Five jails, or prisons, are in Southwark placed, The Counter once St. Margaret’s Church defaced, The Marshalsea, the King’s Bench, and White Lyon, Then there’s the Clink where handsome lodgings be.
JOHN TAYLOR, 1630
ROSE HAD DRAWN kitchen duty for that night’s watch, her least favorite chore. Growing up, she’d not had any interest in cooking, while her mother had enjoyed it and had been content to let her help her dad with his projects rather than insisting she do her share in the kitchen.
But cooking, she quickly discovered, was an essential skill in the fire service, and she’d set out with her usual diligence to become competent. Now, at least the other members of the watch didn’t roll their eyes and suggest Chinese takeaway when it was her turn to prepare meals.
She’d come in a half hour early, hoping to have a word with Station Officer Wilcox before the tour of duty began. It would be better if he heard about her visit to the fire scene from her rather than the FIT.
But Wilcox hadn’t yet come in, so she decided to get the dinner ready to go in the oven before roll call. That way she had more chance of getting the meal finished if they had a busy night, and it would give her something to do while she kept an eye out for Wilcox. Using a mallet, she pounded chicken breast halves into an even thickness before coating them in seasoned bread crumbs and drizzling them with olive oil. Then she scrubbed and quartered potatoes for roasted potato wedges; both dishes could be popped in the oven later. She could throw a salad together at the last minute, and there was ice cream in the freezer for a sweet.
Yawning as she finished her tasks, she rubbed at eyes burning from lack of sleep. Although a nap and a shower had helped, she still felt frayed round the edges. It would be a long night, but she knew better than to wish for a quiet one – that only seemed to guarantee that the bells would go nonstop.
Bryan Simms wandered into the kitchen as she was finishing up, carrying a takeaway coffee. “You look knackered,” he offered after examining her critically.
“Thanks.” She shot him a sour glance. “You really know how to boost a girl’s confidence.”
“Anytime.” He grinned at her. “Dinner looks good, though.” He reached for a slice of raw potato, but she snatched it back.
“Don’t eat raw potato, it’s disgusting. You’ll get a disease or something.”
“Hasn’t hurt me yet.” Lounging against the oven, he sipped his coffee and watched her wipe the worktops. “Besides, I need something to keep my strength up. I’ve got phone duty, and I hear the press calls about last night’s fire have been coming in nonstop.” He’d have checked with the previous watch’s duty officer for any ongoing problems. “I’m to refer all queries to Lambeth PR.”
Rose dried her hands on a tea towel, debating whether to tell him about her visit to the scene that morning. “Bryan-”
The blare of the tannoy drowned out her words as Seamus MacCauley, the sub officer, announced roll call. “Never mind,” she said, patting her hair to make sure it was tucked up in regulation fashion. “Tell you later.”
But later never seemed to materialize. During roll call, MacCauley informed them that the FIT was expected at seven o’clock and would be debriefing the entire watch in the lecture room, so from roll call they scattered to complete their routine maintenance of the equipment and appliances.
Wilcox was closeted in his office with MacCauley, and as she’d caught up on her kitchen chores, Rose offered to fill in for one of the pump ladder’s crew on a call to a nearby office building, a person stuck in a lift. By the time they returned and she’d dashed into the kitchen to put the food in the oven, the rest of the watch had gathered in the lecture room. Having missed her chance to talk to Wilcox, Rose slid into a chair in the back. The tension that had been temporarily dissipated by the call returned with a vengeance.
As she looked round the room, she thought how seldom she saw them all gathered together, except on the rare occasions when both crews managed to sit down to a meal at the same time. It was a good watch, the best she’d ever had, due in part to the personalities of the men themselves and in part to Charlie Wilcox’s scrupulous refusal to tolerate any sort of hazing or bullying on his team. Rumors of Wilcox’s potential promotion to divisional officer circulated with distressing regularity. What might be a gain for the fire service administration would be a loss for Southwark Station.
Their sub officer, Seamus MacCauley, at fifty-four the oldest member of the watch, was nearing retirement, and Rose suspected he had never actively sought promotion. A whipcord-thin Geordie with an unlikely Scots-Irish name, he was a good and patient teacher, a mediator whose easygoing manner helped keep conflict to a minimum.
As if aware of her regard, he looked over at her from his position by the door and smiled. “You ready for the inquisition, flower? Mean bastards, this lot,” he added, and winked.
