The Bontempis’ address took him to New End Square, an area of shaded pavements and wisteria-draped porches. There the Bontempi family had impressive digs: a red-brick mansion, which appeared to be the largest dwelling in the area. It sat behind a black wrought-iron fence. Between the fence and the house was a flourishing garden. The house stood three floors—five multipaned windows on each—and from its roof sprang a multitude of chimneys. It even had a single-storey extension built onto it, although why a house this large would need an extension was a mystery to him. One vehicle was parked in front of it, a Land Rover of recent vintage. He stowed his own Fiesta just behind it.
Once he’d climbed out, he made his way to the gate. Although both the fence and the gate were no more than four feet tall, the gate was nonetheless locked to discourage easy entry. He pressed the single button. It took more than one try. Finally, a woman said, “Yes? What is it?” in what sounded to Nkata like a boarding-school voice. He identified himself and the lock on the gate was released. He proceeded inside and headed in the direction of a massive cave of wisteria, which he assumed was overhanging a porch. It was. It grew in three directions from a substantial trunk that looked as if it had come from the Garden of Eden, at the spot where Adam and Eve were shown the door. It covered the porch, draped over every ground-floor window, and was climbing avidly towards the roof.
The door was opened before he had a chance to mount the steps. A tall and extremely attractive woman stood there, her hand on the knob. She looked close to his own age—which was twenty-seven—and she wore a white sundress tightly cinched at the waist and printed with sunflowers. The material provided a marked but pleasing contrast with her skin. Her feet were bare, he saw; her toenails bore red polish; her hair was straightened, and it fell to her jaw in a bob that well became her. As did her careful makeup and her jewellery. Both were understated. She looked put together by a professional stylist.
She said hesitantly, “New Scotland Yard?” She made no effort to hide her perusal of his lengthy facial scar. Perhaps it was that which made her look wary, he thought.
He produced his warrant card. She looked it over, then looked him over, then said, “How d’you say your surname?” as if it was a test of some sort.
“N-sound plus kahta,” he told her.
“African then.”
“My dad’s from Africa. My mum’s Jamaican.”
“You don’t sound either.”
“I was born here.”
“You’re really Metropolitan Police?”
“Tha’s how it is. I need to have a word with your parents.”
She turned with a bit of a swirl that showed off her frock as well as her legs. She disappeared into the house proper, but she left the door open, so he stepped inside. He stood in an entry with a glossy black oak floor. On this lay faded Persian rugs. There were antique tables, polished brass fittings, and landscape paintings framed in gold. As Barb Havers might have put it, the Bontempis weren’t exactly hurting for it.
The young woman returned. She was carrying a large bottle of San Pellegrino and four glasses on a tray. She said, “They’re coming. It’s just this way,” and she took him into a sitting room, which looked like something out of a home decorating magazine: overstuffed sofas, overstuffed armchairs, upholstery printed with flowers and vines, shining mahogany tables, a curio cabinet holding a strange collection of small porcelain figurines of women cut off at the waist. He couldn’t imagine what their use was or had been.
The young woman said, “I’m Rosalba, by the way. Rosie, that is. Have you come about Teo? I’m her sister.”
Nkata turned away from the curio cabinet, saying, “Right. Yeah.”
“Pellegrino?” she asked, holding forth the bottle.
“Sounds good. Ta.” And then because he was dead curious about how a family such as hers had ended up in a place such as this, “C’n I ask? What’s your parents’ occupation?”
“What a terribly rude question.”
“Yeah. Sorry. It is. I was jus’ wonderin’。”
She frowned but said, “My father has a veterinary hospital near Reading. It’s like a regular hospital? Twenty-four hours a day, I mean, with specialists, operating theatres, and all of that? Mum’s a private pilot.” Rosie rolled her eyes. “She flies the bored wives of big-money executives to buy their shoes in Florence and have lunch in Paris.”
“Don’t be judgmental, Rosie.” The woman’s voice came from the same direction Rosie had come with the water and the glasses. She spoke with an accent that sounded French. Nkata swung around. He was quite surprised. Rosie’s mother was, he saw, as white as a white person could get, her skin a stark contrast to her black, pinstriped suit. She would have done Dee Harriman proud, he thought: slim trousers, crisp white shirt with the collar turned up to frame her face, jacket cut to fit her perfectly, flat shoes with gold buckles. Her jewellery was also gold, and he reckoned it was the real stuff: rings, earrings, and a chain with a pendant that he couldn’t make out. She said to him, “I’m Solange Bontempi. Rosie says you’ve come about our Teo.”