Tuesday's Gone

Thirty

At half past two on the same day, acting on a feeling that had been growing in her all morning, Frieda returned to Greenwich, to the Wyatts’. She didn’t tell Karlsson and neither did she call in advance, even though she knew it was likely that nobody would be there. But when she arrived at their apartment, she saw Aisling through the large downstairs window, sitting at the piano and playing. Even from where she stood, among the spring bulbs and the copper pots carefully planted with herbs, Frieda could tell that her hands moved fluently over the keys. She also saw that her posture was tense. She walked to the front door, rang the bell, and the distant piano music stopped. After a few seconds, the door opened.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry to arrive unannounced,’ said Frieda. ‘We’ve met before.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

Aisling looked uncertain. Her thin face was strained and there were small lines around her mouth that Frieda hadn’t noticed before. ‘The children will come back from school soon,’ she said. But she stood aside and Frieda walked into the wide, clean spaces of the apartment, which felt to her like a showhouse rather than a home. It was hard to believe the Wyatts had children, and she wondered how many hours a day the cleaner came. Her feet slid on the polished wood. On the low glass table, bright satsumas were arranged in a pyramid in a carved wooden bowl.

‘Can I get you something? Tea, coffee, anything herbal?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Frieda, sinking into the soft sofa. She disliked furniture that swaddled her. She liked to sit upright.

‘So. Do you have anything you want to ask? Frank isn’t here, of course.’

‘That’s why I came. I assumed he’d be at work and your children would be at school.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I wanted to talk about your affair with Robert Poole.’

‘How dare you?’ She sprang to her feet and stood in front of Frieda, thin and straight, quivering with distressed rage. ‘How dare you?’

‘Someone killed him, Aisling. It might be relevant.’

‘Get out of here.’

‘All right.’ Frieda stood and picked up her coat from the arm of the sofa, feeling in its pocket. ‘But if you want to tell me about it, here’s my card.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘I’m not going to say anything to the police at the moment.’

‘There’s nothing to say.’

The two women stared at each other, then Frieda nodded at her and left. Through the window, she could see Aisling still standing where she’d left her, gazing down at the name card.

‘Come in, come in, come in!’ cried Olivia. She was in hostess mode, expansive and already slightly tipsy. Dressed in green velvet, her hair tied up, earrings dangling, she pulled Frieda into the house and kissed her on both cheeks, then rubbed off the lipstick marks with a licked finger. The hall was full of shoes. There was also a mousetrap at the foot of the stairs, as yet mouseless.

‘Is she here?’

‘Your solicitor woman –’

‘Tessa Welles.’

‘Not yet. But she rang to say she was on her way. She sounded lovely. She’s bringing her brother.’

‘Why? Is he a solicitor too?’

‘No, but she’s going to the theatre with him and they were coming from the same direction, so …’ Olivia waved vaguely in the air. Her fingernails were chipped scarlet. ‘I said it would be fine.’

‘Of course. Have you got all the documents together?’

‘Well. You see. That’s a bit of a problem. I’ve done my best. You know how these things are. Stuff just disappears.’ And Olivia opened her eyes wide, as if she was a conjuror who’d done a magic trick.

‘She must be used to it. Where’s Chloë?’

‘She’s at some mobile club thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I don’t really know,’ Olivia said vaguely. ‘It’s all done on Facebook and, anyway, she’s with Sammy and Sammy’s brother and his friends and she is seventeen.’

The bell rang, and she went to the door, throwing it open with such force that it banged back on itself, and Frieda caught a glimpse of two surprised faces before it shut once more.

‘Sorry,’ said Olivia, reopening it. ‘Do come in.’

They could only have been brother and sister. It wasn’t just that both were tall and rangy, and had the same red-blonde hair, although his was cut short and fading to a peppery grey. They had the same oval face and grey-blue eyes.

‘Hello,’ said Tessa. She saw Frieda and gave her a smile of recognition. ‘This is my brother, Harry Welles.’

Harry shook Olivia’s hand and then Frieda’s. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I can sit in the car, if you like, or just perch somewhere while you talk. I’ve got plenty of work to be getting on with.’

‘Are you joining us?’ Tessa asked Frieda.

‘I asked her here for moral support,’ said Olivia. ‘I thought you might be some terrifying woman in a pin-striped suit. But I think I’ll manage on my own. Come into the living room. It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. Though I tried to clear things up a bit.’

‘Where shall I put myself?’ Harry asked Frieda.

‘You could try the kitchen,’ said Frieda, dubiously. ‘It might not be in a suitable state. Shall we have a look at it?’

‘Wow,’ said Harry, almost admiringly, as they entered. ‘I see what you mean.’

‘I could clear you a space at the table.’

‘Where are you going to be?’

‘I thought I might clear up a bit. Although I’m not sure where to start.’

‘I tell you what, why don’t I wash up?’

‘That’s out of the question.’

‘Why? I like washing up. Are there any gloves that would fit me?’

‘No.’

‘Yes. Here they are.’ He snapped them on. ‘Perfect. Bring it on.’

‘This is inappropriate.’

‘Inappropriate?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re uncomfortable.’

‘Yes.’

He peeled off the gloves. ‘I don’t see why. Perhaps you could make us some tea?’

‘I don’t want tea.’

‘A glass of wine? Tessa’s driving. There are about four opened bottles that I can see.’

‘All right. I’ll make you some tea and you can sit at the table.’

She took the ashtray, the wine glasses, the mugs and several smeared plates off the table, then collected the newspapers and magazines into a pile. There were several unopened letters, bills as far as she could tell, that she put on the side for Olivia to look at later. ‘Here. Take a seat.’

‘You’re stubborn.’

‘Yes. I’ll just wipe the surface.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

‘Do you always make yourself at home like this?’

‘Do I?’ He looked surprised. ‘I don’t know.’

Frieda made a pot of tea and Harry Welles opened his briefcase and pulled out some papers that he put on the table in front of him, but he didn’t seem inclined to work. Frieda could feel him watching her as she stacked plates in the dishwasher.

‘What’s your job?’ she asked at last.

‘I’m a financial adviser. There, that usually shuts people up.’

‘What kind of people do you advise?’

‘All sorts. Some who are wealthy and want to know which offshore account to hide their money in, some who are struggling and can’t make ends meet. I look after a few charities. You wouldn’t believe what a mess people can get into with their money.’

‘I probably would.’

‘But you don’t. I mean, get into trouble with your own money.’

‘No.’

‘Of course not. I hear you’re a therapist.’

‘Yes.’

Often people responded to her profession with a jokey, nervous comment about what she was reading in their behaviour and manner, as if she had spooky X-ray vision. Harry Welles, propping his chin in his hands and looking at her, said, ‘Yes. I can see how someone would trust you.’ Then he added, with a casual ease, ‘Would you like to have dinner with me on Friday?’

Frieda handed him his tea. ‘All right.’

‘Good. Venue to be confirmed. What’s your email?’

She gave it to him and he jotted it down. Then he opened a folder, picked up a pencil, and started working. Frieda smiled to herself and attacked a particularly encrusted pan.