“Just as long as they don’t keep me from my dinner,” said Simon Forney from the row in front of her. Simon and the man beside him, Steven Winston, although not in fact brothers, were usually referred to as Castor and Pollux because of their uncanny resemblance to each other. Round-headed, barrel-chested, and proud of their strength, they’d only begun to accept her when she’d proved she could swing an axe and haul hose as well as any bloke.
The buzz of conversation in the room died away as Wilcox came in with the investigators. He introduced Station Officer Farrell and Sub Officer Martinelli, then the three detectives Rose had met that morning. Kincaid, the superintendent, caught Rose’s eye and nodded in recognition.
Rose hadn’t really noticed Martinelli earlier that day – any attention she’d turned in that direction had been focused on his dog – but now she realized he was younger than she’d thought, perhaps only in his early thirties. His Italian heritage was evident in his dark coloring, but the slant of his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes hinted at another racial component, Asian or maybe Polynesian. He gave her a friendly grin and she looked away, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring.
“We’ll keep this informal,” Farrell told them as he hitched himself up on the table at the front of the room. The others stood about a bit awkwardly until Kincaid took charge, pulling chairs from the empty front row and flipping them round so that they could sit facing the group. “You’ll need to make individual statements for the coroner’s report,” Farrell continued, “as is always the case with a fatality fire, but first I’d like to hear if anyone noted anything unusual at the scene last night. We’ve already heard from Firefighter Kearny earlier today about her discovery of the victim.”
Rose felt a sudden intensifying of attention in the room. Simms gave her a surprised glance, frowning as he turned back to Farrell.
“No one saw anyone loitering near the scene?” Farrell prompted. “Or smelled anything unusual?”
After a few silent minutes, Simms spoke up. “Sir. You think it was arson, then?”
“We haven’t found any obvious use of accelerants, but of course that’s not conclusive,” replied Farrell evasively.
“What about the videos from the appliances?” Simms continued, undiscouraged. The pump and pump ladder carried cameras mounted in their cabs that provided investigators with a view of any suspicious activity en route to a scene.
“No joy there, I’m afraid.”
“What about CCTV, sir?” put in MacCauley.
“Those tapes are still being collected,” answered Superintendent Kincaid. “We’ll be having a look at them in the morning, but our findings shouldn’t prejudice your observations. We would appreciate your cooperation on this,” he added.
A ripple of bodies shifting in chairs and a few mutters signaled the watch’s interest.
From the doorway, MacCauley directed a comment to Farrell. “It seems we’ve had an unusual number of structure fires in the Borough the last few months, guv. Might be worth checking to see if there’s some sort of pattern.”
“We’ll keep that in mind.” Farrell stood. “Okay, if there’s nothing else, we’ll get your statements. It shouldn’t take long.”
Superintendent Kincaid and the other detectives stood as well. Kincaid murmured something in Farrell’s ear, then flashed a smile at Rose as the three detectives left the room. The FIT officers moved round to the far side of the table to take statements. As she slipped into the rough queue formed by the firefighters, Rose wondered at the generous police presence. She’d been too frazzled that morning to pay much attention to the rumors flying round the scene that the building belonged to Michael Yarwood, the Labour MP, but she supposed that would account for the amount of attention being given the case.
Beside her, Steven Winston said quietly, “You oughta remember to wipe your nose, Kearny.”
She reached up instinctively, then flushed and dropped her hand as she realized what he meant. Although his tone had been teasing, his eyes were cold. Before she could respond, he nudged her and added, “Boss wants you.”
Turning, she saw Wilcox watching her from the door. When he had her attention, he jerked his head in the direction of his office. “Rose. A word.”
She followed him, her throat tight, very much aware of the stares directed at her retreating back. Expecting the worst, she stepped into the room and, at Wilcox’s nod, closed the door behind her.
He stood behind his desk, studying her for a moment, then said quietly, “Initiative is a good thing, Rose, up to a point. But we don’t need freelancers on the watch. No loose cannons, on the fire ground or off. If you know, or remember, anything that might be relevant to last night’s fire, you talk to me first and from there we’ll take it through the proper channels. Understood?”
Rose swallowed and resisted the urge to explain herself. “Yes, sir.”
The days when aggression in a firefighter was prized above all else were gone. Freelancing – charging into a fire, or any situation, without thought for partner or team – was as frowned upon now as going into a fire without a mask.
