When he pulled his car in front of the Bontempis’ impressive house, he felt that a kip wouldn’t go amiss, but instead he finished listening to the weather report, which was promising more of that which the country had been enduring for weeks. At least, he thought wryly, the railway hadn’t yet shut down. It was known to do so for any number of weather-related events including—memorably—an excess of autumn leaves on the tracks one year. But the trains were running nicely for now, albeit not exactly on time. And although the Circle Line was down for work on a section—but, really, when was the Circle Line not down for work on a section? he wondered—all the rest of the London Underground lines were operational as well.
He took a moment to ring his mother, who by now would have risen, made coffee, and begun to wonder why he hadn’t shown his face at her breakfast table. When she learned he’d spent the night at work, she wasn’t happy—“You are eating properly, are you, Jewel?” being her first question—but once he assured her that he’d have a hot lunch in place of the hot breakfast at home that he missed, she was happy. At that, he got out of the car into the morning air. It was still cool, and it smelled of lawn clippings from an adjacent property whose owner was either ignoring the hosepipe ban or somehow using dish or laundry water to keep the grass growing.
The pedestrian gate was off the latch, so he entered and went to the door. He carried with him the stack of images from the CCTV footage. He rang the bell and waited for a bit before he rang it again, twice this time. He heard footsteps on the entry floor, bolts being drawn back, and then he was face-to-face with Solange Bontempi, dressed neatly in a slim trouser suit, a conservative blouse buttoned to her throat. Her hair was neatly done as well, a bun from which no hair escaped, low on her neck.
Solange looked surprised to see him, but she seemed to realise what his visit could imply because she quickly said, “Detective. You have brought us news?”
“Got a few questions only, ’m afraid,” he replied. “C’n I come in?”
She held the door open. “Yes. Of course. I’m assembling a breakfast tray for Cesare. Is it Rosie you wish to see? Me? My husband? Come with me, please.”
Nkata followed her into the kitchen, where several packages wrapped in butcher’s paper sat on the worktop along with a bowl of fruit, a large wedge of cheese, and a basket of hard bread rolls. A quite small, strange-looking double-decker coffee pot sat on a burner of the stove. It was hissing and emitting steam, so he reckoned Solange was cooking up an espresso.
She pulled a tray from a nearby cupboard and said, “Cesare, he has never become English when it comes to his breakfast. Well, come to think, he has never become English in his eating at all.” She began to take some unidentifiable and presumably Italian meat from the butcher’s wrapping and she placed this on a plate along with a slice of extremely aromatic cheese that, to his surprise, caused Nkata’s mouth to water. She took a tin from inside the unlit oven, opened it, and removed what looked like a poppy seed cake. This she sliced, shot Nkata a glance, and sliced a second piece for him. Then came the bread—two rolls—both for Cesare. She raised an eyebrow at Nkata but he demurred. Once she had added fruit to the tray, she covered the entire thing with a tea towel and looked at the clock. “His carer is late,” she said. “Usually she comes at half-past six. I thought it was she at the door, having forgotten her key.” She turned off the heat beneath the strange coffee maker, but she left the pot where it was although she fetched a small jug and filled it with milk. She said, “He won’t use the milk but if I don’t include it, he will wonder why.” She sighed. “Men. Now tell me your questions.”
“You don’t want to take the tray . . . ?” He tilted his head the way they’d come, which would give her access to the stairs.
“It can wait a few minutes. He’s still asleep. Or he was when I left the room. What is it you wish to ask me?”
“When the last time was you talked to Teo.” He consulted his notebook to make sure of the details. “You said she came here three weeks past to visit her dad. Did you talk to her af’er that?”
Solange glanced at a calendar on the wall, hanging above a telephone. She said slowly, “Yes, but the answer is more difficult. I cannot be sure . . . I think ten days ago?” Solange explained that while Teo had made an effort to see her father once or twice each week since his stroke, there had been times when she couldn’t because of her work. But whether she was coming to Hampstead or not, she generally rang once a day. “We worried when we did not hear from her in the days that followed her last visit. There was only one phone call. And then we discovered why.”