Waiting for Wednesday

He had
killed his daughter, Lila, Frieda was sure of it now – and yet he had seemed genuinely
grief-struck by her absence. A piece of chalked graffiti on the wall showed a huge mouth
full of sharp teeth, and she shuddered, suddenly cold in spite of the warmth of the
afternoon.
    She walked along the canal as far as
Regent’s Park. The houses on the other side were grand here, like small castles or
mock châteaux. Who would live in such places? She walked through the park swiftly,
scarcely noticing the gaggles of children, the courting couples, the young man with
closed eyes doing some strange slow exercises on a roll-out mattress by the ornamental
gardens.
    At last, making her way through
side-streets, she was at home. The phone was ringing as she opened the door and she half
ran to get it, in case it was Karlsson.
    ‘Frieda? Thank God. Where the fuck
–’
    ‘Reuben, I can’t talk now.
I’m waiting for a call. I promise I’ll phone you as soon as I can, all
right?’
    ‘Wait, did you hear about
Bradshaw?’
    ‘Sorry.’
    She slammed the phone down. How long would
it take for Karlsson to go to Lawrence Dawes’s house? When would he call? Now?
This evening? Tomorrow?
    She made herself some toast and marmalade
and ate it in the living room, listening to the phone ringing over and over and the
answering machine playing messages: Chloë, plaintive; Sasha, anxious; Reuben, furious;
Sandy – oh, God, Sandy. She hadn’t even told him what she was up to. She’d
gone into a different world, of terror and darkness, and hadn’t even thought to
confide in him. She didn’t pick up,but let him leave his
message asking her, yet again, to contact him,
please
. Josef, drunk; Olivia,
drunker.
    The day darkened and still Karlsson
hadn’t called. Frieda went upstairs to her study and sat at the desk that looked
out over the great sprawl of the city, now lit up and glittering under the clear sky. In
the countryside, the sky tonight would be thick with stars. She picked up her pencil and
opened her sketch pad, made a few indeterminate lines, like ripples. She thought of the
stream at the bottom of Lawrence Dawes’s garden.
    Perhaps she should have that long-delayed
bath now. She was as tired as she had ever been, but far from sleep. Indeed, it felt as
though sleep would never come again and she was trapped for ever in this dry, hissing
wakefulness where thoughts were knives.
    And then the phone rang again.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Frieda.’
    ‘Karlsson? What did you
find?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘That’s not possible.’
    ‘One very bewildered and distressed
father, and a house in which there is no evidence of any kind whatsoever that he has
ever done anything wrong.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘Don’t you? I felt very sorry
for him.’
    ‘Something’s not
right.’
    ‘Frieda, I think you need
help.’
    ‘Are you sure there was nothing at
all?’
    ‘Listen to me. You have to walk away
from all of this. And I need to placate the commissioner, who’s not a happy man, I
can tell you. He wants to drag me in front of some official hearing.’
    ‘I’m sorry about that but
–’
    ‘Draw a line under everything.’
His voice was horribly gentle. ‘No more following your instincts. No more trying
to rescue people who don’t want to be rescued. No more teaming up with some mad
old hack. Go back to the life we dragged you out of. Try and recover.’
    He ended the call and Frieda sat for a long
time in her garret room, staring at the kaleidoscope of lights spread out before
her.
Dear Sandy, I think I am in trouble, in
the world and in my head or my heart –
    But she stared at the few words for a long
time and then pressed the delete button.
    Karlsson and Yvette sat in front of Elaine
Kerrigan. Her face was unyielding and she repeated, in a wooden tone: ‘I killed
her.’
    ‘Ruth Lennox?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Tell me how it happened,’ said
Karlsson. ‘When did you discover your husband’s affair?’
    ‘Why does it matter? I killed
her.’
    ‘Did your sons tell you?’
    ‘Yes.’ She took a sip of water.
‘They told me and I went there and killed her.’
    ‘With what?’
    ‘An object,’ she said. ‘I
can’t remember. I can’t remember anything except I killed her.’
    ‘Take us through it,’ said
Yvette. ‘We have plenty of time. Start from the beginning.’
    ‘She’s protecting her
sons,’ said Karlsson.
    ‘So you think one of them did
it?’
    ‘She does, anyway.’
    ‘And you?’
    ‘Fuck knows.