They mounted up and up, through the musty smell of an old close house, little used, to a large garret bedroom.
CHARLES DICKENS
Little Dorrit
THE PATCH OF light moved across the wall above Harriet’s bed. She watched its slow progress for a long time, thinking about the roses on the wallpaper. They were old roses, faded roses, on a background the color of tea stains. Sleepily, she wondered how her mum could have forgotten that she hated flowery, girly things, but the thought drifted lightly away.
She felt very odd, as if she were hovering outside her own body, watching herself, but when she gave her toe an experimental wiggle, it moved reassuringly. It was only then that Harriet realized she was still wearing her shoes. Why had she gone to bed in her shoes?
Frowning, she pushed aside the rough blanket covering her chest. Where was her duvet? And why was she still wearing her sweatshirt, the same one she’d put on for school that morning at Mrs. Bletchley’s? Wait… was that this morning? Or had that been yesterday morning? It had been dark, and she knew, somehow, that she had slept for a long time.
She felt a sickening lurch of panic as fragments of memory coalesced. Her dad… the lady in the front seat of the car… the gray walls… being half carried, half dragged, up narrow and twisting stairs… the darkness closing in…
Harriet sat up, her heart pounding. Her eyes focused on the light pouring in from the rectangle of window on the far wall, but her relief was short-lived. There was daylight pouring in through the window, but it wasn’t her window. Her mind finally wrapped itself around the truth it had been refusing to accept. It wasn’t her room.
She forced herself to look around. Assess things, her mother was always telling her – have all the facts before you act. The room was larger than her bedroom at home. There was the window on the wall opposite the bed, and on the right-hand wall, a door. The left-hand wall sloped down, as if it was set into the eave of the house. The walls were lined with odds and ends of old discarded furniture, and a bookcase under the eave held a few tattered clothbound volumes. There were a stool and a tin pail in one corner, and beside the window, a chest of drawers. On the chest stood a china basin and ewer, patterned in faded pink roses, like the wallpaper.
Carefully, Harriet slid from the bed, and as she moved, the sour, musty smell rose again from the mattress. The odor brought back the memory of the darkness, but she pushed it away.
The bare floorboards had once been painted gray, but the color had aged to the color of dust, and the surface was marred with scuff and drag marks. She placed her feet carefully, afraid to make a noise. Making her way to the window, she looked out of the grimy, spider-snared panes.
A grim prospect greeted her. Below, she saw a dirt yard infested with weeds and rubbish. Across the yard, another wall of gray brick, featureless. Beyond the wall, she could make out the peaks of higher roofs, but nothing looked familiar. She tried the window, but it had been nailed or painted shut. Not that she’d have been able to get out that way, anyway – she could see that it was too high, and a straight drop of several floors. Nor did it look as if anyone would hear her if she called for help.
The choking panic rose in her throat again.
Where was she? What was this place? Why was she here?
Harriet gripped the windowsill as dizziness swept over her. She realized suddenly that she was starving. How long had it been since she’d had anything to eat? A day, two days? The fact that she wasn’t certain frightened her even more.
And she had to pee. The thought made her screw up her courage to try the door. The unpainted wood looked ancient and scarred, and there was a web of scratches around the old-fashioned keyhole. The knob turned in her fingers, but the door didn’t budge.
Gripping the knob more tightly, she turned it hard to the right and leaned back with all her weight, but the door didn’t even quiver. She let go and rubbed her smarting palms against her jeans, then crouched down to peer through the keyhole. There was nothing to see but darkness.
For a moment, the urge to call out was almost overpowering, but she pressed her hand hard to her mouth. A shout might bring worse than being alone and hungry.
Then she heard a noise. A creak, and then another, the soft footfalls of someone climbing the stairs. Harriet’s first instinct was to hide. She looked round wildly, but there was no cover, even beneath the frame of the old iron bed.
Her logical mind told her it wouldn’t matter, that whoever was coming knew she was there, but her body obeyed a different instruction. She ran to the bed and wrapped the blanket around herself, as if the tattered fabric could give her a layer of protection, and huddled back against the wall. Then came the sound of bolts being thrown back, and the clicking of the tumblers as the key turned in the lock. The door swung open.
