“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 A to Z from the driver’s door pocket. “What about this child minder? She might be able to tell us something.” Redcross Way, she saw from the map, was very close, just the other side of Union Street.
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. Missy doesn’t want fish fingers for her supper, she wants beef burgers. Missy doesn’t want cornflakes for her breakfast, she wants frozen waffles. Does she think I can afford those on my pension?”
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?”
“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.”