‘What did you actually do?’ asked Frieda.
‘That’s all you care about,’ said Aisling. ‘You’re just being a policeman.’
‘I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth,’ said Frieda, ‘which means all of the truth. Even the uncomfortable bits.’
Aisling put her hand over her mouth, then rubbed her face as if it were itching. ‘Some of this would look awkward if it came out, and now that he’s dead I don’t know what will happen.’
‘If what came out?’
‘I gave Bertie some support, that’s all. Part of which was financial.’
‘How much?’
‘A few thousand,’ said Aisling, almost in a mumble. ‘More than that. A bit more. Twenty-five. Maybe thirty, forty. Or something. It’s my money as well as Frank’s. We share everything. And I have my own account.’
‘Did you tell your husband?’
‘I was going to tell him about the plans when they were more worked out. It would have been all right, but then suddenly Bertie was dead. It’s a disaster in a way, I know, but we have quite a lot of savings. And he doesn’t look at my bank statements. Why should he? I feel terrible about it, but it should be fine. It’ll die down and go away, that’s what I tell myself. I mean, this is nothing to do with Bertie’s death, just about a mess in a marriage. Our mess – it’s got nothing to do with anything else. You must see that.’
Frieda held her gaze. ‘I’m sure you understand that I have to tell the police about this.’
‘No! Why? This has nothing to do with anything. I came to you because I trusted you.’
‘You came to me because I’d realized you had had an affair with Robert Poole.’
‘I thought you’d understand. I didn’t think you’d judge me.’
‘I’m not judging you, Aisling. A man has been murdered.’
‘Not by me.’
‘I have to tell them.’
‘But Frank will find out. You won’t tell him, will you? You can’t, anyway. You can’t betray the secrets of a patient.’
‘You’re not a patient,’ said Frieda. ‘But I won’t tell him. You should think about doing so yourself, even if he doesn’t discover it from the police.’
‘I can’t. You don’t understand what he’s like. He’ll never forgive me.’
‘Give him the chance. Anyway, I think he already knows.’
Frieda had only been home a few minutes when the bell rang. She was on the way upstairs to have a shower, but now she turned round and went to the door.
‘Hello? Are you Dr Klein?’
A woman on her doorstep, young and fresh-faced, with an expression that was both apologetic and eager. Frieda had the impression that she was ready to break into an enthusiastic smile, and that when she did there would be dimples in both her cheeks. She had curly chestnut hair cut quite short but still unruly, freckles on her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose, and soft brown eyes with little flecks in the irises.
‘I’m so sorry to turn up like this. My name’s Liz. Liz Barron.’
‘How can I help you?’
She shivered. ‘It’s horrible out here. Could I come in for a moment?’
‘Not until you tell me who you are.’
‘Of course, sorry. I wanted to ask your advice on something. I was hoping you could help me.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘I’m a journalist for the Daily Sketch.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m writing a feature, a kind of zeitgeist piece about the police force in the present climate of suspicion and cuts. Basically sympathetic, but trying to look at it from all points of view.’
‘I’m not a police officer.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said, blushing. ‘I’m probably not explaining myself very well. The thing is, my editor thought it would be a good idea to focus on a particular area or a particular story. I was wondering if I could talk to you about your involvement – with Dean Reeve, of course, and now with this man Robert Poole. I was so impressed by what you did and I know what Joanna Teale wrote about you. It was a really unfair piece. I thought it would be a great opportunity for you to put your side of the story too. It must feel awful not to be able to set the record straight.’
‘Not really.’
Liz Barron seemed undeterred. Her pleasant face glowed with sympathy. ‘You could tell me about what happened then, and what you’re doing now, and what it’s like to be a consultant.’
‘No.’
‘And we could even talk about paying you expenses for your trouble.’
‘No.’
Her expression didn’t alter. ‘Do you feel responsible for Kathy Ripon’s death?’
‘I don’t want to be rude, but I’m going to shut the door now.’
‘Why should the public pay for your help with the Poole case, when –’
Frieda closed the door. She went up the stairs and took her shower, standing for a long time under the needles of water, trying not to think.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Karlsson. ‘So Mrs Wyatt was cheating on her husband with our Robert Poole.’
They were in a car on their way to Mary Orton’s house. Frieda just stared out of the window.
‘And he took Mrs Orton and then got to change her will.’
‘Tried to,’ said Frieda.
‘He slept with Mrs Wyatt, then took her money. Do you think he was blackmailing her?’
‘I don’t think he needed to. She said they were going to set up in business together.’
‘I’ve never heard it called that before,’ said Karlsson. ‘You reckon Mr Wyatt knew?’
‘There was something about the way they were together. They didn’t look at each other, seemed almost scared to catch each other’s eye. It felt to me then that they were both concealing something from each other. We know what she was concealing, but what about him?’
‘So he knew?’
‘Aisling Wyatt said he didn’t. I’m not so sure.’
Karlsson looked thoughtful. ‘He sleeps with your wife, steals your money. And then the body is found a mile away from your house. I’m looking forward to talking to Frank Wyatt.’
‘I told Aisling I was going to tell you and that she should speak to him before you did.’
‘What the hell did you do that for? Now he’ll be prepared.’
‘Because it was the right thing to do.’
‘Right for who, Frieda? For her, or for our investigation?’
‘There’s no difference. It’s right, that’s all.’
‘Whose side are you on?’
‘I’m not on any side.’
Karlsson breathed deeply, making an effort to stop himself saying something rude.
‘What did you make of Mary Orton’s sons?’
‘I don’t like them,’ said Karlsson.
‘But there’s no evidence against them?’
‘They had a motive. They had a big bloody motive. The trouble is, I don’t think they realized it until it was too late.’
Mary Orton insisted on making a pot of tea and putting out biscuits. She was apologetic that she hadn’t baked a cake. Frieda saw how her hands – liver-spotted and with thick blue veins under the loose skin – shook as she set out the cups. She was wearing a dark green skirt and a white blouse, with a thin cardigan over the top. But the blouse buttons were done up wrongly, showing the old-fashioned lacy vest underneath, and there was a ladder running up her tights. ‘We’re so sorry to bother you again,’ she said to the old woman gently. ‘We just wanted to check a few things with you.’
‘Anything I can do to help.’ She picked up her cup with clumsy fingers, setting the teaspoon ringing against its side.
‘It’s just routine,’ said Karlsson, soothingly. ‘We just want to confirm a few details. Such as when your sons last visited you, for example.’
She looked at him, then down at her tea. ‘Why?’ she asked.