Waiting for Wednesday

important
–’
    ‘Do you realize what this looks
like?’
    Karlsson didn’t reply.
    ‘Have you paid her?’ Crawford
jabbed Karlsson and, for a terrible moment, Frieda thought there might be a fight
between Karlsson and his boss. She winced with the fresh knowledge of how he had risked
himself for her.
    ‘Commissioner, as you must be aware, Dr
Klein has been very helpful to us and –’
    ‘
Have you paid
her?
’
    ‘No, I haven’t been paid.’
Frieda stepped forward. Her voice was cold. ‘I’m just here as a member of
the public.’
    ‘What the hell are you doing,
then?’
    ‘I came to see DCI Karlsson on a
purely private matter. As a friend.’
    Crawford raised his eyebrows.
‘Careful, Mal,’ he said. ‘I’m paying attention.’ And he
noticed Fearby. ‘Who’s
that
?’
    ‘This is my colleague, Jim
Fearby,’ said Frieda. ‘We were both leaving.’
    ‘Don’t let me stop
you.’
    At the entrance, Fearby turned to Frieda.
‘That went well, after all.’
    ‘It went terribly,’ Frieda said
dully. ‘I abused my friendship with Karlsson and lied to the
commissioner.’
    ‘If we achieve what we’re
after,’ said Fearby, ‘none of that matters.’
    ‘And if we don’t?’
    ‘Then it doesn’t matter
either.’
    As they left, they met a woman coming in –
middle-aged and tall, with long brown hair and wearing a long patchwork skirt. Frieda
was struck by her expression of fierce purpose.



FIFTY-FOUR
    ‘I’d like to see Malcolm
Karlsson,’ said the woman, speaking loud and fast.
    ‘I think DCI Karlsson is rather busy
at the moment. Do you have –’
    ‘Or Yvette Long. Or that other
one.’
    ‘Can you tell me what it’s
about?’
    ‘My name is Elaine Kerrigan.
It’s about the murder of Ruth Lennox. There is something I need to say.’
    Yvette sat opposite Elaine Kerrigan. She
saw the hectic blotches on the woman’s normally pale cheeks and the brightness of
her eyes. Her glasses, hanging round her neck on a chain, were smudged and her hair
hadn’t been brushed.
    ‘You told the officer on the desk
there was something you needed to say.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘About the murder of Ruth
Lennox?’
    ‘That’s right. Can I have a
glass of water first, please?’
    Yvette left the room and bumped into
Karlsson. He looked awful and she touched him on the elbow. ‘Are you
OK?’
    ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
    ‘No reason. I’m in there
–’ she jerked her head in the direction of the room ‘– with Elaine
Kerrigan.’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘I don’t know. I’m just
going to get her some water. She seems agitated.’
    ‘Does she indeed?’
    ‘Have you finished with Russell
Lennox?’
    ‘I’m taking a break for an hour
or so. It won’t do him any harm to wait and worry.’ His face grew grim.
‘There’s something I have to do.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘You wouldn’t understand.
You’d think I’d gone mad. Sometimes I think I’ve gone mad
myself.’
    There was nothing to do but wait. Fearby
said he had people he needed to see while he was in London and drove off once more,
leaving Frieda unsure of what to do with herself. In the end she did what she always did
at times of uncertainty or distress, when dark thoughts filled her: she walked. She
found herself going towards King’s Cross, weaving along minor streets to avoid the
roar of traffic, then took the road that led to Camden Town, which made her think again
of the house where the Lennox family used to live, in clutter and a sort of happiness,
but which now stood empty. Russell was in prison; Ted, Judith and Dora were at their
aunt’s house, many miles away. At least it was neat.
    She turned on to the canal. The houseboats
moored by the path had pot plants and herbs on their decks. On a couple of them dogs lay
in the sunshine; on one, Frieda saw a parrot in a large cage, eyeing her. Some were open
to the public, selling banana bread and tie-dye scarves, herbal tea and recycled
jewellery. People passed her on bikes; runners pounded by. Summer was coming. She could
feel it in the warm air, see it in the thin brightness of the light and the sappy
greenness of unfolding leaves on the trees. Soon Sandy would be back and they would have
weeks together, not days.
    She thought these things but couldn’t
feel them. Indeed, the clear light and the happy people seemed unreal, far off,and she belonged to a different world – one in which young women had
been dragged out of their lives by a man who had a smiling, sympathetic face.