

  ‘Or baby talk.’

  ‘No, I can’t imagine you baby-talking.’

  They laughed, then grew serious again. Sasha took Frieda’s hand in hers. ‘You are my very dear friend,’ she said, and her large eyes swam with tears.

  ‘You’re hormonal already.’

  ‘No. Without you, I don’t know what would have become of me.’

  ‘You’d have been fine.’

  ‘I don’t think so. But, Frieda – are you all right?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I worry about you. We all worry.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  ‘Will you promise to tell me if there’s anything wrong?’

  But Frieda changed the subject. She couldn’t make that promise.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Josef looked at the notebook Frieda handed him.

  ‘And I’ve got some phone numbers,’ said Frieda. ‘From the stickers on the side of the phone box.’

  ‘So I phone the number,’ said Josef.

  ‘I know it’s a big thing to ask. But if I phoned, they’d get puzzled hearing a woman’s voice and I’d have to explain things and it probably wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Frieda, you say that already.’

  Frieda took a sip from her cup. The tea was cold. ‘I suppose I feel guilty asking you to phone up a prostitute. In fact a number of prostitutes. I’m grateful to you for doing it. You’ve already done so much.’

  ‘Too much, maybe,’ said Josef, with a smile. ‘So I call now?’ Frieda pushed her mobile across the table. He took the phone. ‘We take the French teacher.’ He dialled the number and Frieda couldn’t stop herself wondering whether he’d done this before. Over the years, several of her patients had talked of using prostitutes, or fantasizing about using prostitutes. At medical school, she had been at parties, once or twice, where a stripper had turned up. Was that the same thing or something completely different? ‘Get over it,’ she remembered a red-faced medical student shouting at her. ‘Lighten up.’ Josef was writing something in the notebook. The instructions sounded complicated. Finally he handed her the phone.

  ‘Spenzer Court.’

  ‘Spenser,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Yes. And it is by Carey Road.’

  Frieda looked at the index of her A – Z. ‘It’s a few streets away,’ she said. ‘We can walk.’

/>   A gateway at the end of Carey Road led into the council estate. The first block was called Wordsworth Court and they went along a ground-floor level, consisting of lock-up garages and giant steel bins. Frieda stopped for a moment. There were split bin bags strewn about, a supermarket trolley lying on its side, a broken TV that had probably been thrown from an upper level. A woman in a full veil was pushing a pram along the far side.

  ‘You know, I never understood places like this,’ she said, ‘until, one time, I was in a hill town in Sicily and I suddenly did. That was the idea about this sort of estate. It was going to be like the little Italian town that the architect had spent his holiday in, full of squares where children would play, and there would be markets and jugglers, and hidden passageways where people could bump into each other and gossip and go for evening strolls. But it didn’t quite work out.’

  ‘Is like Kiev,’ said Josef. ‘But these not so good when is twenty degrees cold.’

  They reached Spenser Court and walked up a staircase to the third floor, picking their way through old food cartons. They went along the balcony. Josef looked at the notebook and then at the flat in front of him. The window next to the door was barred, but also broken and blocked from the inside with plasterboard.

  ‘Is here,’ he said. ‘Is difficult to be in mood for the sex.’

  ‘That’s the way it’s always been. In London anyway.’

  ‘In Kiev also.’

  ‘We need to be calm with her,’ said Frieda. ‘Reassuring.’

  She pressed the doorbell. There was a sound of movement from inside. Frieda glanced at Josef. Did he feel like she did? A strange nausea and guilt about what was going on in the city where she lived? Was she just being prim or naïve? She knew the ways of the world. Josef looked calmly expectant. There was a fumbling sound, then the door opened a few inches and Frieda caught a glimpse of a face behind the taut chain: young, very small, lipstick, bleached hair. Frieda started to say something but the door slammed shut. She waited for the chain to be unfastened, the door opened properly, but there was silence. She and Josef looked at each other. Frieda pressed the doorbell again but there was no response. She leaned down, pushed the letterbox open and peered through. Something was blocking her view.