Waiting for Wednesday

betraying the dead woman to the prim-mouthed living one.
    ‘Your sister,’ he said.
‘It turns out that she had a complicated life.’
    Louise Weller didn’t move or speak.
She just waited.
    ‘You don’t know about
it?’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re
talking about.’
    ‘Has Mr Lennox not said
anything?’
    ‘No, he hasn’t.’
    ‘So you had no idea that Ruth might
have had a secret she was keeping from her family?’
    ‘You’re going to have to tell me
what you’re referring to.’
    ‘She was having an affair.’
    She made no response. Karlsson wondered if
she’d even heard. Finally she spoke. ‘Thank goodness our mother never lived
to find out.’
    ‘You didn’t know anything about
it?’
    ‘Of course I didn’t. She would
have known how I would feel about it.’
    ‘How would you have felt about
it?’
    ‘She’s a married woman. She has
three children. Look at this nice house. She never did know how lucky she
was.’
    ‘What do you mean by that?’
    ‘People are very selfish nowadays.
They put freedom before responsibility.’
    ‘She’s dead,’ Karlsson said
mildly. He suddenly felt the need to defend Ruth Lennox, though he wasn’t sure
why.
    The baby woke, his face crinkled and he gave
a piteous yelp. Louise Weller lifted him up and calmly unbuttoned her shirt, placing him
at her breast and casting Karlsson a bright look, as if she wanted him to object.
    ‘Can we talk about the
specifics?’ Karlsson said, trying neither to look at the naked breast nor away
from it. ‘Your sister, Ruth, who has been killed and who was having an affair. You
say you had no idea?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘She never said anything to you that,
now you think about it, might have suggested there was something going on?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Does the name Paul Kerrigan mean
anything to you?’
    ‘Is that his name? No. I’ve
never heard it.’
    ‘Did you ever see any sign that there
was a strain in her marriage?’
    ‘Ruth and Russell were devoted to each
other.’
    ‘You never got the impression that
there was any problem?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did you notice that he was drinking
heavily?’
    ‘What? Russell? Drinking?’
    ‘Yes. You didn’t see
that?’
    ‘No, I did not. I have never seen him
drunk. But they say that it’s the secret drinkers who are the problem.’
    ‘And you had no sense at all, looking
back, that he knew?’
    ‘No.’ Her eyes glittered. She
wiped her hands down her apron. ‘But I wonder why he didn’t tell me when he
discovered.’
    ‘It’s not something that’s
easy to say,’ said Karlsson.
    ‘Do his children know?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And yet they haven’t shared it
with me. Poor things. Tofind that out about your mother.’ She
looked at Karlsson with distaste. ‘Your job must be like lifting up a stone. I
don’t know how you have the stomach for it.’
    ‘Someone’s got to do
it.’
    ‘There are things it’s better
not to know about.’
    ‘Like your sister’s affair, you
mean?’
    ‘I suppose everyone will find out
now.’
    ‘I suppose they will.’
    Back in his flat, Karlsson tidied away the
last of the mess his children had made. He found it hard to believe he had ever been
irritated by it. Now it simply filled him with nostalgic tenderness – the miniature
plastic figures embedded in the sofa, the wet swimming things on the bathroom floor, the
pastel crayons that had been trodden into the carpet. He stripped both their beds and
pushed the sheets into the washing-machine, and then, before he had time to stop
himself, called Frieda’s number. He didn’t recognize the person who
answered.
    ‘Hello. Who’s this?’
    ‘Chloë.’ There was a terrific
banging going on in the background. He could barely make out her words. ‘Who are
you?’ she asked.
    ‘Malcolm Karlsson,’ he said
formally.
    ‘The detective.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Do you want me to call
Frieda?’
    ‘It’s all right. It can
wait.’
    He put the phone down, feeling foolish, then
called another number.
    ‘Hello, Sadie here.’
    ‘It’s Mal.’
    Sadie was the cousin of a friend of Karlsson
whom hebhad met a few times over the years, with his wife, or with
Sadie’s current boyfriend. Their last meeting had been at a lunch a few weeks ago,
both on their own, when, leaving at the same time, she had said that they ought to meet
up, have a drink.
    ‘Can I offer you that drink?’ he
said now.
    ‘How lovely,’ she said, and he
was reminded of what he had always liked about her: her straightforward