Saturday Requiem (23 page)

‘But not you.’

‘What’s strange is that I remember the reactions of my team more than my own. I remember one of the team being sick. I felt I had to be strong to keep everyone going, you know?’

‘What would you do now, if you were me? Where would you look?’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re seriously asking me to help you ruin my own reputation.’

‘That’s not how I’m thinking about it.’

‘For truth and justice, you mean?’

‘Something like that.’

Sedge rubbed his hand against his stubbly cheek. ‘Obviously, the first thing that springs to mind is that Justine Walsh and Aidan Locke were probably having an affair. Otherwise why would she be in bed with him?’

Frieda nodded.

‘So I’d need to find out if this was true. If it was, then I’d ask who would be angry enough about that to kill them.’

‘And Rory.’

‘Perhaps he was collateral damage. He was just there.’

‘And Deborah too.’

‘It’s odd, I’ll give you that. But you know what? There are odd things in every case, things that don’t make sense.’

‘This isn’t just odd, this is an additional murdered woman.’

‘I know. What I mean is that you’re staring at a mess and seeing a pattern there. But maybe it’s just a mess. My mess, I grant you. Anyway, I would begin by talking to people who knew Aidan Locke and Justine Walsh.’

‘Thank you. Anything else?’

‘Yes.’ They had both been talking staring out of the window, but now he turned to look at her and she turned as well. ‘I would say this, of course. Keep an open mind.’ He held up a hand to prevent her speaking. ‘Keep an open mind about Hannah Docherty. I like your spirit and your tenacity. But does it occur to you that you might be wrong?’

‘You are certain Hannah is guilty?’

Sedge pushed his hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. ‘You talk about your gut feeling,’ he said eventually. ‘I know about those. I have them too. They can be dangerous for detectives. You have to both put them to one side and yet hold them there, at the edge of your vision, if you see what I mean.’

‘And your gut feeling is that Hannah did it?’

He nodded. ‘I got a sense of danger from her,’ he said. ‘It was almost like a smell.’

‘It could have been the smell of great pain.’

He smiled at her suddenly, his blue eyes crinkling. He appeared both amused and yet in a state of distress. ‘Well, of course. You can interpret these things any which way. You’re the therapist. But keep an open mind. Because she killed them, you know.’

There was a message from Reuben on her voicemail, asking her to call him as soon as she could.

‘Reuben?’ she said.

‘I thought we could meet.’

Something about his voice stopped her asking why, or making an excuse. ‘Of course. Where?’

‘We could walk somewhere.’

It was raining and he hated walking.

‘Are you at the Warehouse?’

‘No. I’m on the Heath.’

‘I’ll meet you near the bandstand.’

‘Right.’

‘Give me half an hour.’

There were very few people around. A few dog-walkers and some joggers running through the steady drizzle. She saw Reuben at once, in his dandyish coat, his grey hair damp.

She put a hand on his arm.

‘What is it?’

‘I have a lump in my neck.’

‘Show me where.’

He unwrapped his soft scarf and put two fingers gently on the skin just below his ear. ‘There.’

‘Let me feel.’

She laid her fingers where his had been. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘No.’

‘You should go to your doctor, Reuben.’

‘You think it’s serious?’

‘You should get it checked out.’

‘You think I’ve got cancer?’

‘It’s a lump. It doesn’t feel like a gland. You know as well as I do that it could be nothing or it could be something. You need to get it checked out.’

He nodded and looked away at the lowering sky.

‘Why don’t you make an appointment with your GP now?’

‘It’s probably nothing.’

‘Do you have the number on your phone?’

He nodded.

‘Make an appointment. And if they can see you at once, we can walk there together. Or we can go and have coffee somewhere.’

She turned away as he called, looked at the dogs and the runners and the rain falling.

‘I’m going tomorrow morning,’ he said, sliding his mobile back into his pocket.

‘Good.’ She linked an arm through his. ‘Let’s go and get that coffee, then.’

‘I’ve got a lump under my arm as well.’

‘It’s good you’re going to the doctor.’

‘I guess.’ He nodded glumly, water dripping from his hair.

‘I’m glad you told me. Come on now.’

