Waiting for Wednesday

instantly.’
    ‘Who did you think it was, before you
discovered it couldn’t be?’
    ‘A local druggie with a record, but it
turns out that he has a rock-solid alibi. He was caught on CCTV somewhere else at the
time of her death. He admitted to breaking in, stealing some stuff, finding her body and
fleeing the scene. We didn’t believe him, but for once in his life he was telling
the truth.’
    ‘So the broken window was
him?’
    ‘And the burglary. There was no sign
of a break-in when a neighbour came round earlier – we know Ruth Lennox must have been
already dead. Obviously the implication is that she let the killer in
herself.’
    ‘Someone she knew.’
    ‘Or someone who seemed
safe.’
    ‘Where did she die?’
    ‘In here.’ Karlsson led her into
the living room, where everything was tidy and in its proper place (cushions on the
sofa, newspapers and magazines in the rack, books lining the walls, tulips in a vase on
the mantelpiece), but a dark bloodstainstill flowered on the beige
carpet and daubs of blood decorated the near wall.
    ‘Violent,’ said Frieda.
    ‘Hal Bradshaw believes it was the work
of an extremely angry sociopath with a record of violence.’
    ‘And you think it’s more likely
to be the husband.’
    ‘That’s not a matter of
evidence, just the way of the world. The most likely person to kill a wife is her
husband. The husband, however, has a reasonably satisfactory alibi.’
    Frieda looked round at him.
‘We’re taught to beware of strangers,’ she said. ‘It’s our
friends most of us should worry about.’
    ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’
said Karlsson.
    They went through to the kitchen and Frieda
stood in the middle of the room, looking from the tidily cluttered dresser to the
drawings and photos stuck to the fridge with magnets, the book splayed open on the
table. Then, upstairs, the bedroom: a king-sized bed covered with a striped duvet, a
gilt-framed photo of Ruth and Russell on their wedding day twenty-three years ago,
several smaller-framed photos of her children at different ages, a wardrobe in which
hung dresses, skirts and shirts – nothing flamboyant, Frieda noticed, some things
obviously old but well looked-after. Shoes, flat or with small heels; one pair of black
leather boots, slightly scuffed. Drawers in which T-shirts were neatly rolled, not
folded; underwear drawer with sensible knickers and bras, 34C. A small amount of makeup
on the dressing-table, and one bottle of perfume, Chanel. A novel by her side of the
bed,
Wives and Daughters
by Elizabeth Gaskell, with a bookmark sticking out,
and under it a book about small gardens. A pair of reading glasses, folded, to one
side.
    In the bathroom: a bar of unscented soap,
apple hand-wash, electric toothbrush – his and hers – and dental floss,shaving cream, razors, tweezers, a canister of deodorant, face wipes, moisturizing
face cream, two large towels and one hand towel, two matching flannels hung on the side
of the bath, with the tap in the middle, a set of scales pushed against the wall, a
medicine cabinet containing paracetamol, aspirin, plasters of various sizes, cough
medicine, out-of-date ointment for thrush, a tube of eye drops, anti-indigestion
tablets … Frieda shut the cabinet.
    ‘No contraceptives?’
    ‘That’s what Yvette asked. She
had an IUD – the Mirena coil, apparently.’
    In the filing cabinet set aside for her use
in her husband’s small study, there were three folders for work, and most of the
others related to her children: academic qualifications, child benefit slips, medical
records, reports, on single pieces of paper or in small books, dating back to their
first years at primary school, certificates commemorating their ability to swim a
hundred metres, their participation in the egg-and-spoon race or the cycling proficiency
course.
    In the shabby trunk beside the filing
cabinet: hundreds and hundreds of pieces of creativity the children had brought back
from school over the years. Splashy paintings in bright colours of figures with legs
attached to the wobbly circle of the head and hair sprouting like exclamation marks,
scraps of material puckered with running stitch and cross stitch and chain stitch, a
tiny home-made clock without a battery, a small box studded with over-glued sea shells,
a blue-painted clay pot, and you could still see the finger marks pressed into its
asymmetrical rim.
    ‘There are also several bin bags full
of old baby clothes in the loft,’ said