In A Dark House

11

AS SHE WAS running late for tea, Gemma phoned the boys and asked them to meet her at Erika Rosenthal’s house in Arundel Gardens, only a few minutes’ walk from their own.

Before leaving the hospital, she’d visited Personnel and asked them to make her a copy of Elaine Holland’s ID photo. Now, she tucked the small color likeness into her windscreen visor and glanced at it every so often as she drove towards Notting Hill. Whatever her imagination had conjured up from the various things she knew – or thought she knew – about Elaine, it had not been the haunting face that looked back at her.

There was an austerity in the magnolia-pale skin, the jawlength auburn bob, the eyes that looked dark in the photo but that Gemma suspected held the same red-gold highlights as the hair, the prominent cheekbones, the rather thin mouth set in an uncompromising line - that she had expected. But when Gemma visualized the addition of a bit of makeup, the relaxing of the firmly held mouth, she knew the results would be stunning. She began to have a little clearer picture of the woman who had held everyone at arm’s length but kept a secret wardrobe tucked away in her cupboard.

She was still mulling over the contradictions when she reached Arundel Gardens. Rather to her surprise, Erika, who had never been demonstrative, greeted her with a hug.

“Gemma, how lovely to see you. The boys are here already, and have made a start on the tea and sandwiches.”

“I’m sorry about having to cancel on such short notice last night,” said Gemma as Erika ushered her into the house.

“Not to worry. I’m afraid these days I find I’m just as happy to stay in by the fire with a book. And I will get to meet your young man eventually, I’m sure.”

Gemma thought it would amuse Kincaid, who had recently inched past forty, to be referred to as her “young man” – it made him sound like a callow suitor paying court – but she was a little concerned about Erika. Her friend seemed more frail than when Gemma had seen her last, and when she had hugged Gemma, her bones felt as delicate as a sparrow’s. But Erika’s back was as straight as ever, her snowy hair swept as neatly into its twist, her bright black eyes sparkling with their usual humor.

Gemma had first met Erika Rosenthal the previous year, when the older woman had reported a burglary. Shortly afterwards, when Gemma was researching a case, she’d run across Erika’s name on a scholarly monograph on the history of goddess worship and had consulted her professionally. They had become friends, and Gemma tried to visit her as often as her chaotic schedule allowed.

Now in her nineties, Erika was alert and independent, her mind sharp and engaged. Gemma often used her as a sounding board when she was stumped over a case and, more and more frequently with Hazel so far away, confided feelings she was unlikely to reveal to anyone else. Erika’s wisdom and sense of perspective gave Gemma a comfort she’d never experienced, and it devastated her to think that her friend might be beginning to fail.

Entering the sitting room, she found the boys huddled over Erika’s little piecrust table, attacking a huge plate of sandwiches.

“Don’t scold them for not waiting,” Erika entreated. “I told them to go ahead. Boys need feeding regularly.”

“Like tigers,” added Toby, looking pleased with himself. “Look, Mum, Erika’s made scones, too.” Another table held a plate of scones and the teapot.

“Oh, Erika, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” said Gemma, “especially when I meant to treat you.”

“Nonsense. It’s nice to have someone to bake for. I won’t do it for myself.”

Sitting down on the red-brocaded settee as Erika insisted on pouring her tea, Gemma looked round the room with her usual pleasure. Having grown up in a household ruled by the telly and by what her mother referred to as “practical” furnishings, she loved the rich and cluttered collection of books and paintings and the antique German furniture Erika had accumulated to replace the things lost by her family during the war. The room always held a large bouquet of flowers, and then, of course, there was the piano. Until Duncan’s unexpected gift of a piano of her own the previous Christmas, Erika’s baby grand had been the object of Gemma’s envy.

Now, she looked at it with a pang of regret for her missed lesson as she accepted a still-steaming cup of tea from Erika. “Did you get your cabinet organized?” she asked Kit when she’d placed a few sandwiches on her plate.

“Um, not entirely,” said Kit, with a glance at his brother. “Toby was helping,” he added, putting it tactfully.

“I can imagine. Sorry to leave you in the lurch.” She stopped herself from adding Something came up. It was a phrase used much too often in their household.

