Waiting for Wednesday fk-3 Page 4

  The commissioner looked at him sharply. ‘You mentioned him on the phone. Has he done something wrong?’

  ‘I met him at the Chalk Farm murder scene. He just turned up.’

  ‘That’s the arrangement,’ said the commissioner. ‘I know the way he works. The quicker he can get on the scene, the more use he can be to us.’

  ‘I think he’s a distraction,’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Does this have anything to do with that Dr Klein?’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘Dr Klein and Dr Bradshaw were treading on each other’s toes. One of them had to go. We went through a full consultation process. The fact is that your Dr Klein is not trained in the forensic field.’

  Karlsson paused for a few seconds. ‘In my opinion,’ he said, ‘Dr Bradshaw does not represent good value for money.’

  ‘Wait,’ said the commissioner. He strode across to his desk and pressed a button. He leaned down. ‘Send him in.’

  ‘What is this?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘I don’t believe in being underhand,’ said the commissioner. ‘Things like this should be dealt with face to face.’

  Karlsson turned as a young uniformed officer opened the door and Hal Bradshaw walked in. Karlsson felt his cheeks flush with anger and hoped it didn’t show. When he saw the hint of a smile on Bradshaw’s face, he had to look away.

  ‘Mal,’ said the commissioner. ‘I don’t believe in going behind people’s backs. Tell Dr Bradshaw what you’ve just told me.’

  The three men were now standing in an awkward triangle in the middle of the commissioner’s office. Karlsson had the feeling that he’d walked into a trap.

  ‘I didn’t realize that talking to my boss was going behind people’s backs,’ he said, ‘but I’m happy to be clear about things.’ He turned to Bradshaw. ‘I don’t believe that your presence is helpful to the inquiry.’

  ‘Based on what?’

  ‘Based on the fact that I’m running it.’

  ‘That’s not enough,’ said the commissioner. ‘Dr Bradshaw’s got a track record. He appears on the Today programme.’

  ‘I don’t think he represents a proper use of public money.’

  Bradshaw turned to the commissioner and gave a sigh. ‘I think this is a problem that you need to sort out between yourselves,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said the commissioner. ‘I want it sorted out here and now.’

  ‘I think my track record speaks for itself,’ said Bradshaw. ‘The real problem seems to be Mr Karlsson’s belief that a psychotherapist he happened to run into could be effective doing profiling work as sort of hobby.’

  ‘Shall we stick to your track record?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I’m here because Commissioner Crawford knew my work and appointed me personally. If you have any objection to that, then now is the time to say it.’

  ‘All right,’ said Karlsson. ‘I experienced your profiling skills on the Michelle Doyce case. Your analysis of the crime scene was misleading. Your identification of the murderer was completely mistaken and would have derailed the entire course of the investigation, if it hadn’t been for Frieda Klein.’

  ‘It’s not an exact science,’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘Not the way you do it,’ said Karlsson. ‘Frieda Klein didn’t just get it right, she almost got killed doing it. And that was after being effectively fired from the investigation.’

  Bradshaw give a sniff. ‘From what I heard, Klein’s mishap came from the failings of your own officers. I may have my failings, but I’ve never stabbed a mental patient to death.’ He stepped back quickly when he saw that Karlsson had raised his right hand.

  ‘Steady, Mal,’ said the commissioner.

  ‘Frieda was fighting for her life,’ said Karlsson. ‘And she showed you up for the idiot you are.’ He turned to Crawford. ‘He talks about his track record. Just check it out. From what I’ve seen, Bradshaw is terrific at profiling criminals after they’ve been caught. Frieda Klein was more useful when we were still searching for them.’

  Crawford looked at the two of them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mal, but I want Dr Bradshaw to stay on the case. Just find a way to work together. That’s all.’

  Karlsson and Bradshaw walked out of the commissioner’s office together. Without speaking they reached the lift, waited for it, got in and rode to the ground floor. As they stepped out, Bradshaw spoke. ‘Was it Frieda who put you up to this?’ he said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘If she’s going to damage me,’ he said, ‘she’ll need to be better at it than that.’

