Waiting for Wednesday

FIFTEEN

She was expecting him. She glanced at herself in the mirror to make sure she was looking in control and reasonably healthy – she couldn’t stand the thought of anyone’s pity, and certainly not his – then ate the slice of quiche standing by the kitchen window, with the cat at her feet, rubbing its flank against her calves. The house was quiet now after a day of terrible bangs and tearing sounds and drilling. Stefan had been there again as he and Josef had carried two industrial-looking beams into the house. But they were gone now. Frieda didn’t know what she actually wanted, but she did know that she felt suddenly more alert and less jangled, as if a knob had been turned very slightly and her world had come into clearer focus.

The doorbell rang at ten minutes past nine.

‘Hello, Frieda,’ said Karlsson. He held out a bunch of red tulips, wrapped in damp paper. ‘I should have brought these to you weeks ago.’

‘Weeks ago I had far too many flowers. They all died at the same time. This is better.’

‘Can I come in?’

In the living room, he took one of the chairs by the empty grate. ‘I always think of you sitting by a fire,’ he said.

‘You’ve only really known me in the winter.’

There was a silence: they were both remembering the work they’d done together, and the way it had ended so violently.

‘Frieda …’ he began.

‘You don’t need to.’

‘I do. I really do. I haven’t been to see you since you left hospital because I felt so bad about what had happened that I went into a kind of lockdown about it. You helped us – more than that, you rescued us. And in return we got rid of you and then we nearly got you killed.’

‘You didn’t get rid of me and you didn’t nearly get me killed.’

‘Me. My team. Us. That’s how it works. I was responsible and I let you down.’

‘But I wasn’t killed. Look at me.’ She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, smiled. ‘I’m fine.’

Karlsson shut his eyes for a moment. ‘In this job you have to develop a thick skin or you’d go mad. But you can’t have a thick skin when it involves a friend.’

Silence settled around the word. Images of Karlsson flitted through Frieda’s mind: Karlsson at his desk, calm and in control; Karlsson striding along a road with a tight face; Karlsson sitting by the bed of a little boy who, they thought, was perhaps dying; Karlsson standing up to the commissioner for her; Karlsson with his daughter wrapped around his body like a frightened koala; Karlsson sitting beside her fire and smiling at her.

‘It’s good to see you,’ said Frieda.

‘That means a lot.’

‘Have your children left yet?’ she asked.

‘No. They go very soon, though. I was supposed to be spending lots of time with them. Then this case came up.’

‘Hard.’

‘Like a toothache that won’t go away. Are you really OK?’

‘I’m fine. I need a bit of time.’

‘I don’t mean just physically.’ Karlsson flushed and Frieda was almost amused.

‘You mean am I in a state of trauma?’

‘You were attacked with a knife.’

‘I dream about it sometimes.’ Frieda considered. ‘And I need to tell you that I also think about Dean Reeve. Something happened a few days ago that you should know. Don’t look anxious, I don’t want to talk about it now.’

There was a silence. Karlsson seemed to be weighing something up in his mind. To speak or not to speak.

‘Listen,’ he said finally. ‘That boy Ted.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘That’s not what I wanted to say. You know about the case?’

‘I know his mother was killed.’

‘She was a nice woman, with a decent husband, close family, good friends, neighbours who liked her. We thought we’d got the man who did it, all simple and straightforward. It turns out that he couldn’t have and we’re back where we started. Except that it makes even less sense.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Frieda said neutrally.

‘Dr Bradshaw has a theory.’

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Frieda said quickly. ‘That’s one of the perks of being pushed out.’

Karlsson looked suspicious. ‘Is there some problem with Bradshaw?’

‘Does it matter?’ Frieda didn’t say anything further, just waited.

‘You wouldn’t come to the house with me, would you? Just once? I’d like to discuss it with someone I trust.’

‘What about Yvette?’ asked Frieda, although she already knew she was going to say yes.

‘Yvette’s terrific – apart from the fact that she let you get nearly murdered, of course. She’s my trusted colleague, as well as my attack dog. But if I want someone to look at a house, just to get the smell of it, have a thought or two, I’d ask you – I am asking you.’

‘As a friend.’

‘Yes. As a friend.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow morning, when the house is empty?’

‘That would suit me fine.’

‘Are you serious? I mean, that’s great. Shall I send a car?’

‘I’ll make my own way.’

I met a neuroscientist called Gloria today, who I think you’d like a lot (you see, I’m making friends for you out here). We talked about free will – does it exist etc. She was arguing that with everything we know now about the brain, it’s impossible to believe there is such a thing, and yet it’s impossible not to believe in it at the same time and to live our life as if we have choices. A necessary delusion.

It’s a beautiful evening, with a full moon shining on the river. I wonder what it’s like in London – but, of course, it’s nearly morning for you now. You’re asleep. At least I hope you are. Sandy xxxx