Waiting for Wednesday

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘It’s fun, isn’t it?’ said Riley.

‘In what way?’ asked Yvette.

‘We’re looking through people’s things, opening their drawers, reading through their diaries. It’s all the stuff you want to do, but you’re not meant to. I wish I could do this at my girlfriend’s flat.’

‘No, it’s not fun,’ said Yvette. ‘And don’t say that aloud, even to me.’

Riley was going through the filing cabinet in the Kerrigans’ living room. They’d searched the main bedroom and the kitchen already. Paul Kerrigan had stayed in hospital only one night after he was beaten up and now he was out, but his wife had let them in, tight-lipped and silent. She hadn’t offered them coffee or tea, and as they searched among the couple’s possessions, lifting up underwear, turning on computers, reading private letters, noticing the tidemark in the bath and the moth holes in some of Paul Kerrigan’s jumpers, they could hear her slamming doors, banging pans. When Yvette had last met her, she had been dazed and wearily sad. Now she seemed angry.

‘Here,’ she said, coming into the room. ‘You might not have found these. They were in his bike pannier in the cupboard under the stairs.’

She was holding a small square packet between forefinger and thumb, with an air of distaste. ‘Condoms,’ she said, and dropped them on to the table, as if they’d been used. ‘For his Wednesday dates, I assume.’

Yvette tried to keep her expression neutral. She hoped Riley wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t react. ‘Thank you.’ She picked up the packet to put in the evidence bag.

‘He didn’t use them with you?’ said Riley, in a bright voice.

‘I had cancer several years ago and the chemotherapy meant that I’m now infertile,’ said Elaine Kerrigan. Briefly, her stiff expression changed to one of distress. ‘So, no, he didn’t.’

‘So …’ Yvette began.

‘There’s something else I should say. Paul didn’t get home until quite late on that day.’

‘We’re talking about the sixth of April.’

‘Yes. I was here a long time before him. I remember because I made a lemon meringue pie and I was worried it would spoil. Funny the things you worry about, isn’t it? Anyway, he was late. It must have been gone eight.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us that before?’’

‘It’s hard to remember everything at once.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Yvette. ‘We’ll need you to make a new statement.’

She glanced at Riley. There was a gleam about him, almost as if he were suppressing a smile.

‘He had a long shower when he came in,’ continued Elaine, ‘and put his clothes straight into the wash. He said he’d had a hard day on site and had to wash away the grime before supper.’

‘It’s important you tell us everything you know,’ said Yvette. ‘I know how angry you must be, but I want to be clear that there is no connection between you finding this and your new account of events. Which is quite damaging to your husband’s situation.’

‘I’m angry with Paul, if that’s what you mean,’ said Elaine. ‘I’m quite glad someone beat him up. It feels like they were doing it for me. But I’m just telling you what I remember. That’s my duty, isn’t it?’

As they were leaving, they met the two Kerrigan sons. They had their father’s face and their mother’s eyes and they both stared at Yvette and Riley with what looked to Yvette like hatred.

Meanwhile, Chris Munster was searching the flat where Paul Kerrigan and Ruth Lennox had met every Wednesday afternoon for the past ten years, barring holidays. He was making an inventory. Dutifully, he wrote down everything he found: two pairs of slippers, his and hers; two towelling robes, ditto; a single shelf full of books in the bedroom – an anthology of poems about childhood, an anthology of writings about dogs, Winston Churchill’s History of the English-Speaking People, a collection of humorous pieces, a volume of cartoons that Munster didn’t find particularly amusing – all books that he supposed were meant to be read in snatches. The bed linen had been removed for traces of bodily fluids, but there was a brightly patterned quilt thrown over the small chair and a woven strip of rug running along the floor. The curtains were yellow-checked, very cheery. The stripped-pine wardrobe was empty except for two shirts (his) and a sundress with a torn zip.

In the clean, bare bathroom: two toothbrushes; two flannels; two towels, shaving cream, deodorant (his and hers), dental floss, mouthwash. He imagined the two of them carefully washing, cleaning their teeth, gargling with mouthwash, examining themselves in the mirror above the sink for traces of their activities, before getting back into their sensible clothes and going back to their other lives.

In the kitchen-living room there were four recipe books, along with a set of basic cooking utensils (pots, pans, wooden spoons, a couple of baking trays) and a small number of plates, bowls, glass tumblers. Four mugs that looked to Munster much like the mugs he had seen in the Lennox house. She might well have bought them at the same time. There was a bottle of white wine in the little fridge and two bottles of red wine on the surface. There was a dead hyacinth tilting in its dried-up soil. Two onions shrivelling on the windowsill. A striped tablecloth thrown over the wooden table in the centre of the room. Jigsaws on the side, several, of different levels of difficulty. A pack of cards. A digital radio. A wall calendar with nothing written on it. A red sequined cushion on the two-seater sofa.