“I don’t want any unnecessary entanglements with the FIT on my watch. It complicates things. And you don’t want the rest of the team feeling you’ve gone behind their backs. You’re a good firefighter, and you handled yourself well last night. Don’t do anything to screw up your record.” Wilcox sat down at his desk and picked up a stack of reports, effectively dismissing her.
“Sir.” Knowing she’d got off lightly, Rose breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the door. Then, her hand on the knob, she turned back, her curiosity overcoming her better judgment. “Guv, about those other warehouse fires. Wouldn’t the brigade database-”
“Let the FIT do their job, Rose,” growled Wilcox, looking up at her with irritation. “You’ve done yours. Leave it alone.”
The phone rang twice before the voice mail clicked in, just as it had the last dozen times Yarwood had called. “You’ve reached Tia and Chloe,” the soft, drawling voice informed him. “We’re busy at the moment, but leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”
It was not Chloe’s voice, but Tia’s. The girl’s Sloane Ranger upbringing was apparent in her stretched vowels, and Yarwood had recently noticed that Chloe had begun to imitate her flatmate, a fact that made him furious. He slammed down the phone in frustration.
He’d been trying to reach his daughter, either at her flat or on her mobile, since he’d left the fire scene that morning, with no success. The only possibility he hadn’t tried was Chloe’s mother, Shirley. He might be worried, but he wasn’t yet desperate enough to call his ex-wife.
Yarwood went back to pacing the sitting room of his flat, stopping to stare out the window at the fading light in Hopton Street. He felt edgy and confined. It was ironic, really, as until Shirley’s last decorating binge had swathed the room in pale blue and green fabrics and filled it with ornate gilded furniture, he’d always found the small space comforting.
That was just before she’d run off with the interior designer, damn the bitch. The pair was now living in happily wedded bliss, according to Chloe, catering to the tastes of the blue-rinse set in Brighton. Good riddance to them both as far as he was concerned.
It was a shame about the flat, though. The building was one of the oldest in Southwark, and deserved something more in keeping with its character. He’d bought the flat years ago, when the Globe Theatre had been merely Sam Wanamaker’s dream, and living in the hulking shadow of Bankside Power Station had not been seen as an advantage. Now the Globe had become a reality, the power station had metamorphosed into the Tate Modern, and Bankside had become a major destination for the tourists and the trendy.
Of course, the value of the flat had increased exponentially, and Shirley had nagged him incessantly to sell it. They could buy a place in the country, she’d said, or one of those new flats on the river.
But he hadn’t wanted to let the old place go. It was part of Bankside, part of who he was, part of what he believed in. And trying to make him into a country gentleman was about as ridiculous as putting a pig in a tutu.
After what had happened last night, however, selling up might be his only option. How else could he get his hands on the cash he needed, and get it quickly enough?
A current of fear snaked between his shoulder blades and he clenched his fists, as if he could physically subdue it. He’d always considered himself tough, a self-made man who could tackle anything that came his way, but the thought of the charred remains of his warehouse, and of the body he’d seen loaded into the mortuary van, made him feel sick.
Had the fire been a warning, the body a reminder of what could happen to his daughter if he didn’t ante up?
He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a tumbler of whisky from the bottle he kept mostly for guests. He’d never been much of a drinker, on the theory that it took a clear head to get on in the world, but tonight he needed something to numb the worry clutching at his gut like a claw.
Did Chloe have any idea what she’d got herself into? Or did she think she could wheedle her way out of this, as she had everything else in her life?
The girl had always preferred her mother’s company – not that he’d given her much choice, with his schedule – but when her mother had taken off with that ponce of a designer, Chloe had chosen to stay in London with him. She’d been eighteen then, and she’d thought exile to a seaside town like Brighton a fate worse than death.
But nothing Yarwood had done in his life had prepared him for dealing single-handedly with a spoiled and angry teenager, and he’d failed miserably. He’d insisted she get a job or stay enrolled in some sort of college or university course, but she didn’t seem able to stay with anything long enough to make a success of it. After two years of her failures, his patience at an end, he’d told Chloe he’d no intention of continuing to support a layabout, and he’d kicked her out.
He hadn’t counted on Tia Foster taking her in as a charity case. Tia, whose wealthy parents had endowed her with more money than sense, had moved Chloe into the spare bedroom in her flat, and Chloe managed to survive by scrounging off Tia and begging the occasional handout from her mother.
Christ, how could he not have seen how vulnerable his daughter was? Or how vulnerable she had made him?