Kit’s shrug spoke volumes. As she looked at the two boys sitting side by side, she thought how it never failed to amaze her that they were not, in fact, related by blood. Both had straight blond hair and blue eyes, but while Kit looked like both his late mother and Duncan, Toby was surely a changeling. He resembled neither her nor her deadbeat ex-husband, Rob.

Watching them, she realized that Toby, usually an unadventurous eater, was wolfing down smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches as if he ate them every day, while Kit was merely picking. She’d hoped that the morning’s expedition would have taken his mind off his worries over Monday’s hearing, but it had obviously not done the trick.

Seeming to sense that Kit was troubled, Erika made an effort to draw him out as they finished their tea, asking him about his interests and collections. “And what field do you want to study eventually?” she added. “Botany? Zoology?”

“Um…” Kit looked a bit taken aback by being put on the spot but said gamely, “My friend Nathan’s a botanist, and that’s really cool… but I like animals, too. I’d like to study animal behavior like Konrad Lorenz or Gerald Durrell. And… then there’s anthropology, and paleontology, and geology… I don’t know how I’ll choose.”

“You will have to narrow it down a bit for practical purposes,” Erika agreed, “but a diversity of interests is a good thing. It contributes to analytical thinking. And I believe that the problems the world faces today can only be solved by those who can synthesize ideas and think outside the traditions of their disciplines.”

Setting down her cup, Erika stood and went to one of the bookcases lining the wall. She ran a finger down the spines, then pulled out a book and handed it to Kit. “You might enjoy this. Stephen Jay Gould was a Harvard professor of geology and zoology, with a lifelong interest in paleontology. He was a brilliant and original thinker whose interests were as varied as yours.”

“Thanks.” Kit examined the book, his face alight with interest. “I’ll take good care of it.”

Toby, meanwhile, bored with books and biology, had slipped from his chair and begun to sidle round the room, his hands clasped carefully behind his back in the “don’t touch” position he’d been taught.

Suddenly, he paused, his body tensing like a retriever on point, and forgot himself so far as to reach out with a finger. “Mummy, look! There’re little men, and horses!”

“It’s a chess set, silly,” Kit told him. He joined his brother, the book clasped under his arm.

Gemma had noticed the set before, but as she didn’t play, she hadn’t paid it much attention. The intricately carved pieces sat on a small table against the far wall, with a chair drawn up on either side.

“It was my husband’s,” said Erika. “One of the few things he managed to smuggle out of Germany.”

“Don’t touch it, either of you,” warned Gemma, alarmed, visions of irreparable damage dancing in her head.

“No, it’s quite all right,” Erika assured her. “Do you play, Kit?”

“A little. My da – Ian – showed me a few moves.”

“Why don’t you teach your brother, then? Go on,” she added as Gemma started to protest again. “I promise it’s indestructible.” As the boys began arguing over who would take the black and the white pieces, Erika sank back in her chair as if suddenly exhausted.

Gemma stood and began gathering the tea things. “We’ve tired you out. Let me do the washing up; then we’ll let you rest.”

“I have more than enough time for that,” Erika said with an unexpected touch of wistfulness. “And I like having the boys here. Back in my teaching days the house was always full of students.” She roused herself. “But I will let you help with the washing up, if you promise to let me keep you company.” Together, they cleared the dishes and carried them into the kitchen.

When Gemma had filled the basin with soapy water and persuaded Erika to sit at the kitchen table, Erika said, “I see you’ve been in the papers again. I’ve been following your case. Is there any more news about the missing child?”

Gemma shook her head. “No. And every day that passes makes it less likely she’ll be found.”

“Oh, I am sorry, my dear. It must be terribly hard for everyone concerned.”

Gemma could only nod. To all appearances, the six-year-old had simply walked out of her front door while her mother had been busy in the kitchen, then vanished in broad daylight. The ordinariness of it terrified Gemma more than anything else.

“You cannot protect your children from everything,” Erika said softly, as if she’d read Gemma’s mind. “You can only do what seems sensible, and trust in fate.”