Frieda had become used to being greeted by Shelley Walsh with a look of irritation or even horror. Not this time. As she.opened the door, Frieda saw the face of a woman who had lost her mother for a second time. She was as well groomed as ever, but she was so pale that her skin was almost white.

‘Why wasn’t it you who told me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Frieda. ‘I gave the police your address.’

‘You should have been the one to come.’ But Shelley didn’t seem angry, more sad and defeated.

‘Can I come in?’

Shelley didn’t speak, just stepped aside. By now Frieda knew where everything was: the teapot in the cupboard, the mugs hanging from hooks, the teaspoons in a drawer next to the cooker. She poured the tea and she and Shelley sat in the conservatory, looking out at the garden that was as neatly ordered as the house. Frieda sipped her tea and waited for Shelley to speak.

‘So why didn’t you?’ she said finally. ‘Was it easier to get someone else to do it for you?’

‘You never seemed very pleased to see me,’ said Frieda. ‘Also, it was the police’s job. I thought they’d need to ask you questions.’

‘They seemed embarrassed,’ said Shelley. ‘There was a young policeman and a young policewoman and I think they wanted to leave as soon as they could. But when they told me what had happened, I started crying and asking questions
and saying that it didn’t make any sense. That just made things worse. For them, I mean.’

‘What did they ask you?’

‘Nothing. They waited for me to stop crying and then they left.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’ said Shelley, with some of her old sharpness. ‘You already explained it. You left it to the police. It wasn’t your responsibility.’

‘I’m sorry about your mother. I’m sorry about the way you heard it.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Shelley paused for a moment. ‘No. That’s what you say when someone says “thank you”. What do you say when someone says sorry to you? I suppose I should say, “That’s all right. It doesn’t matter.” ’

‘Have you talked to your husband about it?’

‘I told him the body had been found. I had to. I had the crazy thought of not telling him at all, but it wasn’t possible.’

‘You can have a funeral now,’ said Frieda. ‘It can be a good thing. We need to say goodbye.’

‘It’s not so simple. The police told me about that. There already was a funeral, although they didn’t know it was my mother. And the body was cremated. And the ashes were scattered.’

‘You can still have a service or a memorial of some kind.’

‘I said goodbye a long time ago. How many goodbyes can one person say?’

‘She was an absence. That can be difficult. Now you have something real.’

Shelley was looking down at her tea, fiddling with the mug. Frieda saw she was plucking up courage to say something.

‘Do people talk to you about things like this? I mean, in your job.’

‘Things like what?’

‘You know. Losing a parent.’

‘Yes, of course. Often.’

‘Do you think it would help? For someone like me?’

‘Do you have friends you can talk to?’

‘I’ve got friends. Obviously. I’m not sure they’re the kind to talk about this sort of thing with.’

‘Then yes. You ought to talk to someone.’

Now Shelley looked up and faced Frieda directly. ‘I was thinking of you.’

‘There are two reasons why I couldn’t do that for you. The first is that we have a personal connection now. When you see someone in that way it needs to be someone outside your life. Talking to a therapist isn’t like talking to a friend. It’s quite different. But I could have a preliminary talk with you. We could decide between us what you need and then I could find the right person for you.’

Shelley seemed cast down. ‘I know it’s because I wasn’t very welcoming when you first came here.’

‘It’s not because of that. I’ve told you why.’

‘You said there were two reasons.’

Frieda hesitated. She wasn’t quite sure how to put this. ‘The police told you that they weren’t proceeding with an investigation.’

‘They didn’t tell me anything.’

‘As you know, Hannah was convicted of all the murders. With your mother being found at the scene, and Hannah’s mother being found elsewhere, it looks rather different now. But the police still believe that Hannah Docherty did it. That she killed her mother and your mother as well.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘It’s complicated. I want to look into it. And while I was doing that, I couldn’t be talking to you as a therapist.’

‘I’m confused. You think that Hannah killed her family but that someone else killed my mother.’

‘No. That doesn’t sound right. I’m not sure what happened, but it needs looking at.’

‘Hannah was a difficult girl.’

‘I’ve known lots of difficult girls.’

