In A Dark House

12

THE RAIN THAT had threatened all day on Saturday passed through in the night, but it did not clear the air. Kincaid woke to an overcast sky, and when he walked out onto the small balcony off their bedroom, the pavements shone greasily with damp. The air felt pregnant with moisture.

Leaving Gemma sleeping, he’d slipped out of bed and quietly bathed and dressed, but when he came in from his perusal of the weather, she sat up and blinked at him sleepily.

“Is it nice?” she asked, yawning.

“No, not very. Rather damp and looming.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Will it be all right for the boys?” They had arranged for Wesley to take the boys to the park that morning, and then to his mother’s house for a meal. It would be a family gathering, filled with chatter and music and West Indian food, and Kincaid had convinced himself the outing would provide the most distraction for Kit.

“Should be, unless it pours buckets. You know boys are oblivious to the finer nuances. Should we try to slip out without waking them?” He knew that Toby had crept into Kit’s room last night, and he’d heard them still up, talking and giggling, when he went to bed.

“Too late.” Gemma sat up and pushed the hair from her face. “Can’t you smell the bacon? When Kit was cataloging his choice of professions for Erika yesterday, I wonder that he forgot executive chef.”

Like any teenager, Kit had to be dragged from bed on school mornings, but on weekends he was often up early, pottering about in the kitchen. He’d confided once to Kincaid that he used to make breakfast for his mother, but had made Kincaid promise to keep the information to himself.

Gemma would be touched if she knew, Kincaid thought. She walked a fine line between trying to be a mum to Kit and not making him feel as if she meant to replace his mother. He didn’t envy her the job – in a way, his own was made easier by the fact that Ian had let Kit down so badly.

“Go on,” said Gemma, giving him a gentle shove. “I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed. I want to get away as soon as possible.”

A night’s sleep had obviously not changed Gemma’s mind about accompanying him to Laura Novak’s, and in spite of the procedural difficulties, Kincaid realized that he was pleased at the prospect of having her with him.

The terraced row of houses looked Georgian in its foursquare simplicity, its only ornamentation the scrollwork arches above the glossy black front doors and the white shutters framing the ground-floor windows. Although not obviously ostentatious, Laura Novak’s Park Street address spoke of financial comfort. In London, location was everything, and this house had it all – no more than two or three minutes’ walk from the river in one direction and Borough Market in the other, and another minute or two past Borough Market would bring you to London Bridge Station. It was also, Kincaid mused, a mere hop and a skip from Michael Yarwood’s Southwark Street warehouse.

“It’s very close, isn’t it?” Gemma said uneasily, echoing his thoughts as they got out of the car.

Locating the number Kath had given him, he looked up at the house. Although the day was already warm and many of the other flats had windows cracked open, Laura Novak’s were sealed and her curtains drawn. The flowers in the window boxes looked parched and wilted, in spite of the brief shower in the night.

Kincaid rang the bell and they waited, listening, but there was no answer.

“Could she be hiding from Tony?” whispered Gemma.

“Bloody suffocated if she is. Let’s give the neighbors a try.” He nodded to the right.

This time their ring was followed by the quick tapping of heels, and the door was flung open by a small Asian woman. “Jamie, how many times have I told you-” She stopped, staring at them in surprise. “Sorry, I thought you were my son. He’s always forgetting his keys. Can I help you?”

Producing his warrant card, Kincaid introduced himself and Gemma. “We wondered if we might talk to you about your next-door neighbor, Laura Novak.”

“Why?” she answered with a frown of concern. “Is Laura in some kind of trouble?”

“We’re just making a welfare check at this point. She hasn’t been seen for a couple of days.”

“Would you like to come in? Oh, I’m Monica – Monica Karimgee, by the way.” She led them down a hallway and into a bright kitchen at the back of the house. The room smelled of coffee and cinnamon buns, and the pages of the Guardian were spread across a small oak table.

“Sorry to disturb your peaceful Sunday morning,” said Gemma, with the genuine warmth that made her so effective in interviews.

Monica Karimgee smiled and gestured at the table. “It’s my vice, reading the Sunday paper from cover to cover, and I always make an effort to get my husband and son out of the house. I tell them I’m encouraging father-son bonding, but my motives are really more selfish.” She was a pretty woman in her forties, a little plump, her glossy dark hair lightly threaded with gray. “Would you like some coffee? I’ve just made a pot.”

