Tuesday's Gone

Twenty-seven

In the last two weeks, Joe Franklin had been in a far better state than he had been in for months, even years: he wore jeans and an ironed shirt; his laces weren’t trailing; his fingernails were clean and cut; his hair was brushed; his face was freshly shaved. Usually, he sat forward in his chair, hunched over himself, his head held in his hands and often obscured by them, but today he had sat back, his head lolling against the chair rest, like a convalescent who was weak but with the sense of life trickling back into him. He even smiled twice, once when he spoke of licking out a cake bowl when he was little, and once when he told her that a friend was coming round that evening and they were going to eat sea urchins together: ‘Did you know you could eat sea urchins?’ Frieda hadn’t known. She noticed the way his face changed and softened when pain ebbed out of it. He looked years younger.

Her final session of the morning was with a middle-aged man called Gordon, who spoke in whispers through his fingers, as if he was ashamed of himself. He was trapped by his own frantic insecurities, by the knots he’d tied himself into, and Frieda’s job was slowly, carefully, to go into his world and bring him back out. Sometimes she felt as if she was building a castle one grain of sand at a time.

When it was over, she went and opened her window for a few minutes and leaned out, inhaling the cold damp air, letting the wind blow through her. There was still no work on the building site, but she saw that some kids had made a den out of the planks they’d collected, and as she watched, three young boys ran across to it and inserted themselves through an opening in the wonky structure. She remembered that it was half-term: Chloë had told her very firmly that they were having no chemistry lessons this week; she was on holiday.

She closed the window again and wrote her notes on the last session, but before she had finished, the phone rang. It was Josef. ‘Where are you?’ she said.

‘With the woman,’ he said. ‘Mrs Orton. Doing the house. Fixing here and there.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘Can you come?’

‘Is there a problem?’

Josef replied, but the line was bad or he was speaking quietly so Frieda couldn’t make out what he was saying.

‘Can you speak louder?’ she said. ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying.’

‘Better if you come,’ said Josef. ‘You can come now?’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘You can come now?’

Frieda gave up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can come now.’

The door was opened by a man Frieda didn’t recognize. He was in his fifties, with thinning short grey hair, and was dressed in grey corduroy trousers and a checked shirt. He looked at her with a frown.

‘I’m Robin Orton,’ he said, and led her through. In the kitchen, Mary was sitting at the table with another, slightly older, man. He was also casually dressed, with black jeans and a navy blue sweater zipped up to the neck. Slightly older, slightly bulkier, slightly balder. To Frieda it looked like dress-down day at an office where the employees would have been happier in their normal suits. ‘This is my brother, Jeremy,’ said Robin.

‘Please, sit down,’ said Jeremy.

Frieda sat at the table, now feeling as though she’d arrived at an unexpected job interview.

‘Hello, Frieda,’ said Mary Orton, with a nervous smile. ‘I’ve just made some coffee. Would you like some?’

Frieda nodded and the old woman filled a cup, put it on a saucer and placed it in front of her.

‘And some cake as well? I remember how much you liked it.’

‘Yes, that’d be lovely,’ said Frieda. ‘A small piece. A bit smaller than that.’ She took a sip of cool coffee, conscious that she was being scrutinized by three pairs of eyes. ‘Josef Morozov asked me to come,’ she said.

Jeremy folded his arms. He was evidently the elder brother, the one in charge. ‘Yes, we talked to him. I’m sorry. Can we go back to basics? Can you explain to us exactly what your involvement with our mother is?’

Frieda paused. That was a surprisingly difficult question. ‘A man who was working for your mother has been murdered.’ She looked at Mary Orton. She felt awkward talking about her as if she wasn’t present. ‘I was involved in interviewing Mrs Orton.’

‘Mary, please,’ said Mary Orton.

‘Are you a police officer?’ asked Jeremy.

‘No. I’m doing some work with them. As a sort of consultant.’

‘Do you have some identification?’

‘Identifying me as what?’

‘As officially working with the police.’

Frieda spoke as calmly as she could. ‘No, I don’t. If you have any questions, I can give you a number to call. As it happens, I’m only here because Josef rang me. I assumed there was some sort of problem.’

