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
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.
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?”
