Saturday Requiem (8 page)

‘No,’ said Karlsson.

‘I haven’t properly explained it yet,’ said Frieda.

‘You’ve explained enough. You want me to go around with you annoying people about an old case. Tempting as it may be – and it’s not very tempting – there’s no way I could do it. I can hardly get to the toilet.’

They were sitting in Karlsson’s flat. There were windows looking out on the small garden. It was raining heavily again and there were pools of water on the muddy little lawn. Karlsson was sitting in an armchair. His plastered leg was resting on a wooden stool.

‘I used to like the idea of a bit of sick leave,’ he said. ‘I could do some repainting. Get the garden sorted out.’

‘The garden?’

‘Look at that lawn. I’ve put seed on it, I’ve put fertilizer on it, I’ve stabbed it, I’ve rolled it, and it still looks like the day after a rock festival.’

‘So you’ve given it your best shot.’

‘Turf. Just roll it out like a carpet. Or I could have it paved.’

‘You could hire Josef to do it.’

‘This is my garden. I need to do it myself.’

‘What you need is to get out there and do your job,’ said Frieda. ‘I could really use your help.’

‘No.’

‘We’re not going to be running after villains. You could get round with a stick. Or in a wheelchair.’

‘Look at me,’ said Karlsson. ‘Or, better still, read my doctor’s letter, which explains why I’m not available for work.’

‘I wasn’t going to say this …’ Frieda began.

‘Then don’t.’

‘But the entire reason I’m doing this is because Levin arranged for your reinstatement.’

‘All right,’ said Karlsson. ‘So the two of you got me out of the grave I’d dug for myself. Sometimes I wish you’d left me there. The fact is, I would be useful if your investigation was confined to bungalows and premises with wheelchair access.’ He thought for a moment. ‘If only there was someone who was available during my absence.’

‘What?’

‘If only there was a detective who was stuck in the office, while her boss was on sick leave.’

‘No,’ said Frieda. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Was this your idea?’ asked Detective Constable Yvette Long. She was sitting in the back seat. Frieda was in the front passenger seat. Josef Morozov was driving. Frieda wasn’t sure who the car belonged to – Josef usually drove his battered van.

‘Karlsson suggested it,’ said Frieda. ‘And I agreed.’

‘Was it his idea of a joke?’

‘What joke?’ asked Josef.

‘He thought you’d be the best for the job,’ said Frieda. ‘Anyway, if you didn’t want to do it, all you had to do was refuse.’

‘It was made clear to me that a refusal would be taken very seriously indeed.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘You’ve got powerful friends, apparently.’

‘They’re not exactly friends. But it shouldn’t be that bad.’

Frieda looked round at Yvette Long. Her cheeks were flushed and she was staring out of the window, avoiding eye contact.

‘I made the call,’ Yvette said. ‘I spoke to the owner. Or the owner’s wife. She’s called Emma Travis. She didn’t sound pleased.’

‘But you persuaded her.’

‘She probably doesn’t want the whole murder business brought up. But I’m sure you’ve got a good reason for it.’

‘I want to see where it all happened.’

‘Why is Josef here?’

‘Don’t you want him?’

‘This is a criminal investigation.’

‘According to the file, the house was sold soon after the murder and there was substantial rebuilding. I thought Josef might help us get a sense of the previous layout.’

‘How?’

‘By being a builder.’

Yvette took a deep breath. Frieda couldn’t quite tell whether it was a sigh of disapproval or just a breath. She turned round again and faced forward. Josef glanced at her. She thought she saw the faintest sign of a smile. She hoped and prayed that Yvette wouldn’t notice.

‘Before we begin,’ said Yvette, abruptly, ‘I want to clear the air about a few things.’

‘What things?’

When Yvette spoke it was in a rush, as if it had been building up and she needed to say it all at once before she was stopped. ‘First, I thought you had stopped working with the police. Second, I’ve got to admit that I’m puzzled by the fact that you seem to be reopening a case that was closed more than ten years ago. And third, you may think that everybody has forgotten how close you came to destroying DCI
Karlsson’s career. But they haven’t. Not everybody. Some people remember.’

‘Yes.’ Frieda spoke slowly and carefully. ‘It’s good to clear the air. As you know, the reasons behind all your questions make up a long and complicated story. But you also know that Karlsson is someone who takes responsibility for himself.’