“Yes, please. It smells wonderful,” answered Gemma, and Kincaid concurred. Sitting where she indicated at the table, he examined their surroundings as Mrs. Karimgee fetched mugs from a cabinet. The coffee machine was German and looked as though it required programming by a computer; the rest of the kitchen was German and high-tech as well. Kincaid glanced at Gemma for signs of envy, but she looked merely comfortable and interested.

“Mrs. Karimgee,” he began when she joined them, “when-”

“It’s Ms., if you insist, not Mrs. My husband’s name is Hodge. Why don’t you just call me Monica?”

“Right, then.” Kincaid smiled and sipped carefully at his coffee. It was as good as it smelled, and he regretted that she hadn’t offered whatever smelled so enticingly of cinnamon, as well. “Monica, when did you last see Laura Novak?”

She thought for a moment before answering. “Sometime during the week. I’m not quite sure, but I think it must have been Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“No. I just saw her coming in with Harriet as I was getting the post. It has been awfully quiet next door over the weekend, come to think of it, but I just assumed it was one of Harriet’s weekends with her dad and that Laura was working. No, wait” – she frowned as she thought- “that can’t be right. I know Harriet was with Tony last weekend because he and Laura had a row when he brought Harriet back. Laura’s very strict about visitations and she’d never agree to Tony having Harriet two weekends in a row.”

“This argument,” said Gemma, “did you hear what it was about?”

Monica fidgeted with her cup and looked away. “I don’t want to sound like a snoop. It was unavoidable, really. My office is at the front of the house – I’m a commercial illustrator and I work from home – so if someone’s shouting in the street it’s a bit hard to ignore. All I can tell you is that Laura seemed to be angry with Tony, but then that’s not unusual. I worry about Harriet – it can’t possibly be good for her, all the dissension.”

“No,” Kincaid agreed, thinking of the damage their own difficulties with Eugenia had caused Kit. “Do you know why Laura’s always angry with Tony?”

Again Monica looked uncomfortable. “Look, I really don’t want to gossip. Surely that’s their affair.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, yes,” Gemma told her earnestly, “but Tony Novak has reported both his ex-wife and his daughter missing. The more we know about what was going on between Tony and Laura, the more likely we are to get to the bottom of this quickly.”

Monica blanched. “But you said Laura – Harriet’s missing, too?”

“Her father thinks so, and there’s no answer next door. You’re sure you didn’t see any signs that Laura and Harriet were going away for a weekend?”

“No. It is odd, though, now that I think about it,” Monica said slowly. “On Friday – Friday morning, it would have been – I think I saw Tony’s car. I just happened to look out the window, then I had a phone call, and when I looked out next it was gone. It’s a dark green Volvo sedan, not all that common. When Tony and Laura split up, Laura kept the house and Tony got the car – not a great sacrifice for Laura, as she thinks it wrong to own a nonessential automobile.”

“A nonessential car?” Kincaid echoed, puzzled.

“You know. She’s very green-minded – one should use public transport at all times. I daresay the world would be a better place if we all went along with that, but most of us aren’t willing to make Laura’s sort of sacrifices.”

“So if Laura had suddenly decided to take Harriet away somewhere for an extended period, she couldn’t just have popped a few things in the boot and taken off,” Kincaid said, thinking aloud. “She would have had to hire a car or a taxi.”

“But why would Laura want to take Harriet away?” Monica asked.

“Perhaps she was afraid of Tony. It appears he has a bit of a temper.”

“Tony?” Monica looked surprised. “It’s Laura who’s always flying off the handle, not Tony.”

Kincaid thought of the man he’d met yesterday at the shelter. Had Tony Novak kept his aggressive tendencies well hidden outside the family, or had yesterday’s behavior been an aberration? “You’re sure you didn’t actually see Tony, just his car?”

“I’m positive.”

“Did you hear anything from next door during that time?”

Monica shook her head. “No. And the car can’t have been there more than five or ten minutes, tops. I wasn’t on the phone for that long.”

Gemma leaned forward, creating a little zone of intimacy between the two women. “You said before that it was Laura who was always angry. Was it Laura who wanted to end the marriage?” she asked with an air of frank curiosity that invited confidence.