Gemma spun round, her soapy hands dripping on the kitchen floor. “How can you, of all people, trust in fate?” Erika, a German Jew, had lost every single member of her family during the war.

“Because the only other option is to live in constant fear, which to me seems hardly worth doing. And I prefer to put my energies into nurturing minds like your son’s. Has he heard from his father – or should I say ‘stepfather’? I’m never sure what to call him.”

“I can think of several things to call Ian,” said Gemma, with a grimace of irritation. “But Kit hasn’t heard from him lately, no. Pressures of the new term at his university, and pressures of the new wife, apparently.” She turned back to her task. “But he has sent an affidavit for the family court judge, saying that as Kit’s legal guardian, he believes it best for Kit to live with us rather than be uprooted to Canada, and he feels that for Kit to have any contact with his grandmother would be damaging to his emotional well-being.”

“And yet the grandmother still insists on pursuing custody?”

“Yes. Our first court hearing is Monday.”

Erika considered this in silence for a few moments, then said, “Even my tolerance has limits. Someone needs to shake some sense into that woman.”

Dusk was painting shadows in the corners of the garden as Rose got up from the computer, shoving her chair under the desk in a gesture of frustration. The conservatory off the kitchen, with its built-in computer nook, had been one of her father’s last projects. Ordinarily, it was her favorite room in the house and she loved working or reading there, daydreaming as she gazed out into the garden.

That afternoon, however, she’d looked from the clock to the phone to the computer and back again, growing increasingly edgy and unsettled. She’d had a run and a shower, and tried to nap, but her sleep had been disturbed by half-remembered nightmares. Giving up on rest, she’d made coffee and pulled up the fire brigade database once again, hoping to see something she’d overlooked earlier, while she waited for Station Officer Farrell to call.

But the phone had not rung, and as the hours passed she felt more and more foolish for having attempted to contact him. Why had she thought she’d discovered something the investigating team wouldn’t turn up on its own? And what good would it do even if she had? There was nothing anyone could prove, or that would help the investigators predict the location of another fire. Her guv’nor had been right; she should have kept her nose out of it.

The fading daylight told her she should be hungry. Padding barefoot into the kitchen, she peered into the fridge but found nothing appealing. Her mum had gone out for a meal with friends, and Rose couldn’t be bothered cooking just for herself.

There was, however, half a bottle of her mum’s Australian Chardonnay, and after a moment’s deliberation, Rose poured herself a glass. She wasn’t much of a drinker. Although she sometimes went to the pub with the lads after a day tour of duty, she usually nursed a half pint through the evening. Tonight, though, she thought the alcohol might help her relax.

Taking her glass to the open conservatory door, Rose gazed out into the garden. The day had stayed warm, and the faint breeze that had made the humidity bearable seemed to have faded with the sunset. She took a deep breath, trying to dispel the lingering sense of claustrophobia that had plagued her all day. It was absurd – she was used to wearing a mask, and she had never panicked in a fire, even as a raw recruit. Why should she feel now as if she had a weight on her chest?

She thought back to her meeting with the superintendent from Scotland Yard, the only time that day that the heaviness had lifted. Duncan, he’d said to call him. A nice name, and he was bloody good-looking, too. He hadn’t made fun of her theory, but perhaps he’d just meant to be kind. She was wondering about his partner, and about his reluctance to discuss his domestic situation, when her mobile rang.

She scrambled back to the computer desk where she’d left her phone, flipping it open with one hand while she juggled her wine in the other.

“Hey.” The voice was not Station Officer Farrell’s, but one much more familiar.

“Bryan,” she said, making an effort to disguise her disappointment.

“What’s up, Petal?”

“Not a lot.” Away from the station, she didn’t bother complaining about the nickname. “You?”

“I thought you might fancy a drink.”

It was the first time he’d ever rung her off duty and asked her to do something socially, and she heard his slight hesitation.

“Um, I don’t think I’m up for it,” she said awkwardly. “What with the early start tomorrow and all.”

“I just thought you might want some company.” Bryan paused, then added, “Are you all right, Rose?”

