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-”

She shook her head, cutting him off as if refusing to contemplate it. “He’s keeping something from me. He’s in some kind of trouble, and if he’s hurt Chloe-” As she clenched her hands, her nails scored the soft leather of her handbag.

Kincaid hesitated, as if trying to decide which point to address first, but before Maura could speak he said, “Why do you think he’s in trouble, Mrs. Teasdale?”

“He told me he wants to sell the house. He says he’s found a buyer.”

Maura frowned. “I’m not sure I under-”

“It’s a listed building. Just round the corner from the Tate. I’ve been trying to get him to sell it for years, even before the divorce, but he wouldn’t have it. Oh, no, he said, it was only fitting that the member of Parliament for the Borough should show respect for the old places.” Venom had crept into her voice. “Never mind that it was built for pygmies and the plumbing only works when it’s in the mood. Never mind that it’s worth a small fortune these days, and Trev – that’s my husband, Trevor – Trev and me could use the cash for our business.” She leaned forward and tapped a nail on the table with a brittle sound that made Maura’s teeth hurt. “I’m telling you,” Michael Yarwood’s former wife went on, “he’s into something, and he’s got our Chloe mixed up in it somehow. He’s gone out, and he wouldn’t tell me where he was going.”

Was the woman more interested in snitching on her husband than in finding her daughter? wondered Maura. Had she not understood that Chloe might be dead? She’d taken a breath to speak when Kincaid fixed Mrs. Teasdale with a sympathetic smile.

“Mrs. Teasdale – it’s Shirley, isn’t it?” he asked. When Mrs. Teasdale nodded, he went on. “Did you ever know your husband to have a problem with gambling?”

She stared at him as if he were daft. “Michael? Gambling? He was brought up Chapel – he can hardly bring himself to have a drink.”

“Then what sort of trouble do you think he might be in?” asked Maura, trying to emulate Kincaid’s tone.

Shirley Teasdale seemed to sag in her chair, her momentary umbrage forgotten. “I don’t know. He won’t talk to me, but I know him – I know he’s keeping something back. He’s never forgiven me for Trev, but this is our daughter. He keeps saying she must be all right, but… she’d have rung me, wouldn’t she?” The look she gave them was pleading. “I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t have rung me.”

“I’m sure Chloe must confide in you, about her life, boyfriends, things like that,” Kincaid said. “Do you know anything about the man she was with in the video, Nigel Trevelyan?”

Shirley hesitated, and it seemed to Maura that even the crisp lilac suit lost a little starch. “You have to understand. Chloe likes to tease her dad with things. I think… I think she likes knowing she can make him angry. It’s like waving a red flag under the nose of a bull. She said…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She said if her dad knew about Nigel, he’d kill him. But it’s not Nigel that’s dead, is it?”