Waiting for Wednesday

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 onyour 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