In A Dark House

behind, and lately she hadn’t been paying me at all. At first, I didn’t mind so much, but…”

“I’d say you were bloody generous to put up with it as long as you did,” Cullen remarked stoutly. “But I still don’t see what that had to do with the warehouse.”

“It was the flats,” Tia explained. “Chloe got the idea she could talk her dad into letting her have one of the flats when they were finished. I don’t know why she thought that – he’d kicked her out of his own place because she wouldn’t stay in school or keep a job – he certainly wasn’t going to pay to set her up on her own. But she kept asking me to let her stay until the flats were ready. I thought she was just stalling for time. That’s why, when I got back and heard those messages from her dad, and she wasn’t here, I was a little… relieved.” Tia dropped her head into her hands and rocked back and forth. Her hair, drying now, fell across her face like wisps of barley. “I’ll never forgive myself if something’s happened to her,” she whispered.

“So Chloe wouldn’t have gone there needing a place to sleep,” Kincaid mused. “And why take the guy with her when she still had a room here, and plenty of privacy with you out of town?”

“What guy?” Tia’s eyes grew wide with trepidation.

Kincaid drew out the CCTV photo and handed it to her. “Do you recognize him?”

“Oh, God.” She shook her head, not as a negative but in apparent dismay. “It’s Nigel. Nigel Trevelyan.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. I’d recognize that wanker anywhere.”

“Would he have hurt Chloe?”

“No way. He’s a poseur. Goes round in motorcycle leathers and chains, with his earring and his bandana, when the closest he’s ever been to a Harley is a push-bike. And all the working-class thing is pure bollocks – his family lives in Ealing, overlooking the golf course. Nigel wouldn’t say boo to a fly.”

“Do you know how we can get in touch with him?”

“Not a clue. I mean, Chloe hangs out with him, but I wouldn’t be caught de – Oh, God, sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Tia’s eyes filled with tears and she gave a little hiccupping sob.

Cullen moved over to the sofa, as if his physical presence might comfort her. “Don’t worry about it,” he told her gently. “Everyone says things like that. It’s just a figure of speech.”

“We don’t know for certain that it is Chloe in the warehouse,” Kincaid reminded them. “We’ll need some samples for the lab. Hair would be best. If you could tell me-”

“Chloe’s things are on the right-hand side of the lav in the bathroom. I hadn’t even unpacked my stuff yet, just used what I needed for my shower straight out of my travel kit. That’s how I knew she hadn’t taken her things – her hairbrush is still there.”

Leaving Tia to Cullen’s ministrations, Kincaid excused himself and found the bathroom. The sink had been set into an oak dresser, leaving a generous amount of space on either side. The left-hand side was clear, the right covered with opened bottles, spilled cosmetics, and a purple plastic hairbrush, its bristles matted with brown hair. There was also a tooth glass, its rim smudged with traces of lipstick and saliva.

Kincaid bagged both items, then stood, gazing at the snapshot that had been stuck into the edge of the gilt- framed mirror. It was a casual shot of the two girls, arms round each other’s shoulders, laughing into the camera. Chloe was easily recognizable from the CCTV image, but the color and sharpness of the photo seemed to give her substance. And here her youth was obvious, as it had not been in the brief glimpse captured by the hidden camera.

Although Kincaid had empathized with Michael Yarwood’s shock and worry, his sympathy had been abstract. Now, for the first time, he made an emotional connection between the laughing, pretty girl in the snapshot and the burned thing in the warehouse. Chloe Yarwood had become real.

He stood for a moment with his eyes closed, resting his hands on the basin’s edge. Dear God, he hoped the body they’d found did not belong to this girl, not just for her father’s sake, but for her own.

11

The debilitated old house in the city, wrapped in its mantle of soot, and leaning heavily on the crutches that had partaken of its decay and worn out with it, never knew a healthy or a cheerful interval, let what would betide.

CHARLES DICKENS

Little Dorrit

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.”