‘Which is why he needs people to look out for him.’

‘And in a way all of this … this investigation, whatever it is we’re doing, this is about getting Karlsson reinstated. Someone stepped in and helped and I owed him a favour.’

‘That sounds like someone setting fire to a house and then wanting the credit for putting it out.’

Frieda looked round at Yvette once more. ‘I don’t want any credit,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to do the right thing. Isn’t that what we’re all doing?’

‘It’s just that people keep getting hurt. Don’t you worry about that? I thought that therapists were supposed to make people better.’

‘One day we should have a talk about what therapists are supposed to do.’

Yvette didn’t reply and the rest of the journey was in silence, except when Frieda looked at her map and pointed out the directions to Josef. They drove through Peckham and then, suddenly and briefly, it was as if they were passing through a country park and a village before they were back in familiar-looking London streets. Frieda pointed out the turning and then they were in Oakley Road. Josef pulled up outside number fifty-four. The three got out and looked around. The cars and the front gardens and the immaculate façades all told the same story of comfort and prosperity.

‘I was going to say that this doesn’t look like somewhere where a family would be murdered,’ said Frieda.

‘Why didn’t you?’ asked Yvette.

‘Because I don’t know how a place like that is supposed to look.’ She nodded at Yvette. ‘You first. You’re in charge.’

‘You mean I’m your way in.’

‘Are you going to argue about every single thing I say to you?’

‘I’m just stating the truth as I see it.’

The small front garden was shielded by a hedge. Yvette rang the bell and the door was answered quickly. Emma Travis was in her early forties. She was dressed in a navy blue shirt and fawn-coloured trousers. She ushered them quickly inside as if she didn’t want them to be seen. Yvette introduced them all. She described Frieda and Josef as consultants. Emma Travis looked suspiciously at them and Josef gave her a nod, his face assuming a serious professional expression.

‘I have to say,’ she said, in a wavering, emotional voice, ‘that my husband was angry about this. The people we bought this house from sold it because they couldn’t bear the bad publicity any more. I hope this isn’t going to start up again. If the children got to hear about it, I don’t know what would happen.’

‘We’re grateful for your cooperation,’ said Frieda. ‘Otherwise we would have had to obtain a search warrant. And then it becomes a public matter.’

‘That would be terrible,’ said Emma Travis.

‘We’ll be as discreet as possible.’

Emma Travis stood awkwardly, moving her weight from one leg to the other. ‘Do you want me to show you around?’

‘It might be best if you didn’t,’ said Frieda. ‘We’re going to be talking about things you may not want to hear.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. That’s right, I’m sure.’ She looked at each of them. ‘Can you tell me why you’re here, after all this time?’

‘We’re checking one or two aspects of the case,’ said Frieda.

‘You probably think I’m just worried about property values. We did buy the house at a lower price than we would have otherwise. People were put off. But it’s the idea of what happened here. Sometimes I wake up in the night and think about it.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Frieda.

‘People come and look at the house. Can you imagine that? There are people who visit murder scenes as if they were tourist sites. They take pictures. Sometimes they’ve even knocked at the door and asked if they can look around.’

‘My father visits battlefields,’ said Yvette.

‘That’s different,’ said Emma Travis. ‘Battlefields are history. This is just … just horrible.’

‘This is a sort of history,’ said Frieda.

‘Sometimes I think they should have knocked the house down and built a new one or a little park. They do that sometimes.’ Emma Travis sighed. ‘Can I make you some tea?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Frieda.

‘For me, yes,’ said Josef. ‘With the one sugar.’

‘And one for me too,’ said Yvette. ‘With just a tiny splash of milk.’

‘Before you do that,’ said Frieda. ‘Can you tell us about the building work that was done?’

‘It was done by the previous people. We’ve got the details in a file somewhere, I think. You’d have to ask my husband where it is.’

‘Can we walk around on our own?’ said Frieda.

‘Will you be long?’

‘We’ll be as quick as we can.’

When Emma Travis had disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, Josef looked questioningly at Frieda.

‘I was hoping you could give me an idea of how much the layout of the house has changed, down here and up on the first floor,’ she said.

‘I’ll try.’