“Superintendent.” Rose Kearny looked as though he were the last person she wanted to see. Kincaid might have been tempted to take it personally, except that she’d been friendly enough yesterday, and her behavior seemed decidedly odd. She didn’t strike him as the type to be skulking in doorways.
“Are you all right?” he asked, when she didn’t step forward. She was dressed much as she had been at the fire scene yesterday, but with her hair loose rather than pulled back in a ponytail she looked younger, less professional.
“I-” She glanced past him, as if seeking a means of escape, then appeared to resign herself to the conversation. “I was hoping to have a word with Station Officer Farrell.”
Kincaid nodded towards the warehouse. “He’s there now, working on the crime scene.”
Rose looked more uncomfortable still. “I- it’s just that – if my guv’nor finds out I’ve been here without clearing it with him, he’ll be livid. But our next duty’s not until tomorrow morning, and there’s something I thought Officer Farrell should know.”
“Something you’ve remembered?” Kincaid asked, his interest quickening.
She shook her head. “No. But I’ve been looking into some things…” She drew farther into the doorway. “It’s nothing, really. Probably a stupid idea. And if any of the lads from my watch see me here-”
“Look.” He recalled now that there was a tea shop a short way up the road. If he was lucky, the place might have sandwiches, too. “Let me buy you a cup of tea, and you can tell me about it. Then I can pass your idea along to Farrell if you don’t want to speak to him yourself.”
After considering for a moment, she said, “Okay. I don’t suppose it’s likely I’ll run into anyone I know in a tea shop.” She smiled for the first time.
“Any rule against you being seen with a detective?” he asked as they headed east on Southwark Street.
“Not as long as it was you wanting to talk to me, but I’d rather not have to explain.”
They reached the place Kincaid remembered. He saw that it was a museum as well as a tea shop, housing displays on the history of tea and collections of teapots, but they could use the restaurant without buying a ticket for the tour. Rose ducked inside with obvious relief.
When they’d found a table near the back and placed their orders – tea and sandwiches for him, tea and a scone for her – he said, “Anyone would think you were hiding from a jealous boyfriend.”
“Rather that than get on the wrong side of my guv’nor. Or the lads – that’s even worse. But no. No boyfriend, jealous or otherwise.”
He wondered what had motivated her to risk discipline, or being ostracized, but thought it better not to push until she’d relaxed a little. “Are you the only woman on your watch?” he asked.
“Yeah, at the moment. We had another, a probationer, when I first transferred in, but she got posted to another station.”
“It must be hard.”
Rose shrugged as the waitress brought their tea. “Sometimes, but not like it used to be. The fire service is changing. Some of the old-timers may not like women coming in, but they know there’s nothing they can do about it. And the good officers, like my guv’nor, realize that women have things to offer that are as important as brute strength. Not that I’m not strong, mind you,” she added, with another small smile. “But I think the strength thing is overrated. I can haul hose and lift ladders with the best of them, but there are techniques that women, or smaller men, can use to make things easier. It seems to me that should be the point – getting the job done as efficiently as possible. Safer for personnel, safer for victims, safer for property.” Her face was alight with enthusiasm, and Kincaid found himself hoping that the wear and tear of the job wouldn’t erode too much of her crusading spirit.
“What about hazing? Is that still a problem?” Kincaid asked as their food arrived.
Rose considered for a moment. “There’s teasing, of course. It’s part of the culture, and I think that if you’re going to make it as a woman in the fire service, you have to let a certain amount roll off your back.” She frowned and added slowly, “The tough part is knowing when you have to draw the line, because eventually you will, with someone. I’m sure it must be the same for women in the police.”
Kincaid thought of the difficulties Gemma had had with one of the sergeants under her command at Notting Hill. It had taken a delicate combination of tact and authority for her to establish a good working relationship with the man, but then she’d had the advantage of rank.
He was watching Rose slather butter on her scone, and congratulating himself a bit because he’d never felt particularly threatened by female police officers, when it occurred to him that he’d never worked with a woman who outranked him. If he did, would he find he was a hypocrite, and a self-righteous one at that? It was an uncomfortable thought. He made an effort to concentrate on his sandwiches, but he couldn’t help wondering if he’d condescended to Maura Bell in a way he wouldn’t have if she’d been male.
“What about you?” asked Rose. “We’ve established that I don’t have a jealous boyfriend. Are you married?”