They hadn’t really had a chance to talk since she’d been called on the carpet by Wilcox, and for a moment she was tempted to tell Simms what she’d been doing. She knew she could trust him to keep it to himself, but it was clear from the concern in his voice that he thought she needed looking after, and she didn’t want to encourage that. Nor was she in the mood to have her ideas shot down, however kindly.

“I’m okay,” she said. “I’m fine, really. We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah? I’ll see you at roll call in the morning.”

“Right. Cheers, then.”

When they’d rung off, she walked slowly back to the garden door. There she stood for a long time, cradling her still-untouched glass of wine against her chest, searching the darkening sky for a telltale smudge of smoke.

Having quickly familiarized herself with Fanny’s kitchen, Winnie had prepared supper, pasta with a simple marinara sauce, some cheese she’d bought at Borough Market, and a salad. She’d hoped that something both light and comforting would encourage Fanny to eat, but she’d watched in growing frustration as Fanny pushed the food around on her plate, and she’d felt guilty for her own appetite.

“I’m sorry,” Fanny said at last. “You’ve done so much already – I hate for you to think I don’t appreciate it. It’s not your cooking, I promise you. It’s just – I can’t-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Winnie stood and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll do the washing up, then we can have a cup of tea and a biscuit. And” – she delved into the bag she’d brought with her- “I thought we might watch a video.”

She kept a collection that she thought of as her “ailing parishioner kit.” Through experience, she’d discovered that prayer had its place, but that there was nothing more healing to those who were ill or worried than a good belly laugh. Tonight she’d pulled out two of her personal favorites, A Fish Called Wanda and Waking Ned Devine, plus some old episodes of Fawlty Towers. They were all irreverent, but in her opinion reverence was highly overrated, and she even had a secret fondness for the ecclesiastical absurdities of Father Ted.

“Oh, Winnie.” Fanny seemed to sag in her chair. “I don’t think I could manage it. Could we just have the tea… and chat?”

“Of course. I’ll just help you settle in for the night, shall I?”

Winnie made short work of the dishes, and when she’d put the kettle on she turned to see Fanny fingering the videos she’d left out on the table.

“Elaine would never have watched these,” said Fanny, looking up at her. “Nor my parents. I remember how much my mother hated Fawlty Towers when I was growing up. There’s nothing the Chinese find more offensive than rudeness, and to her Basil Fawlty was the devil incarnate. ‘That awful man,’ she called him.”

Winnie filled their mugs and sat down at the table. “I’ll bet you watched it on the sly, then.”

“I did, whenever I could manage.” Fanny grinned, remembering, and Winnie realized it was the first time she’d ever seen a real, unfettered smile on her friend’s face. The difference it made was astonishing. “And worried about getting caught,” Fanny went on. “It was probably the worst thing I ever did. They had such expectations, my parents, and I never wanted to disappoint them.”

“What about Elaine?” asked Winnie, beginning to see disturbing parallels between Fanny’s home life and her relationship with Elaine Holland. “What did she like to watch?”

“Oh, serious things. Old movies, sometimes. I didn’t like to complain. She…”

“She what?” Winnie prompted when Fanny didn’t continue.

“She – she could be… unkind.” Fanny gazed down at her mug, as if unwilling to meet Winnie’s eyes.

Holding herself very still, Winnie measured her words. “Unkind, how?”

“Oh…” The cat, Quinn, came in through his door and jumped into Fanny’s lap, kneading her with his front paws. “She – she would say I was lucky to have her… that no one else would want to be saddled with me, the way I am.” Fanny stroked the cat’s back and he butted his head against her shoulder, purring loudly. “She would say I was never going to get better, that I was fooling myself. But that was only when she’d had a particularly bad day, and I thought it was all right, really, because she’d had such a hard time in her own life.”

Looking down, Winnie saw that the knuckles on the hand she’d wrapped around her cup were white. “What sort of hard time?”

“I at least had parents who cared for me. I mean, they were strict, but I mattered to them, more than anything else. Elaine… Elaine’s mother committed suicide when she was twelve, in their shower, so that Elaine would find her when she came home from school. What kind of mother would do that to her own child? And after that, her father cared nothing for her, but when he got sick she took care of him until he died.”

“She told you this?”

