“We’ll talk to Yarwood again today, see if we can get some answers,” he said. “But first, we need to find Tony Novak. I’ve just spoken to Laura Novak’s neighbor. She says she hasn’t seen mother or daughter since sometime last week, but that she glimpsed Tony’s car outside the house on Friday morning.”
“I checked with the hospital,” said Bell. “Tony Novak didn’t show up for his scheduled shift on Friday morning, and neither did his ex-wife. But I don’t understand why you’re wasting time on what sounds a simple domestic when we’ve proof Chloe Yarwood was at the scene.”
Kincaid locked eyes with her. “I’m not discounting anything – or anyone – until we get the results of those DNA samples. That includes Laura Novak, Elaine Holland, and my aunt Martha if she happens to turn up missing between now and then. Is that clear?”
“Sorry, guv,” Bell said after a moment, dropping her gaze. The capitulation was so unexpected that Kincaid wondered if Cullen had had a word with her. “Will we be needing a warrant for Laura Novak’s house?”
“Get it in process. In the meantime, I’m going to try Novak’s flat again.”
“I’ve sent a constable round twice with no luck,” Bell protested. “What makes you think you’ll do any better? Didn’t you say he ran away from you at the shelter?” Bell’s efforts at concurrence obviously hadn’t lasted long.
“Then we’ll get a bloody warrant for his place as-”
“Guv,” broke in Cullen quietly, “Station Officer Farrell’s here, and I’d swear he’s smiling.”
Looking up, Kincaid saw Farrell coming down the corridor. While he wasn’t sure he’d go so far as to call it a smile, the fire investigator’s long face bore an expression of cautious enthusiasm.
“Got something for us, Bill?” he asked.
“Possible murder weapon,” said Farrell as he joined them. “Charred fragment of a two-by-four, buried under debris. Your classic blunt instrument. Luminol brought up a bloodstain on the underside, which was somewhat protected from the fire. The lab will check the blood against the victim’s.”
“The way this case is going, we may find one of the workmen cut his thumb,” Kincaid murmured, but he was pleased to have something concrete to go on.
This time Farrell did actually smile. “If that’s not good enough for you, we found several partial prints on the board as well, one in the blood. If you come up with a suspect, we may be able to place him at the scene. Or if you’re really lucky, the guy has a record and the database will give you a name.”
Kincaid thought suddenly of Rose Kearny’s suspected serial arsonist. Arsonists often began with petty crimes. If the man existed, he might well have a record. Patting his jacket pocket, he found to his relief that he still had the papers. “Do you remember the firefighter who came to the scene?” he asked, handing Farrell Rose’s list and map.
“The young woman?”
“I ran into her yesterday. She’s convinced that some of the fires that have occurred in Southwark the past few months form a pattern. I said I’d ask you to ring her – her mobile number’s on the sheet.”
Cullen grinned. “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a nutter, boss, but at least she’s good-looking.” This earned him a disgusted glance from Bell and a scowl from Kincaid.
Farrell, on the other hand, after an initial look of skepticism, was scanning the papers with interest. “Why didn’t she take this to her guv’nor?” he asked.
“She was off duty yesterday. Said she didn’t want to wait until her tour began this morning. And I think her guv’nor warned her off pursuing it.”
“So would I, in his place, and I’d recommend her for a stress debriefing,” said Farrell, folding the papers. “But as I’m not her boss, and it looks as though she might have come up with something interesting, I’ll give her a ring.”
Realizing there was still something in his pocket, Kincaid fished out the photo Gemma had given him the previous evening and handed it to Bell. “Elaine Holland. From her hospital file. Can you get it into the system?”
“How did you-” she began, but Kincaid was saved by the ringing of his phone.
Gemma had parked across from the primary school and, having escaped from Mrs. Bletchley, sat for a moment in the car, trying to make sense of what she’d learned. She stared at the school’s bright blue iron fencing and low brick buildings, picturing a ten-year-old girl, her curly dark hair pulled back with an elastic, wearing jeans and trainers and carrying the inevitable backpack, getting into a dark green car.
Had Harriet been loitering deliberately by the gate, waiting by some prearranged plan? Or had she been surprised to see her dad when the car had pulled up beside her?
But if Tony Novak had picked up Harriet, why had he accused Laura of taking her? Could he have left Harriet at Park Street when Monica Karimgee had seen his car there, and then Harriet had later been taken somewhere by her mother?
Or could the green car have been mere coincidence? What if Harriet had not been picked up by her father at all? For all Gemma knew, Laura Novak had hired a green car and fetched Harriet herself, or it might have been a stranger who had enticed Harriet away. The thought made her blood run cold.
Realizing she wasn’t going to get any further without more information, Gemma pulled out her mobile phone and rang Kincaid.
When he answered, she gave him a condensed report of her conversation with Mrs. Bletchley, adding, “Laura Novak must be daft, to leave her child with that woman. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d buried Harriet in the garden, except she hasn’t got one.”
“Gemma, did you say Laura Novak told the child minder that she had to work on Thursday night?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because we’ve been in touch with the hospital. Laura was scheduled to work Friday during the day, but she didn’t show up or call. Nor did Tony Novak.”
“Laura lied to Mrs. Bletchley?”
“So it would seem.”
Gemma felt more confused than ever. Lying seemed out of character for a woman so devoted to her principles that she refused to drive a car. Why would Laura Novak have done such a thing? And where was she now?
“Tony Novak didn’t show up, either?” she repeated. “We have to talk to him.”
“Hang on a sec,” said Kincaid. Gemma heard the murmur of background conversation, then he came back on the line. “Here’s the address. I’ll meet you there. But, Gemma, don’t go in without me. He could be dangerous.”
Gemma parked the car in front of Guy’s Hospital, as she had the previous day, and walked round the corner into Borough High Street. As she looked for the address Kincaid had given her, she passed the George, the last of the ancient galleried inns of Southwark. The Tabard and the Queen’s Head had long since disappeared, but the George, with only one of its galleries intact, had not only survived but did a booming business.
Tony Novak had certainly gone for convenience, she thought as she found the address a bit farther along. It was a block of flats over a shop front, not particularly inviting, but merely a stone’s throw from Guy’s Hospital.
She was about to push the entrance buzzer when a parting of the pedestrian traffic revealed a man sitting on the curb, a few yards farther along. He was hunched over, his head cradled in his hands, his feet in the gutter. People were giving him a wide berth, as they usually did the drunk or the homeless, although you seldom saw either sitting half in the street, and the man looked ill as well as unkempt.
Although the distraction was unwelcome, Gemma couldn’t pass by without attempting to help.
She smelled the sour stench of alcohol before she reached him and felt a bit more sympathy for those who hadn’t bothered to stop. From a few feet away, she said, “Excuse me, sir. Are you all right?”
When he didn’t respond, she crouched down and looked at him more closely. He was dark-haired and tall – that much was apparent even in his present position – and slender. His clothes, although rumpled, seemed clean and of good quality, and on his wrist, bared where his shirt cuff had fallen back, was an expensive-looking watch. The man was no vagrant, and Gemma had a sudden flash of intuition. If she was wrong, she had nothing to lose.