‘We just need to know who met Robert Poole,’ said Frieda. ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘I don’t know when they came.’
‘Have they been this year?’
‘They have very busy lives.’
‘I know. And they live a long way off so, of course, it’s hard for them to get down,’ said Frieda.
‘They’re not bad sons.’
‘But you don’t see them very much?’
‘It’s the grandchildren I mind about.’
‘They grow up so quickly,’ said Frieda. ‘A few months can make all the difference.’
‘I’d like to know them better,’ agreed Mary Orton. ‘No. Not this year.’
‘What about last year?’
‘Couldn’t they tell you themselves?’
‘They both said they’d been down in the summer.’
‘Yes. That would be right.’
‘So, not for eight months or so.’ It felt cruel to press her.
Mary Orton lifted her eyes. ‘Eight months,’ she said softly.
‘Did you tell either of them about Robert Poole helping you with the house?’
‘I didn’t like to. I didn’t want them to feel guilty.’
‘Because you’d already told them about the leak?’
‘I don’t like to make a fuss. They said it was probably nothing and, anyway, it would be all right when the spring came.’
‘I see.’
‘Your friend Josef,’ said Mary Orton, visibly brightening. ‘He’s done a marvellous job with the roof and the boiler.’
‘I’m glad he could help you.’
‘Such a nice young man. He tells me stories about his country and I tell him about what London used to be like. He is very fond of my lemon drizzle cake. And he said he would make me a honey and poppy-seed loaf that he used to eat as a boy, although he’ll probably forget.’
‘I’m sure he won’t,’ said Frieda.
‘People are so busy nowadays. But when you’re old and live alone, time goes so fast and yet at the same time very slowly. It’s odd, isn’t it?’
‘It is odd.’
‘Nobody tells you, when you’re young, what it will be like.’
‘What is it like?’
‘You become like a ghost in your own life.’
Just before they left, Karlsson stopped in front of the wooden urn that contained the ashes of Mary Orton’s husband. He touched it very gently with his forefinger, following the whorls in the grain. ‘This is lovely and very unusual. Who made it for you?’
She came over to where he stood, looking tiny beside him. ‘It was made from an elm tree that fell over in our garden years ago. It felt right for Leonard’s remains to be in something made from a tree he used to love.’
‘Mm.’ Karlsson nodded encouragingly. ‘Can you remember the name of the people who made it?’
She frowned, thinking, then said: ‘A company called Living Wood. I think. Though I could check. If I’ve kept the papers. Why?’
‘It caught my eye. It’s beautiful.’
She beamed at him. Frieda saw the way he bent towards the old woman respectfully and turned away from them, feeling strangely moved.
‘Why did you want to know who’d made that little urn?’ Frieda asked, once they were back in the car.
‘Mrs Orton, Jasmine Shreeve and Aisling Wyatt all have beautiful things made from wood in their house. It might be a connection.’
‘Oh! Yes, I see.’
‘Only might.’
‘That was perceptive.’
‘Why, thank you, Dr Klein.’
‘Why have you taken up smoking?’
He glanced round sharply. ‘Who says I have?’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘Can you smell it on me?’
‘No. Just extra strong mints.’
‘I don’t want my children to know,’ he said, and was about to add something when he checked himself.
‘You can say it, you know.’
‘No. I don’t think I can.’ He turned on the windscreen wipers and the headlights. ‘God, don’t you hate February?’
Thirty-two
Living Wood was based in a small industrial unit in Dalston, occupying the bottom floor of a building that also housed an animal charity, a company making hats and a manufacturer of signs. Inside there was a different world. Wooden planks leaned against every inch of the walls. In the middle of the room there were large machines, saws and planes, one of which was being run by a young man in a white vest, stooped over his work with sweat on his bare shoulders. The rich smell of resin hung in the air. Yvette had to shout to make herself heard. The man turned off the machine and stood up, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.
She held up her badge. ‘Are you in charge of this company?’
‘That’s my dad. He’s away. You can ask me.’
The man looked at Munster, who was examining a machine, perhaps a vice, with a huge heavy blade.
‘Careful,’ said the man. ‘That’ll have your arm off if you press the wrong button.’
‘We have a list of names,’ said Yvette. ‘I want to ask you if they mean anything to you.’
‘All right.’
She handed him the typed list. He glanced at it. ‘They’re customers,’ he said. ‘A couple of them I don’t recognize. I’d have to check on the computer but they might be as well.’ He went over to a small space, partitioned off from the rest of the room, where there was a filing cabinet and a computer. He sat at it, tapped at the keys, opened a file of names and scrolled down it.
‘All except the last,’ he said. ‘Sally Lea. I don’t know her and she’s not on our computer. We’ve made things for the others, some of them more than once. The Coles, for instance, we made them a bed out of an old ash tree that had blown down. Beautiful bit of wood. It took months.’
‘So you’re saying they all bought things you made.’
‘We’re not a shop, as you can see. People bring us wood from their garden and we turn it into objects. Usually bowls and chopping boards – but anything actually. Mrs Orton – we made her an urn for her husband’s ashes.’
‘How do your customers find you?’
‘We’ve got ads in a couple of magazines. Magazines for people who’re doing up their homes.’
‘Was someone called Robert Poole a customer?’ said Yvette.
‘Robbie?’ He looked at them curiously. ‘No. He wasn’t a customer. He worked here.’
‘Did he? When?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Beginning of last year, just for a few months.’ Another man pushed open the door of the workroom with his shoulder and came in carrying two cardboard cups of coffee. ‘Darren, these two are detectives. They’re asking about Robbie Poole.’
‘Why did he leave?’ asked Yvette.
The two men exchanged looks.
‘Is there a problem?’ said Darren. ‘We don’t want to cause any trouble.’
‘There’s been a crime.’
‘It ended badly,’ said the young man. ‘Some money went missing. I felt really rotten about it.’
‘You thought it was him?’
‘We thought it might have been. It seemed the only explanation. We confronted him and he was in a real state about it. It was bad. For everyone.’
‘But he left.’
‘I gave him a couple of weeks’ wages to tide him over. Is he OK?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Fuck,’ repeated Darren, with awe. ‘Fucking fuck.’
‘We found these names in his flat.’
‘Jesus. Why?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
‘Dead!’
‘You’ve been very helpful. We might be back in touch.’ Yvette smiled at him. ‘But I don’t think you should feel guilty about letting him go,’ she said.
Thirty-three
When Harry picked Frieda up on Friday evening, he didn’t tell her where they were going. She got into the back of the taxi beside him and he peered down at the screen of his phone. ‘I don’t even know myself yet,’ he said.