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