‘There’s all sorts of problems,’ said Jeremy. ‘We’ll get on to that. But, first, this man Josef, he’s here on your recommendation. Is that right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is this an official service as part of your police work?’

Frieda frowned. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Your mother had water leaking through the roof. Josef’s a friend of mine. He’s good and he’s trustworthy. If you have a problem with him being here, just tell me or him.’

The brothers exchanged looks. Robin had been standing to one side. Now he came across and sat at the table. Suddenly Frieda felt surrounded.

‘We’ve been having a family conference,’ Robin said. ‘We’re not happy about what’s been happening with our mother.’

‘Hang on.’ Frieda put down her coffee cup. ‘I was phoned by Josef. Where is he?’

‘He’s up in the loft,’ said Jeremy. ‘You can go and see him if you want.’

‘I’ll see him in a minute,’ said Frieda. ‘But if you’ve got some problem with him being here, just let us know. As far as I’m concerned, he’s doing Mary a favour. If you don’t see it that way, say so and we’ll go.’

‘I wasn’t saying that.’

‘Why did he ring me?’

‘Well, when I arrived I was surprised to find him here. I asked him about his plans, about costs and estimates. I should tell you, Miss Klein, that I’m a company accountant and I know about this sort of thing.’

‘When Josef first came here, water was coming through the roof,’ said Frieda. ‘You should be grateful that your mother was able to get someone so quickly.’

‘This is really a side issue,’ said Jeremy. ‘When I found this man here, what I really wanted to know was who had arranged it and in general what’s been going on with my mother.’

‘And what’s your view,’ asked Frieda, ‘about what’s been going on?’

‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ said Jeremy. ‘I come down from time to time to go through my mother’s affairs, to help her with her accounts.’

Frieda looked at the photographs on the dresser. She remembered Mary Orton talking about her grandchildren, about how the photographs were old, how the children would be more grown-up now. ‘When did you last go through your mother’s accounts?’ she asked.

‘Some time ago,’ said Jeremy. ‘Six months. Before the summer holidays, I think. I live in Manchester. Robin’s in Cardiff. We’ve both got families. We come when we can.’

‘So, last July?’ She looked at him. ‘Seven months ago.’

‘Yes. Or June, maybe. But that’s not the point. The point is that my mother has been the victim of a crime and I want to establish whether it’s being properly investigated.’

‘What crime are you talking about?’ asked Frieda.

The two brothers glanced at each other again.

‘Are you kidding? said Robin. ‘This man Robert Poole stole more than a hundred and fifty thousand pounds from her. He also faked the work he was doing.’

Frieda looked at their mother. She was reminded of sitting with Michelle Doyce, of her case being discussed as if she wasn’t there. ‘I’m not sure that this is the time or the place to be discussing this,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’ Jeremy’s voice rose slightly. ‘We’ve discovered a theft. You’re from the police. We want to know what’s being done about it.’

‘I’m not the person you want,’ said Frieda. ‘You need to talk to the police directly.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’ said Jeremy.

‘I’m here because I was asked to come.’

‘My mother said you were the person she talked to, that you were the person who went through her accounts and found out about the theft. What’s your involvement?’

‘My involvement is that I help out when I can in certain areas of my expertise.’

‘Which are?’

‘I’m a psychotherapist.’

Jeremy looked incredulous. ‘A psychotherapist?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who recommends builders?’

Frieda took another deep breath. She addressed her reply to Mary. ‘I recommended Josef. If there’s been any problem with his work or with him, please just tell me.’

‘Oh, no, no,’ said Mary Orton. ‘He’s been awfully good. I like having him in the house. He’s been telling me about his family back in Ukraine. He’s having a difficult time, poor man.’

‘Of course,’ said Robin, ‘she hasn’t exactly been up in the attic checking his work.’

‘You can go up to the attic,’ said Frieda. ‘And if you’ve any complaints, just tell me about them.’

‘We’ll be checking,’ said Jeremy.

‘Did you ever meet Robert Poole?’ asked Frieda.

