Waiting for Wednesday Read Free

here to help and I’ll need to ask some
questions.’
    ‘Why?’ whispered the father.
‘Why would anyone kill Ruth?’
    At this, a sound broke from the older girl,
a sob.
    ‘Your younger daughter found her,’
said Karlsson, gently. ‘Is that right?’
    ‘Dora. Yes.’ He wiped the back
of his hand across his mouth. ‘What’s that going to do to her?’
    ‘Mr Lennox,’ said Yvette,
‘there are people who can help you with that …’
    ‘Russell. Nobody calls me Mr
Lennox.’
    ‘We need to talk to Dora about what
she saw.’
    The wailing from the small shape on the
floor continued. Yvette looked helplessly at Karlsson.
    ‘You can be with your father,’
said Karlsson, leaning down towards Dora. ‘Or if you’d prefer to speak to a
woman, not a man, then …’
    ‘She doesn’t want to,’
said the older sister. ‘Didn’t you hear?’
    ‘What’s your name?’ asked
Karlsson.
    ‘Judith.’
    ‘And how old are you?’
    ‘Fifteen. Does that help?’ She
glared at Karlsson out of her unnerving blue eyes.
    ‘It’s a terrible thing,’
said Karlsson. ‘But we need to know everything. Then we can find the person who
did this.’
    The boy suddenly jerked up his head. He
struggled to his feet and stood by the door, tall and gangly. He had his mother’s
grey eyes. ‘Is she still there?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Ted,’ said Russell Lennox, in a
soothing tone, moving towards him and holding out his hand. ‘Ted, it’s
OK.’
    ‘My mother.’ The boy kept his
eyes fixed on Karlsson. ‘Is she still there?’
    ‘Yes.’
    The boy tugged the door open and ran down
the stairs. Karlsson raced after him but didn’t get there in time. The roar ripped
through the house.
    ‘No, no, no,’ Ted was shouting. He
was on his knees beside his mother’s body. Karlsson put his arm round the boy and
lifted him up, back and out of the room.
    ‘It’s all right, Ted.’
    Karlsson turned. A woman had come in through
the front door. She was solid, in her late thirties, with short, dark brown hair in an
old-fashioned bob and wearing a knee-length tweed skirt; she also had something in a
yellow sling around her chest. Karlsson saw that it was a very small baby, its bald head
poking out of the top and two tiny feet sticking out at the bottom. The woman looked at
Russell, her eyes bright. ‘I came at once,’ she said. ‘What a
terrible, terrible thing.’
    She walked across to Russell, who had
followed his son down the stairs, and gave him a long hug, made awkward and arms’
length by the baby wedged in between them. Russell’s face stared out over her
shoulder, helpless. She looked round at Karlsson.
    ‘I’m Ruth’s sister,’
she said. The bundle at her chest shifted and gave a whimper; she patted it with a
clucking sound.
    She had that excited calm that some people
get in an emergency. Karlsson had seen it before. Disasters attracted people. Relatives,
friends, neighbours gathered to help or give sympathy or just to be part of it in some
way, to warm themselves in its terrible glow.
    ‘This is Louise,’ said Russell.
‘Louise Weller. I rang people in the family. Before they heard it from someone
else.’
    ‘We’re conducting an
interview,’ said Karlsson. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think
it’s appropriate you should be here. This is a crime scene.’
    ‘Nonsense. I’m here to
help,’ said Louise, firmly. ‘This is about my sister.’ Her face was
pale, except for spots of redon her cheekbones. ‘My other two
are in the car. I’ll get them in a minute and put them somewhere out of the way.
But tell me first, what happened?’
    Karlsson hesitated a moment, then shrugged.
‘I’ll give you all a few minutes together. Then, when you’re ready, we
can talk.’
    He guided them up the stairs and gestured to
Yvette to follow him out of the room. ‘On top of everything else,’ he said,
‘they’ll need to move out for a few days. Can you mention it to them?
Tactfully? Maybe there’s a neighbour or friends