Now he could do nothing but pay for the consequences of his own stupidity, and try to keep Chloe safe. He picked up the phone and jabbed a blunt finger at the keypad once more.
He knew the value of a uniform. Clothes made the man. Or so his mum had always told him – the old cow – and then she’d reinforced the maxim with a few well-placed smacks. It had been years since he’d had to put up with that, but he still ironed his shirts as if his mother were watching over his shoulder.
Collar first, then shoulder, then sleeves. He slipped a fresh section of pale blue cloth over the end of the board and shot it with spray starch. His routine never varied. Every evening before reporting for work, he unfolded the old ironing board in the middle of his sitting room and labored over his uniform shirt until it could stand on its own; then he touched up his navy-blue trousers and jacket.
Radio Two droned in the background, not quite loudly enough to cover the murmur of traffic that drifted up from Blackfriars Road through his partially open window. His mum had been big on fresh air in all weather, convinced that sealing up a dwelling would result in a buildup of deadly gases. Bollocks, of course, he knew that, but still the habit stayed with him, and he liked the way the smell of curry from the takeaway beneath his flat mingled with the exhaust fumes and the clean soapiness of the starch.
It was odd the way the mind could divide itself, one part occupied with the identifying of familiar scents, the motion of his arm holding the iron, the babble of sound from the radio – while the other part seethed and bubbled with excitement from last night’s burn.
It had been – what was the word he’d read somewhere? – serendipitous, that was it. The walk home after his half shift, the sliver of darkness beckoning him from the open door, the interior prepared for him as if by some grand design.
Could it be that his own carefully prepared plan fit into something larger, dovetailed within it like a nut inside its shell? The thought was so heady it made him shiver. “Careful, careful,” he whispered, his voice a thread of sound in the empty room.
The possibilities were laid out in his mind like a series of jewels on a map of the Borough, all carefully researched and explored, waiting to be plucked when the time seemed right. Did last night’s gift mean he should act sooner than he’d planned?
Anticipation pumped his heart, made the breath puff from his nostrils. He whipped his shirt from the board and switched off the iron – no one knew better than he the dangers of fire – his mind alight with the thrill of choice.
“That was a frigging waste of time,” Maura Bell muttered as she walked out of the fire station into Sawyer Street, Kincaid and Cullen on either side of her. The rain had stopped at last, and above them a few patches of dusky purple sky showed against the banks of pewter cloud. The temperature had dropped with the sunset. Glancing back, she saw warm light spilling from the windows in the fire station’s red bay doors, a glimpse of a closed and comforting world.
She shrugged the collar of her coat closer around her throat.
Kincaid glanced at her, raising an eyebrow, as Cullen said easily, “Maybe, maybe not,” as if he’d nothing better to do than sit around watching a bunch of surly firefighters shuffle their feet and look clueless. “Somebody may remember something. Never hurts to plant a seed. Listen,” Cullen added as they reached his car, left in the fire station car park, “we’ll give you a lift back to the nick. There’s not much more we can do tonight.”
“I’ve a better idea,” Kincaid said. “Why don’t we all have a drink. My treat. We can map out our agenda for tomorrow.”
Her response was automatic, instinctive. The last thing she wanted to do was have a chummy pint with Scotland Yard. “I’ve things to do at the station.”
“Surely they can wait a bit,” Kincaid said lightly. “Call it conference time, if it will ease your guilty conscience, but I think we could all use a break.”
“The CCTV films-”
“That’s what constables are for,” chimed in Cullen, opening the car’s back door for her. “You have to learn to delegate.”
Maura shifted some of the papers that had slid back into the space she’d cleared in Cullen’s backseat on the short ride from Southwark Street to the fire station. The task gave her a moment to think.
She’d checked in with the incident room staff just before their meeting at the fire station, so she knew there were no breaking developments that urgently needed her attention.
She was also aware that her refusal to socialize with the other detectives could mark her as a bad sport, and possibly a prig – not the reputation she wanted to establish on her first outing with Scotland Yard. “Okay, just a quick one, then,” she said, trying to give in gracefully. “I know a good pub in Borough High Street. Or there’s this one.” She pointed at the pub that occupied the bottom corner of the fire station premises. “The Goldsmith-”
“If I’m buying, I get to choose,” interrupted Kincaid, sounding amused. He glanced at Cullen. “The society?”
Cullen nodded. “Right.”
“But-”
“Don’t worry,” Kincaid assured her. “We’ll have you back before you turn into a pumpkin.”
