She’d introduced herself to both Simisola and Tani, offering each of them a handshake. She’d done the same to Sophie. Then she ushered both Bankoles to her car, Simisola hanging on her brother’s hand, Tani scowling at the disruption to his plans, whatever they actually were.
They’d made a stop at the nearest A and E. Deborah wanted the boy to be looked at. She feared a concussion, and when he was taken to be examined, she bought fizzy drinks for all of them, and she waited with Simisola in a sitting area. Engaging the little girl in conversation was a mammoth task, she found. It was only later, when Simisola met Peach, that she even smiled.
The little girl was fine, then. Tani had no concussion, there was a dog to play with, there was also a supercilious cat who might thaw out in the presence of an eight-year-old, and everything began to look up until Tani announced that he had to leave.
Simisola became tearful, saying to him, “No, no! Where are you going?”
To which he said, “Just over Sophie’s, Squeak. I got to check on Mum. I got to try to get her away from there. An’ I got to get our passports ’s well, especially yours. Tha’s real important now. But I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll stay with Del’s family tonight. It’s closer to home. I can be in and out in the morning and back here faster tha’ way.”
Still, Simisola had not wanted him to go. Neither had anyone else. Simon had said to Tani that this was surely something for the police to handle. But when Tani was insistent, Deborah’s father took Tani’s mobile and entered a number into it and said sternly that Tani was to push the send button the moment anything serious happened. “Give us the address,” Simon had added, and Cotter told the boy, “We’ll ring the coppers then. An’ you don’t be shy about using it, eh? And don’t start thinkin’ you c’n handle things you aren’t meant to handle. You un’erstand?” So Tani had left them with multiple promises, and Deborah only hoped he would keep them.
The bedroom door opened at last. Simisola stuck her head out. She saw Peach and she sucked in on her lower lip, revealing the little gap between her front teeth. Peach saw her and began to tail-wag. Deborah rose from the step she was sitting on.
She said to Simisola, “Peach was insistent. She would not remain below stairs. I went down and she started looking for you and . . . here we are. You’ll have to pat her on the head or something very like because otherwise, she’ll become intolerable. Would you be willing to pat her head a bit?”
“Oh, I would,” Simisola replied, and knelt on the floor to do just that.
STRATFORD
GREATER LONDON
“The St. Jameses have her,” Lynley said. “Apparently Deborah was at Orchid House when the girl was brought in. I saw her late yesterday afternoon. So if she was taken to Orchid House and from there to Deborah, we must assume the worst about what both of her parents’ intentions are until we have more clarity. She’s certainly not out of danger.”
Nkata replied with, “Far as Missus Bankole’s concerned, then, I got no idea where Simisola is. She’s dead worried, though, guv. ’Bout both the kids.”
“I expect she is, Winston. But as long as she’s even entertaining the thought of FGM for the girl, that’s how it has to be.”
“C’n I tell her she’s safe, at least? Away from her dad?”
Lynley glanced at him. There would always be some kind of line between them, a divide born of who they were and what comprised their individual histories as well as their shared history as colleagues. So he said, “I’ll leave that to your judgement, Winston. Use the information in whatever way you decide is best for everyone.”
Nkata nodded. “Ta, guv.”
They were heading to speak with Mercy Hart. She lived in Rokeby Street in a nondescript terrace of red-brick-fronted houses with composite roofs manufactured to look like rows of tiles. In front of Mercy Hart’s home, a low brick wall defined the property, behind which grew a box hedge in need of trimming. This squared off a patio area where a visible layer of grime and dust lay upon a child’s plastic tricycle and a small red chair. These were the only objects on the patio save for a plethora of cigarette dog ends, some of which had been strewn about and some of which were stuffed in a tin, once the home of Heinz baked beans.
A small glassed-in porch had at some time been added to the front of the house, and it looked freshly painted white. They found that its door was unlocked, so they went in, bypassing four pairs of Wellington boots and a wrought-iron stand for holding umbrellas. Lynley knocked on the front door and then, when no one appeared, he rang the bell. This brought a young woman to open it. She was quite attractive, with dozens of braids—shot through with burnt orange—hanging to below her shoulder blades. She was wearing casually-ripped-at-the-knee jeans and a green tank top. She wore two pairs of silver earrings on each ear, a silver ring in one of her nostrils, and she was carrying a toddler on her hip.