“Oh, yes, she made that clear to anyone who would listen. I don’t know if it was one woman or many, but Tony obviously got caught out. Well,” Monica added, “with Tony’s looks I suppose it wasn’t surprising he should be tempted to play away from home – I suppose even Heathcliff needed some light relief occasionally.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she looked ashamed. “Oh, I’m sorry. That was really uncalled for. Look, I really do hope nothing’s happened to Laura. It’s just that she’s not an easy person. And Harriet – Harriet’s a great kid. Surely she’s all right?” There was an appeal in her voice.

“Does Harriet get on with her dad?” Kincaid asked, sidestepping the implied question.

“Adores him. And vice versa. He must be frantic with worry.”

That, Kincaid thought, certainly described Tony Novak’s state the previous day. But in that case, why had he not informed the police of his concerns? And what had he been doing at the house on Friday morning?

“We will need descriptions of Laura and Harriet, if you wouldn’t mind,” he told her.

“But didn’t Tony-”

“We just need a verification.”

Gemma pulled out her notebook for the first time.

“Well, Laura’s in her midthirties, about my height, but thin, with curly dark hair and dark eyes. And Harriet – Harriet’s about average size for a ten-year-old. She’s thin like her mother, and she inherited her mother’s hair, but she looks more like her dad.”

“Eye color?” asked Gemma, her pen poised.

“Gray. A dark gray.” Monica looked increasingly distressed.

Kincaid finished his coffee with regret and pulled a business card from his pocket. “If you think of anything else, or you see Laura or Harriet, please call.”

Monica studied the card, then looked up at him. “I didn’t really take it in when you introduced yourself, the fact that you were a superintendent. Aren’t you a little overqualified for a welfare call?”

“There’s a possibility that Laura Novak’s disappearance may be related to some other matters we’re investigating, but I’m afraid that’s all we can say at the moment.” Before she could pursue it further, he stood, and Gemma followed his cue.

Monica saw them to the door, her pleasant face etched with worry. When they reached the threshold, she stopped suddenly. “What about Mrs. Blakely – Bleckley – something like that. Have you spoken to her?” Seeing their blank expressions, she went on. “The woman who keeps Harriet when Laura has to work nights. When Tony and Laura were together, they made sure to schedule night duties so that one of them could be home, but now Laura has to use a child minder. Not that I haven’t offered to have Harriet here, but Laura didn’t like to be beholden to anyone.”

“Can you give me an address?”

“No, not exactly. I know she lives in those cottages on Redcross Way, across from the school. That made it convenient for Harriet to get to school on the mornings she had to stay.” Her lips curved in a half smile. “Harriet’s always telling my Jamie that the woman’s a witch. I’ve had to reassure him that’s there’s no such thing.”

“I hope you’re right,” Kincaid said with a passing thought for his former mother-in-law.

“Did you by any chance notice a little bias on behalf of Tony Novak?” said Gemma as they climbed back into her car. “How often do other women side with the straying husband rather than the wronged wife?”

“Monica Karimgee wasn’t just forgiving his apparent lapses, she was almost justifying them,” mused Kincaid. “Which makes me think that either she’s smitten with him herself or that Laura Novak does not endear herself to people.”

Gemma gave him a sidelong glance. “You didn’t tell me he was good-looking.”

“Didn’t occur to me. But I suppose he is, in a dark and brooding sort of way. Hence the Heathcliff reference. What I don’t understand is why, if it wasn’t his weekend to have Harriet, Novak was so sure she and Laura were missing.” Rubbing his thumb over his chin, Kincaid stared at the house. “And what was he doing here? I doubt very much that he’s welcome to come and go as he pleases. Did Laura let him in? Or did he go in on his own?”

“Maybe he saw something in the house that made him think Laura had taken Harriet, but he didn’t want to admit he’d been inside. But that wouldn’t explain why he was there in the first place. And you’d think, given the hostile state of their relationship, that Laura would have changed the locks.” Gemma fished her A to Z from the driver’s door pocket. “What about this child minder? She might be able to tell us something.” Redcross Way, she saw from the map, was very close, just the other side of Union Street.