Josef raised his head and looked at the ceiling in the hallway. He gently touched a stretch of the wall. Then, one after another, he walked through the doors that led off the hall, to reception rooms on either side and down to the kitchen. Yvette and Frieda could hear him talking to Emma Travis. There was the sound of laughter.

‘You should watch him,’ said Yvette. ‘Around a lonely housewife like that.’

Frieda was about to defend Josef but she stopped herself. Yvette could be right. Maybe she should have a word.

Josef returned, shaking his head. ‘No big change down here. New conservatory at the back.’

‘Rory’s blood was found in the hallway here,’ said Frieda. ‘In the front room on the right.’ She pushed the door open and they stepped in. It was a living room, the sort of living room that wasn’t lived in. It reminded Frieda of a public area in an old-fashioned hotel, with carefully arranged chairs and some magazines piled on a low table.

Yvette walked to the window. ‘The hedge shelters it from the street,’ she said.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Frieda. ‘It may have grown up since then. And then there was more of Rory’s blood on the stairs.’

‘How much blood?’ asked Josef, distressed. Frieda knew he was imagining Rory’s death and thinking of his own sons, far away in Ukraine.

‘That’s a good question,’ she said. ‘Yvette must know more about this than I do. But I suppose blood can be in pools, or spattered, or sprayed, or in drops. From the photographs of the scene it looked more like smears.’

‘Oh, please.’ Emma Travis had entered the room with two mugs of tea on a tray and a plate of biscuits. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. Could someone help with the tray?’

Josef stepped forward and took it from her.

‘I don’t know how you can do this,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how you can have it in your head.’

‘It’s difficult,’ said Yvette. ‘And we’re just talking about it.’

‘Don’t even say that. I don’t want to hear any more. I won’t be able to forget it.’ She looked at Josef and her face softened. ‘Yours is the one with the deer on it. Do have a biscuit.’

She hurried out of the room. Josef and Yvette picked up their mugs and Josef took three biscuits.

Yvette sipped the tea. ‘Smears. What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘There was more of his blood on the stairs and on the first floor outside his bedroom. And yet it appears he was killed in his bed, so it doesn’t make obvious sense. There were also traces of his stepfather’s blood downstairs and on the stairs. Less of it, I think. Let’s go upstairs.’

Josef went first. He rapped on walls, stood on a chair to examine the ceiling, opened doors. ‘Is all different here. All rooms changed.’

‘This is where the bodies were found,’ said Yvette. ‘They probably wanted to make it like it had never happened.’

Josef stood at the top of the stairs, his back to them and to the street.

‘There was one room here.’ He pointed to the right.

‘That was Rory’s bedroom,’ said Frieda.

‘Ah,’ he said, on a drawn-out sigh. ‘The boy. And one here.’ He pointed to the left.

‘Spare bedroom,’ said Frieda.

‘Bathroom between.’ Josef turned and walked along the corridor beside the stairs. He pointed enquiringly up another flight of stairs.

Frieda shook her head. ‘Nothing happened up there. It was all here.’

He gestured ahead, in the direction of the front of the house. ‘Big room there.’

‘The main bedroom,’ Frieda said. ‘This was where Deborah Docherty and Aidan Locke were found, Deborah in a nightdress, Aidan in his clothes.’

‘I couldn’t live here,’ said Yvette. ‘It gives me the creeps even walking around. Don’t you feel it?’

‘Houses know,’ agreed Josef.

‘There are places like that,’ said Frieda, ‘where bad things have happened, terrible things have been done over and over again. I don’t feel it here, though. One awful, tragic thing happened. I don’t think I’d like to live here, but not because of the murders.’ She looked around. ‘It’s strange, though.’

‘It’s not so strange,’ said Yvette. ‘There are lots of possibilities.’

‘Such as?’

Yvette thought for a moment. ‘Deborah and Rory are in bed. Aidan and Hannah have a row downstairs, she beats him with a hammer. Realizes what she’s done and decides to make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Or she’s angry at the whole family. Goes up and kills her sleeping mother. Aidan isn’t entirely dead, crawls up, leaving traces of blood, gets to the bedroom and Hannah finishes him off. Then kills her brother, gets blood on her, some of which she leaves traces of as she goes downstairs.’

‘That’s good,’ said Frieda. ‘But it can’t be true.’