“In bits and pieces, most of it when she’d been particularly… cross. She was – she could be – she did care for me, in spite of how it sounds.”

“You’re very forgiving,” Winnie managed to say. “But you know that neither of the things she said about you were true.”

Fanny looked down at her body in the chair. “It’s getting harder and harder to imagine anything else.”

“That will change, I promise,” said Winnie, vowing that she would make sure of it.

At least Fanny had begun to speak of Elaine in the past tense, which Winnie could only see as a positive step. Whatever had happened to Elaine Holland, Winnie hoped that Fanny, having made such a confession, would not be willing to take her erring roommate back with open arms. And as much as it shamed her, Winnie found herself wishing, just for a moment, that Elaine Holland would never walk in Fanny’s door again.

Kincaid leaned against the doorjamb, watching Gemma in the bath. The tub, an old-fashioned roll-top, was one of the things Gemma loved most about their house, and tonight she’d made the most of her retreat. Candles flickered, the water foamed with something flowery, and a piano nocturne drifted from the CD player. All were signs that she’d had a particularly stressful day.

“Is this the ritual bath?” he asked lightly.

“It’s much easier on the goat this way,” she said without turning, but he heard the smile in her voice. She’d pulled her hair up on top of her head, and sat with her arms wrapped round her knees, exposing the slender line of her neck and the curve of her back. In the candlelight, her skin looked pale as alabaster. “Are the kids in bed?” she asked.

“I’ve read to Toby, and Kit’s curled up with a book he says Erika gave him.” He’d helped Kit arrange the last of his birds’ eggs and bits of stone and bone in his display case, and had promised to try to figure out some way to light it. “The cabinet’s great, by the way. He seems pleased.”

“He’s had a good day, I think, between that and Erika. He’s quite impressed now with her being a famous historian, with oodles of published papers.”

“Oodles? Is that in the dictionary?” Grinning, he crossed to the dressing table stool and sat down so that he could see her face.

“Do I care?” She flashed a smile at him, then said, “Duncan, do you suppose we’ll be an embarrassment to him one day?”

“What? You think he’ll be apologizing for ‘my parents the plods,’ as he’s accepting his Cambridge degree? Let’s hope he has the opportunity,” he added, sobering as he thought of Eugenia’s custody suit.

“Duncan, this case… you won’t let anything keep you from making the hearing on Monday…”

“Of course not. I’ve discussed it with Doug. He’ll cover for me if necessary.” He took off his watch and began rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Shall I do your back?”

“Please.”

He took her nylon bath scrubby and lathered it with soap. “If I get the DNA results from Konnie tomorrow, we’ll at least be able to narrow things down from there. Maybe then we’ll be able to make some real progress.”

Cullen had taken the samples they’d collected from Chloe Yarwood’s flat back to the station, and had sent them off to the lab immediately, flagged for Konrad Mueller’s immediate attention.

Kincaid had updated Gemma on Michael Yarwood’s identification of the girl in the CCTV image as his daughter, and she’d shared the results of her interview at Guy’s Hospital with him. While interested in what she’d learned, he’d decided there was no point in trying to trace Elaine’s phantom boyfriend until they had the results of the DNA tests, and that copying her photo for the team could wait until the next morning. He had, however, set Cullen the immediate task of trying to find Nigel Trevelyan, the man who had been with Chloe Yarwood on the night of the fire.

Kneeling by the tub, he began soaping Gemma’s neck, working his way down to her shoulders with a circular motion. When he had lather the consistency of shaving cream, he dropped the nylon ball in the tub and began massaging her shoulders and back with his hands.

“Um… can I hire you on a permanent basis?” Gemma asked, leaning into the pressure.

“Depends on the benefits. I’m open to offers.” Her skin slipped like satin under his fingers. He began to think about the possibilities of the bath rug, and whether or not the boys were well and truly down for the night.

“Gemma-”

She turned suddenly, splashing him. “I’ve just remembered. You never told me what happened before you came to Fanny’s house, when you were at the shelter.”

