Waiting for Wednesday

her
visits?’ he asked.
    Her face took on a disapproving expression.
‘Not on our budget.’
    C & R Taxis was based in a tiny room with
smeary windows next to a betting shop on Camden High Street. An old man was sitting
asleep on a sofa. A portly man was sitting at a desk with three phones in front of him
and a laptop. He looked up at the two detectives when Munster asked about Ruth
Lennox.
    ‘Ruth Lennox? Last Wednesday?’
He scrolled down his computer screen with a deft, stubby finger. ‘Yeah, we took
her last Wednesday. Ahmed drove her. Where to?’
    They waited for him to say that Ahmed had
driven Ruth Lennox home to Margaretting Street. He didn’t.
    ‘Shawcross Street, SE17, number
thirty-seven. No, we didn’t collect her.’ One of the phones rang loudly.
‘I should get that.’
    Out in the street, Munster and Riley looked
at each other.
    ‘Shawcross Street,’ Munster
said.
    The road they needed was one-way, so they
parked beside an enormous block of flats, built in the thirties. It was being prepared
for demolition and the windows and doors were sealed with sheet metal.
    ‘I wonder what Ruth Lennox was doing
round here,’ said Munster, climbing out of the car.
    ‘Isn’t that what a health
visitor does?’ said Riley. ‘Visit people?’
    ‘This isn’t her
patch.’
    They walked round the corner into Shawcross
Street. At one end there was a row of large, semi-detached Victorian houses, but
thirty-seven wasn’t one of these. It was a fifties-style, flat-fronted,
dilapidated building, with metal-framed windows, that had been divided into three flats,
although the top flat looked empty. One of its windows was smashed and a tatty red
curtain blew out of it.
    Munster rang the bottom bell and waited.
Then he rangthe middle one. Just as they were turning to go, the
entrance door opened and a small, dark-skinned woman peered out suspiciously.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
    Chris Munster held up his ID. ‘Could
we come in?’
    She stood aside and let them into the
communal hallway.
    ‘We want to check on the residents of
this building. Do you live here?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Alone?’
    ‘No. With my husband, who’s in
bed, and my two sons, who are at school, if that’s what you were going to ask.
What is this?’
    ‘Is your husband ill?’ asked
Riley.
    ‘He lost his job.’ The woman
glared, her face tight. ‘He’s on disability. I’ve got all the
forms.’
    ‘We don’t care about
that,’ said Munster. ‘Do you know a woman called Ruth Lennox?’
    ‘I’ve never heard of her.
Why?’
    ‘She came to this address last
Wednesday.’
    He took the photograph of Ruth out of his
pocket and held it out. ‘Do you recognize her?’
    She examined the picture, wrinkling her
face. ‘I don’t take much notice of people who come and go,’ she
said.
    ‘She’s been the victim of a
crime. We think she came here on the day she died.’
    ‘Died? What are you
suggesting?’
    ‘Nothing. Really nothing. We just want
to find out if she was here that day, and why.’
    ‘Well, she wasn’t in our place
at any rate. I don’t know any Ruth Lennox. I don’t know this woman.’
She jabbed the photo. ‘And we’re law-abiding citizens, which can be hard
enough these days.’
    ‘Do you know who lives in the other
flats?’
    ‘There’s nobody above. They moved
out months ago. And I don’t know about downstairs.’
    ‘But somebody lives there?’
    ‘I wouldn’t say
lives
.
Somebody rents it but I don’t see them.’
    ‘Them?’
    ‘Them. Him. Her. I don’t
know.’ She relented. ‘I hear a radio sometimes. During the day.’
    ‘Thank you. And last Wednesday, did
you see anyone there?’
    ‘No. But I wasn’t
looking.’
    ‘Perhaps your husband might have seen
something if he’s here during the day?’
    She looked from one face to the other, then
gave a small, weary shrug. ‘He sleeps a lot, or sort of sleeps, because of his
pills.’
    ‘No. That’s all right. Can you
tell me who your landlord is?’
    ‘You don’t see him round
here.’
    ‘What’s his name?’
    ‘Mr Reader. Michael Reader. Maybe
you’ve heard of him. You see his boards up everywhere. His grandfather bought up
loads of these houses after the war. He’s the real criminal.’



TWENTY
    Duncan Bailey lived in Romford, in a
concrete, brutalist apartment block. It was built on a grand scale, with chilly
corridors and high ceilings, large windows that overlooked a tumble of buildings and
tangled ribbons of roads.
    Frieda knew