‘I will have some more later,’ said Josef, ‘but first, what things was the man doing for you?’
‘It’s so terrible what happened,’ she said. ‘So very awful.’ She passed a hand over her face, seeming dazed. ‘And the detective, the woman, said that he was killed. Is that really possible?’
‘I think so,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m not a policeman. I’m just a …’ She stopped for a moment. What was she? ‘Just a colleague.’
‘He was so helpful,’ she continued. ‘So reassuring. He made me feel in safe hands. I haven’t felt that since my husband died, and that was a long time ago. He said the house needed a lot of work. He’s right, of course. I’ve let it go dreadfully.’ She reached over for a packet of cigarettes and an ashtray. ‘Do you mind?’ Frieda shook her head. She lit a cigarette. ‘There were all sorts of things that needed doing, and he and a couple of men who worked for him patched things up here and there. But the main thing was the roof. He said that other things could wait, but once the roof starts going and water gets in …’
‘Is true,’ said Josef. ‘The roof is important. But outside no scaffolding. Is gone?’
‘No,’ said Mary Orton. ‘They worked at it from the inside.’
‘What?’ Josef wrinkled his face.
‘How long was he here?’ asked Frieda.
‘A long time,’ said Mary Orton, with a smile. ‘I can’t remember. Of course, they weren’t here all the time. They sometimes had to go and do other jobs. But I was flexible about it.’
‘And now it’s still leaking,’ said Frieda. ‘At least, that’s what I heard.’
‘He hadn’t finished,’ said Mary Orton. ‘Suddenly he didn’t come any more. I missed him – not just for the repairs. Now we know why. It’s so terrible.’ Her old face seemed to crumple even more. She turned her head away to hide her expression.
‘Is it all right if Josef takes a look?’
‘Of course,’ said Mary Orton. ‘Shall I show you?’
Josef smiled. It was one of the few times Frieda had seen him smile since his return. ‘I know the way to the roof,’ he said.
When Josef had gone, Frieda looked around the kitchen. There were snapshots of children on the dresser, all in little frames. ‘Are they your grandchildren?’
‘Yes. They’re more grown-up now, of course.’
‘Do you see much of them?’
‘My two sons don’t live in London. They come to see me when they can in holidays. I have friends, of course.’
She sounded almost defensive. Frieda picked up one of the pictures. It was a primary-school photograph dated 2008. Three years ago: a long time in a child’s life, she thought.
‘It must have been quite nice just to have Robert Poole around,’ she said.
‘Oh, well, he was a kind young man,’ said Mary Orton, seeming embarrassed. ‘He asked me about my life, took an interest. When you get old, people usually stop seeing you. You become invisible. But he wasn’t like that.’
‘Attentive,’ Frieda said.
‘Yes, I suppose he was. It’s hard to believe he’s dead.’
There was a thump on the stairs and both women turned as Josef came into the kitchen.
‘Mrs Orton.’ He stood solidly in front of her. ‘There is a small leak. I fetch my bag from the car and in just five minutes I stop the water. Then maybe just one day’s work, or two days. I fix it for you. All fine.’
‘That would be wonderful. Can you do that?’
‘No problem. I go to the car. Frieda?’ He nodded at her. ‘Mrs Orton, you excuse us one moment?’
Frieda followed him out into the hall. ‘Everything all right?’
Josef pulled a contemptuous face. ‘The roof. That all bullshit. I know it when I don’t see scaffolding. He did nothing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, he did nothing up there. Bit of banging maybe, no new roof.’
Frieda was baffled. ‘Maybe you just didn’t see what he’d done.’
‘Frieda,’ said Josef, ‘I show you if you want. I go there, I climb up ladder in top bedroom and I shine torch. I look at roof boards, rafters. There is some new boards, some …’ he waved his hands around, searching for the word ‘… felt, but is nothing. And the water is coming in.’ He tapped his head. ‘Maybe she’s …’
‘All right,’ said Frieda. ‘You should go ahead and fix the hole.’ She put out a hand and touched his shoulder. ‘And thanks, Josef.’
He shrugged and went outside. Frieda thought hard for a couple of minutes, then walked back into the kitchen. She sat down next to Mary Orton at the kitchen table and pulled her chair even closer, so they could talk in low voices.
‘I want to ask you something. Can you tell me how much you paid Robert Poole?’
Mary Orton blushed red. ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘I just paid him in bits, from time to time. I didn’t really think of the amount.’
Frieda leaned closer, put her hand on the woman’s forearm. ‘I wouldn’t ask this if it wasn’t important, but could you show me your bank statements?’
‘Well, really …’
‘You don’t have to show me,’ said Frieda, ‘but if you don’t, I’m afraid the police will come and look anyway.’
‘All right.’ Mary Orton nodded. ‘But it feels a bit strange.’
She left the room. Frieda heard sounds on the stairs, going up and then coming down. Mary Orton came back into the kitchen and put a bundle of papers on the table. ‘They’re in a complete mess,’ she said. ‘My husband used to do all that sort of thing.’
Frieda found the current-account statements and arranged them in order of date, then started to scan them. After just a few seconds, she felt her heart beating faster. She could feel it pulsing in her neck. She put the last sheet down and turned to Mary Orton.
‘I was only making a rough count. Maybe I missed a couple of payments. But I make it about a hundred and sixty thousand pounds you paid him. Does that seem right?’
Mary Orton took another cigarette from her packet and lit it. Her hands were trembling and it took two matches to get it alight. ‘Yes, it could be. But roofs are horribly expensive, aren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ said Frieda. ‘That’s what I’ve heard.’
Twenty-three
There had been eight names or pairs of names in Robert Poole’s notebook. Yvette read them out. ‘One: Mrs Mary Orton.’
‘We’ve talked to her. She definitely knew Robert Poole – probably best of anyone we’ve come across so far.’
‘Two: Frank and Aisling Wyatt.’
‘Who also knew him, though not so well.’
‘Three: Caroline Mallory and David Lewis, the couple in Brixton who were our initial lead and say that they met him just the once. Then four, there’s a name you’ll know: Jasmine Shreeve.’ Yvette paused, as if expecting a reaction.
‘Am I meant to know who she is?’ said Karlsson.
‘She presented a makeover show a few years ago. I think it was mainly broadcast in the day.’
‘When did you get the time to watch daytime TV?’
‘I never actually saw it. She told me about it. She said she had met Poole. She had no idea why anyone would want to kill him.’
‘We’ll need to interview these people in more detail,’ said Karlsson. ‘What about the rest?’
‘Those are the only ones who actually met him.’ Yvette looked down at her notes. ‘After that, there’s the Coles, out in Haywards Heath, a retired couple who have no idea who he is or any memory of meeting him; Graham Rudge, single, a head teacher of a private school, who lives up near Notting Hill, and also says he’s never met anyone called Robert Poole, although he wonders if someone of that name called him once – can’t remember where, can’t remember when. A young couple in Chelsea, Andrea and Lawrence Bingham, just back from their honeymoon, both something in the City. And someone called Sally Lea. We have no idea who she is.’