“I’m not drinking al—”
I cock my head to one side; my eyes go to her drink.
“I’m fine,” she says. “But thank you.”
I nod. “No worries,” I say. “I’ll be over there if you change your mind.”
“I won’t,” she says with the kind of pursed-lipped smile that was trained into her by parents who cared about appearances.
I take my pint to a table at the other side of the bar and scroll through my phone for a while. Within half an hour I see her at the bar, ordering another drink. Her back is tight and narrow through her smart jacket. I can see the tips of her shoulder blades. I see that her shoes are old-fashioned and scuffed. She is not a Hampstead yummy mummy, far from it, but she is not bad-looking. Thirtyish. Well-spoken.
By 3 p.m. she is four vodkas down and unsteady on her feet. I see her check the time on her phone and head to the bar, where she orders herself a double espresso. She drinks it down in two gulps, gathers her dog, her bag, her coat, and leaves. I don’t follow her. I’ve got the size of her. She’s gone to collect a kid from school. She’ll eat mints or chew gum on the way. The mothers at the gate will talk about her. She’ll get home having probably picked up another coffee on the way and tell her husband, her partner, whoever, that she and the dog had a wonderful walk on the Heath. I can guarantee she’ll be back here tomorrow.
And so will I.
chapter six
Mr. Tucker? It’s Jane again, and Dexter. Can we just have another quick word?”
The door opens and Mr. Tucker appears beside the army jeep, his arms folded across his slight paunch, eyeing them dubiously. “Everything OK?” he asks.
“Well, yes and no. I’ve just had a phone call from the vet who treated Hugo and she tells me that Hugo had been staying at a local holiday rental with a young woman who has subsequently disappeared. I just wondered—I mean, I know you said you thought Hugo might have been stolen, but is it possible he was taken by someone you know?”
Jane watches the man’s face, and she sees it all pass in a flash: confusion, fear, anger, worry. But then his face resets into its original placid expression and he nods. “Weird,” he says, leaning back against the side of the jeep, his arms still folded across his belly. “Really weird.” One hand reaches up to his stubble and rubs it absent-mindedly. “No,” he says. “Definitely not.”
Jane’s gaze goes to a scooter with pink-and-silver tassels. Mr. Tucker’s follows it. “That was my stepdaughter’s,” he says. “She’s an adult now.”
Jane nods. “Her name is Rose apparently. The girl.”
“Don’t know anyone called Rose. But I think it sounds like we’ve found our dog-napper.”
“It does,” Jane agrees. “And I suppose, if the police are getting involved, they might be in touch with you? At some point?”
“Police?”
“Yes. My neighbor has reported her missing. The girl called Rose.”
There is a small twitch at the corner of the man’s mouth. “Right,” he says. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“I can let them have your details? If you want to follow up the dog theft?”
“No. Nah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Whatever. It’s probably my fault. Should have done a better job of keeping him indoors. Maybe that girl—Rose?—maybe she thought she was helping. Maybe she was rescuing him. He’s home now. That’s all that matters.”
He smiles but the smile is hard, almost rigid.
Slowly he unfolds his arms and pulls himself to standing. “Thanks for the update. Have a nice day.”
He turns and heads back into the house; the door closes behind him, but not before, for just a brief bolt of a moment, Jane sees the side profile of a middle-aged woman in the hallway, her eyes turned to them, something sad and blighted about her expression as the door closes again.
chapter seven
Jane and Dexter walk back to his apartment. The May afternoon is bold and bright, in stark contrast to the murky aura around Thornwood, and Jane feels a rush of city lust pass through her. Shannon, her dogsitter, said she could stay with the dogs overnight, and now Jane can feel the siren call of proper cocktails and pretty men, rooftops and fumes and dazzling shopwindows.
“Fancy dinner tonight?” she asks Dexter. “Somewhere snazzy?”
“Snazzy.” Dexter smiles. “You and your funny speak. But I can’t tonight. I’ve got a class.”
“What sort of class?”