‘No,’ said Jeremy. ‘I told you we haven’t been down here since before last summer.’

‘No,’ said Frieda. ‘You said you hadn’t checked her accounts since then. I thought you might have brought the children for the occasional weekend, half-term in London, something like that.’

‘We live a long way from London.’

‘What about you?’ Frieda asked Robin.

‘I’ve been occupied.’ Robin’s face had turned red.

‘And Christmas?’ Frieda said softly. ‘What happened at Christmas?’

‘They have very busy Christmases,’ Mary Orton said hastily. ‘Jeremy always goes skiing, don’t you, dear? And Robin …’ Her voice trailed away. She picked at the cuff of her jersey.

There was a small silence. Frieda turned back to the brothers. ‘So you never happened to bump into him?’

‘No.’

‘Did you know the work was going on?’

‘Why should we?’

Frieda gave a little shrug. ‘I just thought that if your mother was having major building work done, you might have talked about it on the phone.’

‘Well, we didn’t,’ said Jeremy. ‘I can tell you that if we had, we’d have both been down here to make sure it was being done properly.’

‘I’m sure I mentioned it,’ said Mary Orton, faintly.

‘No, you didn’t, Ma,’ said Robin.

Frieda turned to her. ‘When we talked before, you said your husband died a long time ago. How long have you lived alone?’

‘Dad died five years ago,’ said Jeremy. ‘He’s over there on the sideboard.’ He smiled at Frieda’s puzzled expression. ‘In that wooden thing. The thing that looks like a coffee pot. Funny thing to have in the kitchen.’

‘I talk to him sometimes,’ said Mary Orton.

‘You want to watch what you say with her around.’ Robin gestured at Frieda. ‘She may not approve of an old woman talking to a box of ashes.’

‘Why wouldn’t I approve?’

‘It probably doesn’t give good financial advice either,’ said Jeremy. ‘On the subject of which, how are the police dealing with this robbery?’

‘You do understand that this is a murder inquiry?’ said Frieda.

‘And you’ll understand,’ answered Jeremy, ‘that we’re a little more concerned about the small matter of robbery. What we want to hear from you is when our mother will be getting her money back.’

Frieda was tempted to tell the two brothers that all the money was gone from Robert Poole’s account, and that Robert Poole was a stolen identity and that it wasn’t necessarily certain that the money had been stolen anyway. But she stopped herself. ‘I’m afraid I can’t talk about what’s happening with the inquiry. I don’t know the details myself. You’ll have to approach the officer in charge.’ She felt grim amusement at the idea of Karlsson having to deal with the brothers Orton.

‘You don’t sound very sympathetic,’ said Jeremy.

‘I’m doing what I can,’ said Frieda. ‘This is not a competition but at least I helped to stop the water coming through the roof.’

‘What do you think it’s like to find that your mother is being cheated of her life savings?’ Jeremy actually jabbed his finger at her as he spoke.

‘Well …’

‘It wasn’t a real question,’ he continued. ‘I have to say that it doesn’t feel to me as if you’re treating this like a real crime.’

‘I’m not a detective,’ said Frieda.

‘You seem to be behaving like one. You seem pretty calm about this man taking our mother’s money.’

‘It’s not really my –’

‘And,’ he interrupted, his colour rising, ‘that’s not all he was doing. Was it, Ma?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Please,’ said Mary Orton. ‘Please don’t.’

‘He was also trying to get her to change her will, to leave a third of everything to him.’

‘What?’

‘No, Jeremy,’ said Mary Orton. ‘I didn’t … I couldn’t …’ She had gone very red. Tears were running from the corners of her eyes.

‘That’s all right, Ma.’ Jeremy patted her hand as if she were an old dog. ‘It wasn’t your fault. The man was controlling you. You didn’t know what you were doing.’

‘Mary,’ said Frieda, ‘are you comfortable talking about this?’ Mary Orton nodded but didn’t speak. Frieda looked at Jeremy. ‘Please explain. About the will.’

‘I told you. I was going through Ma’s papers. I found letters from a solicitor. They were about drafting a new will. Ma has the house and her portfolio, so it was quite a big deal. Fortunately she saw the light.’