Glancing at his watch, Kincaid said, “Possibly, but I think the most urgent things on our agenda are finding Tony Novak, and barring that, getting a warrant to search Laura Novak’s house. And right now I’ve got to meet Cullen and Bell at Borough station. I’m late as it is.”

Gemma touched his arm. “I want to be there when you interview Tony Novak. I promise I won’t interfere,” she added, forestalling his protest. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

“Right.” He raised both eyebrows, an indication of extreme skepticism.

“And while you’re at the station, I’ll see if I can find Mrs. Whatever. Then I’ll ring you.”

“I don’t suppose I could stop you, anyway,” he said with resignation.

Gemma smiled and put the car into gear. “You should know better.”

When Gemma had dropped Kincaid at the top of Borough High Street, outside the police station, she looped back around to Union Street and turned right into Redcross Way. She saw the primary school immediately and, across the street, a parched little park fronting on a row of almshouses, undoubtedly the cottages Monica had mentioned. There was nothing for it but to knock on doors.

She had success on her second try. A sweet-faced little white-haired woman answered the door and blinked up at her.

“Excuse me,” said Gemma, “but do you know where I could find Mrs. Blakely?”

The woman stared at her so blankly that Gemma wondered if she might be deaf, or senile, but at last the woman said, “Oh, is it Agnes Bletchley you’re wanting? That’ll be next door, and good luck to you.” She slammed the door before Gemma could reply.

After that reception, Gemma tried the cottage next door with some trepidation. She could hear the television blaring even through the closed door, so she knew someone was at home. She knocked, waited, then knocked again more loudly.

She’d raised her fist to try once more when a voice shouted from inside. “Just hold your damned horses, will you?” The door swung open and a woman leaning on a stick scowled out at her. “What do you want?”

“Mrs. Bletchley?”

“What’s it to you?” She was tall and angular, with short hair dyed a lifeless brown, and a long face scored with hatchet lines of perpetual discontent.

Gemma showed her warrant card. “I’d like to talk to you about Harriet Novak.”

“What’s the little brat done? Robbed a bank?” Mrs. Bletchley snickered at her own humor, then added ungraciously, “I suppose you’d better come in, then.” She turned away, leaving Gemma to follow her into a dark little sitting room dominated by the still-blaring television. The remainder of the room was stuffed with a three-piece suite covered in a flowered moquette fabric. The furniture clashed horribly with the threadbare carpet, and the acrid smell of cat urine made Gemma flinch. What on earth had Laura Novak been thinking to leave her child here? she wondered in horror.

“Mrs. Bletchley,” she said, trying to pitch her voice above the noise of the telly, “can you tell me when you last saw Harriet?”

The woman lowered herself onto the settee but didn’t invite Gemma to join her – not that Gemma was at all eager to sit on the furniture, but standing made it difficult for her to look Mrs. Bletchley in the eye.

A yellow cat as bony and angular as its mistress slunk in from the kitchen, stared balefully at Gemma, then began washing its paw.

“When did you last see Harriet?” Gemma repeated, shifting her position until she was blocking the woman’s view of the television.

With a grimace of irritation, Mrs. Bletchley lifted the remote and muted the telly. “No need to shout. Bloody nuisance, that child. Always complaining about this and that. Missy doesn’t want fish fingers for her supper, she wants beef burgers. Missy doesn’t want cornflakes for her breakfast, she wants frozen waffles. Does she think I can afford those on my pension?”

Her patience rapidly deteriorating, Gemma said, “Mrs. Bletchley-”

“If you want to know when I saw her last, she was getting into that car.”

Gemma’s heart seemed to dive into her stomach. “What car? When was this?” She sat down in spite of herself and leaned closer to the old woman.

“Well, it was on the Friday morning, when else would it have been? I’d come out with the cats, after she left for school. I could see her across the yard, hanging about by the school gate. Then a car pulled up and she got in.”

“Are you saying that Harriet stayed with you on Thursday night?” asked Gemma, trying to find a solid point of reference.

“What else would I mean? Her mother had to work, rang me at the last minute. Bloody inconvenient, wasn’t it, as I had nothing to suit little Missy’s taste. In my day-”

“Mrs. Bletchley, did you see Laura Novak on Thursday night?”

“She didn’t stop except to pay me. Cash, I always ask for, so as not to have to bother with the bank.”

“What time was this?”