  They could all see that Karlsson was in a thoroughly bad mood. It didn’t help that the principal operations room in the police station was being painted. The desks were covered with sheets. Karlsson glanced into the various conference rooms but they were already being used by other officers or had been filled with displaced furniture and computers. In the end he led Yvette, Munster and Riley down some stairs and into the canteen. Riley dumped a pile of files on a table, then they all queued for coffees and teas. Munster and Riley bought a bun each, covered with white icing. Karlsson looked disapproving.

  ‘While we’re here,’ said Munster.

  ‘I missed breakfast,’ added Riley.

  ‘As long as you don’t get the files sticky,’ said Karlsson.

  ‘We’d better get used to this,’ said Yvette, as they settled at their table in a corner of the canteen by a window. ‘When the cuts take effect, those of us who’re left will be fighting for office space.’

  ‘Hot desking,’ said Riley.

  ‘What?’ Karlsson frowned.

  ‘It’s the modern kind of office. Nobody has their own desk. The idea is that you only occupy space when you need it.’

  ‘What about your stuff?’ said Munster. ‘Your paper clips and coffee mug.’

  ‘You keep them all in a locker. It’s a bit like school.’

  ‘Not like my school,’ said Munster. ‘If you left anything in your locker there, it got broken into and nicked.’

  ‘If you’re quite ready,’ Karlsson interrupted.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Munster. ‘Is Bradshaw coming?’

  ‘He’s busy today,’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Probably appearing on TV,’ said Yvette, and Karlsson gave her a look.

  ‘You go first,’ he said.

  ‘The situation is pretty much what you saw at the scene. We’ve had officers taking statements up and down the road. Plus we sent a couple of them to spend time there for the next two or three afternoons, just in case there were people who walked there at that time of day. There’s nothing that leaps out.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘They’ve got dozens of them,’ said Yvette. ‘But this was a family house, people in and out all the time. They’ve started to eliminate family prints, but it’s hopeless until we can narrow it down.’

  ‘Weapon?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘We haven’t found one.’

  ‘Have you searched?’

  ‘Within reason.’

  ‘There was a bin collection the next morning,’ said Munster. ‘A few officers had made a preliminary search the previous afternoon. But we didn’t have the men.’

  ‘I don’t even know why I’m bothering,’ said Karlsson. ‘But I’ll say it anyway: CCTV?’

  ‘Nothing in the road itself,’ said Yvette. ‘It’s residential. It doesn’t have them. We’ve got the footage from a couple of cameras on Chalk Farm Road. But we haven’t been through it yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’ve got a window of three or four hours and crowds of people wandering down to Camden Lock and we don’t know what we’re looking for.’

  There was a pause. Karlsson noticed a smile on Riley’s face. ‘Is something funny?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Riley said. ‘It’s different from what I expected.’

  ‘Is this your first?’

  ‘You mean murder? I de
alt with a death near the Elephant and Castle. But they caught the guy at the scene.’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ said Karlsson. He turned back to Yvette. ‘The woman, Ruth Lennox. Why was she at home?’

  ‘It was her afternoon off. Her husband said it’s a day she normally goes shopping or does things around the house.’

  ‘Meets friends?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘That day?’

  Yvette shook her head. ‘He showed us her diary. There was nothing in it for that day.’

  ‘How are the family?’ asked Karlsson.

  ‘In shock. When I interviewed them they seemed stunned. They’re staying with friends a few doors up from their house.’

  ‘What about the husband?’

  ‘He’s not the demonstrative type,’ said Yvette, ‘but he seems devastated.’

  ‘Have you asked him where he was at the time of his wife’s murder?’

  ‘He told us he had a four o’clock meeting with a Ms Lorraine Crawley, an accountant for the company where he works. I rang her and she confirmed it. It lasted about half an hour, forty minutes. Which makes it very unlikely that he could have got back to his house in time to kill his wife and leave before the daughter came home from school.’

