When You Are Mine(67)

There is another long pause.

‘Get a court date. I’ll see what I can do.’

I hang up as the doorbell sounds. Mrs Ainsley is on the steps, holding a dog leash, but no dog.

‘Sorry, dear, but have you seen Blaine?’

She’s still wearing her slippers and pyjama bottoms under a knee-length padded jacket.

‘I let him out into the garden last night, but he didn’t come back. I must have left the gate unlocked, but I never do. I’m very careful.’

She’s talking about the side gate where she keeps her rubbish bins.

‘I’ve looked everywhere. Have you seen him?’

‘No. Normally, I hear him barking.’

‘Does he bark?’

Only all the time.

There is a tremor in her voice and I can see the worry etched across her forehead.

‘I was wondering if I should call the police?’ she asks.

‘They don’t look for missing dogs.’

‘What if he’s been dog-napped. People do that, you know. They steal dogs to use them in dog-fights.’

‘Blaine wouldn’t be much of a fighter.’ More like an entrée.

‘I’ll put on my trainers and help you look,’ I say. ‘You should get changed.’

She looks down at her clothing and reacts with surprise.

Five minutes later, I meet her outside on the footpath and we walk as far as the dog park and the supermarket – the usual places she takes Blaine. We also visit the Golden Pie on Lavender Hill because Blaine is partial to a chunky beef pie as a weekend treat.

Mrs Ainsley talks constantly, veering wildly between various conspiracy theories that could explain Blaine’s disappearance.

‘I never leave the gate open. I was only saying that last night to your friend.’

‘What friend?’

‘The pretty one with the Irish accent.’

‘Tempe?’

‘That’s her.’

‘What did she want?’

‘She told me you were at the hospital with your father. She needed to drop something off.’

‘What time was this?’

The old woman purses her lips. ‘In the evening. She interrupted Vera. I do like police shows. That Brenda Blethyn looks like a bag lady, which is why everybody underestimates her.’

Tempe didn’t mention dropping anything off.

‘Are you all right to get home?’ I ask. ‘I’m going to visit Tempe and ask her if she’s seen Blaine.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ says Mrs Ainsley.

‘And when I get back, I’ll print out a flyer. We’ll put it on lampposts and in shop windows. You look for a photograph.’

‘Oh, I have so many. There’s a nice one of him wearing his tartan winter jacket … but maybe one of him in the garden.’

I interrupt her and leave her on the corner. She looks incomplete without her Jack Russell, like she has lost her shadow on a sunny day.

As I near Tempe’s flat, I feel myself growing more annoyed. I’m tired of making excuses for her and giving her the benefit of the doubt. She has fabricated stories and embellished the truth and kept secrets from me. She has invaded my home and created tensions where none existed before.

Her front door has been freshly repainted. I press the intercom. Nobody answers. I call her number. It goes to her voicemail. I’m about to leave a message when she unlocks the door. Tempe steps out onto the landing.

‘I’m sorry,’ she yawns. ‘I was still in bed. I had a terrible night’s sleep. I was worried about you. How is your dad?’

‘He goes into surgery at ten.’ I check the time. ‘You dropped by the house last night.’

‘Huh?’

‘Mrs Ainsley saw you.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’

There is a long pause, the smile forgotten on her face. She is barefoot, still in her pyjamas. Her toenails are painted pink.

‘What were you doing … at the house?’ I ask.

‘I returned your blue blazer … the one I borrowed. I had it dry cleaned.’

‘You could have given it to me any time.’

‘I thought you might need it. Is something wrong?’

‘Henry doesn’t want you letting yourself into the house.’

‘Oh.’

‘He doesn’t like you being there when we’re not home.’

‘And how do you feel?’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t come around any more,’ I say. ‘I appreciate all the wedding stuff, but I can pick up my own dry cleaning and get a dishwasher repaired.’

‘If that’s how you want things,’ she says, with no hint of antipathy. She does that sometimes – her face swathed in blankness and I can’t guess what’s going on behind her eyes.

‘Do you still have the keys? I’ll need them back.’

‘Oh. Sure.’

She turns on the landing and goes into her flat. When I fail to follow her, she returns.

‘Are you coming in? I’ll make you a coffee.’

This is her olive branch. Either I grasp it, or things could be difficult for the wedding, which is only three weeks away. She has the names, the numbers, the details. I wouldn’t know where to start.