“Nearly ten, it must have been. The news was coming on as she left. At least I didn’t have to feed the child supper.”

“Did Laura say anything to you about going away?”

Mrs. Bletchley looked at her as if she were daft. “I told you she didn’t stop. In and out, always in a hurry, that woman.”

Gemma was beginning to feel desperate. “Did Harriet say anything about going away?”

“What’s all this about going away? Why should she talk to me about going away?”

“Mrs. Bletchley, Harriet and her mother appear to be missing. Can you tell me about the car you saw Harriet getting into?”

The woman shrugged. “It was dark. Newish. Blue, maybe, or green.” She frowned and the hatchet lines deepened. “I think it was green.”

“Dark green?” Gemma’s heart plunged a little further as she took in the implications.

“Are you deaf?”

“I’m sorry. I just need to make sure. Could it have been a Volvo?”

Rolling her eyes, Mrs. Bletchley didn’t deign to answer.

“Did you see the number plate?” tried Gemma.

“Do I look like I could see the number plate across that yard?”

“Okay.” Gemma took a breath. “Could it have been Harriet’s father who picked her up?”

Mrs. Bletchley glared at her with undisguised dislike. “How would I know? Never seen the man, have I? And the windows were dark. She got in from the school-yard side, so I never saw inside the car at all.”

Gemma realized then that she’d insisted on pursuing this case partly out of concern for Harriet Novak, but partly in hopes that a positive resolution would ease her conscience over the child she’d failed to find. Now she felt as if she were caught in a repeating nightmare. “Mrs. Bletchley,” she said, and it seemed to her that the words were weighted with lead, “I’m going to need a description of the clothes Harriet was wearing on Friday morning.”

Kincaid found Doug Cullen leaning against the watercooler outside their temporary incident room in Borough High Street Station, grasping a paper cup as if his life depended on it. Cullen looked pale, and behind his spectacles, his eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.

“Whoa, mate,” Kincaid said, grinning. “Night on the tiles?”

“I wish.” Cullen straightened up, draining his cup and tossing it accurately into the waste bin. “Clubbing, yes. Fun, no. I got the names of some spots where Chloe Yarwood hangs out from Tia Foster. Thought I might find the boyfriend. This Trevelyan bloke’s got no phone number listed, and no driver’s license.”

Kincaid would have been more impressed with his sergeant’s sacrifice of his evening if he hadn’t suspected Cullen of wanting an excuse to ring Tia Foster again. “No luck, I take it?”

“No. And I wish they’d make bloody smoking illegal,” Cullen added, rubbing at one eye, just as Maura Bell came up to them.

“So who died and made you king?” she asked, giving him a defensive glare. She’d livened up her black suit that morning with a deep pink sweater, and her hair looked freshly washed. Kincaid wondered if the effort had been made for Cullen’s benefit, and if Cullen had failed to notice.

“I did find out something, though,” Cullen continued, ignoring the barb. “A bloke at one of the West End clubs recognized Nigel Trevelyan. Said the guy’s a real sponger, always coming up with schemes to separate people from their money.”

“Including Chloe Yarwood? Or Chloe Yarwood’s father?” Kincaid suggested. “That could prove interesting, if it’s true. Maybe he convinced her that her dad needed to collect the insurance on his warehouse.”

“Then they torched the place together?” said Cullen, looking brighter.

“Aren’t you overlooking a few things?” asked Bell acidly. “How does that account for the body, unless Trevelyan killed Chloe and left her there, and in that case how would he gain from Yarwood’s insurance settlement?”

Cullen absently rubbed at his eye again, knocking his glasses askew. “What if Chloe came up with the idea herself? Maybe she needed money, and she thought that if Dad had a sudden cash infusion, he’d help her out. And it backfired on her.”

The comment brought Kincaid a sudden clear vision of the charred body, and of Chloe Yarwood’s young face in the photo he’d found in her bathroom.

“We’ll talk to Yarwood again today, see if we can get some answers,” he said. “But first, we need to find Tony Novak. I’ve just spoken to Laura Novak’s neighbor. She says she hasn’t seen mother or daughter since sometime last week, but that she glimpsed Tony’s car outside the house on Friday morning.”

