‘Hard times for everyone, even the better-off,’ said Frank, pacing to a chair and studying it as if undecided whether it was worth his while to sit down.
‘So.’ Frieda concentrated her attention on Aisling. ‘You met Robert Poole through your interest in gardens?’
‘It’s funny to hear him called Robert. We knew him as Bertie,’ said Aisling. ‘He was walking past one day and saw me planting a particular rose I love. I’ve grown it along the wall where it sort of folds over it. He stopped and we got talking. He said he worked quite a lot with garden design. He was interested in what I’d done in such a small space. He noticed even the smallest touches.’ Her eyes slid to Frank, who was now sitting in the chair opposite, but had perched on its edge as if to demonstrate his impatience to be out of there and back to work.
‘He passed again a day or two after,’ said Aisling. ‘He said he often walked this way to visit local clients. But he had time to chat. After that, we often talked. He had coffee a couple of times and showed me plant catalogues. He was just setting up in business himself. He even suggested that we joined up, so I could be the interior and he could be the exterior designer. It was a joke, of course. But it was nice to have someone take me seriously.’
‘Did you meet him as well?’ Karlsson turned to Frank.
‘A couple of times,’ said Frank. ‘Nice guy.’
‘What did you talk about?’ asked Frieda.
‘Nothing important.’
‘Tell us anyway.’
Frank suddenly seemed embarrassed. ‘The only time I was actually on my own with him, we talked about going to boarding school when we were very little. I’ve put it behind me, so I don’t normally talk about it. He knew what it was like because he’d been to one himself. Don’t know which.’
‘So he was easy to talk to,’ said Frieda.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Did he talk about his job?’
‘No,’ said Frank.
Aisling shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she agreed.
‘So you were both friends of his.’
‘I wouldn’t say friends,’ Frank said.
‘Mrs Wyatt?’
‘No-o.’ She drew the word out so it seemed like a tired sigh. ‘Not a friend. A friendly acquaintance.’
‘How many times did you meet him?’
‘Why do you want to know all of this?’ Frank asked, his voice suddenly harsh and his nostrils flaring. ‘He’s dead. We’re shocked and sorry, of course, but we barely knew him. There must be dozens – hundreds – of people who knew him better than us.’
‘Not many times,’ Aisling said, ignoring her husband’s outburst. ‘Six, seven. He just passed by every so often, on his way.’
‘On his way where?’
She shrugged.
‘From where?’
‘I told you, from where he lived.’
‘Tooting,’ said Karlsson. ‘Which isn’t exactly round the corner.’
‘He never said he lived nearby.’
‘There seem to be a lot of things he didn’t say,’ said Karlsson. ‘We know almost nothing about him. But he had your name in his notebook. That’s why we’re talking to you.’
‘Why would he have our names?’
‘Did he ever work for you?’ asked Frieda.
‘He helped with the garden a bit,’ said Aisling.
‘Did you pay him?’
The Wyatts said no at the same time.
‘And there’s nothing you can tell us about him?’
‘We barely knew him,’ said Frank, standing up. ‘And we’ve told you what we know.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘I couldn’t tell you,’ said Frank. ‘He just used to drop by.’
‘You can’t remember, then?’
‘No idea.’
‘The twenty-first of January,’ said Aisling Wyatt.
‘That’s very precise.’
‘It was the day I had to take my son to the hospital. I talked to him about it.’
‘The twenty-first of January.’
‘Yes. A Friday.’
‘Good,’ said Karlsson. ‘That’s very helpful. If you think of anything else …’
‘Yes, yes.’ Frank Wyatt was impatient for them to be gone. ‘We’ll be in touch. Of course.’
‘What did you think of them?’ asked Karlsson, once they were in the car.
‘Rich.’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘She’s lonely.’
‘You think?’
‘Yes. And they never looked at each other. Not once.’
That evening, when Frieda returned from a meal with friends, she opened the door of her house to the sound of the phone ringing. She hadn’t left the answering machine on and she didn’t get to it in time, but even before she was able to do a last-number recall, it rang again.
‘Yes? Frieda here.’
‘God, at last! Where have you been? I’ve been trying and trying to get hold of you. At home, your mobile, email.’
‘Hello, Olivia.’
‘I even tried that number you gave me at work.’
‘That’s for emergencies.’
‘Well, this is a fucking emergency. I’m going to be out on the streets. So is Chloë.’
Frieda sat down and shifted the phone to her other ear. She eased off her boots and rubbed her feet: she had walked several miles home.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What’s wrong? Your brother is what’s wrong.’
‘David.’
‘Do you have other brothers I was married to who are trying to ruin my life? Isn’t it enough he leaves me for some bimbo, humiliates me, abandons me to loneliness, dumps his only child, without this?’
‘Tell me what’s happened.’
‘He said he’s talked to some lawyer and that he’s going to reduce what he pays me.’ Olivia was talking fast now, between tearful gulps. Frieda imagined she was also knocking back the wine. ‘Can he do that, Frieda?’
‘Don’t you have a legal agreement?’
‘I thought so. Oh, I don’t know. I was such a mess at the time. I didn’t think. He says he’ll continue to pay towards Chloë’s upkeep but that it isn’t fair to expect him to pay for me. He says I should get full-time work. Doesn’t he think I’m trying? Doesn’t he know there’s a recession? What am I supposed to do? I’m forty-one, I don’t have a profession, I’m a single mother. Honestly, Frieda, it’s a brutal world out there. Who’d choose me when they could have a twenty-something graduate doing it for half the price – or for nothing but the good of their CV?’
‘I know it’s hard,’ said Frieda. ‘Did you tell this to David?’
‘Do you think that bastard cares? He’s got his new life now.’
‘Do you have letters from solicitors, bank statements, things like that?’
There was silence at the other end.
‘Olivia?’
‘I just wanted to get rid of everything. I might have some of it – but I’ve no idea where. I don’t exactly have a filing cabinet. Things just get, you know, put down. Can’t you ring him?’
‘I haven’t spoken to David for years.’
‘He’ll listen to you. They’re all scared of you.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Frieda, grimly.
She thought about it. She paced around the living room in her bare feet, frowning. She picked up the phone, rang his number, even heard the ringing tone and slammed it down. She felt clammy and sick. There had to be another way.
Twenty-four
Jasmine Shreeve treated Karlsson and Frieda as if she was conducting the interview, and she became even more animated when she discovered that Frieda was a psychotherapist.