‘But you think you know better than the police.’

‘The thing is, Shelley, you’ll need to talk to someone who can help you work through the feelings you had as a girl, with all that happened between you and your mother, and also your feelings now that you know she’s dead.’

‘And you can’t do that?’

‘No. Because a therapist will need to ask you one kind of question while I want to ask you another kind.’

‘What kind?’

Frieda looked out of the window. A squirrel was running along the top of the wooden fence at the back of the lawn. It disappeared into the next garden. ‘For the moment, I want to ask you just one or two questions. But they may be painful for you, and if they are, you only have to say so.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘Did the police tell you where your mother’s body was found?’

‘In the Docherty house.’

‘In the
bedroom
of the Docherty house.’

‘They told me that.’

‘And what did you think?’

‘What I thought was that it was terrible that my mother hadn’t just disappeared but that she had been murdered and that it hadn’t been known about.’

‘That’s not what you thought, that’s what you felt. Why do you think your mother was there?’

Shelley took a deep breath as if she’d been stung. ‘Is that the sort of question you ask your patients?’

‘I told you. I can try to help you but you can’t be my patient. Why do you think your mother was in the Dochertys’ bedroom?’

‘How should I know? She didn’t talk to me about things like that.’

‘Things like what?’

‘You’re trying to get me to say that my mother was having an affair.’

‘Well, was she?’

‘What’s the point of even asking me?’

‘Because you’re her daughter.’

‘All right, the answer is no. I don’t think my mother was having an affair with Hannah’s father.’

‘Hannah’s stepfather.’

‘Either of them.’

‘You don’t think your mother was the sort of woman who had affairs.’

Shelley looked tired now. Frieda wondered if she had pushed her too far.

‘You don’t understand what my mother was like.’

‘So tell me.’

‘It’s not just that her life was a mess. You know that. It’s that I can’t believe she would have had the energy to have an affair, the sense of purpose or whatever you want to call it. Not at that period of her life.’ Shelley wrinkled her nose. ‘I can imagine her letting herself be fucked –’ she looked taken aback at the word she’d used, her eyes blinking rapidly ‘– but not doing anything that needed planning or commitment. If I try to remember my mother, I think of her lying on the sofa
with her legs splayed out and a bleary look on her face. Or tottering around screaming at me with her hair all matted, looking like a madwoman. Or crying and saying she was sorry, with mascara running down her cheeks. Or having a good day, and that felt even worse than the bad days because it made me hopeful, but at the same time I knew it didn’t mean anything. That was my mother.’ Shelley’s voice wobbled. ‘Useless. Of course she couldn’t have had an affair.’

‘And yet she ended up dead in the Dochertys’ bed, beside Aidan.’

‘It doesn’t make sense. I don’t think she even knew the Dochertys. I’d knocked around with Hannah but there wasn’t much chance of the two families socializing, I can tell you that.’

‘So what was she doing there?’

‘You ask me as if I’m somehow responsible. Maybe she came round and confronted Hannah and Hannah snapped. As someone who knows Hannah – or knew Hannah – that sounds more likely.’

‘So Hannah killed your mother,’ said Frieda. ‘And then killed her own family.’

‘That’s enough. You said I should tell you if I didn’t want to answer questions. I’m telling you. I don’t want to answer questions.’

Frieda stood up. ‘It was courageous of you to talk to me at all. I promise you, Shelley, if I learn anything new about your mother, I’ll let you know.’

Shelley looked up at Frieda. ‘Why would I want to know?’

As Frieda approached Seamus Docherty’s house, the door opened and Docherty emerged, with his dog on a lead.

‘You,’ he said. ‘It’s like having a stalker. I’m afraid I’m going out.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Frieda. ‘I can come with you.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’m being polite, by the way. I mean, no.’

‘I can always come back with a police officer.’

‘I’ve seen a police officer. They told me about Deborah being found. I’ve said what I have to say.’

‘I know different police officers. And that would be boring. It would mean going into a police station and making a statement. Have you ever given a statement? Do you know how long it takes?’

‘All right. At least it’s not a dawn visit this time. If you can keep up.’

‘It won’t take long.’

