Waiting for Wednesday

FIFTY

Frieda walked to the station slowly. The day was grey but hot, almost oppressive, and she felt grimy in the clothes she’d worn yesterday. She allowed herself to think of her bath – Josef’s gift to her – waiting in her clean, shaded house, empty at last of all people.

She turned on her mobile and at once messages pinged on to the screen: missed calls, voicemail, texts. Reuben had called six times, Josef even more. Jack had written her a very long text full of abbreviations she couldn’t understand. Sasha had left two texts. Judith Lennox had phoned. There were also several missed calls from Karlsson. When she rang voicemail she heard his voice, grave and anxious, asking her to get in touch as soon as she got his message. She stared down at her phone, almost hearing a clamour of voices insisting she get in touch, scolding her and pleading with her and, worst of all, being in a state of distress about her. She didn’t have the time for any of that now, or the energy or the will. Later.

When she eventually reached her house, letters lay on the doormat and, as she stooped to pick them up, she saw that a couple had been pushed through the letterbox rather than posted.

One was from Reuben; she recognized his writing at once. ‘Where the fuck are you, Frieda?’ he wrote. ‘Ring me NOW.’ He didn’t bother to sign it. The other was from Karlsson, and was more formal: ‘Dear Frieda, I couldn’t get you on your phone so came round on the off-chance. I really would like to see you – as your friend and as someone who is worried about you.’

Frieda grimaced and pushed both notes into her bag. She walked into her house. It felt cool and sheltered, almost like she was walking into a church. It had been so long since she had spent time there alone, gathering her thoughts, sitting in her study-garret, looking out over the lights of London, at the centre of the city but not trapped in its feverish rush, its mess and cruelty. She went from room to room, trying to feel at home again, waiting for a sense of calm to return to her. She felt that she had passed through a storm and her mind was still full of the faces she had dreamed about last night, or lain awake thinking of. All those lost girls.

The flap rattled and the tortoiseshell cat padded across to her and rubbed its body against her leg, purring. She scratched its chin and put some more food into its bowl, though Josef had obviously come in to feed it. She went upstairs, into her gleaming new bathroom, put in the plug and turned on the taps. She saw her reflection briefly in the mirror: hair damp on her forehead, face pale and tense. Sometimes she was a stranger to herself. She turned the taps off and pulled out the plug. She wouldn’t use the bath today. She stepped under the shower instead, washed her hair, scrubbed her body, clipped her nails, but it was no use. A thought hissed in her head. Abruptly, she stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and went into her bedroom. The window was slightly open and the thin curtains flapped in the breeze. She could hear voices outside, and the hum of traffic.

Her mobile buzzed in her pocket and she fished it out, meaning to turn it off at once because she wasn’t ready to deal with the world yet. But it was Karlsson, so she answered.

‘Yes?’

‘Frieda. Thank God. Where are you?’

‘At home. I’ve just come in.’

‘You’ve got to get over here now.’

‘Is it the Lennox case?’

‘No.’ His voice was grim. ‘I’ll tell you when you come.’

‘But –’

‘For once in your life, don’t ask questions.’

Karlsson met her outside. He was pacing up and down the pavement, openly smoking a cigarette. Not a good sign.

‘What is it?’

‘I wanted to get to you before bloody Crawford.’

The commissioner? What on earth –’

‘Is there anything you need to tell me?’

‘What?’

‘Where were you last night?’

‘I was in Birmingham. Why?’

‘Do you have witnesses to that?’

‘Yes. But I don’t understand –’

‘What about your friend, Dr McGill?’

‘Reuben? I have no idea. What’s going on?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s going on.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. ‘Hal Bradshaw’s house burned down last night. Someone set it on fire.’

‘What? I don’t know what to say. Was anyone inside?’

‘He was at some conference. His wife and daughter were there, but they got out.’

‘I didn’t know he had a family.’

‘Or you wouldn’t have done it?’ said Karlsson, with a faint smile.

‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

‘It surprised me as well. I mean that someone would marry him, not that someone would burn his house down.’

‘Don’t say that. Not even as a bad joke. But why have you made me come here to tell me this?’

‘He’s in a bad way, saying wild things. That it was you – or one of your friends.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘He claims that threats have been made against him.’

‘By me?’

‘By people close to you.’

Frieda remembered Reuben and Josef at that dreadful meal, Reuben’s revenge fantasies and the look of hatred on his face, and her heart sank. ‘They wouldn’t,’ she said firmly.

‘It gets worse, Frieda. He’s spoken to the press. He hasn’t gone as far as naming names but it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.’

‘I see.’

‘They’re inside, waiting for you.’ Briefly, he laid a hand on her arm. ‘But I’ll be there as well. You’re not on your own.’

The commissioner – a stocky man with beetling brows and a pink scalp showing through his thinning hair – was a deep shade of red. His uniform looked far too hot for the day. Bradshaw was in jeans and a T-shirt and hadn’t shaved. When Frieda entered the room, he stared at her, then slowly shook his head from side to side, as if he was too full of pity and anger to trust himself to speak.

‘I’m very sorry indeed about what happened,’ said Frieda.

‘Sit down,’ said the commissioner, pointing to a small chair.

‘I’d prefer to stand.’

‘Suit yourself. I’ve been hearing your story from Dr Bradshaw. I’m bewildered, absolutely bewildered, as to why we ever had professional dealings with you.’ Here he turned towards Karlsson. ‘I must say I’m disappointed in you, Mal, turning a blind eye to your friend letting a possible psychopath loose.’

‘But he wasn’t a psychopath,’ said Karlsson, mildly. ‘It was a set-up.’

The commissioner ignored him.

‘Punching a colleague. Attacking a young woman she’d never met before and forcing her to the floor, just because she stood up for her boyfriend. Stalking poor Hal here. Not to mention killing this schizophrenic young woman, of course.’

‘In justified self-defence,’ said Karlsson. ‘Be careful what you say.’

Crawford looked at Frieda. ‘What have you got to say in your defence?’

‘What am I defending myself against? Arson?’

‘Frieda, Frieda,’ murmured Bradshaw. ‘I think you need some professional help. I really do.’

‘I had nothing to do with it.’

‘My wife was in that house,’ said Bradshaw. ‘And my daughter.’

‘Which makes it even worse,’ said Frieda.

‘Where were you?’ said Crawford.

‘I was in Birmingham. And I can put you in touch with someone who can confirm that.’

‘What about your friends?’ asked Bradshaw.

‘What about them?’

‘They’ve taken your side against me.’

‘It is true that I have several friends who think you acted unprofessionally and unethically –’

‘That’s rich,’ said the commissioner.

‘– but they wouldn’t do anything like this.’

Karlsson coughed loudly. ‘I think this is getting us nowhere,’ he said. ‘Frieda has an alibi. There’s not a shred of evidence, just Dr Bradshaw’s claims, which some might believe to be motivated by malice. In the meantime, I have an interview to conduct with Mr Lennox, who is being charged with the murder of Zach Greene.’

Bradshaw rose and came close to Frieda. ‘You won’t get away with this,’ he said, in a low voice.

‘Leave her alone,’ said Karlsson.

Frieda walked back home. She tried not to think, just put one foot in front of the other, moving steadily through the thickening crowds, feeling the warmth of the day on her. She needed to steady herself before she was with the Lennox family again. Soon they would have neither mother nor father to turn to.