“I checked with the hospital,” said Bell. “Tony Novak didn’t show up for his scheduled shift on Friday morning, and neither did his ex-wife. But I don’t understand why you’re wasting time on what sounds a simple domestic when we’ve proof Chloe Yarwood was at the scene.”

Kincaid locked eyes with her. “I’m not discounting anything – or anyone – until we get the results of those DNA samples. That includes Laura Novak, Elaine Holland, and my aunt Martha if she happens to turn up missing between now and then. Is that clear?”

“Sorry, guv,” Bell said after a moment, dropping her gaze. The capitulation was so unexpected that Kincaid wondered if Cullen had had a word with her. “Will we be needing a warrant for Laura Novak’s house?”

“Get it in process. In the meantime, I’m going to try Novak’s flat again.”

“I’ve sent a constable round twice with no luck,” Bell protested. “What makes you think you’ll do any better? Didn’t you say he ran away from you at the shelter?” Bell’s efforts at concurrence obviously hadn’t lasted long.

“Then we’ll get a bloody warrant for his place as-”

“Guv,” broke in Cullen quietly, “Station Officer Farrell’s here, and I’d swear he’s smiling.”

Looking up, Kincaid saw Farrell coming down the corridor. While he wasn’t sure he’d go so far as to call it a smile, the fire investigator’s long face bore an expression of cautious enthusiasm.

“Got something for us, Bill?” he asked.

“Possible murder weapon,” said Farrell as he joined them. “Charred fragment of a two-by-four, buried under debris. Your classic blunt instrument. Luminol brought up a bloodstain on the underside, which was somewhat protected from the fire. The lab will check the blood against the victim’s.”

“The way this case is going, we may find one of the workmen cut his thumb,” Kincaid murmured, but he was pleased to have something concrete to go on.

This time Farrell did actually smile. “If that’s not good enough for you, we found several partial prints on the board as well, one in the blood. If you come up with a suspect, we may be able to place him at the scene. Or if you’re really lucky, the guy has a record and the database will give you a name.”

Kincaid thought suddenly of Rose Kearny’s suspected serial arsonist. Arsonists often began with petty crimes. If the man existed, he might well have a record. Patting his jacket pocket, he found to his relief that he still had the papers. “Do you remember the firefighter who came to the scene?” he asked, handing Farrell Rose’s list and map.

“The young woman?”

“I ran into her yesterday. She’s convinced that some of the fires that have occurred in Southwark the past few months form a pattern. I said I’d ask you to ring her – her mobile number’s on the sheet.”

Cullen grinned. “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a nutter, boss, but at least she’s good-looking.” This earned him a disgusted glance from Bell and a scowl from Kincaid.

Farrell, on the other hand, after an initial look of skepticism, was scanning the papers with interest. “Why didn’t she take this to her guv’nor?” he asked.

“She was off duty yesterday. Said she didn’t want to wait until her tour began this morning. And I think her guv’nor warned her off pursuing it.”

“So would I, in his place, and I’d recommend her for a stress debriefing,” said Farrell, folding the papers. “But as I’m not her boss, and it looks as though she might have come up with something interesting, I’ll give her a ring.”

Realizing there was still something in his pocket, Kincaid fished out the photo Gemma had given him the previous evening and handed it to Bell. “Elaine Holland. From her hospital file. Can you get it into the system?”

“How did you-” she began, but Kincaid was saved by the ringing of his phone.

Gemma had parked across from the primary school and, having escaped from Mrs. Bletchley, sat for a moment in the car, trying to make sense of what she’d learned. She stared at the school’s bright blue iron fencing and low brick buildings, picturing a ten-year-old girl, her curly dark hair pulled back with an elastic, wearing jeans and trainers and carrying the inevitable backpack, getting into a dark green car.

Had Harriet been loitering deliberately by the gate, waiting by some prearranged plan? Or had she been surprised to see her dad when the car had pulled up beside her?

But if Tony Novak had picked up Harriet, why had he accused Laura of taking her? Could he have left Harriet at Park Street when Monica Karimgee had seen his car there, and then Harriet had later been taken somewhere by her mother?

Or could the green car have been mere coincidence? What if Harriet had not been picked up by her father at all? For all Gemma knew, Laura Novak had hired a green car and fetched Harriet herself, or it might have been a stranger who had enticed Harriet away. The thought made her blood run cold.

