‘And you had no sense at all, looking back, that he knew?’
‘No.’ Her eyes glittered. She wiped her hands down her apron. ‘But I wonder why he didn’t tell me when he discovered.’
‘It’s not something that’s easy to say,’ said Karlsson.
‘Do his children know?’
‘Yes.’
‘And yet they haven’t shared it with me. Poor things. To find that out about your mother.’ She looked at Karlsson with distaste. ‘Your job must be like lifting up a stone. I don’t know how you have the stomach for it.’
‘Someone’s got to do it.’
‘There are things it’s better not to know about.’
‘Like your sister’s affair, you mean?’
‘I suppose everyone will find out now.’
‘I suppose they will.’
Back in his flat, Karlsson tidied away the last of the mess his children had made. He found it hard to believe he had ever been irritated by it. Now it simply filled him with nostalgic tenderness – the miniature plastic figures embedded in the sofa, the wet swimming things on the bathroom floor, the pastel crayons that had been trodden into the carpet. He stripped both their beds and pushed the sheets into the washing-machine, and then, before he had time to stop himself, called Frieda’s number. He didn’t recognize the person who answered.
‘Hello. Who’s this?’
‘Chloë.’ There was a terrific banging going on in the background. He could barely make out her words. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘Malcolm Karlsson,’ he said formally.
‘The detective.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want me to call Frieda?’
‘It’s all right. It can wait.’
He put the phone down, feeling foolish, then called another number.
‘Hello, Sadie here.’
‘It’s Mal.’
Sadie was the cousin of a friend of Karlsson whom he bhad met a few times over the years, with his wife, or with Sadie’s current boyfriend. Their last meeting had been at a lunch a few weeks ago, both on their own, when, leaving at the same time, she had said that they ought to meet up, have a drink.
‘Can I offer you that drink?’ he said now.
‘How lovely,’ she said, and he was reminded of what he had always liked about her: her straightforward enthusiasm, her undisguised liking for him. ‘When?’
‘How about now?’
‘Now?’
‘But you’re probably busy.’
‘As it happens, I’m not. I was just worrying that my hair needs washing.’
He laughed, his spirits lifting. ‘It’s not a job interview.’
They met in a wine bar in Stoke Newington and drank a bottle of white wine between them. Everything was easy. Her hair looked fine to him, and so did the way she smiled at him, nodded in agreement. She wore bright, flimsy layers of clothes and had put lipstick on. He caught a whiff of her perfume. She put her hand on his arm when she spoke, leaned in close. Her breath was on his cheek and her pupils were large in the dimly lit room.
They went back to her flat because he didn’t want to be in his, even though it was closer. She apologized for the mess, but he didn’t mind that. He was a bit fuzzy from the wine and he was tired and all he wanted to do was to lose himself for a while.
She took an opened bottle of white wine from the fridge door and poured them each a glass. She looked up at him, expectant, and he leaned down and kissed her. As they undressed, he couldn’t stop thinking what a long time it had been since he had done this. He closed his eyes and felt her against him, her soft skin, took in the smell of her. Could it really be this easy?
Paul Kerrigan wasn’t exactly drunk, but after three pints and no food since the cheese sandwich he hadn’t finished at lunch, he was blurry, hazy, a bit adrift. Theoretically he was on his way home, but he really didn’t want to go there, to see his wife’s thin, sad face, his sons’ hostile, derisive stares. He was like a stranger in his own house, a hated impostor. So now he walked slowly, feeling the weight of his heavy body with each step he took, the thump of blood in his aching head. He needed to make sense of all that had happened, but this evening everything felt like an effort and thoughts were sludge in his brain.
One month ago, Ruth had been alive and Elaine had known nothing, and his boys had been full of teasing affection for him. Now, each morning when he woke, he had to realize all over again that the old life was over.
He reached the corner of his road and stopped. The pub was disgorging its drinkers on to the pavement in a burst of noise. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, or turn in time to see who it was who brought something heavy down on the back of his head, so that he reeled, stumbled, fell in an ungainly heap on to the road. The blow came again, this time on his back. He thought how that would hurt later. And so would his cheek, which had scraped along the tarmac when he fell. He could taste blood, and there was also grit in his mouth. Through the roar in his head, he could hear the pubgoers, like distant static. He wanted to call out for help but his tongue was swollen and it was easier to close his eyes and wait for the footsteps to recede.
At last he struggled to his feet and blundered along the street to his front door. He couldn’t make his fingers hold the key so he knocked and knocked until Elaine opened it. For a moment she stared at him, as if he was a monster standing in front of her, or a madman. Then her hand flew to her mouth in a cartoonish gesture of horror that he would have found funny in his safe old life.
‘I didn’t do it.’ Russell Lennox’s eyes were bloodshot. He had the sweet, stale smell of alcohol on him. Since the bottles had been found hidden in the garden shed, he seemed to have taken to drink in earnest – almost as if, now the secret was out, he had given himself permission.
‘It would be understandable if …’
‘I didn’t do anything. I was here. Alone.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘I told you I was.’
‘You seem to have had a fair bit to drink.’
‘Is that illegal?’
‘The man who was having an affair with your wife has been badly beaten up, not ten minutes from your house.’
‘He had it coming to him. But I didn’t do it.’
That was all he’d say, over and over, while Dora peered through the banisters at him, her face small and pale in the darkness.
Frieda lay in bed and tried to sleep. She lay quite straight, staring at the ceiling, and then she turned on to her side, rearranging the pillow, closing her eyes. The cat lay at her feet. She put an image in her mind, of a shallow river running over pebbles, but the water bubbled and the faces rose from the bottom. Thoughts stirred in the mud of her mind. Her body was sore.
It was no good. She could hear Chloë downstairs. She was talking to someone on Skype and had been for what seemed like hours, sometimes loudly and emphatically, with occasional bursts of laughter. Or was she crying? Frieda looked at the time. It was nearly one o’clock and tomorrow Chloë had school and she herself had a whole day to get through. She sighed and got out of bed, tweaking her curtains back to see the half-moon and then going down the stairs.
Chloë looked up from her computer guiltily. Frieda saw the image of Ted Lennox there, his peaky adolescent face staring out at her. She stepped back, out of range. ‘I didn’t know you were still awake.’
‘I don’t want to be.’
‘I need to talk to Ted.’
‘You were talking rather loudly. And I think it’s time for you to go to bed.’
‘I’m not sleepy.’
‘Go to bed, Chloë. You have classes tomorrow.’ Frieda stepped forward so that she could see Ted and Ted could see her. He looked dreadful. ‘You too, Ted.’
‘Can I have some tea first? With just a small amount of milk,’ Chloë asked.