‘Doing what?’
‘He had plans as a designer, gardens
but interiors as well.’ Aisling smiled. ‘We walked around Greenwich and
looked at people’s gardens. You could see that people have such a need for someone
who can come into their homes and take responsibility and sort out their problems for
them, so they can get on with other things. People have the money but they don’t
know how to get what they really want. Anyone who comes up with a way to find these
people can’t fail. So we talked about creating a business like that.’
‘Did you do anything more than talk
about it?’
Aisling dropped the eye contact and gave a
shrug.
‘What did you actually do?’
asked Frieda.
‘That’s all you care
about,’ said Aisling. ‘You’re just being a policeman.’
‘I can’t help you if you
don’t tell me the truth,’ said Frieda, ‘which means all of the truth.
Even the uncomfortable bits.’
Aisling put her hand over her mouth, then
rubbed her face as if it were itching. ‘Some of this would look awkward if it came
out, and now that he’s dead I don’t know what will happen.’
‘If what came out?’
‘I gave Bertie some support,
that’s all. Part of which was financial.’
‘How much?’
‘A few
thousand,’ said Aisling, almost in a mumble. ‘More than that. A bit more.
Twenty-five. Maybe thirty, forty. Or something. It’s my money as well as
Frank’s. We share everything. And I have my own account.’
‘Did you tell your husband?’
‘I was going to tell him about the
plans when they were more worked out. It would have been all right, but then suddenly
Bertie was dead. It’s a disaster in a way, I know, but we have quite a lot of
savings. And he doesn’t look at my bank statements. Why should he? I feel terrible
about it, but it should be fine. It’ll die down and go away, that’s what I
tell myself. I mean, this is nothing to do with Bertie’s death, just about a mess
in a marriage. Our mess – it’s got nothing to do with anything else. You must see
that.’
Frieda held her gaze. ‘I’m sure
you understand that I have to tell the police about this.’
‘No! Why? This has nothing to do with
anything. I came to you because I trusted you.’
‘You came to me because I’d
realized you had had an affair with Robert Poole.’
‘I thought you’d understand. I
didn’t think you’d judge me.’
‘I’m not judging you, Aisling. A
man has been murdered.’
‘Not by me.’
‘I have to tell them.’
‘But Frank will find out. You
won’t tell him, will you? You can’t, anyway. You can’t betray the
secrets of a patient.’
‘You’re not a patient,’
said Frieda. ‘But I won’t tell him. You should think about doing so
yourself, even if he doesn’t discover it from the police.’
‘I can’t. You don’t
understand what he’s like. He’ll never forgive me.’
‘Give him the chance. Anyway, I think
he already knows.’
Frieda had only been home
a few minutes when the bell rang. She was on the way upstairs to have a shower, but now
she turned round and went to the door.
‘Hello? Are you Dr Klein?’
A woman on her doorstep, young and
fresh-faced, with an expression that was both apologetic and eager. Frieda had the
impression that she was ready to break into an enthusiastic smile, and that when she did
there would be dimples in both her cheeks. She had curly chestnut hair cut quite short
but still unruly, freckles on her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose, and soft brown
eyes with little flecks in the irises.
‘I’m so sorry to turn up like
this. My name’s Liz. Liz Barron.’
‘How can I help you?’
She shivered. ‘It’s horrible out
here. Could I come in for a moment?’
‘Not until you tell me who you
are.’
‘Of course, sorry. I wanted to ask
your advice on something. I was hoping you could help me.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘I’m a journalist for the
Daily Sketch
.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m writing a feature, a kind
of
zeitgeist
piece about the police force in the present climate of suspicion
and cuts. Basically sympathetic, but trying to look at it from all points of
view.’
‘I’m not a police
officer.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said,
blushing. ‘I’m probably not explaining myself very well. The thing is, my
editor thought it would be a good idea to focus on a particular area or a particular
story. I was wondering if I could talk to you about your involvement – with Dean Reeve,
of course, and now with this man Robert Poole. I was so impressed by what you
did and I know what Joanna Teale wrote about you. It was a really
unfair piece. I thought it would be a great opportunity for you to put your side of the
story too. It must feel awful not to be able to set the record straight.’
‘Not really.’
Liz Barron seemed undeterred. Her pleasant
face glowed with sympathy. ‘You could tell me about what happened then, and what
you’re doing now, and what it’s like to be a consultant.’
‘No.’
‘And we could even talk about paying
you expenses for your trouble.’
‘No.’
Her expression didn’t alter. ‘Do
you feel responsible for Kathy Ripon’s death?’
‘I don’t want to be rude, but
I’m going to shut the door now.’
‘Why should the public pay for your
help with the Poole case, when –’
Frieda closed the door. She went up the
stairs and took her shower, standing for a long time under the needles of water, trying
not to think.
‘Well, well, well,’ said
Karlsson. ‘So Mrs Wyatt was cheating on her husband with our Robert
Poole.’
They were in a car on their way to Mary
Orton’s house. Frieda just stared out of the window.
‘And he took Mrs Orton and then got to
change her will.’
‘Tried to,’ said Frieda.
‘He slept with Mrs Wyatt, then took
her money. Do you think he was blackmailing her?’
‘I don’t think he needed to. She
said they were going to set up in business together.’
‘I’ve never
heard it called that before,’ said Karlsson. ‘You reckon Mr Wyatt
knew?’
‘There was something about the way
they were together. They didn’t look at each other, seemed almost scared to catch
each other’s eye. It felt to me then that they were both concealing something from
each other. We know what she was concealing, but what about him?’
‘So he knew?’
‘Aisling Wyatt said he didn’t.
I’m not so sure.’
Karlsson looked thoughtful. ‘He sleeps
with your wife, steals your money. And then the body is found a mile away from your
house. I’m looking forward to talking to Frank Wyatt.’
‘I told Aisling I was going to tell
you and that she should speak to him before you did.’
‘What the hell did you do that for?
Now he’ll be prepared.’
‘Because it was the right thing to
do.’
‘Right for who, Frieda? For her, or
for our investigation?’
‘There’s no difference.
It’s right, that’s all.’
‘Whose side are you on?’
‘I’m not on any side.’
Karlsson breathed deeply, making an effort
to stop himself saying something rude.
‘What did you make of Mary
Orton’s sons?’
‘I don’t like them,’ said
Karlsson.
‘But there’s no evidence against
them?’
‘They had a motive. They had a big
bloody motive. The trouble is, I don’t think they realized it until it was too
late.’
Mary Orton insisted on making a pot of tea
and putting out biscuits. She was apologetic that she hadn’t baked a cake. Frieda
saw how her hands – liver-spotted and with thick blue veins under the loose skin – shook
as she set out the cups.
She was wearing a dark green skirt and a
white blouse, with a thin cardigan over the top. But the blouse buttons were done up
wrongly, showing the old-fashioned lacy vest underneath, and there was a ladder running
up her tights. ‘We’re so sorry to bother you again,’ she said to the
old woman gently. ‘We just wanted to check a few things with you.’
‘Anything I can do to help.’ She
picked up her cup with clumsy fingers, setting the teaspoon ringing against its
side.
‘It’s just routine,’ said
Karlsson, soothingly. ‘We just want to confirm a few details. Such as when your
sons last visited you, for example.’
She looked at him, then down at her tea.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘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?’
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.’