Realizing she wasn’t going to get any further without more information, Gemma pulled out her mobile phone and rang Kincaid.

When he answered, she gave him a condensed report of her conversation with Mrs. Bletchley, adding, “Laura Novak must be daft, to leave her child with that woman. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d buried Harriet in the garden, except she hasn’t got one.”

“Gemma, did you say Laura Novak told the child minder that she had to work on Thursday night?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because we’ve been in touch with the hospital. Laura was scheduled to work Friday during the day, but she didn’t show up or call. Nor did Tony Novak.”

“Laura lied to Mrs. Bletchley?”

“So it would seem.”

Gemma felt more confused than ever. Lying seemed out of character for a woman so devoted to her principles that she refused to drive a car. Why would Laura Novak have done such a thing? And where was she now?

“Tony Novak didn’t show up, either?” she repeated. “We have to talk to him.”

“Hang on a sec,” said Kincaid. Gemma heard the murmur of background conversation, then he came back on the line. “Here’s the address. I’ll meet you there. But, Gemma, don’t go in without me. He could be dangerous.”

Gemma parked the car in front of Guy’s Hospital, as she had the previous day, and walked round the corner into Borough High Street. As she looked for the address Kincaid had given her, she passed the George, the last of the ancient galleried inns of Southwark. The Tabard and the Queen’s Head had long since disappeared, but the George, with only one of its galleries intact, had not only survived but did a booming business.

Tony Novak had certainly gone for convenience, she thought as she found the address a bit farther along. It was a block of flats over a shop front, not particularly inviting, but merely a stone’s throw from Guy’s Hospital.

She was about to push the entrance buzzer when a parting of the pedestrian traffic revealed a man sitting on the curb, a few yards farther along. He was hunched over, his head cradled in his hands, his feet in the gutter. People were giving him a wide berth, as they usually did the drunk or the homeless, although you seldom saw either sitting half in the street, and the man looked ill as well as unkempt.

Although the distraction was unwelcome, Gemma couldn’t pass by without attempting to help.

She smelled the sour stench of alcohol before she reached him and felt a bit more sympathy for those who hadn’t bothered to stop. From a few feet away, she said, “Excuse me, sir. Are you all right?”

When he didn’t respond, she crouched down and looked at him more closely. He was dark-haired and tall – that much was apparent even in his present position – and slender. His clothes, although rumpled, seemed clean and of good quality, and on his wrist, bared where his shirt cuff had fallen back, was an expensive-looking watch. The man was no vagrant, and Gemma had a sudden flash of intuition. If she was wrong, she had nothing to lose.

She touched his shoulder. “Tony.”

This time he raised his head, slowly, and stared at her with bloodshot eyes. His face was long and thin, and covered with several days’ worth of stubble, and his eyes were hollow, but Gemma could see that under better circumstances he would be handsome. He didn’t speak.

“Tony,” she said again. “My name’s Gemma.” Here she hesitated but decided that if she wanted to gain his trust she’d better be honest from the beginning. He didn’t look in any state to run off. “I’m a police officer, and I think you need some help.”

He stared at her a moment longer, then grasped her arm with surprising strength. “You’ve found her. Harriet. Tell me – is she-”

“We haven’t found your daughter. We’re hoping you can help us do that. But first, let’s get you up to your flat, okay? Can you stand?”

“Don’t know,” he mumbled, but let her pull him to his feet. He swayed a little but seemed steady enough to walk without help. Gemma began to think he was not so much drunk as hungover and exhausted.

He had not lost his keys, at least, and Gemma let him lead the way up the stairs to his flat. She had to help him unlock the flat door, and once in the sitting room, he sank down on the nearest available chair as if his legs had given notice.

The flat was no more inviting from the inside than it had looked from the street. Obviously hastily converted to take advantage of the property boom, it had cheap fittings, and the walls and ceiling were already beginning to show patches of damp. The sitting room held a few pieces of nondescript furniture, and an open suitcase spilled its contents onto the floor.

“How long has it been since you’ve had anything to eat, or any sleep?” Gemma asked, as Tony looked in danger of nodding off again.

“Don’t know. Don’t remember.” He frowned and rubbed at his stubble. “Couple of days, I think.”