  ‘Unlikely?’ said Karlsson. ‘That’s not good enough. I’ll talk to him again myself.’

  ‘You suspect him?’ said Riley.

  ‘If a woman is killed and there’s a husband or a boyfriend around, then that’s something to be be taken into consideration.’

  ‘But look,’ said Munster. ‘As you saw yourself, the little girl found broken glass next to the front door and the door open.’

  ‘Was the door usually double-locked?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Not when they were at home,’ said Yvette. ‘According to the husband.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Also according to the husband, when he’d calmed down and looked around, a set of silver cutlery had been stolen from a drawer in the kitchen dresser. Also a Georgian silver teapot that was on a shelf in the dresser. Plus the money from her wallet, of course.’

  ‘Anything else taken?’

  ‘Not that we know of,’ said Yvette. ‘She had jewellery upstairs, but it wasn’t touched.’

  ‘And –’ Riley began, then stopped.

  ‘What?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Karlsson forced himself to adopt a gentler tone. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got an idea, just say it. I want to hear everything.’

  ‘I was going to say that when I saw the body, she had nice earrings on and a necklace.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Karlsson. ‘Good.’ He looked back at Yvette. ‘So? What are we thinking?’

  ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t talk to the husband,’ said Yvette, ‘but the state of the scene seems consistent with a burglary that was interrupted. The burglar goes to the kitchen, takes the silver. Then he encounters Mrs Lennox in the living room. There’s a scuffle. She receives a fatal blow. He flees in panic.’

  ‘Or,’ said Karlsson, ‘someone who knows Mrs Lennox kills her and stages the burglary.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ said Yvette, woodenly.

  ‘But not very likely. You’re right. So there we are: an apparent burglary, a dead woman, no witnesses, no fingerprints as yet, no forensics.’

  ‘What about your old detective?’ said Munster.

  ‘I think we need him,’ said Karlsson.

  Standing on the pavement outside the Lennoxes’ house, Harry Curzon looked like a golfer who’d taken a wrong turning. He was dressed in a red windcheater over a checked sweater, light grey chinos and brown suede shoes. He was overweight and wore thick, heavy-framed spectacles.

  ‘So, how’s retirement?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘I don’t know what kept me,’ said Curzon. ‘How far away are you? Seven, eight years?’

  ‘A bit more than that.’

  ‘You need to see the writing on the wall. It’s all productivity and pen-pushing now. Look at me. Fifty-six years old and a full pension. When you called me I was heading up to the Lee River for a day’s fishing.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘It is good. So, before I head off and you go back to your office, what can I do for you?’

  ‘There’s been a murder,’ said Karlsson. ‘But there’s also been a burglary. You worked here.’

  ‘Eighteen years,’ said Curzon.

  ‘I thought you could give me some advice.’

  As Karlsson showed Curzon around the house, the older man talked and talked and talked. Karlsson wondered whether he was really enjoying his days of fishing and golf as much as he’d said he was.

  ‘It’s gone out of fashion,’ said Curzon.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Burglary.’

  ‘Back in the seventies it was TV sets and cameras and watches and clocks. In the eighties in was video players and stereos, and in the nineties it was DVD players and computers. It took them a few years but then the burglars suddenly woke up. A DVD player costs about the same as a DVD, and people are walking around in the streets with a phone and an iPod and probably a laptop that’s worth more than anything they’ve got at home. What’s the point of breaking in and getting a couple of extra years inside when you can mug them in the street and get something you can sell?’

  ‘What indeed?’ said Karlsson.

  ‘Try going to a dodgy second-hand dealer and offering them a DVD player and they’ll laugh in your face. Garden equipment, though, that’s saleable. There’s always a market for a hedge-trimmer.’

  ‘Not really relevant in this case,’ said Karlsson. ‘So, you don’t think this was a burglary?’

  ‘Looks like a burglary to me,’ said Curzon.

