‘What?’
‘Is a joke,’ said Josef. ‘Is a joke against me by Frieda.’
‘I’m sorry, Josef, I didn’t mean that.’ She looked at the wheelbarrow. ‘How many did it hold?’
Olivia gave a shaky giggle. ‘Something ludicrous, like seven. Standing up. It’s lucky nobody got themselves killed.’
Although it was days later, the floor was still sticky underfoot. Pictures hung lopsidedly on the wall. There was the sweet smell of alcohol in the air, and Frieda saw dirty smudges on the paintwork and grime on the stair carpets.
‘It’s like one of those children’s picture books: spot the hidden object,’ said Olivia, pointing at a glass inside a shoe. ‘I keep finding unspeakable things.’
‘You mean condoms?’ asked Josef.
‘No! Oh, God, what happened that I don’t know about?’
‘No, no, is all right. I go on up.’ He bounded up the stairs, carrying his bag.
‘Let’s have something to drink,’ said Olivia, leading the way into the kitchen. ‘Sorry! I didn’t know you were back from school.’
Chloë was sitting at the table, and opposite her was a gangly, dishevelled figure: a mop of greasy, dark-blond hair, feet in trainers with the laces undone, jeans sliding down his skinny frame. He turned his head and Frieda saw a thin, pallid face, hollow eyes. He looked bruised and wrung-out. Ted: the boy she had last seen retching over the toilet bowl. The boy who had just lost his mother. He met her gaze and a hectic blush mottled his cheeks. He muttered something incoherent and slumped further over the table with his face half hidden by one hand. Nails bitten to the quick. A little tattoo – or probably an ink drawing – on his thin wrist.
‘Hello, Frieda,’ said Chloë. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. It’s not chemistry today, you know.’
‘I’m here with Josef.’
‘The washbasin.’
‘Yes.’
‘It must have been loose anyway. It just came away.’
‘Because two people sat on it!’ Olivia lowered her voice. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’
Chloë looked embarrassed. ‘This is Ted. Ted, my mum.’
Ted squinted up at Olivia and managed a hello. Olivia marched up to him, grabbed his limp, unwilling hand and shook it firmly. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘I keep telling Chloë she should bring friends home. Especially handsome young men like you.’
‘Mum! That’s why I don’t.’
‘Ted doesn’t mind. Do you, Ted?’
‘And this is Frieda,’ said Chloë, hastily. ‘She’s my aunt.’ She cast a beseeching glance at Frieda.
‘Hello.’ Frieda nodded at him. If it were possible, he turned even more crimson and stuttered something incoherent. She could see that he wanted to run and hide from the woman who’d seen him vomiting – weeping too.
‘Shall we go to my room?’ Chloë asked Ted, and he slid off the chair, a raw-boned, awkward, self-conscious young man, all angles and sharp edges.
‘I heard about your mother,’ Frieda said. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
She felt Olivia stiffen. Ted stared at her, his pupils enormous. Chloë picked up one of his hands and held it between her own to comfort him. For a moment he seemed stranded in his emotions, unable to move or speak.
‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘It’s just … Thanks.’
‘I hope you’re all receiving proper help.’
‘What?’ hissed Olivia, as Chloë led Ted from the room, glancing back over her shoulder with bright eyes. ‘Is that –’
‘Her friend whose mother was killed. Yes.’
Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I didn’t make the connection. Poor boy. Poor, poor boy. What a dreadful thing. He’s quite attractive, isn’t he, in a grungy kind of way? Do you think Chloë’s in love with him? What a calamity. I mean what happened to him. At such an age, too. Just think of it! Let’s have that drink.’
Billy Hunt stared up at Karlsson. His eyes were bloodshot and he was twitchier and thinner than ever, but he wasn’t budging.
Karlsson sighed. ‘You’re making life hard for us and hard for yourself. You’ve admitted breaking and entering; the stolen items have been traced back to you; the murder weapon with your prints all over it, and Mrs Lennox’s blood, has been found. Just admit what you did.’
‘Unless I didn’t do it.’
‘The jury won’t believe you.’ Karlsson stood up. His head felt tight with weariness and irritation. Now his team would have to trawl through the evidence to put a watertight case together. The time he wanted to be spending with his children, Bella and Mikey, would be spent instead examining statements, going through the house again, talking to expert witnesses, making sure the correct procedures had been followed.
‘Wait.’
‘What now?’
‘I wanted to say – there is somewhere I went just before.’
‘Before?’
‘Before … you know.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘Before I went to the house, where she was.’
‘Mrs Lennox.’
‘Right. I went to another place first.’
‘Which you haven’t told us about?’
‘Right.’ Billy bobbed his head up and down. ‘You’ll see why.’
‘Hang on, Billy. If you’re going to change your statement, we need to do this officially. I’ll come back.’
In the corridor, he met Riley.
‘Hey,’ said Riley.
‘What?’
‘I’ve just come from Margaretting Street,’ said Riley. ‘We found something. Under the mat. In fact, I found it. Munster thought you’d want to know.’
‘What is it?’
Riley held up a transparent evidence sachet. Inside was a used envelope on which was scrawled a message, written with a blunt pencil.
Karlsson took it and held it up: ‘Hello, Ruth, I’m here but where are you? Maybe in the bath. Give us a call when you read this, and we can have our tea.’ At the end there was what looked like two interlocking initials or perhaps a signature. ‘What’s this?’
‘Munster thinks it’s a “D” and an “M” but I think it’s “O” and “N”.’
‘It might have been there for months. Who’s following it up?’
‘DC Long, sir, and Munster. But I’m going back there later. It’s probably not so important, though, is it, even if it is recent? I mean, if Billy killed her, it doesn’t really matter what time exactly she died, right?’
‘No, it could be important,’ said Karlsson, thoughtfully.
‘You’re welcome, then,’ said Riley, with a cheerful smile.
Karlsson raised his eyebrows. ‘Just get back to Margaretting Street,’ he said.
Yvette Long showed the note to Russell Lennox, who stared at it, then shook his head. ‘I don’t recognize the writing.’
‘What about the initials?’
‘Are those initials? Is that a “G”?’
‘A “G”?’
‘Or maybe it says Gail.’
‘Do you know a Gail?’
‘I don’t think so. Or it could be Delia, or even Dell. I don’t know a Delia either, or a Dell. Or it could just be a squiggle.’
‘Which of your wife’s friends used to pop round during the day?’
‘Oh.’ Russell Lennox frowned. ‘Lots. I don’t know. She knew almost everyone in our neighbourhood. There are her friends and then people she’s friendly with – and she helps organize the street party every year, which means people are always coming in and out. And then there are her friends who aren’t so local. She was very popular, my wife. I was always amazed at how many people she kept in contact with. You should see her Christmas card list.’ He stared at Yvette and shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘I can’t believe I’m already using the past tense,’ he said. ‘Was. She was. As if it happened years ago.’