They walked up the road and Seamus talked about his dog, about how it was a mongrel mixed with another kind of mongrel. It was the healthiest kind, apparently, he said. And it forced him to get exercise. They reached the end of the road that led on to the Heath. Then they walked up Kite Hill. When they reached the top, they stopped and looked across London.

‘It’s changed even since I’ve lived here.’ He pointed at the tall buildings. ‘None of them were there. In ten years’ time there’ll be fifty more.’

‘You bought at the right time,’ said Frieda.

‘I don’t know if that’s some kind of accusation.’

‘Just a statement.’

‘Well, we couldn’t afford the house now. It’s all bankers and gangsters. At least, I assume they’re gangsters.’

‘You probably could still afford the house. I know how much money you inherited when Deborah and Rory were killed.’

Yvette had found out for her: the estate had been worth over two and a half million pounds, and that was thirteen years ago.

Seamus turned towards her. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘My ex-wife and my son died. My daughter was put into a hospital for the criminally insane for life. And I became rich. And I would give every pound I got to see my son again. What are you trying to say to me and why are you here? Nothing about a bandanna this time?’

‘It must have been a surprise,’ said Frieda.

‘What?’

‘That your ex-wife didn’t die in the house. That her body has only just been found.’

‘I am trying very, very hard not to think about it.’

‘You were married to her.’

‘That’s why.’

‘Justine Walsh’s body was found in the bedroom of your ex-wife’s husband. Is that something you’re trying not to think about?’

‘I never knew Justine Walsh. This was the first time I’d even heard her name.’

‘She was the mother of a friend of Hannah’s.’

‘The police told me that.’

‘Some people might assume that Justine Walsh was having an affair with Aidan Locke.’

Docherty bent down and unfastened the lead. The dog ran off and immediately started barking at a black Labrador, backing away as he did so. ‘Sammy’s a wuss,’ he said.

‘Tell me more about Deborah. Describe her.’

‘Debs was …’ Seamus gazed into the distance, searching for a word. ‘Different,’ he said at last.

‘Different in what way?’

‘Different from most women. She was extraordinary, really. She didn’t look it, but she was.’ He stopped and gave a little nod to himself, as if in confirmation of his words. Frieda waited for him to continue, and at last he said, ‘She
had an impersonal quality about her. Cool. She stood back and looked at people. If Aidan had had an affair, I think she would have been contemptuous, perhaps, or even a bit amused, in a scornful kind of way.’

‘But not threatened or jealous?’

Seamus shook his head slowly from side to side. He seemed weighed down with thoughts. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Did she love him?’

‘Aidan? Probably. She was very ambitious for him. But she would never have killed someone out of jealousy.’

His phrasing struck Frieda as strange. ‘Could you imagine her killing someone for
any
reason?’

‘She was very unsentimental.’

Frieda looked around. The top of the hill was almost crowded. There were runners and people with dogs. Especially people with dogs. Some had six or seven, with leads radiating out from them. ‘It must have been complicated for you, when the murders happened. Who would kill a whole family?’

‘Someone like Hannah, obviously.’

‘Or a person who would stand to gain if the whole family died, or as good as died, in Hannah’s case. I mean you, of course.’ Frieda paused. ‘I’m just trying to see it from the police’s point of view.’

Frieda thought that Docherty might be angry at the suggestion, or even break off the conversation. But he answered calmly enough. ‘The police interviewed me. Clearly they saw that I wouldn’t do something like that.’

‘But it must look different now. Your wife having being killed somewhere else. And buried.’

‘Different? She was dead either way.’

‘Did Hannah know about you and Deborah sleeping together?’

‘I don’t think children ever like to think about their parents’ sex lives.’

‘I don’t mean when you were married. I mean later. When you were separated. When you were both with other people.’

Docherty looked round at her. His air of calm had gone and he blinked rapidly. Frieda could see that he was thinking fast.

‘Why would you say that?’

‘You seemed to know quite a lot about what your ex-wife was thinking, what she would have done. It’s common for people to sleep with their ex-partners. It can be comforting, or reassuring, or just a temptation.’ Docherty didn’t answer. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’