Kincaid looked up, startled, and tried not to choke on his tuna sandwich. “Um, no. But I live with my partner and our two sons.”
“That sounds very progressive of you.” Her smile was a little too quick, and he saw a telltale flush of color stain her cheeks, as if she’d embarrassed herself by asking. “Bohemian.”
“It’s not, really.” He hesitated, imagining himself trying to explain their family situation, or telling her how hard it had been just to persuade Gemma to live with him. God forbid he should mention marriage. That was a can of worms he didn’t want to contemplate himself, much less reveal to a stranger. “Long story,” he said at last, then, not wanting to seem abrupt, added, “we’re both in the job, so it complicates things. We used to work together.”
“Really?” Rose sounded interested. “What happened?”
“She put in for promotion and a transfer.” More than ready to change the subject, he said quickly, “Why don’t you tell me what it was you wanted with Bill Farrell?”
Now, Rose seemed to feel awkward. With her fingertip, she pushed scone crumbs into a pile on her plate. “I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to tell Station Officer Farrell how to do his job. But after the meeting last night I was curious, so I started looking back through the fire reports for the Borough in the last year.” She pulled some folded papers from her jacket pocket and spread them out on the table. “I found five structure fires in the past seven months that seem to fit a pattern.”
He could see that the top pages were fire brigade incident reports. “I’m sure Farrell will have checked for arson reports as a matter of routine-”
“But that’s just the thing,” interrupted Rose. “None of these fires were ever definitely flagged as arsons. They were all listed as undetermined cause. Here, I’ve marked them on a map.” She pushed the bottom sheet across the table to him. It was a photocopy of an area map, showing six scattered red rings. He recognized one location, the Southwark Street warehouse.
“They started small,” Rose said, tapping the ring on the map’s western boundary. He noticed that her nails were short and unpolished, her hands slender. “The first one was in a lockup behind Waterloo Station. Accumulated rubbish, no sign of accelerants, no more than one point of origin. Multiple points of origin are usually a dead giveaway for arson.”
He frowned. “So you’re saying it didn’t look like arson?”
“No, wait, hear me out.” She tapped another circle, this one to the east, near the top of Borough High Street. “Number two was a vacant basement flat in a council estate. Same scenario, more bang. Keep in mind that basements are ideal for starting a good fire, because fire spreads upwards.
“Then a small grocer off the Borough Road. The fire started in accumulated polystyrene meat-packing trays, a great accelerant. That’s how the fire was started in Leo’s Grocery in Bristol. Anyone with an interest in fires would know that.”
“Number four, a paint store.” She touched a spot near Blackfriars Road. “That burned for two days, and took two adjoining buildings with it.”
“And the fifth?”
“A warehouse near the Hay’s Galleria. Stored fabric for a clothing manufacturer. Went up a treat.”
“And you think last night’s fire was the sixth,” Kincaid said, intrigued now. “What about access in the first five?”
“No sign of forced entry in any instance. The only place with an alarm was the warehouse, but it was an old building and the system wasn’t sophisticated.”
“So what makes you think there’s any connection? Why not a series of accidents? Or if they were arson, unrelated attempts at insurance fraud?”
“You can rule out insurance fraud on the first two. The lockup was abandoned, the flat vacant. It’s a possibility with the others, but the investigators would have looked for financial problems or insurance irregularities. As for connections…” Rose ate the last bite of her scone and leaned towards him. “What do all these fires have in common?”
Kincaid felt like a slow pupil. “Besides the fact that they weren’t proved arson? I don’t know. But I think you’re dying to tell me.”
“Okay.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “Most people think that arsonists go about splashing petrol all over the place and setting off timing devices, but that’s not always true. A pro will use fuels available at the scene, and the simpler the ignition, the better. If you have a good fuel load, you can use a very small amount of accelerant to get things going and there won’t be a trace left after the burn. You put a bit of petrol or paraffin on a pile of loose paper or some plastic cartons, light it with a cigarette lighter, and presto!” She sat back, looking pleased with herself.
Kincaid popped his last bite of sandwich into his mouth while he thought it over. “And all these places had the right sort of material for fuel, and were pretty well guaranteed to burn on their own from a small ignition?” She nodded. “Say you’re right,” he continued. “What makes you think last night’s fire fits the pattern?”
