‘Is that –’ He stopped and pressed the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. ‘Is that what she was killed with?’
‘We believe so. Yes. But you didn’t mention it among the items that were stolen.’
‘No. I didn’t notice it was gone. It was just a thing we had on our mantelpiece. Ruth picked it up from some skip a couple of years ago. She said it would scrub up nicely, unlike me and Ted.’ His face worked and he made a visible effort to control his emotions. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Your wife’s blood was on it.’
‘I see.’ Russell Lennox turned away. ‘I don’t want to look at it any more.’
Munster restarted the recorder. ‘We’ve been busy,’ he said. ‘Things have changed. Now, this is your last chance to co-operate. Where did you get the cog?’
Hunt’s eyes flickered between him and Riley. ‘I said. From Dave.’
‘All right. That’s enough of this crap.’ Munster stood up and left the room.
Hunt looked at Riley. ‘What did I say?’
‘He’s cross,’ said Riley. ‘You don’t want to make him cross.’
‘Fucking shut up,’ said Hunt. ‘So is this some trick so I suddenly think you’re my friend?’
‘I was just saying.’
A few moments later Munster came back into the room with Karlsson. He pulled a chair across and the two of them sat down. Munster placed a closed brown cardboard file on the table and looked across at Hunt. ‘Let it be noted that DCI Karlsson has joined the interview,’ he said. ‘William Hunt, the next time you want to wash blood off a murder weapon, I’d pop it in the dishwasher. If you rinse it under the tap, you always leave a bit. As you did.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Russell Lennox has identified it. They kept it on their mantelpiece as a sort of work of art. A dense and heavy work of art. Three days ago it was used to fatally assault one Ruth Lennox. You’ve been identified disposing of articles that were taken from the murder scene. The murder weapon has been found at a flat where you were staying. You’ve admitted attempting to clean it. It has your fingerprints on it. We are about to charge you with the murder of Ruth Lennox and with the burglary. Now, Mr Hunt, have you got anything to say? It’ll make it a great deal easier for all of us if you just admit what you did, write out a statement and the judge will regard you with some degree of sympathy.’
There was a long pause.
‘There wasn’t anyone called Dave,’ said Hunt.
‘Of course there wasn’t anyone called Dave,’ said Munster. ‘And?’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I did the burglary.’
Another pause.
‘And? What about Ruth Lennox?’
‘You won’t believe me,’ said Hunt.
‘Believe you?’ said Munster. ‘You’ve been lying solidly ever since we met you. Just own up.’
There was another, even longer, pause. To Riley it appeared that Hunt was doing a complicated mental calculation.
‘I did the burglary,’ he said finally. ‘But I didn’t kill her. I admit, I broke in, I took the stuff from the kitchen. But I was only there for a minute. The alarm was going so I was in a rush. I went into the other room and she was on the floor. I just ran.’
‘You didn’t just run,’ said Munster. ‘We found you with the object that was used to kill her.’
‘I picked it up. On the way out.’
Karlsson stood up. ‘We’ve got you at the scene. And you’ve been lying all the way along the line. You’re going away for this one.’ He nodded at Munster. ‘Just get the paperwork ready.’
NINE
The drilling had stopped but it was replaced by a hammering that wasn’t just loud but shook the house. Frieda made tea for Josef so the noise would stop for a few minutes. Josef sat on the stairs and cradled his mug in his large, dirty hands.
‘Under everything, this is a good house,’ he said. ‘The walls are good, fine bricks. Give me six months to rip away all the rubbish, all the plasterboard and –’
‘No, no, don’t even say that!’
‘What?’
‘Six months. Those words are very frightening to me.’
‘I was talking. Just talking.’
‘All right, and while we’re just talking, I thought you said you were going to put a new bath in. I hear lots of banging and the bathroom looks like it’s been demolished and there’s no sign of a bath.’
‘It is all fine. I do everything, I sort everything perfectly. Then, at the end, put the bath in. Click click. Just like that.’
Suddenly there was a jangling electronic tone of an old pop song that Frieda couldn’t quite place. Josef’s phone was on the table beside her. She picked it up. There was a name – Nina – flashing on the screen. She handed it to him but he saw the name and shook his head.
‘Is she someone you’re avoiding?’ said Frieda.
Josef was flustered. ‘Someone I see a bit. But she ring and ring.’
‘It’s usually best to tell people what you feel,’ said Frieda. ‘But I’m not going to give you advice on anything except finishing this bathroom.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Josef. He handed his mug to Frieda and went back upstairs.
When she was alone, Frieda swallowed two paracetamol with water. Then she turned to her work email. Most messages she deleted or simply ignored. But there was one from Paz at the clinic she regularly worked for. She asked if Frieda could call her. And there was another she hesitated over. It was from a woman called Marta, who was writing on behalf of her old friend and Frieda’s patient Joe Franklin. She was apologetic: Joe didn’t know she was writing and she felt bad about doing so – but did Frieda have any idea when she would be returning to work? Joe wouldn’t see the therapist she had recommended, and he was in a bad way. He hadn’t got out of bed for several days.
Frieda thought of her doctor and her friends, who were all insistent that she shouldn’t return to work for several weeks yet. She thought of Joe Franklin sitting in her consulting room with his head in his hands, tears seeping through his fingers. She frowned and wrote an emaiclass="underline" ‘Dear Joe, I can see you at the usual time tomorrow, Tuesday, if that would suit you. Let me know and best wishes, Frieda Klein.’
Then she picked up the phone and called the Warehouse, as the clinic was called. Paz answered and immediately questioned her about how things were going and her health, the way everyone did nowadays. It was like an obstacle she had to get past over and over again.
‘Reuben is worried about you,’ said Paz. ‘We all are.’
Reuben was the man who had founded the Warehouse. As a young man, he had been a charismatic spokeperson for a new kind of therapy, and had been Frieda’s supervior. These days he was rather battered and disillusioned.
‘And?’
‘I wanted to see how you were. Someone contacted us. He wanted to see you. I mean as a patient. I said you weren’t well.’
‘For God’s sake, Paz, could you stop handing out my medical details?’
‘But he pleaded. He sounded desperate.’
‘I’ll call him.’
‘You’re sure about this, Frieda?’
‘It’s not-working that’s the problem.’
He was called Seamus Dunne. When Frieda dialled his number he answered instantly. She introduced herself. ‘Is it a good time to talk?’
‘Yes. It’s fine.’ He sounded suddenly tense.
‘You want to come and see me?’
‘Yes. I do. I think – I feel it’s urgent. I would like it to be as soon as possible.’
‘How did you find my name?’
‘A friend of a friend recommended you,’ said Seamus. ‘Very highly.’
‘We can meet for an assessment session,’ said Frieda. Then you can decide if I’m the right person for you, and I can decide if I think I can help you. All right?’