“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.”
