Waiting for Wednesday Read Free Page B

want to discuss an earlier case, we should go somewhere else.’
    Bradshaw shook his head. ‘Don’t you think this is like a work of art?’
    ‘No, I don’t.’
    ‘We need to think, what is he trying to express? What is he telling the world?’
    ‘Maybe I should just leave you to it,’ said Karlsson.
    ‘I imagine that you think this is a simple burglary gone wrong.’
    ‘I’m trying to avoid quick conclusions,’ said Karlsson. ‘We’re gathering evidence. Theories can come later.’
    Bradshaw shook his head again. ‘That’s the wrong wayround. Without a theory, data is just chaos. You should always be open to your first impressions.’
    ‘So what’s your first impression?’
    ‘I’ll be delivering a written report,’ said Bradshaw, ‘but I’ll give you a free preview. A burglary isn’t just a burglary.’
    ‘You’ll have to explain that to me.’
    Bradshaw made an expansive gesture. ‘Look around you. A burglary is an invasion of a home, a violation, a rape. This man was expressing anger against a whole area of life that was closed to him, an area of property and family ties and social status. And when he encountered this woman, she personified everything that he couldn’t have – she was at the same time a well-off woman, a desirable woman, a mother, a wife. He could have run away, he could have struck her a simple blow, but he’s left us a message, just as he left her a message. The injuries were directed to her face, rather than to her body. Look at the splashes of blood on the wall, so out of proportion to anything that was needed. He was trying to literally wipe an expression off her face, an expression of superiority. He was redecorating the room with her blood. It was almost a kind of love.’
    ‘A strange kind of love,’ said Karlsson.
    ‘That’s why it had to be so savage,’ said Bradshaw. ‘If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have to do something so extreme. It wouldn’t matter. This has an emotional intensity.’
    ‘So who are we looking for?’
    Bradshaw closed his eyes before he spoke, as if he was seeing something nobody else could see.
    ‘White,’ he said. ‘Early to mid-thirties. Strongly built. Unmarried. Of no fixed abode. No steady job, no steady relationship. No family connections.’ He took out his phone and pointed it in various directions around the room.
    ‘You need to be careful with those images,’ said Karlsson. ‘Things have a way of ending up online.’
    ‘I’m cleared for this,’ said Bradshaw. ‘You should take a look at my contract. I’m a criminal psychologist. This is what I do.’
    ‘All right,’ said Karlsson. ‘But I think we should leave. The scene-of-crime team need to take over.’
    Bradshaw slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. ‘That’s fine. I’m done. Oh, by the way, give Dr Klein my best. Tell her I’ve been thinking of her.’
    As they left, they met Louise Weller coming back into the house. The baby was still slung round her, but now she was towing a tiny boy by the hand. At her heels stomped a slightly older girl, stocky like her. Even though she was wearing a pink nightgown, and pushing a toy buggy in which a doll was swaddled, she reminded Karlsson of Yvette.
    Louise Weller gave him a brisk nod. ‘Families should rally round,’ she said and, like a general leading a reluctant army, she marched her children into the house.



THREE
    At twenty-five past three in the morning, when it was no longer night but not yet day, Frieda Klein woke up. Her heart was racing and her mouth was dry, her forehead beaded with sweat. It was hard to swallow or even to breathe. Everything hurt: her legs, her shoulder, her ribs, her face. Old bruises flowered and throbbed. For a few moments she did not open her eyes, and when she did, the darkness pressed down on her and spread out in all directions. She turned her head towards the window. Waiting for Wednesday to end, for the light to come and the dreams to fade.
    The waves came, one after