Sighing, he sat back on his heels. He knew her well enough to realize she wouldn’t be sidetracked until her curiosity had been satisfied. He told her about Tony Novak accusing the shelter of helping his wife and daughter disappear. Earlier in the evening he’d heard from Maura Bell, who’d said they’d had no luck finding either Novak or his wife. There was no one at the Park Street address Kath Warren had given him for Laura Novak, and although they’d found an address on Borough High Street for a Dr. Antony Novak, there was no answer there, either.

“There’s a missing child?” said Gemma, a note of alarm in her voice.

“We don’t know that for sure,” he answered reasonably. “It’s more than likely that the wife has taken off with the daughter, if they’re really even missing at all.”

“If that were the case, wouldn’t she have asked for Kath Warren’s help?” Gemma sloshed water on her shoulders, rinsing off the suds.

“Maybe Kath wasn’t telling me the truth.”

“Why would she lie, if there’s nothing illegal about helping someone relocate?”

“All right, then,” Kincaid said, a little aggravated over the mood obviously lost for the moment. “Maybe Laura Novak didn’t trust Kath Warren not to tell Tony? Or Tony not to find out on his own? After all, Tony has had access to the shelter, and possibly to the shelter’s records.”

“How old is the little girl?”

Kincaid searched his memory for details. “I think Kath said she was ten.”

“How long have they been missing?”

“I don’t know. He buggered off before I had a chance to ask him.”

Gemma leaned back into the curve of the tub, her expression thoughtful. “What were you talking about when Novak ran off?”

He frowned. “Kath was saying she hadn’t seen the wife and daughter, and then she introduced me-”

“By rank?”

“Yes. And then you called, and when I turned round from answering the phone, he was gone. Maybe he thought I was going to nick him for assaulting Kath.”

“Or maybe he’d done something he didn’t want to tell the police.”

“If he’d hurt his wife or his daughter, why would he have been accusing Kath of abducting them?” Kincaid argued.

“At this point, you don’t know what sort of a nutter this guy is,” Gemma countered. “You’ve got to talk to him again. And make every effort to find his wife and daughter. What if-”

“Gemma-” He stopped himself telling her he knew perfectly well how to run an investigation, because he was beginning to have a niggling doubt as to whether he’d given Tony Novak’s missing wife enough weight. “Look, I’ll look into it myself in the morning, starting with Laura Novak’s house. If she’s not there, I’ll canvas the neighbors-”

“I’m going with you.” Gemma sat up and reached for a towel.

“Gemma, that’s not necessary-”

“You need Cullen and Bell for other things. And I want to come.”

He moved out of her way as she pulled the plug and got out of the tub. Her face was flushed pink from the heat, and set in the stubborn expression he knew well.

“Gemma,” he said slowly, “it’s not your fault you haven’t found the little girl that’s missing.”

She put her foot up on the edge of the tub and gave great attention to drying her toes. “I know that,” she said, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

He watched her in silence, knowing there was nothing he could say that would convince her, any more than he would be able to convince himself if it had happened on his watch.

She had been all right until the light started to fade.

The woman who had brought her to the house had come twice during the day, locking the door when she left each time. The first time, that morning, she’d brought Harriet breakfast on a tray – a bowl of instant oatmeal and some dried fruit. She hadn’t spoken at first, and it was only when Harriet saw she meant to put the tray down and leave that she’d got up the courage to speak.

“Why have you brought me here?” she asked, still huddled under her blanket. “Where’s my dad?”

“Your father wants you to stay here for a few days,” the woman said, turning back from the door.

“My dad wouldn’t leave me in this place.”

“No? Maybe your father has a little surprise planned for you.”

“Let me talk to him,” Harriet begged.

“He’s not here right now. But you’d better do what he wants.” The woman reached for the doorknob again.

“My mum.” Harriet stood up, the blanket still wrapped round her shoulders. “My mum will be worried about me. She’ll find me.”

“I don’t think so.” The woman smiled, and Harriet felt cold in the pit of her stomach.

“Wait, please,” said Harriet in desperation. “I have to use the toilet.”

“Use the pail.” The woman gestured towards the old tin pail Harriet had noticed against one wall.

“But I-” It was too late. The door swung shut behind the woman, and Harriet heard the locks click into place.