“Right.” Gemma went into the tiny kitchen and took stock. There was part of a loaf of bread on the counter and some cheese and butter in an otherwise pathetically empty fridge. “You’re going to have something to eat, and then we’ll talk.” She buttered bread and sliced cheese for a sandwich as the kettle boiled, then made a big mug of strong, sweet tea.

When she returned to the sitting room he had closed his eyes, but he sat up and took the food from her without protest. After the first bite, he wolfed down the sandwich as if suddenly starving, then gulped at the tea, even though it must still have been scalding.

When he looked up at her again, his eyes were more clear and focused. Picking at his shirt, he said, “God, I stink. Must have spilled the bottle.”

“Yeah.” Gemma smiled. “You do. But that can wait. First we need to talk about Harriet.”

His dark eyes filling with tears, Tony said on a sob, “Oh, God. It’s my fault.”

Gemma controlled her start of alarm. “What’s your fault, Tony?”

“I should never have left her.”

“Left Harriet?”

Just then the buzzer sounded from the street door. Tony jerked as if he’d been shot, then stood up, looking round wildly. “Laura – she’ll kill me-”

“It’s not Laura,” Gemma said, gambling that she was right. She pressed the release for the street door latch. “It’s my friend Duncan. You met him the other day.” She gave Kincaid a minute to climb the stairs, then opened the flat door before he could knock. At his startled expression, she gave a quick shake of her head and held up a hand in warning before turning back to Tony.

“Tony and I are just having a chat,” she said. “About Harriet. He’s very worried about her.”

Tony sat down again slowly, his expression wary.

She saw Kincaid take in the open suitcase, but he followed her lead and pulled up a chair without speaking.

“Tony,” she said quietly, as if they hadn’t been interrupted, “where did you leave Harriet?”

He looked from Gemma to Kincaid, then back at Gemma. “With a friend,” he whispered. “It was just for a few minutes. I – I had something to do.”

“Was this after you picked Harriet up from school?”

His eyes widened, but after a moment he nodded. “It was a treat. I was taking her out for the day, for a treat.”

“Did Laura agree that you should take Harriet out of school for the day?”

“God, no.” His face twisted in a grimace. “It was going to be our secret, Harriet’s and mine. But then I had to – she wanted some things from the flat, and I said I’d get them, but I couldn’t take her with me.”

Gemma felt Kincaid’s stir of impatience, but she nodded as if it all made perfect sense. “So you left her with your friend, while you went to the flat. Was Laura there?”

He looked at her blankly. “Laura? Of course not. She was at work, or I’d never have gone.”

“Okay,” she said. “So you picked up Harriet’s things. Then what happened?”

He rubbed a trembling hand across his stubble again. “I was supposed to meet them – Harriet and my friend. But they didn’t come. And I realized I’d no idea how to get in touch with her.”

“Your friend?”

“Beth. Her name’s Beth. I-” He shook his head. “We’d been going out for a while, but she always came here. She said there was someone else, and I never-”

“But you must have had some way to reach her?”

“Only her mobile, and now it just goes straight to voice mail. She said she worked at an estate agent’s here in the Borough, so yesterday I went round to every office, but no one knew anyone called Beth.”

Kincaid could contain himself no longer. “Are you saying you don’t know this woman’s last name?”

“It was only casual sex, for God’s sake. I never thought – I never meant-”

“You left your daughter, on the spur of the moment, with a woman whose name you didn’t even know?”

“It wasn’t like that,” protested Tony. “I needed help, and I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask, anyone who didn’t-”

“Know your wife,” Gemma finished for him, the light dawning. “Is that why you didn’t want to leave Harriet on her own, because you were afraid she’d call her mum?” She looked at the suitcase, crammed with clothing, a little girl’s T-shirt spilling over the side. “You weren’t packing for a day away, Tony, that much is obvious. You’d never have thought you could just take Harriet off for a day without Laura suing to revoke your custody. And you’d have been in trouble with the hospital for failing to let them know you were going to be absent.” She tilted her head to one side, thinking, then said slowly, “Unless it didn’t matter, because you weren’t coming back. Where were you taking her, Tony?”

He stared at her defiantly, and for a moment she thought he would deny it. Then he closed his eyes, and the tension seemed to seep from his body.

“Prague,” he whispered. “I was taking her to Prague.”