  ‘But couldn’t it have been staged?’

  ‘You could say that about anything. But if you were doing that, I reckon you’d break a window at the back. You’re less likely to be spotted by a nosy neighbour. And you’d take some stuff from the room where the body was.’

  ‘That’s basically what we’ve been thinking,’ said Karlsson. ‘So we’re looking for a burglar and you know about burglars.’

  Curzon grimaced. ‘I’ll give you some names. But these burglaries are mainly about drugs, and the junkies come and go. It’s not like the old days.’

  ‘When you had your trusty local burglar?’ Karlsson smiled.

  ‘Don’t knock it. We all knew our place.’

  ‘What I hoped,’ said Karlsson, ‘is that you’d be able to look at this crime scene and identify the burglar by his style. Doesn’t every burglar have his own trademark?’

  Curzon pulled another face. ‘There’s no trademark to this. He broke the window, opened the door and let himself in. You can’t get more basic than that. The only trademark in this scene was the trademark of a basic idiot. They’re the worst kind, except when you catch them in the act.’ He paused. ‘But I’ve had a thought. There’s a couple of local shops, trinkets, cheap stuff mostly but not always. There’s Tandy’s up on the corner of Rubens Road and there’s Burgess and Son over on the Crescent. Let’s say that if someone goes in there and offers them some silverware, they don’t ask too many questions. Get someone to look in the window over the next few days. They might see something. You could take it from there.’

  Karlsson was doubtful. ‘If you’ve killed someone, you’re not exactly going to take your swag to the local jeweller, are you?’

  Curzon shrugged. ‘These clowns are addicts, not bank managers. Burgess and Son is a bit further away. That might be his idea of being clever. It’s worth a try, anyway.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Karlsson.

  On the way out of the house Curzon put his hand on Karlsson’s sleeve. ‘Can I get you out on the course? Show you what you’re missing out on?’

  ‘I’m not really a golfer. In fact, not a golfer at all.’

  ‘Or come and get a little fishing in. You wouldn’t believe how peaceful it is.’

/>   ‘Yes.’ Karlsson nodded. He didn’t like fishing either. ‘Yes, that would be good. Maybe when the case is over. We can celebrate.’

  ‘I almost feel guilty,’ said Curzon. ‘Showing you what you’re missing.’

  ‘Go there with Russell Lennox, if he feels up to it,’ said Karlsson to Yvette. ‘See if he recognizes anything.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Take young Riley with you.’

  ‘Fine.’ Yvette hesitated, then, as Karlsson turned to go, blurted out, ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you blame me?’

  ‘Blame you? For what?’ He knew what, of course – ever since Frieda had been found lying on the floor of Mary Orton’s house, in that scene of carnage, Yvette had wanted his forgiveness, his reassurance that it wasn’t really her fault.

  ‘For not taking her concerns seriously. All that.’ Yvette gulped. Her face had turned very red.

  ‘This isn’t really the right time, Yvette.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘It isn’t appropriate,’ he said. His gentleness was worse than anger. She felt like a small child facing a kind, stern adult.

  ‘No. Sorry. Tandy’s and Burgess and Son.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Frieda took the phone out of its holster and considered it. Her eyes itched with tiredness, and her body felt hollow yet enormously heavy. The grave in Suffolk seemed like a dream now – a neglected patch of soil where the bones of a sad man lay. She thought of him, the father she had not been able to rescue. If she let herself go back, she could remember the way his hand had felt, holding hers, or breathe in his smell of tobacco and the cloves from his aftershave. His hopelessness. His heavy posture. And Dean Reeve had sat over him, with that smile.

  The cat clattered through the cat flap and she looked down at it, the two of them staring at each other. Then, still holding the phone, she walked slowly up the stairs – stairs were still hard for her – and sat on her bed, gazing out of the window at the soft grey evening that was settling over the city, making it mysterious again. At last she lifted the phone and keyed in the numbers.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Frieda!’ There was no mistaking the warmth of his voice.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking of you.’