Waiting for Wednesday

TWENTY-SIX

Karlsson needed to find an appropriate adult. Often an appropriate adult for a juvenile is a parent, but in the case of the Lennox children, one of their parents was dead and the other was not at all appropriate in the circumstances. He thought about asking Louise Weller, Ruth’s sister, to be present instead – but Judith Lennox said that she would prefer to die than talk about her mother in front of her aunt, and Ted had muttered about Louise getting off on the whole thing.

‘She can’t keep away,’ he said. ‘We don’t want her or her cakes or her religion. Or her bloody baby.’

So the appropriate adult was a woman nominated by Social Services, who turned up at the police station prompt and eager. She was in her early sixties, thin as a bird, bright-eyed and glittering with nervous excitement. It turned out that this was her first interview ever. She’d done the training, of course, she’d read everything she could lay her hands on and, what was more, she prided herself on her gift for getting on well with young people. Teenagers were so frequently misunderstood, weren’t they? Often, all they needed was someone to listen to them and be on their side, which was why she was here. She smiled, her cheeks slightly flushed.

‘Very well,’ said Karlsson, doubtfully. ‘You understand that we will conduct three interviews, one after the other, with each of the Lennox children. The eldest, Ted, isn’t strictly juvenile – he’s just eighteen. As you know, you’re simply there to make sure they’re properly treated, and if you feel they need anything, you should say so.’

‘Such a painful and difficult age,’ said Amanda Thorne. ‘Half child and half adult.’

‘I’ll conduct the interviews, and my colleague, Dr Frieda Klein, will also be present.’

When he had told Yvette that he was taking Frieda to talk to Ted, Judith and Dora, not her, she had stared at him with such a reproachful expression that he had almost changed his mind. He could deal with her anger, not her distress. Her cheeks burned and she mumbled that it was fine, perfectly all right, it was up to him and she understood.

Ted was first. He shuffled into the room, laces trailing, hair straggling, hems fraying, all rips and loose ends. His cheeks were unshaven and there was a rash on his neck; he looked unwashed and malnourished. He refused to sit, and stood by the window instead. Spring had come to the garden. There were daffodils in the borders and blossom on the fruit tree.

‘Remember me?’ said Frieda.

‘I didn’t know you were with them,’ he said.

‘Thanks for agreeing to see us like this,’ said Karlsson. ‘Before we begin, this is Amanda Thorne. She’s what is known as an appropriate adult. It means –’

‘I know what it means. And I’m not a child. I don’t need her here.’

‘No, dear,’ said Amanda, rising to her feet and crossing the room to him. ‘You’re not a child. You’re a young man who’s been through a terrible, terrible event.’

Ted gazed at her with contempt. She didn’t seem to notice.

‘I’m here to support you,’ she continued. ‘If there’s anything you don’t understand, you must tell me and I can explain. If you feel upset or confused, you can tell me.’

Ted looked down at her tilted, smiling face. ‘Shut up.’

‘What?’

‘Shall we start?’ Karlsson interrupted.

Ted folded his arms, stared jeeringly out of the window and wouldn’t meet their eyes. ‘Go on, then. Are you going to ask me if I know about my mum and her other life?’

‘Do you?’

‘I do now. My dad told me. Well, he started to tell me and then he was crying and then he told me the rest.’

‘So you know your mother was seeing someone else?’

‘No. I just know that’s what you think.’

‘You don’t believe it?’

Ted unfolded his arms and turned towards them. ‘You know what I think? I think you’ll get your hands on every bit of her life and make it ugly, dirty.’

‘Ted, I’m very sorry but this is about a murder,’ said Karlsson. ‘You must see that we have to conduct a full investigation.’

‘Ten years!’ The words were a shout, his face contorted with fury. ‘Since I was eight, and Dora was three. Did I know? No. How does it make me feel that it’s all been a lie, a charade? How do you think?’ He turned wildly to Amanda Thorne. ‘Come on, Appropriate Adult. Tell me what I must be feeling. Or you.’ He waved a dirty-nailed hand at Frieda. ‘You’re a therapist. Tell me about it.’