‘Mary changed her mind?’

‘No,’ said Jeremy. ‘The solicitor didn’t go through with it. Raised objections. She probably smelt a rat. I wish someone had done that a bit earlier. Now, getting a poor old woman to change a will in favour of someone she barely knows, is that a crime?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘Have you met her?’

‘I read the letters. And I asked Ma about her. She was taken advantage of.’

Frieda wanted to say, ‘Your mother is in the room.’ Jeremy Orton was treating the old woman as if she were slightly stupid and didn’t understand English properly. But pointing this out would only humiliate her even more. ‘Can I see the letters?’ she asked instead.

She was addressing Mary Orton, but Jeremy nodded at his brother, who took a file from his bag and handed it across to Frieda. She opened it and flicked through the official-looking letters. One was an invoice. She felt someone close to her: Robin was reading the letter over her shoulder.

‘Three hundred pounds,’ he said. ‘Three hundred pounds for not doing a will. I wonder what they’d charge for actually doing it.’

Frieda saw the name at the bottom of the letter. Tessa Welles. She wrote it down and the address. ‘It sounds like a bargain,’ she said.

‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Robin. ‘At least someone was looking out for my mother.’

‘Have you only just discovered this?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did neither of you know about the will before?’

‘No,’ said Jeremy.

‘No,’ agreed Robin, adding, ‘Of course not.’

The kitchen door opened and Josef came in. He seemed tired but he smiled when he saw Frieda. ‘I did not know,’ he said.

‘I was about to come up.’

‘So, what have you been doing?’ said Jeremy.

‘The roof is fixed,’ said Josef. ‘Not fixed, proper fixed, just a patch to stop the water.’

‘Did you give my mother an estimate for the work in advance?’

Josef gazed at Jeremy with a puzzled expression.

‘Come to that,’ Jeremy continued, ‘I’m not sure what you’re doing commissioning work in my mother’s house.’

‘There was a hole in the roof,’ said Frieda, ‘and you were in Manchester.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Jeremy’s tone turned harsher. ‘You mean that you and this man were looking after my mother and I wasn’t?’

‘Please, Jeremy,’ said Mary. ‘They were just –’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘What would you feel like, if someone did that to your mother?’

‘What did you feel like?’ said Frieda.

‘What do you think?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Josef. ‘I am finished.’

‘Actually,’ said Mary, ‘there are some other things I hoped you could look at. The boiler’s making a funny noise and there’s a window upstairs that won’t shut properly.’

Josef glanced warily at Robin and Jeremy.

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Jeremy. ‘It’s not my house.’

‘I’ll show you.’

Mary and Josef left the kitchen together, and Frieda looked down at her notebook, at the solicitor’s address. ‘Princes Road. Is that nearby?’

‘It’s just round the corner,’ said Robin. ‘Poole just took Ma up the road to the nearest person he could find. It must have seemed so simple.’

‘Can I use your phone?’ said Frieda.

‘Don’t you have a mobile?’

‘Not with me.’

Robin waved her towards the phone in a holster on the wall.

It took several calls and repeated explanations, then Frieda sat for forty minutes of mostly uncomfortable silence before Yvette arrived in a car and picked her up. She didn’t seem happy to see Frieda. ‘You need to tell us,’ she said, ‘if you’re going to talk to witnesses.’

‘I wasn’t exactly talking to witnesses,’ said Frieda. ‘Josef is working on Mary Orton’s house and he rang me because there was a problem with her sons. I didn’t think it had anything to do with the case.’

Yvette was sitting in the passenger seat and Frieda was in the back. She felt like a child being driven somewhere by two disapproving adults.

‘You can’t just act on your own,’ said Yvette.

Frieda didn’t respond. The car pulled up outside a line of shops. ‘Should I come with you?’ she asked.

‘If you want,’ said Yvette, shrugging.

