In A Dark House

teams are searching your flat and your car.”

Tony stared at him as if he’d just become Judas Iscariot; then he leaned forward, gripping the table edge until his knuckles turned white. “Search all you want. Think what you want. I don’t care what you do. Just find my daughter.”

When they had first interviewed Tia Foster, Doug Cullen had made note of her saying that Nigel Trevelyan’s family lived near the golf course in Ealing. He’d found two telephone listings that seemed likely prospects, and had tried both numbers on a regular basis over the weekend, without result. This morning one of them had answered. The woman had sounded Punjabi, and had disavowed any knowledge of a Nigel Trevelyan.

Having exhausted all his other leads for Chloe, and having found Michael Yarwood in his office at last, but ensconced in a committee meeting, Cullen had decided to check out the second address in person.

He’d also had another agenda, a personal one, and had been glad of an excuse that allowed him to drive west from his flat in Euston, rather than south to the Borough. It took him half an hour in morning traffic to reach Kensington High Street, and the closer he got, the more reluctant he became to carry out his intentions.

But he knew if he backed out now, he might never get his courage up again, so he steeled himself and went on. He found a parking spot on a back street behind St. Mary’s Church, and walked quickly to the High Street.

It was too early for the shops to open for business, but when he peered in the window of the home furnishings boutique, the sales assistant recognized him and unlocked the door with a smile.

“Doug! What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see Stella,” he said, feeling his mouth go dry. “Is she in yet?”

“In the stockroom. Go on back.”

He made his way through aisles filled with ribbon-tied linens and bundles of dried flowers, silk-tasseled lamp- shades, vases, mirrors, gardening implements – the inclusion of which he found very odd – and things he couldn’t even put a name to. He felt, as he always did in this place, like the proverbial bull in the china shop.

The scent of potpourri wafted out from the stockroom, and he stopped for a moment in the doorway, stifling a sneeze. Stella stood with her back to him, carefully refolding a flower-sprigged quilt. She wore a twinset in a pale yellow that set off her icy blond looks, with the cardigan tossed casually over her shoulders, and pearls. She was flawless, and faultless, and he’d come to the terrible realization that he didn’t love her.

“Maddie,” she said, sensing a presence behind her, “if you could hand me another bolt of the raffia-”

“Stella.”

She whirled around, dropping the cord she’d lifted to tie round the quilt. “Dougie! What are you doing here? Are you – Is everything all right? I’ve been ringing you since Friday. You said you’d come down if you could get away-”

“I know.”

She’d left half a dozen messages on his voice mail, the first few cross, the last, uncharacteristically for Stella, sounding uncertain, and even a little frightened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s this case. We’ve had a woman murdered, and now her little girl is missing.” He saw her mouth began to thin in an expression of disapproval and irritation, as it did whenever he talked about a case, and he held up his hand to stop her.

“Stella, don’t. This is not going to change. I’m not going to change. You’re not going to change. I think it’s time we gave it a rest.”

She stared at him. “I – You don’t mean-”

“I’m good at my job, Stella. I can’t go on apologizing for it.”

“But things will be different, when you’re promoted-”

“No, they won’t. I’ll only have more responsibility, and you wouldn’t like it any better.” He smiled at her, trying to ease the sting. “Besides, there must be dozens of blokes with trust funds dying to take you away for a country weekend.”

Her pale blue eyes grew hard. “Meaning you don’t care?”

“No, of course I care. I only meant-”

“You’ve found some bloody policewoman to shag, haven’t you, Dougie?” she spat at him, crossing her arms tightly beneath her small breasts.

“No, I – I only want what’s best for both of us,” he protested, cursing the flush he felt staining his cheeks. “Stella, listen-”

“You always were a lousy liar, Doug, and too innocent to walk God’s earth. What do you think I’ve been doing all those weekends you couldn’t be bothered to join me?” She saw his shock and smiled. “What did you expect, Sleeping Beauty?” Turning away from him, she began retying the folded quilt. “Now, just bugger off, will you, and don’t keep your prison wardress waiting.” The raffia snapped in her fingers.

The address in Ealing wasn’t on the golf course, but near enough that Cullen thought Nigel Trevelyan might have felt justified in fudging his geography a bit. The house was detached, built of rose-colored brick with white trim, set back on a tree-lined road.

As he pulled up across the street, Cullen saw yellowed newspapers piled in the shadow of the porch, and a collection of advertising circulars decorating the doorknob. He swore aloud. No wonder the people hadn’t answered their bloody telephone.

Now he really was buggered. He’d used up his last lead, and a good part of a morning that could have been spent pursuing something more productive. The day, which had begun with such promise, had darkened, and a splatter of raindrops rattled across the windscreen on a gust of wind.

Well, he could at least talk to the neighbors, find out if he had the right Trevelyans. He sighed and reached for the door handle, then sat back, resting his hands on the steering wheel, as he replayed Stella’s parting words once again. Stung pride and guilt and relief jumbled all together in his mind, and he couldn’t begin to sort them out. There would be time for that, he knew, and time for regret, as well, but now he had a job to get on with.

Checking for oncoming traffic before reaching again for the door handle, he glanced in the side mirror and froze. A girl was walking up the street towards the house and his car. Young, brunette, she trudged head down, hands laden with two plastic carrier bags. He caught only a glimpse of her face as she shrugged her hair back with an irritated twitch of her shoulder, but he would have known it anywhere. He had seen it, over and over, on a loop of security cam videotape.

Chloe Yarwood looked younger than she had in the film, and thinner. Her skirt was too short, and made her white legs look oddly vulnerable, rather than sexy. As she passed the car, he reached for the cold coffee in his console and glanced away from her as he sipped. That was the one good thing about his old Astra – the car that had so humiliated Stella – it attracted no notice at all.

Once Chloe had passed him, he watched her again, openly. She turned into the drive of the house and walked, not towards the front door, but towards the back of the property, and he saw what he hadn’t noticed before – there was an outbuilding at the end of the drive, set back behind the house. When she reached it, she transferred both bags to one hand, unlocked the door, and slipped inside.

Cullen jumped out of the car and followed. He didn’t want to give her time to get comfortable. There were no cars in the drive and he hoped he’d caught her alone. It was only as he knocked on the door that he remembered Nigel Trevelyan didn’t have a driving license, but then it was too late for caution.

There was no answer, and not a peep of sound from within. The quiet seemed suddenly to hold a palpable sense of fear, and he knew she was listening just the other side of the door.

“Chloe Yarwood? I’m Detective Sergeant Cullen, from Scotland Yard. I’d like a word with you.” He waited, then knocked again. “Come on, Chloe. I know you’re in there. If you don’t open up I’ll have to call for a patrol car. I’m not going away.”

Another long minute passed. “Chloe!” He’d raised his hand again when the door swung open. Chloe Yarwood stared out at him. She looked ill, and terrified, and relieved.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought you were them.”

The story came out in bits and starts, between small hiccupping sobs. Cullen sat beside her on an old sofa covered with a woolen horse rug. The place had obviously been converted from a garage at some point in its history. The floor was still concrete, covered only with a couple of dirty rugs, and the interior walls were unfinished. There was a small cooker and fridge to one side, and a curtain that he assumed hid the bathroom