Perfect People

52

‘Mrs Klaesson?’

The woman stood on the doorstep, holding a dribbling baby in her arms, was haggard and irritable. ‘Glissom?’ she retorted, her Cleveland accent sounding like an echo.

She looked nothing like the photograph he had memorized, not remotely. ‘Mrs Naomi Klaesson?’

He got a blank expression back.

Politely, he said, ‘I’m looking for the Klaesson family. You’re not by any chance Mrs Naomi Klaesson?’

‘Naomi Glissom? No way, not me, you got the wrong address, mister. There ain’t no Naomi Glissom here.’

Behind her a small boy rode a plastic tractor across the hallway. A television was on, loud. The woman was in her mid-thirties, tiny, with a plump face and shapeless black hair.

‘Maybe I have the wrong house. I was looking for fifteen twenty-six South Stearns Drive.’

‘You got it.’

The woman stared at the man. He was in his late twenties, medium height, lean, serious-looking, with ginger hair shaved to stubble, a blue business suit, black shoes and a black attache case. Out on the street there was a small blue sedan that looked very clean. He was dressed like a salesman but he lacked a salesman’s confidence. Perhaps he was a Mormon or a Jehovah’s Witness?

He frowned. ‘I’m from Federal North-West Insurance; Mrs Klaesson owns a Toyota car registered at this address; she was in a collision with one of our clients and she hasn’t responded to any communications from us.’

‘I wouldn’t know nothing about that.’

The baby’s face scrunched up, then it took several sharp intakes of breath. It was about to start crying. The woman looked down and rocked it. ‘Glissom?’ she said again.

‘K-L-A-E-S-S-O-N.’ He spelled it.

‘Klaesson? Dr Klaesson!’ she said, suddenly. ‘OK, I got it now. I think they rented this place a few years back. Used to get mail for them.’

Timon Cort nodded. ‘Dr John Klaesson and Naomi Klaesson.’

‘They’re not here any more. They went away. Long while back.’

‘You have any idea where they went?’

‘You could try the agency, the rental agency. The Bryant Mulligan agency over on Roxbury.’

‘The Bryant Mulligan agency?’

The baby was crying louder. ‘Try them,’ she said. ‘They might know.’

‘Bryant Mulligan?’ He spelled it as she had pronounced it.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’m obliged,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

She closed the door.

The Disciple went back to his car, climbed inside and dialled 411 on his cellphone. He asked the operator for the number of the Bryant Mulligan agency. Then rang them.

But the Bryant Mulligan agency had no forwarding address for the Klaessons.