He was sitting in front of the TV, not really watching it, when the phone rang.
‘Have you got a pen?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Philip Sidney.’
Fearby fumbled for a pen.
‘Yes?’
‘Vanessa Dale,’ said the voice, then gave a phone number and made Fearby read it back to him. Fearby started to ask something but the line was already dead.
Frieda poured two whiskies and handed one to Josef. ‘How’s it going?’ she said.
‘The joist is good. It is strong. But now after I take the floor up, I think it is better to do tiles. Tiles on the floor. Then new floor make wall look old and bad. So maybe tiles for the wall as well. You should choose.’
Josef seemed to have forgotten about his glass, so Frieda clinked hers against his to remind him. They both drank.
‘When I asked, “How’s it going?” I was asking about you, not just the bathroom. But I want to say that I’m going to start paying for all of this. You can’t afford it.’
‘Is fine.’
‘It’s not fine. I’ve been thinking about myself too much. I know that you were close to Mary Orton. It was very sad for you, I know, what happened.’
‘I dream of her,’ said Josef. ‘Two times maybe four times. It’s funny.’
‘What do you dream?’
Josef smiled. ‘She was living in Ukraine. In my old home. I tell her I’m surprised to see her living. She talk to me in my own language. Stupid, no?’
‘Yes. Very stupid. But not stupid at all.’
Darling Frieda – It’s too late to phone you. I’ve just checked out the link you sent me. Who is this fucking Hal Bradshaw anyway? Can we do something about this? One of my oldest friends is a lawyer. Should I have a word with her?
But I hope you know how highly you’re regarded by all the people who matter – your friends, your colleagues, your patients. This story is just a vicious charade that makes no difference to that.
I’ve had an idea for the summer – we can hire a longboat on the Canal du Midi. You’d like that. I went on one before and they’re very cosy (some people would find them oppressive; not you. They are a bit like your house, except they move). We could drift along the waterways and stop for picnics and in the evenings go to little brasseries. Of course, in my mind it’s very sunny and you’re wearing a sundress and drinking white wine and you’ve even got a bit of a tan. Say yes! Xxxx
NINETEEN
‘We were all so shocked,’ said the woman sitting opposite Munster and Riley. ‘I can’t quite believe it. I mean, Ruth was so …’ She stopped and searched for a word. Her face screwed up. ‘Down to earth,’ she supplied eventually. ‘Cheerful. Practical. I don’t know – not someone who things like this happen to. I realize how stupid that sounds.’
They were in the low-rise modern building from which Ruth Lennox had worked as a health visitor, sitting in a small room off the open-plan office with her line manager, Nadine Salter.
‘It doesn’t sound stupid, said Chris Munster, after Riley had failed to respond. He looked a bit dazed this morning: his face was creased as if he had only just woken up. ‘It’s what most people say about her. That she was a friendly, straightforward woman. How long had she worked here?’
‘About ten years. Mostly she was out, seeing people, not here in the office.’
‘Can you show us her desk?’
‘Of course.’
They went into the large room, past desks of avidly curious people pretending to work. Ruth Lennox’s desk was scrupulously tidy, which was what Munster and Riley had come to expect – her folders, her notebooks, her work diary, her correspondence and her stationery had been put away in the drawers. Apart from the rather old computer, the only things on the surface were a small jug of pens, a little pot of paper slips and staplers, and a framed photo of her three children.
‘We’re going to have to remove her computer and her correspondence,’ said Munster. ‘For now, we’re just interested in the Wednesday she died. April the sixth. Was she here?’
‘Yes. But just for the half-day. She always had Wednesday afternoon off. We have a general staff meeting in the morning, at about eleven, and then she leaves after that.’
‘So she was in the office that day, not out on visits?’
‘That’s right. She came in at about nine, and left again at midday.’
‘Was there anything different about her that day?’
‘We’ve been talking about that. She was just her normal self.’
‘She didn’t mention anything that was troubling her?’
‘Not at all. We talked about how awful it is for young people trying to find jobs, but just in a general way – her kids are too young for that to worry her. Poor things. And she gave me a recipe.’
‘Did you see her go?’
‘No. But Vicky, over there, was having a cigarette outside. She saw her getting into a cab.’
‘A black taxi?’
‘No. As I said, a cab.’
‘Do you know which firm?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Hang on,’ said Riley.
He walked over to Ruth Lennox’s desk and came back with a small card, which he handed to Munster. ‘This was pinned to her board,’ he said.
Munster looked at the card. C & R Taxis. He showed it to Nadine Salter.
‘Would she travel by cab on her visits?’ he asked.
Her face took on a disapproving expression. ‘Not on our budget.’
C & R Taxis was based in a tiny room with smeary windows next to a betting shop on Camden High Street. An old man was sitting asleep on a sofa. A portly man was sitting at a desk with three phones in front of him and a laptop. He looked up at the two detectives when Munster asked about Ruth Lennox.
‘Ruth Lennox? Last Wednesday?’ He scrolled down his computer screen with a deft, stubby finger. ‘Yeah, we took her last Wednesday. Ahmed drove her. Where to?’
They waited for him to say that Ahmed had driven Ruth Lennox home to Margaretting Street. He didn’t.
‘Shawcross Street, SE17, number thirty-seven. No, we didn’t collect her.’ One of the phones rang loudly. ‘I should get that.’
Out in the street, Munster and Riley looked at each other.
‘Shawcross Street,’ Munster said.
The road they needed was one-way, so they parked beside an enormous block of flats, built in the thirties. It was being prepared for demolition and the windows and doors were sealed with sheet metal.
‘I wonder what Ruth Lennox was doing round here,’ said Munster, climbing out of the car.
‘Isn’t that what a health visitor does?’ said Riley. ‘Visit people?’
‘This isn’t her patch.’
They walked round the corner into Shawcross Street. At one end there was a row of large, semi-detached Victorian houses, but thirty-seven wasn’t one of these. It was a fifties-style, flat-fronted, dilapidated building, with metal-framed windows, that had been divided into three flats, although the top flat looked empty. One of its windows was smashed and a tatty red curtain blew out of it.
Munster rang the bottom bell and waited. Then he rang the middle one. Just as they were turning to go, the entrance door opened and a small, dark-skinned woman peered out suspiciously. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
Chris Munster held up his ID. ‘Could we come in?’
She stood aside and let them into the communal hallway.