“It would be hard to find a better fuel load than a pile of old furniture filled with polyurethane foam. The stuff was highly flammable, and arranged for maximum burn. It was a perfect set. And the time between fires has been getting progressively shorter. There were only two weeks between the last warehouse fire and this one.”
He didn’t like where this was leading at all. “So what you’re telling me is that you think we have a pro, and that he’s escalating? A serial arsonist?”
The satisfaction faded from Rose’s face. “I could be wrong. But…”
“But if, by some chance, you were right, it would be impossible to prove.”
“Well, yeah. Unless there were witnesses that haven’t come forward. Or some forensic evidence left at the scenes that no one knew to look for.” Looking less happy by the minute, Rose traced a pattern on the tablecloth with her teaspoon, then set the spoon down and began gathering up her papers. “I’m sorry. This isn’t much use to you, is it?”
There were arguments against her theory, but he certainly didn’t think they could afford to dismiss it. “Maybe not,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t discuss this with Bill Farrell. He’s been concentrating on the crime scene, so he may not have had a chance to research these fires as thoroughly as you have.”
She stopped, papers halfway folded, and looked up at him.
“If I give him your number and he rings you, then you won’t be in trouble with your boss, right?” Kincaid continued. “After all, you can’t refuse to talk to the FIT.” Farrell, he thought, might want to encourage her, regardless of whether her theory was pertinent to last night’s fire. Rose Kearny had the makings of an investigator. Although her station officer might consider her insubordinate, Kincaid had found a streak of independence essential in a good detective.
“No, I suppose not.” The corners of her mouth curved up, and he found he liked making her smile.
“Are those photocopies?” He gestured towards the papers, and when she nodded, said, “Why don’t you give them to me, and I’ll pass them along to Farrell along with your number. But, Rose…” He debated how much he could tell her. “There are reasons why this fire may not fit your pattern. I can’t give you any details from the postmortem, but it looks as though this fire may have been set to cover up a homicide.”
Her face tightened. “I hadn’t forgotten the body. But it’s not unheard of for serial arsonists to escalate to murder.”
“No, but think about it. You saw the victim. She’d been stripped. The most logical explanation is that the killer wanted to conceal her identity. Why would a serial arsonist care to hide his victim’s identity?”
“For the same reason anyone would. To prevent a connection being made between killer and victim. Do you have any idea who she was?”
Kincaid pulled the CCTV photo from the folder he’d carried with him and handed it across the table. “This woman entered the building a couple of hours before the fire. We’ve no way of knowing when – or if – she left. Do you recognize her, by any chance?”
Rose studied the photo for a long moment before reluctantly shaking her head. “No. She looks young, doesn’t she? I hate to think…” She started to hand the photo back, then stopped and looked at it again. “There is something about her, though, that looks familiar. I just can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe she looks like someone on the telly?”
As the waitress came with their check, Rose gave an apologetic shrug and let him slip the photo back into his folder. Glancing at his watch, Kincaid realized he was running short of time if he meant to go back to the shelter before meeting Gemma.
Rose scribbled a number on the photocopied sheets, then stood and handed him the papers. “I won’t take up any more of your time. I’ve put down my mobile number if Station Officer Farrell wants to talk to me. Thanks for the tea.” She met his eyes. “And thanks for not telling me I’m crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy. But I hope you’re wrong.”
“Yeah. Me, too,” Rose said slowly. “Because the thing is… if I’m right… there are going to be more fires.”
This time, when Kincaid buzzed at the shelter’s entrance, Kath Warren answered immediately. When he identified himself and asked if he could come up, however, she hesitated, then said she’d come down. A moment later the door clicked open and she slipped into the vestibule.
“I’m sorry,” she said a bit breathlessly. “It’s just that having the police in yesterday upset a number of the residents. You have to understand that these women live on the edge of paranoia at the best of times, and anyone coming into their space is perceived as a threat. It’s my fault – I should have realized.”
The crisp efficiency she’d displayed the previous day seemed a little frayed round the edges, and her careful makeup didn’t quite conceal the shadows beneath her eyes.
“I’m the one that should apologize,” he told her. “We shouldn’t have tramped in like an invading army.”
Kath smiled and seemed to thaw a bit. “We’ve conspiracy theories going round like a virus, I can tell you. First, it was that someone’s husband had set the fire so that the women would have to evacuate the building. Now, it’s some sort of police infiltration plot, but I haven’t quite figured that one out.”
