Waiting for Wednesday

NINETEEN

‘We were all so shocked,’ said the woman sitting opposite Munster and Riley. ‘I can’t quite believe it. I mean, Ruth was so …’ She stopped and searched for a word. Her face screwed up. ‘Down to earth,’ she supplied eventually. ‘Cheerful. Practical. I don’t know – not someone who things like this happen to. I realize how stupid that sounds.’

They were in the low-rise modern building from which Ruth Lennox had worked as a health visitor, sitting in a small room off the open-plan office with her line manager, Nadine Salter.

‘It doesn’t sound stupid, said Chris Munster, after Riley had failed to respond. He looked a bit dazed this morning: his face was creased as if he had only just woken up. ‘It’s what most people say about her. That she was a friendly, straightforward woman. How long had she worked here?’

‘About ten years. Mostly she was out, seeing people, not here in the office.’

‘Can you show us her desk?’

‘Of course.’

They went into the large room, past desks of avidly curious people pretending to work. Ruth Lennox’s desk was scrupulously tidy, which was what Munster and Riley had come to expect – her folders, her notebooks, her work diary, her correspondence and her stationery had been put away in the drawers. Apart from the rather old computer, the only things on the surface were a small jug of pens, a little pot of paper slips and staplers, and a framed photo of her three children.

‘We’re going to have to remove her computer and her correspondence,’ said Munster. ‘For now, we’re just interested in the Wednesday she died. April the sixth. Was she here?’

‘Yes. But just for the half-day. She always had Wednesday afternoon off. We have a general staff meeting in the morning, at about eleven, and then she leaves after that.’

‘So she was in the office that day, not out on visits?’

‘That’s right. She came in at about nine, and left again at midday.’

‘Was there anything different about her that day?’

‘We’ve been talking about that. She was just her normal self.’

‘She didn’t mention anything that was troubling her?’

‘Not at all. We talked about how awful it is for young people trying to find jobs, but just in a general way – her kids are too young for that to worry her. Poor things. And she gave me a recipe.’

‘Did you see her go?’

‘No. But Vicky, over there, was having a cigarette outside. She saw her getting into a cab.’

‘A black taxi?’

‘No. As I said, a cab.’

‘Do you know which firm?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Hang on,’ said Riley.

He walked over to Ruth Lennox’s desk and came back with a small card, which he handed to Munster. ‘This was pinned to her board,’ he said.

Munster looked at the card. C & R Taxis. He showed it to Nadine Salter.

‘Would she travel by cab on her visits?’ he asked.

Her face took on a disapproving expression. ‘Not on our budget.’

C & R Taxis was based in a tiny room with smeary windows next to a betting shop on Camden High Street. An old man was sitting asleep on a sofa. A portly man was sitting at a desk with three phones in front of him and a laptop. He looked up at the two detectives when Munster asked about Ruth Lennox.

‘Ruth Lennox? Last Wednesday?’ He scrolled down his computer screen with a deft, stubby finger. ‘Yeah, we took her last Wednesday. Ahmed drove her. Where to?’

They waited for him to say that Ahmed had driven Ruth Lennox home to Margaretting Street. He didn’t.

‘Shawcross Street, SE17, number thirty-seven. No, we didn’t collect her.’ One of the phones rang loudly. ‘I should get that.’

Out in the street, Munster and Riley looked at each other.

‘Shawcross Street,’ Munster said.

The road they needed was one-way, so they parked beside an enormous block of flats, built in the thirties. It was being prepared for demolition and the windows and doors were sealed with sheet metal.

‘I wonder what Ruth Lennox was doing round here,’ said Munster, climbing out of the car.

‘Isn’t that what a health visitor does?’ said Riley. ‘Visit people?’

‘This isn’t her patch.’

They walked round the corner into Shawcross Street. At one end there was a row of large, semi-detached Victorian houses, but thirty-seven wasn’t one of these. It was a fifties-style, flat-fronted, dilapidated building, with metal-framed windows, that had been divided into three flats, although the top flat looked empty. One of its windows was smashed and a tatty red curtain blew out of it.

Munster rang the bottom bell and waited. Then he rang the middle one. Just as they were turning to go, the entrance door opened and a small, dark-skinned woman peered out suspiciously. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

Chris Munster held up his ID. ‘Could we come in?’

She stood aside and let them into the communal hallway.

‘We want to check on the residents of this building. Do you live here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

‘No. With my husband, who’s in bed, and my two sons, who are at school, if that’s what you were going to ask. What is this?’

‘Is your husband ill?’ asked Riley.

‘He lost his job.’ The woman glared, her face tight. ‘He’s on disability. I’ve got all the forms.’

‘We don’t care about that,’ said Munster. ‘Do you know a woman called Ruth Lennox?’

‘I’ve never heard of her. Why?’

‘She came to this address last Wednesday.’

He took the photograph of Ruth out of his pocket and held it out. ‘Do you recognize her?’

She examined the picture, wrinkling her face. ‘I don’t take much notice of people who come and go,’ she said.

‘She’s been the victim of a crime. We think she came here on the day she died.’

‘Died? What are you suggesting?’

‘Nothing. Really nothing. We just want to find out if she was here that day, and why.’

‘Well, she wasn’t in our place at any rate. I don’t know any Ruth Lennox. I don’t know this woman.’ She jabbed the photo. ‘And we’re law-abiding citizens, which can be hard enough these days.’

‘Do you know who lives in the other flats?’

‘There’s nobody above. They moved out months ago. And I don’t know about downstairs.’

‘But somebody lives there?’

‘I wouldn’t say lives. Somebody rents it but I don’t see them.’

‘Them?’

‘Them. Him. Her. I don’t know.’ She relented. ‘I hear a radio sometimes. During the day.’

‘Thank you. And last Wednesday, did you see anyone there?’

‘No. But I wasn’t looking.’

‘Perhaps your husband might have seen something if he’s here during the day?’

She looked from one face to the other, then gave a small, weary shrug. ‘He sleeps a lot, or sort of sleeps, because of his pills.’

‘No. That’s all right. Can you tell me who your landlord is?’

‘You don’t see him round here.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Mr Reader. Michael Reader. Maybe you’ve heard of him. You see his boards up everywhere. His grandfather bought up loads of these houses after the war. He’s the real criminal.’