‘Ted,’ said Frieda. ‘You need to answer the questions.’

‘You know what? Some of my friends used to say that they wished she was their mother. They won’t say that now.’

‘Are you saying you had absolutely no idea?’

‘Do you want to take a break?’ Amanda Thorne asked.

‘No, he doesn’t,’ Karlsson said sharply.

‘Of course I had no idea. She was the good mother, the good wife, the good neighbour. Mrs fucking Perfect.’

‘But does it make sense to you now?’

Ted turned to Frieda. He seemed bony and brittle, as if he might crumble into a pile of sharp fragments if anyone touched him, tried to hold him. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘You’re suddenly and painfully having to see your mother in a new way – not the person everyone seems to describe as safe and calm and unselfish. Someone with another, radically different, side to her, with needs and desires of her own and a whole life she was leading in secret, separate from all of you – and I’m asking if in retrospect that makes any sense to you.’

‘No. I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. She was my mum. She was …’ he closed his eyes for a moment ‘… comfy.’

‘Exactly. Not a sexual being.’

‘I don’t want to think about it,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t want the pictures in my head. Everything’s poisoned.’

He wrenched his body sharply away from them once more. Frieda sensed he was on the verge of tears.

‘So,’ Karlsson’s voice broke into the silence, ‘you’re saying you never suspected anything.’

‘She was a terrible actor, useless at things like charades. And she couldn’t lie to save her life. She’d go red and we’d all laugh at her. It was a family joke. But it turns out she was a pretty fantastic actor and liar after all, doesn’t it?’

‘Can you tell us about the day she was killed, Wednesday, the sixth of April?’

‘Tell you what?’

‘When you left home, what you did during the day, what time you returned. That kind of thing.’

Ted gave Frieda a wild stare, then said: ‘OK. My alibi, you mean. I left home at the usual kind of time. Half eight, something like that. I had to be early at school, which is only a few minutes away, because I had my mock art exam. For which I just heard I got an A star by the way.’ He gave a savage grin. ‘Brilliant, wasn’t it? Then I was at school for the rest of the day. Then I met Judith, we hung about for a bit and came home together. And found police everywhere. Good enough for you?’

‘Good enough.’

Judith Lennox was next. She came through the door quietly as a ghost, staring at each of them in turn with her pale blue eyes. She had coppery curls and freckles over the bridge of her nose. Although her hair needed washing and she was dressed in old jogging pants, with a baggy green jersey that probably belonged to her father, down almost to her knees and with long sleeves covering her hands, she was obviously lovely, with the peachy bloom of youth that days of crying couldn’t entirely conceal.

‘I’ve nothing to say,’ she announced.

‘That’s quite all right, dear,’ murmured Amanda Thorne. ‘You don’t need to say anything at all.’

‘If you think it was Dad, you’re just stupid.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s obvious. Mum was cheating on him so you think he must have found out and killed her. But Dad adored her, and anyway, he didn’t know a thing, not a thing. You can’t make something true just by thinking it.’

‘Of course not,’ said Karlsson.

Frieda considered the girl. She was fifteen, on the edge of womanhood. She had lost her mother and lost the meaning of her mother; now she must fear that she could lose her father as well. ‘When you found out about your mother –’ she began.

‘I came home with Ted,’ said Judith. ‘We held hands when we found out.’ She gave a small sob. ‘Poor Ted. He thought Mum was perfect.’

‘And you didn’t?’

‘It’s different for daughters.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He was her darling boy. Dora was her sweet baby. I stole her lipstick – well, I didn’t, really. She didn’t go in much for makeup or stuff. But you know what I mean. Anyway, I’m the middle child.’

‘But you’re sure that no one knew?’

