Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

“What time did Beth – Elaine Holland – leave you on Thursday evening?”

“It wasn’t late. Before ten, I think.”

Was it possible, Kincaid wondered, that Elaine had left Tony’s flat, somehow lured Laura to the warehouse, killed her, then returned to Fanny’s in time to watch the ten o’clock news without a speck of blood on her? And what would she have done with Laura’s clothes? She had no car, and she couldn’t possibly have walked out of the search area in that time. Nor did that explain the fire.

“Why would she do such a thing?” Tony asked.

“I don’t think she did.” Maura leaned towards Tony as if inviting a confidence. “I think Laura found out what you meant to do. I think she left Harriet with the sitter and came to confront you. You argued. Things got out of control. Maybe you didn’t mean to kill her, but she was dead, and you had to dispose of the body. You took her to the warehouse, stripped her of any identification, then set the place alight. Then you drove out of London and dumped her clothes.”

Tony stared at her as if she’d gone utterly daft. “I live in Borough High Street, for God’s sake. How am I supposed to have carried Laura’s body out to my car without anyone noticing?”

“Wrapped in something, of course,” retorted Maura. “People carry rubbish out all the time, and no one thinks anything of it.”

“That’s bollocks, and you know it.” Tony had begun to let his temper show, and Kincaid had to give Maura credit for knowing how to wind up a suspect. Wearing a black leather coat and a bright blue sweater this morning, she looked tough and surprisingly sexy. He sat back, content to let her play bad cop for the moment.

“Okay,” she said, and smiled, but before Tony could relax, she dived at him again like a pecking gull. “Maybe Laura didn’t find you out, but you were afraid she would. Maybe you tried earlier on Thursday to get the passport, and a neighbor saw you. You knew it was only a matter of time before Laura heard you’d been in the house, and then she’d never let you get your hands on Harriet. So you lured her to the warehouse-”

“You think Laura would have agreed to meet me in a deserted building?” Tony shook his head in disgust. “You really are daft.”

“I didn’t say she agreed to meet you. I think you needed Elaine Holland’s help for more than one thing. You got Elaine to call Laura that night, pretending to be an abused woman who needed her help. You knew that was the one appeal she couldn’t resist.”

“No,” said Tony, but he was beginning to look frightened.

“That would explain why Laura left Harriet with the sitter – perhaps she thought she’d have to bring this distressed woman back to her own house.

“Of course you didn’t tell Elaine you meant to kill Laura,” continued Maura, her eyes alight with conviction. “She came to help you with Harriet on Friday morning, just as you’d agreed. Then, when she learned about the fire and the body, she realized what had happened. That’s why she took Harriet, to keep her safe from you.”

It was good, Kincaid admitted, inspired, even. But there was one problem with Bell’s scenario. He didn’t believe it.

There were too many gaps. It didn’t explain what Chloe Yarwood had been doing at the warehouse that night, or what had happened to her. It didn’t explain Elaine Holland’s strange and secretive behavior with Fanny, or how she could have managed to disappear with a ten-year-old child without leaving a trace. Why, if she had believed Tony guilty of murder, had she not come to the police?

Nor did it leave a place for Rose Kearny’s arsonist, unless that fire had not been part of the pattern – and yet it fit too well. After last night’s blaze, he was convinced that Rose was right and they were dealing with a serial arsonist.

And then there was Gemma. Kincaid had learned to trust Gemma’s instincts, and Gemma didn’t believe Tony Novak was a murderer.

Tony turned to Kincaid with a look of desperate appeal. “Tell her. Tell her it’s not true. I’d never have hurt Laura.”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Kincaid said with genuine sympathy. “We have to follow up every possibility. Our forensics 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.”