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Pitt returned to the house some time before twelve. He had seen Daisy briefly in the morning, but not Mrs Cromwell. After his fears of early discovery, Daisy had not emerged until almost nine o’clock. Pitt had been drinking coffee. It was symptomatic of their relationship that, while Daisy was extremely curious as to the whereabouts of Ju, she did not ask. Pitt was ready with a straightforward, deadpan lie, and so far had not had to use it.
Then he had gone to the small office in the outbuildings to call the bank; then out to the vineyard to see Jenkins. Having not thought of the need for a photograph for Ju, he had had to address the issue of finding a camera. He knew Daisy had one, but intended neither to ask nor search for it. Having not been able to think of a shop in the village that might sell one, he had gone straight to Tewkesbury. He had bought a small digital camera, not something that he had ever used. He had taken five minutes with the sales assistant to ensure that he understood the process, then he had made the short trip to the bank. The meeting with Arnold had not changed everything, but it had certainly given him new options.
Daisy and Mrs Cromwell were in the kitchen with a middle-aged police constable. She was sitting at the table with a cup of tea and a notebook in front of her. The radio, which she had attached above her bulletproof vest, was crackling quietly as Pitt entered.
Mrs Cromwell eyed Pitt with suspicion, Daisy audibly tutted.
‘You decided to come home then?’ she said.
Pitt glanced at the clock. On another day it would have been the signal for him to shut down all communicative function. PC Kilfoyle immediately had the relationship worked out.
‘Did you see Yuan Ju this morning?’ asked Daisy.
‘No,’ said Pitt, his back turned. He was at the kettle, turning on the gas, shaking the coffee beans into the grinder. Already he could see signs at the sink that spoke of Ju’s absence.
‘Did you usually see Yuan Ju in the morning?’ asked Kilfoyle, automatically recognising that Pitt was bound to dead bat anything his wife said.
Pitt turned round. His face was expressionless, as ever. Mrs Cromwell suspected him, but could read nothing in his eyes.
‘Of course,’ said Pitt. ‘She was always here from very early.’
Kilfoyle scribbled something in her notebook; the only sound was the gas burner and the low rumble of the kettle.
‘But not this morning?’
‘No.’
‘What time did you get up?’
Pitt had the bag of coffee beans in his hand. His fingers were still.
‘Four-thirty or thereabouts. Maybe a little later.’
He was new to lying, but he knew the basics. Keep everything as close to the truth as possible.
‘And you didn’t see Ju?’
‘No.’
‘Did you think that was odd?’
‘Yes.’
Kilfoyle scribbled. Mrs Cromwell glanced at the notebook, although, from where she was sitting, she could make nothing out.
‘Would you like to sit down, Mr Pitt?’ asked Kilfoyle.
Pitt laid the bag of beans behind him on the kitchen top. He had not sealed the bag properly, and as it toppled over, the top of the bag opened and a few beans spilled out. One of them fell to the floor.
Pitt sat down across the table from Kilfoyle. Usually he felt nothing for either Daisy or Mrs Cromwell; at that moment he was angry.
‘You didn’t mention to Mrs Pitt that it was odd you hadn’t seen Yuan Ju?’
‘No.’
Kilfoyle already knew there was no need to question this. She could imagine the atmosphere in the family home on a daily basis. She saw all sorts of human life, but often it was the tidy respectable homes where the relationships depressed her more than anywhere else.
‘Did you know that Mrs Cromwell had contacted the police to notify us of her suspicions regarding Yuan Ju?’
‘Daisy told me.’
He could not remember the last time her name had crossed his lips. It sounded strange.
‘Do you think there might be a connection between this and the fact that Yuan Ju appears to have left the house?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ said Pitt. ‘I never spoke to Yuan Ju.’
‘Have you any idea how she might have come to know that the authorities had been contacted?’
Pitt had thought the questions through already. Knew what to expect.
‘It was discussed openly in front of her. I don’t know if there was an assumption that she did not understand what was being said. Perhaps she did.’
Kilfoyle scribbled. She cast a glance at Daisy and Mrs Cromwell.
‘Was that an assumption that you made?’
Had he been a man to enjoy anything in relation to his wife or mother-in-law, Pitt might have taken some pleasure in that question. He knew that Mrs Cromwell had spoken openly in front of Ju to taunt her if she understood, to scorn her if she did not.
‘She’d never said a word,’ said Daisy. ‘Never batted an eyelid. She was like this... I don’t know what she was like.’
‘Cipher,’ said Mrs Cromwell abruptly. ‘She was a cipher. She just stood there. Things happened around her.’
‘She never did any work?’ asked Kilfoyle.
‘God, she was brilliant,’ said Daisy. ‘The food was a bit, you know, foreign. But she was neat, I’ll give her that.’
Kilfoyle wrote in her notebook. Pitt looked at the top of her head. The kettle rumbled close to boiling. Kilfoyle looked up, engaged Pitt again; a straight look in the eye.
‘Mrs Cromwell’s suspicions were aroused by the fact that Yuan Ju disappeared every Saturday evening, and from the nature of how she came to work for the household.’ She paused while she looked at her notes. ‘And from her general suspicious nature. Is there anything you can add to that? Anything else that might make you suspect that she was not legitimately in the country?’
Pitt held her gaze for a second. Answer everything quickly and as honestly as possible. Not too rushed, no long gaps. He read her eyes; she thought she was wasting her time. The call-out had been spurious to begin with, the evidence flimsy. Kilfoyle recognised that there was mischief-making taking place, and that, even if there had been some sort of case to be made against Ju, the likelihood was that she’d picked up on what they were planning to do and had left.
The kettle started to whistle; water splashing out from the lid spat onto the hot surface of the hob.
‘Nothing,’ said Pitt.
He got to his feet and walked to the hob, turned off the gas. Kilfoyle made a note. Daisy stared at the table, her head shaking marginally. Mrs Cromwell’s eyes followed Pitt. She imagined that her look tore into his back, tore through his spine, ripped him apart.
Pitt’s spine would forever remain intact, oblivious to Mrs Cromwell’s malicious glare.
Kilfoyle looked up, gazed at an indistinct point in the kitchen.
‘So, apart from contacting the agency, if it is an agency from whom you first employed Yuan Ju, you have no other ideas of where she might have gone? Did she have any friends? Was she friendly with anyone who worked at the vineyard? Any of the other staff?’
‘Never saw her speak to anyone,’ said Pitt. ‘Don’t even know if she spoke English.’
He was aware that he was talking about her as if she was dead, and while it troubled him to do that, it could only help. As far as the house was concerned, Ju was already gone.
Kilfoyle looked at the two women. Daisy shook her head. Mrs Cromwell stared out of the window.
Kilfoyle closed her notebook.
‘Right, I’ll get on to this number. You haven’t called it again?’
‘No,’ said Daisy. ‘Didn’t realise she’d gone until this morning. You were supposed to be here on Saturday.’
Kilfoyle disregarded the remark, pushed her chair back and rose to her feet.
‘Thank you for the tea,’ she said, although she hadn’t touched it.
She tapped her fingers against the notebook, and threaded the pen through the spiral binding. She looked at the two women, neither of whom engaged her; a final glance at Pitt, the only one in the room she had gauged to have had any honesty about him. Then she nodded, saw herself to the door and she was gone.
Pitt did not look at his wife. He made himself coffee, looking at the clock, calculating how long it would be before the men came in for their lunch. The calculation continued through Ju not being there and Daisy being unlikely to immediately step into the void.
‘I’ll call out for sandwiches,’ said Pitt.