“Gemma-”
She turned suddenly, splashing him. “I’ve just remembered. You never told me what happened before you came to Fanny’s house, when you were at the shelter.”
Sighing, he sat back on his heels. He knew her well enough to realize she wouldn’t be sidetracked until her curiosity had been satisfied. He told her about Tony Novak accusing the shelter of helping his wife and daughter disappear. Earlier in the evening he’d heard from Maura Bell, who’d said they’d had no luck finding either Novak or his wife. There was no one at the Park Street address Kath Warren had given him for Laura Novak, and although they’d found an address on Borough High Street for a Dr. Antony Novak, there was no answer there, either.
“There’s a missing child?” said Gemma, a note of alarm in her voice.
“We don’t know that for sure,” he answered reasonably. “It’s more than likely that the wife has taken off with the daughter, if they’re really even missing at all.”
“If that were the case, wouldn’t she have asked for Kath Warren’s help?” Gemma sloshed water on her shoulders, rinsing off the suds.
“Maybe Kath wasn’t telling me the truth.”
“Why would she lie, if there’s nothing illegal about helping someone relocate?”
“All right, then,” Kincaid said, a little aggravated over the mood obviously lost for the moment. “Maybe Laura Novak didn’t trust Kath Warren not to tell Tony? Or Tony not to find out on his own? After all, Tony has had access to the shelter, and possibly to the shelter’s records.”
“How old is the little girl?”
Kincaid searched his memory for details. “I think Kath said she was ten.”
“How long have they been missing?”
“I don’t know. He buggered off before I had a chance to ask him.”
Gemma leaned back into the curve of the tub, her expression thoughtful. “What were you talking about when Novak ran off?”
He frowned. “Kath was saying she hadn’t seen the wife and daughter, and then she introduced me-”
“By rank?”
“Yes. And then you called, and when I turned round from answering the phone, he was gone. Maybe he thought I was going to nick him for assaulting Kath.”
“Or maybe he’d done something he didn’t want to tell the police.”
“If he’d hurt his wife or his daughter, why would he have been accusing Kath of abducting them?” Kincaid argued.
“At this point, you don’t know what sort of a nutter this guy is,” Gemma countered. “You’ve got to talk to him again. And make every effort to find his wife and daughter. What if-”
“Gemma-” He stopped himself telling her he knew perfectly well how to run an investigation, because he was beginning to have a niggling doubt as to whether he’d given Tony Novak’s missing wife enough weight. “Look, I’ll look into it myself in the morning, starting with Laura Novak’s house. If she’s not there, I’ll canvas the neighbors-”
“I’m going with you.” Gemma sat up and reached for a towel.
“Gemma, that’s not necessary-”
“You need Cullen and Bell for other things. And I want to come.”
He moved out of her way as she pulled the plug and got out of the tub. Her face was flushed pink from the heat, and set in the stubborn expression he knew well.
“Gemma,” he said slowly, “it’s not your fault you haven’t found the little girl that’s missing.”
She put her foot up on the edge of the tub and gave great attention to drying her toes. “I know that,” she said, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
He watched her in silence, knowing there was nothing he could say that would convince her, any more than he would be able to convince himself if it had happened on his watch.
She had been all right until the light started to fade.
The woman who had brought her to the house had come twice during the day, locking the door when she left each time. The first time, that morning, she’d brought Harriet breakfast on a tray – a bowl of instant oatmeal and some dried fruit. She hadn’t spoken at first, and it was only when Harriet saw she meant to put the tray down and leave that she’d got up the courage to speak.
“Why have you brought me here?” she asked, still huddled under her blanket. “Where’s my dad?”
“Your father wants you to stay here for a few days,” the woman said, turning back from the door.
“My dad wouldn’t leave me in this place.”
“No? Maybe your father has a little surprise planned for you.”
“Let me talk to him,” Harriet begged.
“He’s not here right now. But you’d better do what he wants.” The woman reached for the doorknob again.
“My mum.” Harriet stood up, the blanket still wrapped round her shoulders. “My mum will be worried about me. She’ll find me.”
“I don’t think so.” The woman smiled, and Harriet felt cold in the pit of her stomach.
“Wait, please,” said Harriet in desperation. “I have to use the toilet.”
“Use the pail.” The woman gestured towards the old tin pail Harriet had noticed against one wall.
“But I-” It was too late. The door swung shut behind the woman, and Harriet heard the locks click into place.
She’d cried then, big gulping snotty sobs that made her chest hurt and her throat ache. When the sobs began to subside, she realized there was nowhere to wipe her streaming eyes and nose except the tattered cover around her shoulders. Still hiccupping, she sniffed as hard as she could, then fastidiously blotted her nose with the edge of the blanket.
After a while, she gave in to hunger. The oatmeal had congealed into a cold and slimy mass, but she ate it anyway, then nibbled at what she thought were dried apricots.
Eventually, she used the pail, as well, because she had no choice, then pushed it into the very farthest corner of the room.
With her stomach filled, a terrible sleepiness came over her again. She fell upon the bed, curling herself once more beneath the blanket.
She woke sometime later, as suddenly as she had fallen asleep, and this time with perfect clarity. She knew instantly where she was, and how she had got there, although she still had no idea why.
The light had changed. The sun had moved away from the window, and as she had no other way of telling time, Harriet thought it must now be afternoon. She was hungry again, and beginning to feel thirsty.
Time passed. She gazed out of the window at the gray rooftops, and when she tired of that, she thumbed through the books in the bookcase. There were a few of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five adventures, an Arthur Ransome, a very tattered edition of Black Beauty, and a copy of Peter Pan. Had this been a child’s room, wondered Harriet, some long time ago?
The room had grown warm and stuffy as the afternoon lengthened. She thought about breaking out one of the windowpanes, but realized she’d have no protection from the air if it turned cold in the night. Nor was she sure what sort of retribution such an action would bring.
She realized that she was beginning to smell, as was the pail in the corner of the room. It occurred to her that she had never in her life been dirty or failed to have clean clothes. Trying to ignore her growing thirst, she settled against the wall with one of the Enid Blytons. Her mother was always nagging her about reading when she should be doing other things, but here there was nothing else to do. The thought of her mother made her throat ache again. Blinking, she stared resolutely at the page until the feeling eased.
It was only when she found herself squinting to make out the print that she realized the light was fading. She had put down the book when she heard the creak that signaled footsteps on the stairs. She waited, heart thumping, hoping it was her dad come to take her away.