‘That she was cheating on Dad all that time? No. I still don’t really believe it.’ She rubbed her face hard. ‘It’s like a film or something, not like real life. It’s not the kind of thing she would do. It’s just stupid. She’s a middle-aged woman and she’s not even that attractive –’ She broke off, her face twisting. ‘I don’t mean it like that, but you know what I’m saying. Her hair’s going grey and she has sensible underwear and she doesn’t bother with what she looks like.’ She seemed suddenly to realize that she was talking about her mother in the present tense. She wiped her eyes. ‘Dad didn’t know anything, I promise,’ she said urgently. ‘I swear Dad didn’t suspect a thing. He’s gutted. Leave him alone. Leave us alone.’

The interview with Dora Lennox wasn’t really an interview. She was scrawny and limp and exhausted, smudged from all her weeping. Her father had grown years older in the days since his wife had died, but Dora had become like a tiny child again. She needed her mother. She needed someone to gather her up and cradle her in their arms, make all the horror go away. Frieda laid a hand on her damp, hot head. Amanda Thorne cooed and told her everything was going to be all right, seeming not to grasp the idiocy of her words. Karlsson stared at the girl, his brow furrowed. He didn’t know where to start. The house was too full of pain. You could feel it prickling against your skin. Outside, the daffodils glowed in the warm brightness of spring.

When Yvette asked Russell Lennox about the bottles he just stared at her as if he hadn’t understood a word.

‘Do you know who put them there?’

He shrugged. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Perhaps nothing, but I need to ask. There were dozens of bottles hidden in the shed. There might be a harmless explanation, but it suggests that someone was drinking secretly.’

‘I don’t see why. The shed’s full of junk.’

‘Who uses the shed?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Who goes into it? Did your wife?’

‘It wasn’t Ruth.’

‘Or perhaps your son and his friends –’

‘No. Not Ted.’

‘Did you put the bottles there?’

The room filled with silence.

‘Mr Lennox?’

‘Yes.’ His voice rose, and he looked away from her as though he couldn’t bear to meet her gaze.

‘Would you say –’ Yvette stopped. She was no good at this. She asked questions too harshly. She didn’t know how to sound clear yet unjudgemental. She tried to imagine Karlsson asking the questions. ‘Do you have a drink problem?’ she asked abruptly.

Russell Lennox jerked his head up. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘But those bottles …’ She thought about the white cider: nobody would drink that if they didn’t have a problem.

‘People think that because you drink, you have a drink problem, and they think if you have a drink problem you have a larger problem underneath.’ He spoke rapidly, his words running together. ‘It was just a stupid phase. To help me through. I put them in the shed because I knew everyone would say what you’re saying now. Make it shameful. It was simpler to hide it. That’s all. I was going to throw them away when I got the chance.’

Yvette tried to separate out his sentences. ‘To help you through what?’ she asked.

‘It. Stuff.’ He sounded like his son.

‘When did you go through this phase?’

‘Why?’

‘Recently?’

Russell Lennox put his hand to his face, half covering his mouth. He made an indistinct sound through his fingers.

‘Are you still drinking?’

‘Are you my GP now?’ His words were muffled. ‘Do you want to tell me it’s not good for me? Do you think I don’t know that? Perhaps you want to tell me about liver damage, addiction, the need to acknowledge what I’m doing and seek help.’

‘Were you drinking because of problems in your marriage?’

He stood up. ‘Everything is evidence to you, isn’t it? My wife’s private life, my drinking too much.’

‘A murder victim doesn’t have a private life,’ said Yvette. ‘They both seem relevant to me.’

‘What do you want me to say? I drank too much for a bit. It was stupid. I didn’t want my kids to know so I hid it. I’m not proud of it.’

‘And you say it wasn’t for any particular reason?’

Russell Lennox was grey with weariness. He sat down again opposite Yvette, slumping in his chair. ‘You’re asking me to make everything neat. It wasn’t like that. I’m getting older, my life felt stale. Nothing changing. No excitement. Maybe Ruth was feeling the same thing.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Yvette. ‘But did your wife know you were drinking?’