“Do the women’s husbands know where they are?” Kincaid asked, curious.
“No- at least we hope not. We don’t advertise what we do here, but the women do go out during the day; they’re not prisoners. There’s always the chance of a slipup, either from someone being seen and followed, or – and I’m sorry to say it’s more likely – from one of the residents giving out the location in a weak moment. It’s not a perfect system, but we do the best we can.”
“You don’t place any credence in the evacuation idea?”
Kath shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. But in that case, why not start the fire in this building? The front half is vacant, and I imagine it would be easy enough for someone to break in.”
“Would one of these men be desperate enough to endanger his own children?”
Kincaid’s skepticism must have shown in his voice, because Kath said sharply, “These men are abusers. Many of them beat their children as well as their wives or partners. And they’re very good at justifying what they do, both to themselves and to other people.”
She was right, Kincaid knew, and right about the security risk from the derelict front half of the building. Uneasily, he thought of Rose Kearny’s hypothetical arsonist. This building would make a perfect target, and he wondered how easily the shelter’s families could be evacuated in case of a fire. He’d have a word with Bill Farrell about it when he passed along Rose’s papers.
“It’s not just the fire, of course,” continued Kath, “but the woman’s death. It’s upset everyone. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea yet who she was?”
“Nothing definite, as yet.” Kincaid pulled out a copy of the photo. “But a CCTV camera caught this woman entering the building a couple of hours before the fire. That’s why I came by. Do you recognize her?”
Kath took the paper from him and studied it carefully before shaking her head. “No. No, sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her.”
“Not one of your former residents?”
“No. Not since I’ve been here, and that’s been five years.”
“Would you mind showing the photo to the residents, and to your assistant? Maybe it will ring a bell with someone.”
“Jason’s out today, but I’ll be glad to hand it round the wom-”
Kath was facing the outside door. Kincaid saw her eyes widen in surprise. He spun round just as a tall man pushed roughly past him and grabbed Kath by the shoulders.
“Hey!” Kincaid called out. “What do you think you’re doing? Let her-” He fell silent as Kath held up a cautionary hand.
“Where’s my wife?” the man shouted at Kath, giving her a shake.
Before Kincaid could intervene, Kath said, “Tony? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” She looked concerned, but not frightened, and Kincaid checked himself, waiting to see what this was about.
“You know bloody well what’s happened,” said the man she’d called Tony, his voice rising to a sob. “She’s gone, and so is Harriet. I want to know what you’ve done with them.”
“Laura’s gone?” Kath gave Kincaid a startled glance. “Tony, I haven’t seen her. I don’t know anything about it.”
Stepping forward, Kincaid said quietly, “Hey, mate. Why don’t you let Kath go. Then we can talk about this.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I want to find my daughter,” Tony snapped back, but he seemed to take in Kincaid’s presence for the first time. After a moment, he dropped his hands and stepped back a pace.
Kincaid got his first good look at the man. He was tall and thin, with a long face and the sort of dark, brooding looks Kincaid suspected women would find appealing under better circumstances. Now, however, he looked exhausted, and his well-shaped mouth was twisted in an effort to hold back tears.
“This is Tony Novak,” explained Kath, making a game attempt at normality. “His wife is on our board of directors. Harriet’s his daughter. Tony’s a doctor at Guy’s. He’s helped us with some of our residents-”
“I’d never have lifted a finger if I’d known what I know now. Laura told me, you know. And she threatened me. She knew you’d help her.”
“Help her do what, Tony?” Kincaid asked, forestalling Kath.
“Disappear. Disappear with my daughter. That’s what they do here. They help women disappear. But I’m not standing for it.” He turned back to Kath Warren, menace visible now beneath the hysteria. “You’re going to get me my daughter back.”
“Tony, I’ve told you. I haven’t seen her. I haven’t seen either of them. This is Superintendent Kincaid from Scotland Yard. You should tell him-”
Kincaid’s phone rang, startling them all. Pulling it from his belt, he glanced at the name on the caller ID and jabbed the Send key. “Gemma,” he said quickly, “I’ll ring you right back – Hey!”
In the instant Kincaid had been distracted, Tony Novak had turned and vanished into the street.