With this, Maura had to be content. She sank back into her seat, curiosity beginning to override her indignation.
In moments they were crossing Blackfriars Bridge. The river caught the remnants of the sunset in a gleaming swath of gold, and beyond it the floodlit dome of St. Paul’s was haloed by the fading pink sky. Cullen drove with an assurance she had somehow not expected, and Kincaid sat beside him without criticizing, unlike some of her superior officers.
Once in the City, Cullen sped up New Bridge Street and around Holborn Circle, into Hatton Garden, the heart of the diamond district. Maura knew this part of town only by reputation. “Doing a little after-hours shopping, are we?” she asked as Cullen slipped the car into a vacant parking space on the street.
“We should be so lucky,” said Cullen, his fingers barely brushing her elbow as they followed Kincaid across the street. “But this is almost as good. You’ll see.”
Maura relaxed a bit as they came to a cheerful-looking pub, but Kincaid passed it by, ducking into the narrow alleyway that ran alongside it. He stopped at a sleek door made of pale wood and keyed an entry pad.
Maura hung back. “What-”
“Never fear, it’s not a brothel.” Grinning, Cullen guided her inside. The pair reminded her of her older brothers playing a prank – not an auspicious omen.
The foyer opened directly onto a staircase made of more blond wood and brushed steel. “Private club,” Kincaid tossed over his shoulder as he started to climb. “The Scotch Malt Whisky Society. Good whisky’s the best antidote to the taste of a fire scene.”
She knew what he meant. The acrid smoke seemed to have settled permanently in her sinus cavities and the back of her throat, and the sandwich she’d managed to snatch for lunch had tasted of ashes.
They had reached the first floor. Maura followed the men through a cloak area and into a large room that contradicted all her preconceived notions of a private club. There was a handsome bar down one side, but the furniture was contemporary, more Habitat than gentleman’s club, and the white walls were splashed with bright, abstract paintings. The room was quite full, but Kincaid spied an empty table in the far corner and led them to it. “Shall I choose?” he asked as they settled into their chairs.
Picking up a booklet from the low table, Maura found it filled with pages of whiskies identified only by numbers and rather fulsome descriptions.
“The society does its own bottling, straight from casks it buys directly from the distilleries,” Kincaid explained. “It assigns a number to each bottling, but there is a key that links the numbers with the names of the distilleries, if you’re interested.”
She shook her head and closed the booklet. “I’ll trust you on this. So, are you some sort of whisky connoisseur?”
“Not really. It’s just that we’ve a friend who’s trying to get a small Highland distillery back on its feet, so I’m doing my bit to support the industry.”
“Very noble of you, I’m sure.”
“Yeah.” He grinned at her, and for the first time she was aware of the power of his smile. She suspected he used it like a weapon and dislike surged through her. “Why don’t I see what they have on special tonight?” Kincaid added, then stood and threaded his way to the bar.
“Your superintendent’s quite the charmer,” she said to Cullen.
“He has his moments,” Cullen agreed, as if unaware of her sarcasm. “He’s a good guv’nor, the best I’ve had.”
How like a man, she thought furiously, to defend another male no matter how inexcusable his behavior. “And does he snog all his female officers when he gets them in a car?” she blurted.
“Snog?” Cullen looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “In a car – oh, you mean Gemma?” Enlightenment dawned in his face. “In my car. Did he really? Good for him.” He gave a whoop of laughter.
“How can you-”
“Look, Inspector – Maura – I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Duncan’s not Gemma’s boss. She works out of Notting Hill Division, not the Yard. They live together. She was in Southwark today for personal reasons. And I’ve never seen Duncan behave inappropriately with any female officer under his command, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Maura felt the blood rising in her face. “But – I thought-” Kincaid returned at that moment, balancing three tumblers. She gave Cullen a pleading glance, hoping he wouldn’t mortify her further by repeating her comment.
“This is a lighter Speyside,” Kincaid said as he handed round glasses filled with pale gold liquid. “I thought it might be more to your taste than some of the heavily sherried or peated whiskies.” She had no idea what he was talking about but forced a smile. She opened her bag to reach for a cigarette, then, realizing that neither of them smoked, thought better of it and closed the bag.
Kincaid took a small pitcher of water from the table and added a splash of water to his glass and Cullen’s, but Maura shook her head when he offered it to her. She was a Scot, in case he hadn’t noticed, and the one thing she did know was that Scots drank their whisky neat. “Cheers,” she said, and tipped back her glass for a hearty swallow.
