Waiting for Wednesday

seeing you without
Frieda.’
    Karlsson’s expression turned harsh.
‘So you’re pleased she’s not helping us out.’
    ‘I … I didn’t mean
that.’
    ‘I know you had problems with her
being around,’ said Karlsson, ‘but that’s been sorted. The chief
decided that she was out and she almost got killed in the process. Is that the bit that
seemed funny?’
    Yvette blushed and didn’t reply.
    ‘Have you been to see her?’
Karlsson asked.
    ‘I went to the hospital.’
    ‘That’s not enough. You should
talk to her. But meanwhile …’
    He gestured towards the house and they
walked in. It was full of people in plastic overshoes, wearing overallsand gloves. They spoke in hushed voices or were silent. Karlsson and Yvette pulled on
their shoes and gloves and walked down the hall, past a handbag lying on the boards,
past a photograph in a smashed frame, past a man dusting for fingerprints, into the
living room, where spotlights had been rigged up.
    The dead woman lay under the lights as if
she was on stage. She was on her back. One arm was flung out, the other lay by her side,
the hand in a half-fist. Her hair was brown, going grey. Her mouth was smashed open so
it looked like an animal’s demented snarl, but from where he stood, gazing down at
her, Karlsson could see a filling glinting among the splintered teeth. On one side of
her face, the skin was quite smooth, but sometimes death uncreases wrinkles, takes away
the marks that life has made and adds its own. Her neck had the wrinkles of
middle-age.
    Her right eye was open, staring. The left
side of the woman’s head had been caved in, sticky with liquid and bits of bone.
Blood soaked into the beige carpet around her, had dried in splashes all over the floor
and sprayed the nearest wall, turning the middle-class living room into an abattoir.
    ‘Someone hit her hard,’ murmured
Karlsson, straightening up.
    ‘Burglary,’ said a voice behind
him. Karlsson looked round. A detective was standing at his back, slightly too close. He
was very young, pimply, with a slightly uneasy smile on his face.
    ‘What?’ said Karlsson.
‘Who are you?’
    ‘Riley,’ said the officer.
    ‘You said something.’
    ‘Burglary,’ said Riley.
‘He was caught in the act and he lashed out.’
    Riley noticed Karlsson’s expression and
his smile melted away. ‘I was thinking aloud,’ he said. ‘I was trying
to be positive. And proactive.’
    ‘Proactive,’ said Karlsson.
‘I thought we might examine the crime scene, search for prints, hair and fibres,
take some statements before deciding what happened. If that’s all right with
you.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘Boss.’ Chris Munster had come
into the room. He stood for a moment, gazing at the body.
    ‘What do we know, Chris?’
    It took an effort for Munster to shift his
attention back to Karlsson. ‘You don’t get used to it,’ he said.
    ‘Try to,’ said Karlsson.
‘The family don’t need you to do their suffering for them.’
    ‘Right,’ said Munster,
consulting his notebook. ‘Her name is Ruth Lennox. She was a health visitor for
the local authority. You know, old people, new mothers, that sort of thing. Forty-four
years old, married, three kids. The youngest daughter discovered her when she came back
from school at about half past five.’
    ‘Is she here?’
    ‘Upstairs, with the father and the
other two kids.’
    ‘Any estimate of time of
death?’
    ‘After midday, before six
o’clock.’
    ‘That’s not much use.’
    ‘I’m just repeating what Dr
Heath told me. He was saying that it was a heated house, warm day, sun through the
window. It’s not an exact science.’
    ‘Fine. Murder weapon?’
    Munster shrugged. ‘Something heavy, Dr
Heath said. With a sharp edge but not a blade.’
    ‘All right,’ said Karlsson.
‘Is someone getting the family’s prints?’
    ‘I’ll check.’
    ‘Anything stolen?’ asked
Yvette.
    Karlsson glanced at her. It was the first
time she’d spoken in the house. Her tone still sounded shaky. He’d probably
been too hard on her.
    ‘The husband’s in a state of
shock,’ said Munster. ‘But it looks like her wallet’s been
emptied.’
    ‘I’d better talk to them.
Upstairs, you say?’
    ‘In the study. First room you come to
up the stairs, next to the bathroom. Melanie Hackett’s with them.’
    ‘All right,’ said Karlsson.
‘There was a detective used to work round here, Harry Curzon. I think he retired.
Could you get his number