‘What’s that got to do with her being dead? Do you think I killed her because she found out my guilty secret?’

‘Did she?’

‘She suspected. She had a nose for people’s weaknesses.’

‘So she knew.’

‘She smelled it on me. She was pretty contemptuous – that’s a bit rich, isn’t it, with what she was doing at the same time?’

‘Which you still claim you had no knowledge of.’

‘I don’t claim. I had no knowledge.’

‘And you still say you had a good marriage?’

‘Are you married?’

Yvette felt a violent blush heat her neck and face. She saw herself through his eyes – a solid, brown-haired, clumsy, lonely woman with big feet and large, ringless hands. ‘No,’ she replied shortly.

‘No marriage looks good when you start searching for the fault lines. Until now, I would have said that, although we sometimes wrangled and sometimes took each other for granted, we had a good, solid marriage.’

‘And now?’

‘Now it doesn’t make sense. It’s been smashed apart and I can’t even ask her why.’

Frieda had only just arrived home when there was a ring at the door. She opened it to find two police officers, a man and a woman.

‘Are you Dr Frieda Klein?’ said the man.

‘Did Karlsson send you?’

The two officers looked at each other.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the man. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Well, what are you here for?’

‘Can you confirm that you are Dr Frieda Klein?’

‘Yes, I can. Is something wrong?’

The officer frowned. ‘I have to inform you that we need to interview you in connection with an alleged case of assault causing actual bodily harm.’

‘What case? Is this something I’m supposed to have witnessed?’

He shook his head. ‘We’re responding to a complaint that names you as the perpetrator.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

The female officer looked down at her notebook. ‘Were you present at flat four, number two Marsh Side on the seventeenth of April?’

‘What?’

‘It is currently occupied by Mr Ian Yardley.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Frieda.

‘You admit you were present?’

‘Yes, I admit I was present but –’

‘We need to talk to you about this,’ said the man. ‘But we can’t do it on the doorstep. If you wish, we can take you to an interview room.’

‘Can’t you just come in so that we can sort it out?’

‘We can come in and put a few questions to you,’ said the man.

In their bulky uniforms, the two of them made Frieda’s house seem smaller. They sat down awkwardly, as if they were unused to being inside. Frieda sat opposite them. She waited for them to speak. The man took off his hat and laid it on the arm of the chair. He had curly red hair and pale skin.

‘It’s been reported that there was an incident,’ he said. He took a notebook from the side pocket of his jacket, slowly opened it and inspected it, as if he was seeing it for the first time. ‘I need to inform you from the outset that we are investigating a case of common assault and also a case of assault causing actual bodily harm.’

‘What actual bodily harm?’ said Frieda, trying to remain calm. At the same time she tried to remember the event. Could the woman have hit her head when she fell? The officer looked back down at his notebook.

‘A complaint has been made by Mr Ian Yardley, the owner of the flat, and by Polly Welsh. Now, at this point I need to warn you that you are not under arrest and that you are free to stop the interview at any time. And I also need to tell you that you do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ When he had finished this small speech, the officer’s pale skin reddened. Frieda was reminded of a small boy reciting a speech at a school assembly. ‘We always have to say that.’

‘And that I’m entitled to a lawyer.’

‘You’ve not been arrested, Dr Klein.’

‘What was the “actual bodily harm”?’ said Frieda. ‘Was she injured?’

‘I believe there was bruising and some medical attention was needed.’

‘Does that count as actual bodily harm?’ said Frieda.

‘It is alleged,’ said the woman, ‘that psychological harm was caused. Sleep problems. Distress.’

‘Psychological harm,’ said Frieda. ‘Is it possible that Dr Hal Bradshaw was connected with the assessment?’

‘I can’t comment on that,’ said the man. ‘But you admit that you were present at the incident.’

‘Yes,’ said Frieda. ‘Haven’t they waited rather a long time to report it?’