Fire ripped at her throat and knifed down into her chest. A spasm of coughing racked her, and by the time she caught her breath, her eyes were streaming. “For Christ’s sake,” she gasped. “What is this stuff, turps?”
Both Cullen and Kincaid were barely containing their smirks. “It’s cask strength,” Kincaid told her. “I should have explained. The alcohol by volume is well over fifty percent on most of these. Here, have some water.”
This time she accepted the pitcher and added a good dollop before attempting another very small sip. “Have I passed some sort of initiation, then?” she asked, scowling at them.
“With flying colors,” said Cullen. “At least it’s not the Hellfire Club.”
She wasn’t sure whether it was the effects of the whisky or the fact that she didn’t see how she could possibly make a bigger fool of herself than she already had, but Maura felt a pleasant sense of ease spread through her muscles.
“Now.” Kincaid set down his glass and leaned forward. “I had a call from Kate Ling while I was at the bar. She’s scheduled the PM for nine in the morning, at St. Thomas’s. We’re to meet her at the morgue. After that, we’ll at least have something to go on. Maura, you’ve not heard anything new from missing persons?”
“Not as of an hour ago.”
He frowned. “Gemma’s report must not have been processed yet – either that or it didn’t get flagged.”
Cullen looked surprised. “Gemma’s report?”
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you,” Kincaid explained, including Maura with a glance. “And I’m not at all sure it’s relevant. My cousin’s wife is an Anglican priest on a temporary assignment here in Southwark. She rang Gemma today, wanting some advice because one of her parishioners said her flatmate had disappeared overnight. That’s why Gemma was in Southwark. She talked to the woman, convinced her to file a report.”
Cullen gestured excitedly, sloshing a little whisky over the edge of his glass. “But that’s-”
“Gemma also said it looked as if the woman might have decamped voluntarily. It sounds as if she stole out of the house sometime in the night – by which time our victim may already have been dead – and that she might have taken personal items with her, perhaps an overnight bag. Nothing like that has turned up at the scene.” He paused, sipping his drink. “I thought we should wait until we knew a little more about the victim before we pursued it further.”
“What’s the woman’s name?” Maura pulled a notebook from her bag and was surprised to find it took a bit more effort than usual to grip the pen.
“Elaine Holland. Midthirties. White. Lives in Ufford Street and works at Guy’s Hospital.
“Right now, however, I’m more concerned about Michael Yarwood and his foreman. I want to make sure their alibis are solid.”
“I’ve asked Birmingham to send someone to make inquiries at Yarwood’s hotel,” said Maura, glad to have her notes handy. “And I’ve got a DC from our station checking on Spender.”
“What do you know about Yarwood?” Kincaid asked.
She shrugged. “Just what you read in the papers or see on the telly. I’d never met him before today, but I’ve never heard anything dodgy about him, either. Seems to be a pretty straight guy. I think he’s divorced, with a twenty-something daughter. He started up his own fleet of delivery vans when he was just a kid, before he went into politics. I think this warehouse is his first venture into real estate.”
“He didn’t strike me as the sort to go in for insurance fraud,” Kincaid mused, swirling the dregs in his glass. “And I think he was genuinely distressed over the loss of the building, but he was also nervous. I want to know why.”
“You think it was more than knowing the press would be on him like sharks?” asked Cullen.
“Yarwood’s spent his whole career dealing with sharks. That’s what politicians do. My guv’nor – that’s Chief Superintendent Childs,” he explained to Maura, “mentioned rumors that Yarwood’s leases weren’t selling as fast as expected, but both Yarwood and Spender denied it. We need to find out where that’s coming from and whether or not it’s true.”
Cullen looked pleased. “That’s right up my alley. I’ll see what I can dig up on the Internet tonight. Then I can follow up leads tomorrow.”
“And I’ll have a word with Childs. We also need to talk to Yarwood’s insurance agent, if we can track him down on a Saturday.” Turning to Maura, Kincaid added, “And you’ve got the CCTV in hand?”
As was her habit when collecting her thoughts, she started to reach again for a cigarette, then checked herself and sipped at her drink instead. “We should have the tapes collected and scanned by morning. There’s only a view of the front door, though, and even that was a lucky break. The office building across the street recently put in a camera, as they’ve been having some security problems. We’ve also collected tapes from the other cameras in the area, just in case they’ve picked up something suspicious.”