She’d cried then, big gulping snotty sobs that made her chest hurt and her throat ache. When the sobs began to subside, she realized there was nowhere to wipe her streaming eyes and nose except the tattered cover around her shoulders. Still hiccupping, she sniffed as hard as she could, then fastidiously blotted her nose with the edge of the blanket.

After a while, she gave in to hunger. The oatmeal had congealed into a cold and slimy mass, but she ate it anyway, then nibbled at what she thought were dried apricots.

Eventually, she used the pail, as well, because she had no choice, then pushed it into the very farthest corner of the room.

With her stomach filled, a terrible sleepiness came over her again. She fell upon the bed, curling herself once more beneath the blanket.

She woke sometime later, as suddenly as she had fallen asleep, and this time with perfect clarity. She knew instantly where she was, and how she had got there, although she still had no idea why.

The light had changed. The sun had moved away from the window, and as she had no other way of telling time, Harriet thought it must now be afternoon. She was hungry again, and beginning to feel thirsty.

Time passed. She gazed out of the window at the gray rooftops, and when she tired of that, she thumbed through the books in the bookcase. There were a few of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five adventures, an Arthur Ransome, a very tattered edition of Black Beauty, and a copy of Peter Pan. Had this been a child’s room, wondered Harriet, some long time ago?

The room had grown warm and stuffy as the afternoon lengthened. She thought about breaking out one of the windowpanes, but realized she’d have no protection from the air if it turned cold in the night. Nor was she sure what sort of retribution such an action would bring.

She realized that she was beginning to smell, as was the pail in the corner of the room. It occurred to her that she had never in her life been dirty or failed to have clean clothes. Trying to ignore her growing thirst, she settled against the wall with one of the Enid Blytons. Her mother was always nagging her about reading when she should be doing other things, but here there was nothing else to do. The thought of her mother made her throat ache again. Blinking, she stared resolutely at the page until the feeling eased.

It was only when she found herself squinting to make out the print that she realized the light was fading. She had put down the book when she heard the creak that signaled footsteps on the stairs. She waited, heart thumping, hoping it was her dad come to take her away.

But the woman came in alone, with a tray, as she had that morning. This time it held some biscuits, more of the dried fruit, and what looked like some sort of tinned meat. There was also, Harriet saw to her relief, a glass of water.

“Where’s my dad?” she said, straightening her stiff legs as she pushed herself up against the wall.

“He’s been… delayed. Maybe he’s forgotten about you.”

This was a mistake on the woman’s part, because if Harriet knew one thing, it was that her dad would not forget about her. Fear struck through her, worse than anything she’d felt before. Had something happened to her dad? Something that had kept him from coming for her?

She thought about trying to bolt through the door, but the woman seemed to read her mind. “I wouldn’t try it,” she said, with the smile Harriet had seen earlier. “The front door locks from the inside and I have the key. There is no phone. And I’d have to drag you back up.” Her tone made it clear that Harriet would not want her to do that. She smiled again and went out, locking the door behind her.

As the footsteps faded, Harriet fell on the food, devouring the stale biscuits and the disgusting tinned meat. Even the water tasted stale and flat, as if it had been stored for some time. She drank a little of it, then realized she’d better save as much as she could – and that the more she drank, the sooner she’d have to use the pail again.

While she’d finished her brief meal, the room had grown dimmer. Harriet had already noticed that there were no lamps. Now she realized there was no ceiling fixture, either. Trying to quell her rising panic, she searched along the walls, moving furniture when she could. When she’d completed the circle, she did it once more, then went back to the bed and sat. There were no electrical outlets in the room, no paraffin lamps or candles, not even a match. There would be no light.

She lay down and closed her eyes, but the darkness seemed to press on her eyelids. When the panic threatened to choke her, she got up and fumbled her way to the door, kicking at it and shouting until she’d worn herself out, but the house was silent as a tomb.

Crawling back to the safety of the bed, she stared into the encroaching gloom. After a while, she began to realize that it had not got any darker. She could see her hand, when she held it in front of her face, and the window stood out as a silvery rectangle. It was the reflected light of the city, and it gave her a strange comfort to think that there were people outside this house, moving and laughing and talking, eating and drinking. She was not entirely alone.