‘From what I’ve heard,’ said the man, ‘Miss Welsh was at first too traumatized to talk about it. She needed reassurance and treatment before she was able to come forward. We’re trying to be more sensitive in our response to women who suffer violence.’

‘Well, that’s a good thing,’ said Frieda. ‘Do you want to know what happened?’

‘We would be interested in your version of events, yes,’ said the man.

‘I arranged to see Ian Yardley to ask him some questions,’ said Frieda.

‘You were angry with him, I understand. You felt humiliated by him.’

‘Is that what he said?’

‘That’s what our enquiries suggest.’

‘I wasn’t angry with him. But his friend …’

‘Miss Welsh.’

‘She was aggressive as soon as I arrived. She jabbed at me and tried to push me out of the flat. I pushed back. When she tried to retaliate, I think she fell over a chair. It all happened very quickly. And then I left. End of story.’

The man looked down at his notebook.

‘One report claims that you pushed Miss Welsh against a wall and held her there. Is that accurate?’

‘Yes, that’s right. She started pushing at me. I told her to stop, and when she wouldn’t, I pushed her against the wall. But not roughly. Just to make her stop. Then I let her go and she came at me and fell over. I wasn’t even touching her.’

‘She just fell,’ said the woman.

‘That’s right.’

The man looked back at his notes. ‘Do you have a history of fighting in public?’

‘What do you mean?’

He turned a page. ‘You know a man called James Rundell?’ he said. ‘We’ve heard something about a fight in a restaurant, significant damage done. And it ended with you being arrested.’

‘Where did you hear about that?’

‘It’s information we’ve received.’

‘What’s the relevance?’

‘We’re just trying to establish a pattern. And isn’t James Rundell involved in this case as well?’

‘That’s right,’ said Frieda. ‘Rundell is one of the other therapists who were targeted in this …’ She stopped, trying to think of an appropriate word. ‘Project,’ she said finally.

“Targeted”. That sounds like you’re angry about it.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Frieda.

The man wrote something in his notebook. ‘You get angry with Rundell and you confront him in a restaurant and attack him. You get angry with Ian Yardley and you confront him in his home and a fight ensues. Do you see a pattern?’

‘The two cases have nothing in common,’ said Frieda. ‘And there was no fight in Ian Yardley’s flat.’

Suddenly the man glanced round, like a dog that had caught a scent. ‘What’s that?’ he said.

It was the banging from upstairs in the bathroom. It had become so much a part of Frieda’s life that she had almost stopped hearing it. ‘Do you really need to know?’ she said. ‘After all, I’ve got an alibi. I’m down here with you.’

The female officer frowned at her. ‘There’s nothing funny about violence against women,’ she said.

‘That’s it,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m done. If you want to charge me, then go ahead. Otherwise, we have nothing left to talk about.’

With a grimace of concentration, the man wrote several lines of notes, then closed his book and stood up. ‘Between ourselves,’ he said, ‘if I were you, I would talk to a solicitor. We’ve put weaker cases than this one in front of a jury. But even if we don’t, you might well be facing a civil case.’

‘What if I need to reach you?’ Frieda asked.

‘I was about to tell you,’ said the man. He wrote in his notebook, tore a page out and handed it to Frieda. ‘If you’ve anything more to say. But we’ll be in touch anyway.’

When they were gone, Frieda sat for several minutes staring in front of her. Then she looked through her address book and dialled a number. ‘Yvette,’ she said. ‘Sorry, it’s Frieda. Have you got a moment?’

Thank you for your letter. I carry it around with me. It’s so like you to write a real letter – on good-quality paper, in ink, with proper grammar and no abbreviations. I can’t remember the last time anyone sent me a letter. My mother, maybe, years ago. She used to write to me on very thin airmail paper, gummed down. I could never read her tiny, cramped handwriting.

My mother; yours. All the things we’ve never told each other yet. I think we need to spend a month in a lighthouse, with rough seas all round us, and enough food and drink never to have to leave. We could talk and read and sleep and make love and share secrets. Make up for all the lost time. Sandy xxxx