Ten years of lying, he thought. Just for this.

‘Kerrigan no longer has an alibi,’ said Karlsson.

‘Well, maybe he doesn’t,’ said Yvette. ‘I’m not sure which of Mrs Kerrigan’s stories I believe.’

‘So you’re taking his side.’ There was a sound to his left, a sort of cackle. It came from Riley.

‘Yvette’s definitely not taking Kerrigan’s side. She can’t stand him.’

‘And what did he need condoms for?’ said Karlsson. ‘Not for his wife.’

‘And not for Mrs Lennox,’ said Yvette. ‘We know she had an IUD fitted.’

‘He still could have worn a condom,’ said Riley.

‘What for?’ said Karlsson.

Riley looked uneasy now. Karlsson shouldn’t need to be told this.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘To stop him catching something from Ruth Lennox. You know what they say, when you sleep with someone, you’re sleeping with all their partners and their partners’ partners and their partners’ parners …’

‘Yes, we get the idea,’ said Yvette.

Karlsson suddenly thought of Sadie. It had been bad enough already. It wasn’t possible, was it? He suppressed the idea. It was too terrible to think about. ‘Do you think so?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Yvette, firmly. ‘If the condoms had been for Ruth Lennox, they would have been in the flat and Munster didn’t find any there. There must have been someone else.’

‘That sounds right,’ said Karlsson. ‘The question is, did Ruth Lennox know about that?’

‘The other question is why she had that dial of pills in her cupboard.’

‘Also,’ said Yvette, ‘I’ve been thinking about the doll.’

‘Go on.’

‘We’re assuming it was sent to Ruth Lennox and it was a warning. Which would mean that someone was on to them.’

‘Yes?’

‘What if it was meant for Dora all the time? We know she was being badly bullied at school in the months leading up to her mother’s death. Maybe kids who knew she was ill and would be alone in the house did it.’

‘Why?’ Riley sounded indignant.

‘Because kids are cruel.’

‘But that’s just horrible.’

‘They would think it was just a game,’ said Yvette. Everyone noticed the note of bitterness in her voice and her colour rose.

‘You may be right.’ Karlsson spoke quickly to cover the awkwardness. ‘We might be leaping to conclusions.’

‘Poor thing,’ said Riley. ‘Whichever it was.’

‘The pills belonged to Judith Lennox,’ said Frieda.

She had come to the police station first thing that morning. Karlsson noticed the rings around her eyes, the strain in her face. She wouldn’t sit down, but stood by the window.

‘That clears up one mystery.’

‘She’s fifteen.’

‘It’s not so unusual for a fifteen-year-old to be sexually active,’ said Karlsson. ‘At least she’s being careful.’

‘Her boyfriend is much older, in his late twenties.’

‘That’s a big gap.’

‘And Judith thinks perhaps her mother found out about them.’

‘I see.’

‘I thought you should know. I told Judith I would pass on the information.’

‘Thank you.’

‘His name is Zach Greene.’ She watched Karlsson scribble the name on the pad in front of him.

‘Do you want some coffee?’

‘No.’

‘Are you all right?’

She considered the question, wondering whether to tell him about Dean, and her fear that he had been in Olivia’s house. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she answered at last.

‘I think it does.’

‘I have to go now.’

‘You’re not back at work yet, are you?’

‘Barely.’

‘So please sit down for a few minutes and tell me what’s up.’

‘I have to go. There are things I have to do.’

‘What things?’

‘You wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand.’

‘Try me.’

‘No.’

‘I’m going to have it.’

Sasha and Frieda were sitting in a small café beside Regent’s Canal. Ducks leading flotillas of ducklings steered through the litter and twigs that bobbed in the brown waters.

‘You’ve decided.’

‘We’ve decided.’

‘It’s been so quick,’ said Frieda. ‘A month ago, you barely knew him.’

‘I know – but don’t look so worried. I want you to be glad for me.’

‘I am glad.’

‘I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life, or so happy. If it had been only a week, I’d still be certain. I’m going to move in with Frank and I’m going to have a baby. My whole life is changing.’

‘You deserve your happiness,’ said Frieda, sincerely. And she thought of Sandy in America. He seemed very far off now. Sometimes she could barely remember his face or the sound of his voice.

‘Thank you.’

‘I can’t knit.’

‘You don’t need to knit.’

‘Or baby talk.’

‘No, I can’t imagine you baby-talking.’

They laughed, then grew serious again. Sasha took Frieda’s hand in hers. ‘You are my very dear friend,’ she said, and her large eyes swam with tears.

‘You’re hormonal already.’

‘No. Without you, I don’t know what would have become of me.’

‘You’d have been fine.’

‘I don’t think so. But, Frieda – are you all right?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I worry about you. We all worry.’

‘You don’t need to.’

‘Will you promise to tell me if there’s anything wrong?’

But Frieda changed the subject. She couldn’t make that promise.