Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

Rose felt a flush of excitement, quickly dampened by the wary looks on both men’s faces. She’d left her bloody mobile in her locker. She’d have to retrieve it, then hope she could snatch some privacy to ring Farrell back. “Bloody nuisance,” she said, thinking quickly. She made a face. “I’ve already told him everything I-”

The bells went with a deafening clamor, and the men turned away, running for their gear. After an instant’s hesitation, Rose followed, feeling more alone than she had since her first day at Southwark station.

HARRIET WOKE AS the room began almost imperceptibly to lighten. She lay in the narrow bed, watching as the shadows gradually took on familiar shapes, and as the square of window grew from a slightly lighter black, to pearly rose, to a dull gray. It was funny, she’d never realized how long it took for night to become day, and vice versa, because she was always doing other things.

When she could see well enough, she climbed out of bed and used the pail. Then she stood at the window, her face pressed to the murky glass. She heard church bells, faintly, and then the whoop of a fire engine’s siren. Were they coming for her? But the sound grew fainter until at last she heard only the echo in her mind.

After a bit, as the light grew stronger, she began to prowl the room, reexamining every nook and cranny, as if something different might have materialized in the night.

She was now more certain than ever that the room had once belonged to a child. There was the small bed, with its odor of old and secret accidents. There was the wooden stool, which she found, on closer inspection, bore the faint remnants of a painted design. In one of the drawers of the chest beneath the window, she discovered a chipped wooden horse and a yellowed deck of playing cards.

And of course there were the books, all worn and fragile, as if the pages had been turned again and again, as she had turned them the past two days. It was in Peter Pan, on the blank page before the back cover, that she found the writing. Tiny and cramped, done with a dull pencil, each line the exact repetition of the next.

I promise I will be good.

The words made Harriet feel sad and frightened, but nothing frightened her as much as the scratches around the keyhole of the door. What had happened to the child who tried to get out of this place?

She curled up under the worn blanket, even though the room was warm and stuffy, clutching the copy of Peter Pan to her chest. Her stomach was beginning to ache with hunger, as if something were gnawing it from the inside. It was getting late, she could tell that by the light, and the lady hadn’t brought her any breakfast.

Where was her dad? Why would he have left her here in this house, with this strange woman? Why had he picked her up from school, especially when it wasn’t his weekend? She screwed her face up in concentration, trying to sort out the fuzziness in her mind.

She remembered that her dad had said it was a treat, and that he’d looked a little odd, nervous and excited, his long fingers tapping on the steering wheel. She remembered that the woman had turned and smiled at her, and that her dad had told her the woman’s name, but she couldn’t remember what he’d said. It was as if there were a blank space in her brain where the memory should be, all mixed up with the Starbucks and hot cocoa.

Had the woman put something in her drink that made it hard for her to remember? Things only came back to her in a nauseating jumble of images that reminded her of the kaleidoscope her father had given her one Christmas.

Suddenly, Mrs. Bletchley’s face came into focus, creased in a suspicious scowl. Mrs. Bletchley had been watching, from the cottage yard, and Harriet had wondered if the old cow would tell her mother that her dad had picked her up from school. Her mum would be bloody furious.

The thought made her stomach churn. Would her mother keep her from seeing her dad ever again? A little whimper of distress escaped her and she pressed her hand to her mouth. She loved her dad, but she hated it when her mother was upset. Her mum was always feeling sorry for people, except for her dad, and everything he did made her angry. He tried, he really did, but somehow everything always seemed to go wrong.

She felt a longing for her dad then, so fierce that her throat tightened on a sob. She wanted them all to be home, in their own house, together. When she was very small, it had been different. Her parents had laughed, and her mother had sung to her when she’d tucked her into bed at night.

Was it something she’d done that had made things change?

Harriet pulled the blanket tighter, and after a while she dozed again, but it was a fitful and feverish sleep. She woke suddenly, sweating, and then she realized she’d heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs.

She sat up, her heart thumping in panic. She had to get out. There must be a way, if she could just think how, if she were just clever enough. Maybe if she could distract the woman, she could make a dash for the door. Maybe the lady had been lying when she’d said only she could open the front door. Maybe there really was a phone, or maybe there was someone else in the house who would help her.

Harriet knew she had to make an attempt – she couldn’t bear to be shut alone in this room another minute.

When the door opened, she stood and tried to smile.

As she waited in the second interview room, Maura Bell wasn’t sure if she was flattered or insulted that Kincaid had chosen her to join him in talking to Yarwood’s ex-wife. Not that she liked to admit that his decision mattered to her – yet as infuriating as she found his easy authority, there was a small part of her that wanted his approval.

Nor did she want to admit that she’d been hoping for a few minutes alone with Doug Cullen. She was beginning to think she’d imagined the chemistry between them on Friday night, and she felt a fool. Seeing the obvious camaraderie between Doug and Gemma James hadn’t improved her mood one bit, and she frowned as she thought of them searching Laura Novak’s house together. It was bad enough that Kincaid had brought James into the investigation without so much as a by-your-leave-

The opening of the interview room door interrupted her uncharitable thoughts. Kincaid ushered in a small woman in a lilac trouser suit, saying, “Mrs. Teasdale, this is Detective Inspector Bell.”

Mrs. Teasdale offered her small, cool hand, leaving no doubt that she’d been a well-trained politician’s wife, and Maura saw that her perfectly manicured nails matched her suit. Maura guessed her to be in her very well-preserved midforties, but not even the flawless makeup and carefully styled strawberry-blond hair could hide the lines of stress round her eyes and mouth.

“I’ve come about me daughter,” she said as she took the chair Kincaid held out for her, and the high voice and unaltered working-class accent caught Maura by surprise. “My Chloe. I want to know if you’ve found her – if you’ve found… anything? Mick says-” She stopped, clutching at the handbag she held in her lap. “He says you’re certain it was her, going into the warehouse.” Her eyes, pale beneath her mascaraed lashes, darted from Kincaid to Maura.

“Both your husband – ex-husband – and Chloe’s flatmate have identified her from the CCTV photo as going into the warehouse, yes,” Kincaid answered. “But we’re not sure of anything more at this point. There are tests-”