The two women got out of the car. The location of Tessa Welles’s office wasn’t immediately obvious. Number fifty-two was a shop selling tiles and vases, jugs and coffee cups. Number fifty-two B was a small green door to the left. Long rang the doorbell and they were buzzed inside. The two of them walked up the narrow stairs. At the top there was an anteroom with a desk, a computer, neatly stacked piles of papers and a chair. Beyond it, a door swung open and a woman stepped out. Frieda guessed she was in her late thirties, with thick, reddish-blonde hair, long and tied loosely back, as if to keep it out of her way, and a pale face that was bare of makeup, with faded freckles over the bridge of the nose. Her eyes were grey-blue and shrewd, and she was dressed in a charcoal-grey shift dress, thick, patterned tights and ankle boots. She gave a slightly harassed smile. ‘I’m Tessa Welles,’ she said. ‘Won’t you come through? I’ve just made a pot of coffee, if you’d like some.’

She took them into a much messier main office, with a window overlooking the street. Files were piled on her desk and shelves held other box files, legal books. There were certificates on the wall and photographs: Tessa Welles in a group of people at a restaurant, Tessa Welles on a beach somewhere, Tessa Welles on a bike among a group of cyclists with mountains in the background. There were also two paintings that Frieda wouldn’t have minded on her own walls at home. Tessa poured them coffee and Yvette introduced herself, then Frieda as a ‘civilian assistant’.

‘Do you work alone?’ said Yvette, sipping her coffee.

‘I’ve got an assistant, Jenny, who comes in half-time. She’s not here today.’

‘Mrs Welles,’ said Yvette.

‘Ms.’

‘Sorry. Ms. In mid-November, you met a woman called Mary Orton and a man called Robert Poole. It was about drawing up a will for her. Do you remember?’

Tessa gave a very faint smile. ‘Yes, I remember.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Yvette. ‘Is something funny?’

‘No,’ said Tessa. ‘It’s not really funny. But is this about some kind of fraud?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I don’t know. What I mainly remember is that that man made me uncomfortable. He seemed like a bit of a chancer. What’s happened? Is this a fraud inquiry?’

‘No, it’s a murder inquiry,’ said Yvette. ‘Somebody killed him.’

Tessa’s expression changed to one of shock. ‘Oh, my God. I’m sorry, I had no idea. I –’

‘A chancer, you said.’

‘No, no.’ Tessa made a gesture of repudiation. ‘I didn’t mean to be nasty. I don’t know anything about him.’

‘What did you mean?’

Tessa took a deep breath. ‘When someone alters a will in favour of a beneficiary who is not a family member, it always rings an alarm bell.’

‘What did you say?’

Tessa frowned with the effort of recollection. ‘I think I just talked it through with them … well, with the woman in particular. I asked for her reasons in making the change, why now, whether she had thought it over, discussed it with her family, and so on.’

‘And what did Mrs Orton say?’

‘I can’t remember exactly,’ said Tessa. ‘I got the impression that she felt abandoned by her family. I think this man had taken their place.’

‘What was Poole saying during the meeting?’

‘Not much. He was like an attentive son, in the background, supportive.’

‘So what was the problem?’ said Frieda.

Yvette frowned at her.

‘What?’ Tessa seemed puzzled.

‘You’re a solicitor,’ said Frieda. ‘If someone wants to change a will and comes to you, isn’t your job just to draw it up for them?’

Tessa smiled, then looked thoughtful. ‘I’m a family solicitor,’ she said. ‘I do conveyancing, wills and divorces. Buying houses and getting married and dying. I remember being told when I was a student that if you like law as a kind of theatre you should become a barrister. But if you want to discover people’s secrets, their deepest feelings and passions, you should become a solicitor.’

‘Or a psychotherapist,’ said Yvette.

‘No,’ said Tessa. ‘I can really help people.’

Yvette glanced at Frieda with a secret smile. Tessa noticed it. ‘Oh, God, you’re not …’ she began.

‘Yes, she is,’ said Yvette.

‘Sorry, it was a cheap thing to say. I didn’t mean anything.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Frieda. ‘You were talking about helping people.’

‘Yes. I see couples who are divorcing and sometimes they talk to me in a way they can’t talk to anyone else. Not even each other.’

‘So why didn’t you just draw up the will for Mary Orton?’ said Frieda.