“What about the fires the sub officer mentioned tonight?” Kincaid asked. “Do you know anything about that?”
She frowned, trying to recall snippets of talk she hadn’t given much attention. “I do remember hearing about a couple of fires in the past few months, but I don’t think they were tagged as arson.”
“Nor is this one yet. But my gut tells me that Farrell is certain of it; he’s just not willing to commit himself without evidence. Farrell’s sharp, and if there’s anything to this, I think he’ll ferret it out.” Kincaid glanced at his watch. “Blast. I’d better dash. Toby’ll be in bed, but I’d like to at least say good night to Kit, since our plans for tomorrow are shot to hell.”
“I can run you back to the Yard, guv.” Cullen started to rise, but Kincaid waved him back.
“I’ll get the tube from Chancery Lane; worry about the car in the morning. Can I get you two another round before I go?”
Maura shook her head. She’d be legless if she had another.
“I’d better not,” said Cullen, and she noticed his whisky was barely touched. He seemed to hesitate before adding, “How is Kit, guv?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose, under the circumstances.” Kincaid stood, and although his response had been polite, Maura sensed it was a subject he didn’t want to pursue. “I’ll leave things in your capable hands, then.” He nodded at them both. “See you in the morning.”
Maura watched him walk away, her curiosity aroused. “Who’s Kit?”
“His son,” Cullen said, his expression guarded, as if he regretted bringing it up, and he quickly changed the subject. “Are you sure I can’t get you another drink? I can have them put it against Duncan’s membership.”
“No, thanks. I’d better get the tube as well. I left my car at the station, and I’ve things to check on before I go home.”
“Then let me run you back to Borough High Street. It’s right on my way.”
She gave him a quizzical glance. “Where do you live?”
“Um…” He grinned. “Euston.”
“You’ve an odd way of getting there. Over the river and back again.”
“I find driving relaxing,” he told her, poker-faced. “What do you say we get a bite to eat first? I’m starved, and the pub downstairs is brilliant.”
“No little missus waiting dinner for you at home, Sergeant?”
“That’d be a fine thing.” He grimaced. “My flat runs to a bit of moldy cheese in the fridge, along with a beer or two if I’m lucky. What about you?”
She took a mental inventory. “Olives, shriveled. Some good cheese from Borough Market. A half bottle of wine going bad.”
“Does that make us even? I think the least we could do for the sad state of our affairs is to join forces for a decent meal.”
Maura thought about the dark flat awaiting her, considered the prospect of cheese and biscuits eaten in front of the flickering light of the telly, and suddenly rushing home didn’t seem all that appealing.
She knocked back the last of her Scotch, her eyes watering, and set her glass down on the table with a thump. Some small part of her mind wondered if it was only the whisky talking, but she found she didn’t really care.
“Okay,” she said. “Why not?”
Winnie stirred a heaping spoonful of Horlicks into the mug of milk she’d heated for Fanny in the microwave, then popped the drink back in for a few more seconds while she rooted in the cabinets for a packet of biscuits. She’d made them both omelets for dinner, then helped Fanny get ready for bed and settled her on the chaise longue.
She’d been surprised to learn that Fanny could stand on her own, if only briefly. “It’s not like a spinal cord injury,” Fanny had explained as Winnie helped her into her nightdress. “Although I was completely paralyzed the first few months. I even had to have help breathing the first weeks in intensive care.”
“How long were you in hospital?” Winnie asked.
“Six months, although I don’t remember much of the first part. GBS comes on very suddenly, and they still don’t know the cause. I am getting better, though,” she’d added brightly. “It’s just that… sometimes it’s hard to be patient.”
Winnie had been about to say, “I can imagine,” when she realized she couldn’t, and that there was no aphorism adequate for Fanny’s everyday struggles.
Silently, she’d tucked Fanny up under her faded quilt. Then she’d come into the kitchen and rattled things in an effort to vent the anger she was feeling towards Elaine Holland. If Elaine had been dishonest with Fanny about a small thing like the mobile phone, what else had she lied about? Although Winnie cautioned herself against jumping to conclusions, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Elaine had been using Fanny in some way.
She’d located the biscuits, on the low table that held a toaster, an electric kettle, bread, tea, and most of the other necessities that allowed Fanny to function fairly independently during the day. When the microwave dinged, she carried the mug and biscuits into the sitting room, breathing in the malty aroma of the Horlicks with a smile. “Isn’t it odd how smells seem to connect with our memories so directly?” she asked as she positioned the things on Fanny’s table. “One sniff of Horlicks and I’m five years old, staying the night with my gran, just as if it were yesterday.”
