But the woman came in alone, with a tray, as she had that morning. This time it held some biscuits, more of the dried fruit, and what looked like some sort of tinned meat. There was also, Harriet saw to her relief, a glass of water.
“Where’s my dad?” she said, straightening her stiff legs as she pushed herself up against the wall.
“He’s been… delayed. Maybe he’s forgotten about you.”
This was a mistake on the woman’s part, because if Harriet knew one thing, it was that her dad would not forget about her. Fear struck through her, worse than anything she’d felt before. Had something happened to her dad? Something that had kept him from coming for her?
She thought about trying to bolt through the door, but the woman seemed to read her mind. “I wouldn’t try it,” she said, with the smile Harriet had seen earlier. “The front door locks from the inside and I have the key. There is no phone. And I’d have to drag you back up.” Her tone made it clear that Harriet would not want her to do that. She smiled again and went out, locking the door behind her.
As the footsteps faded, Harriet fell on the food, devouring the stale biscuits and the disgusting tinned meat. Even the water tasted stale and flat, as if it had been stored for some time. She drank a little of it, then realized she’d better save as much as she could – and that the more she drank, the sooner she’d have to use the pail again.
While she’d finished her brief meal, the room had grown dimmer. Harriet had already noticed that there were no lamps. Now she realized there was no ceiling fixture, either. Trying to quell her rising panic, she searched along the walls, moving furniture when she could. When she’d completed the circle, she did it once more, then went back to the bed and sat. There were no electrical outlets in the room, no paraffin lamps or candles, not even a match. There would be no light.
She lay down and closed her eyes, but the darkness seemed to press on her eyelids. When the panic threatened to choke her, she got up and fumbled her way to the door, kicking at it and shouting until she’d worn herself out, but the house was silent as a tomb.
Crawling back to the safety of the bed, she stared into the encroaching gloom. After a while, she began to realize that it had not got any darker. She could see her hand, when she held it in front of her face, and the window stood out as a silvery rectangle. It was the reflected light of the city, and it gave her a strange comfort to think that there were people outside this house, moving and laughing and talking, eating and drinking. She was not entirely alone.
12
“Look here. Upon my soul you mustn’t come into the place saying you want to know, you know.”
CHARLES DICKENS
Little Dorrit
THE RAIN THAT had threatened all day on Saturday passed through in the night, but it did not clear the air. Kincaid woke to an overcast sky, and when he walked out onto the small balcony off their bedroom, the pavements shone greasily with damp. The air felt pregnant with moisture.
Leaving Gemma sleeping, he’d slipped out of bed and quietly bathed and dressed, but when he came in from his perusal of the weather, she sat up and blinked at him sleepily.
“Is it nice?” she asked, yawning.
“No, not very. Rather damp and looming.” He sat on the edge of the bed.
“Will it be all right for the boys?” They had arranged for Wesley to take the boys to the park that morning, and then to his mother’s house for a meal. It would be a family gathering, filled with chatter and music and West Indian food, and Kincaid had convinced himself the outing would provide the most distraction for Kit.
“Should be, unless it pours buckets. You know boys are oblivious to the finer nuances. Should we try to slip out without waking them?” He knew that Toby had crept into Kit’s room last night, and he’d heard them still up, talking and giggling, when he went to bed.
“Too late.” Gemma sat up and pushed the hair from her face. “Can’t you smell the bacon? When Kit was cataloging his choice of professions for Erika yesterday, I wonder that he forgot executive chef.”
Like any teenager, Kit had to be dragged from bed on school mornings, but on weekends he was often up early, pottering about in the kitchen. He’d confided once to Kincaid that he used to make breakfast for his mother, but had made Kincaid promise to keep the information to himself.
Gemma would be touched if she knew, Kincaid thought. She walked a fine line between trying to be a mum to Kit and not making him feel as if she meant to replace his mother. He didn’t envy her the job – in a way, his own was made easier by the fact that Ian had let Kit down so badly.
“Go on,” said Gemma, giving him a gentle shove. “I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed. I want to get away as soon as possible.”
A night’s sleep had obviously not changed Gemma’s mind about accompanying him to Laura Novak’s, and in spite of the procedural difficulties, Kincaid realized that he was pleased at the prospect of having her with him.
The terraced row of houses looked Georgian in its foursquare simplicity, its only ornamentation the scrollwork arches above the glossy black front doors and the white shutters framing the ground-floor windows. Although not obviously ostentatious, Laura Novak’s Park Street address spoke of financial comfort. In London, location was everything, and this house had it all – no more than two or three minutes’ walk from the river in one direction and Borough Market in the other, and another minute or two past Borough Market would bring you to London Bridge Station. It was also, Kincaid mused, a mere hop and a skip from Michael Yarwood’s Southwark Street warehouse.
“It’s very close, isn’t it?” Gemma said uneasily, echoing his thoughts as they got out of the car.
Locating the number Kath had given him, he looked up at the house. Although the day was already warm and many of the other flats had windows cracked open, Laura Novak’s were sealed and her curtains drawn. The flowers in the window boxes looked parched and wilted, in spite of the brief shower in the night.
Kincaid rang the bell and they waited, listening, but there was no answer.
“Could she be hiding from Tony?” whispered Gemma.
“Bloody suffocated if she is. Let’s give the neighbors a try.” He nodded to the right.
This time their ring was followed by the quick tapping of heels, and the door was flung open by a small Asian woman. “Jamie, how many times have I told you-” She stopped, staring at them in surprise. “Sorry, I thought you were my son. He’s always forgetting his keys. Can I help you?”
Producing his warrant card, Kincaid introduced himself and Gemma. “We wondered if we might talk to you about your next-door neighbor, Laura Novak.”
“Why?” she answered with a frown of concern. “Is Laura in some kind of trouble?”
“We’re just making a welfare check at this point. She hasn’t been seen for a couple of days.”
“Would you like to come in? Oh, I’m Monica – Monica Karimgee, by the way.” She led them down a hallway and into a bright kitchen at the back of the house. The room smelled of coffee and cinnamon buns, and the pages of the Guardian were spread across a small oak table.
“Sorry to disturb your peaceful Sunday morning,” said Gemma, with the genuine warmth that made her so effective in interviews.
Monica Karimgee smiled and gestured at the table. “It’s my vice, reading the Sunday paper from cover to cover, and I always make an effort to get my husband and son out of the house. I tell them I’m encouraging father-son bonding, but my motives are really more selfish.” She was a pretty woman in her forties, a little plump, her glossy dark hair lightly threaded with gray. “Would you like some coffee? I’ve just made a pot.”
“Yes, please. It smells wonderful,” answered Gemma, and Kincaid concurred. Sitting where she indicated at the table, he examined their surroundings as Mrs. Karimgee fetched mugs from a cabinet. The coffee machine was German and looked as though it required programming by a computer; the rest of the kitchen was German and high-tech as well. Kincaid glanced at Gemma for signs of envy, but she looked merely comfortable and interested.