‘I don’t “just do” things for people,’ said Tessa. ‘I always talk to them and find out what it is that they really need.’

‘And what did Mary Orton really need?’ asked Frieda.

‘She was lonely, that was clear, and in need of support. I suppose what she really needed was her family. And I suspected that this man had come into the vacuum and was taking advantage of her.’

‘Why didn’t you call the police?’

‘She didn’t call the police,’ said Yvette, ‘because changing your will is not a crime.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Tessa. ‘I tried to talk to Mrs Orton about why she wanted to do this. She seemed to find it embarrassing, distressing, even. I felt sorry for her.’

‘What did Robert Poole say?’ asked Yvette.

‘He said it wasn’t his idea, that it was something Mrs Orton wanted to do and that it was important to her.’

‘He had a bloody nerve,’ said Yvette, abruptly, then bit her lower lip. ‘What else did you say?’ she asked more calmly.

‘I told Mrs Orton that she was taking a large step and that it was something she ought to think about. I probably also said that if she left everything away from her family, then the will might be subject to legal challenge.’

‘And?’

‘That was all,’ said Tessa. ‘They left and I didn’t hear anything more.’

‘Were you shocked?’ said Yvette.

Tessa pulled a face and shook her head. ‘I used to be. The first few years of hearing what husbands say about wives and wives say about husbands and what people do to their own families, I lost every illusion I had. Sometimes I feel like I’m faced with huge, dangerous engines that are falling apart, and all I can do is put little pieces of sticky tape on them and hope they hold for a while.’

‘What did you make of Robert Poole?’ asked Yvette.

‘I told you. Although he was very polite, and Mary Orton obviously trusted him, I felt there was something wrong about him. I did what I could but, of course, I knew it was possible he’d find someone else to do the will, or even that they’d just draw it up between themselves and find a stray witness. There’s a limit to what you can do for people.’

‘What did you think when you heard he’d been killed?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Tessa. ‘I’m shocked, of course. I can’t believe it.’

‘Why do you think it happened?’

‘God, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about his life.’

‘But you saw him in action,’ Yvette said. ‘What if he did something like that to the wrong person?’

‘Maybe,’ said Tessa. ‘But I had one brief encounter with him and then I forgot all about him until now. I can’t throw any light on his murder, if that’s what you’re looking for. What did Mary Orton’s family think?’

‘They weren’t pleased,’ said Frieda. ‘They weren’t pleased at all.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘Most people seem to have found him charming,’ said Frieda. ‘Were you charmed by him?’

Tessa gave another faint smile. ‘No. I probably met him in the wrong context to be charmed by him.’

Yvette stood up. ‘Thank you, Ms Welles,’ she said. ‘I think that’s everything for the time being.’

Frieda remained seated. ‘I want to ask Tessa something,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing to do with the inquiry. Is it all right if I join you outside?’ Yvette glared at Frieda, who added mildly, ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

Yvette turned and walked out. Frieda heard her thumping down the stairs. Tessa looked at her with concern. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘A bit of friction. I’ve only just been appointed.’

‘Appointed to what?’

‘That’s a good question. But I wanted to ask you something completely different. I was interested when you talked about the way you worked. About knowing people’s secrets and counselling them …’

‘I didn’t exactly say “counselling”.’

‘Well, anyway, my sister-in-law is on very bad terms with her ex-husband, my brother, and she needs to get some advice about dealing with the situation.’

Tessa leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. ‘Whose side are you on in this dispute?’

‘I’m not sure I’m exactly taking sides,’ said Frieda. ‘But if I was in a balloon with both of them and I had to throw one of them out, it would be my brother.’

Tessa smiled. ‘I’ve got a brother. I think I know what you mean.’

‘But is this the sort of thing you do?’

‘It’s exactly the sort of thing I do.’

‘No favours,’ said Frieda. ‘We’d pay, just like any other client, but you could talk to her?’

‘I could talk to her.’

Back on the pavement, Frieda found Yvette and the other officer leaning on the car in conversation. Yvette looked round at Frieda, who could almost feel hostility steaming off her. ‘You did well,’ she said, through gritted teeth. ‘But leave the detective work to us, OK?’