“We drank cocoa when I was a child, but after I got sick I couldn’t tolerate the caffeine,” Fanny said, pushing herself up on the chaise so that she could reach the cup. “The Horlicks was Elaine’s idea. She made it for me every night, even when she was late getting in.”
Winnie tried to reconcile this small nurturing act with what she’d seen of Elaine, without much success. “Fanny,” she asked slowly, pulling up a chair, “what do you and Elaine find to talk about? It doesn’t seem as if you have much in common.”
“Oh, well… we talk about her work, and the hospital – it makes me feel I’m still a bit involved – and about the daily household things, you know, what we need from the shops, what to have for supper. Sometimes we watch telly together.” Fanny’s face took on a faraway look. “Sometimes we’d plan holidays we were going to take when I was well enough, somewhere in the sun. Italy, or Majorca. I always liked to imagine Elaine on the beach, going brown as a nut, and I thought that if she could get away for a bit, she wouldn’t mind things so much.”
“Mind things?”
“Oh, you know. She’d get her feelings hurt easily… if someone said something at work or if she felt she’d been passed over. And sometimes she’d take against people for no real reason, like-” Fanny stopped, a little color rising in her pale cheeks.
“Like me, you mean?” asked Winnie gently. “It’s all right, I don’t mind.”
“I don’t think it was you personally. More the church in general.”
Winnie had suspected Elaine of being jealous of her. Now she wondered if Elaine had been afraid of having her own relationship with Fanny too closely inspected.
“I thought she was beginning to soften up a bit recently, though,” Fanny went on. “At least she stayed when you brought the Eucharist on Sundays. She’d always made a point to be out of the house when Roberta came.”
“I’m flattered,” Winnie said with a smile. “Although I can’t imagine anyone not liking Roberta.” She took Fanny’s empty cup. “Will you be all right on your own tonight? I can stay if you like.”
“You’ve done too much as it is.” Fanny reached out and gave Winnie’s hand a squeeze. “I do have some tablets, though, that I take sometimes when I have a bad night. Maybe I should take one of those.”
“Good idea. I’ll fetch it for you.”
Having been directed to the drawer in the kitchen, Winnie found the bottle and shook a small oval white tablet into her hand. She recognized the name of a mild sedative hypnotic, but frowned as she glanced at the prescription date. The prescription was only a week old, but the bottle seemed at least half empty. She poured the remaining tablets out in her palm and counted them – there were ten left out of thirty.
She suspected this type of medication was addictive. Was Fanny taking more than the prescribed dose? And how could she go about asking her?
The room had grown dark. Harriet lay on a narrow bed, still half dreaming, disjointed images flitting through her mind.
Beneath her, a musty, sour smell rose from the mattress when she moved. It made her think of the time her friend Samantha had come for a sleepover and had wet the bed, and of old Mrs. Bletchley.
A spark flared in her mind. Mrs. Bletchley’s, that’s where she was. She’d overslept for school. But no – the images came crowding back, fuzzy and jittering like an old newsreel she’d seen in history class.
Her dad – she remembered seeing her dad, and ducking down to slide into the backseat of his car. Her backpack had caught on the door frame, and the lady in the front seat had looked back at her and smiled.
She drifted again, riding a current of flickering movement – her dad saying something – she could see his lips moving, but she couldn’t hear the words.
More darkness. A lamp globe made of swirly orange glass swam into view. Coffee, she’d smelled coffee. It made her think of their flat in the morning, of her mother getting ready for work… but no, that wasn’t right…
She struggled to pull herself out of the dream. Not home. Starbucks. The lady had taken her to Starbucks. But where was her dad?
Movement again, the world tilting. Another car ride – no, a taxi. She remembered the shiny black door. A man’s face asking a question, his blue eyes kind. She felt the warmth of a body against hers, heard a woman’s voice saying, “She’s not feeling well… bit of a bug…”
Walls rose, taller than she could see, blocking out the light. Gray brick, topped with broken glass and strands of wire that curled.
Then a gate – or had it been before? Her mind fixed on it, trying to hold the image. A silvery arch, like a keyhole, filled with black flowers. And through the keyhole, a flash of green.
The bright color receded and winked out, as if a door had closed at the end of a tunnel, and the darkness descended like a weight.