The chief features in the still life of the street are green shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and bell-handles; the principal specimens of animated nature, the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the baked-potato man.
CHARLES DICKENS
The Pickwick Papers
GEMMA AND WINNIE left the pub, crossing the busy road, then soon made a jog into the aptly named Short Street. Winnie pointed out her church, a nondescript brown brick structure that paralleled the street on their left.
“And that’s Mitre Road.” Winnie gestured to the street of neat Victorian terraces that ran off to the right. “My flat’s about halfway along, first floor. It’s quite nice – cozy compared to my drafty vicarage at home. I promise I’ll have you both over for a meal.
“And Fanny’s house is just there,” she added as Short Street came to an abrupt end at Ufford Street. “Practically on my doorstep.”
They were neat as dolls’ houses, thought Gemma as she studied the two-storied terraces lining Ufford Street. The houses looked cheerful even on such a gray day, the red tile roofs steeply peaked, the gables white, the narrow front doors a glossy black. Most of the houses, she noticed, sported flowered number plaques and hanging baskets. A black iron fence ran the length of the terrace, separating tiny front gardens from the street. A glance towards the end of the street revealed a massive gray brick warehouse and, looming above it, the unexpected silhouette of the Millennium Wheel.
“It’s easy to forget how close we are to the Thames,” said Winnie, following Gemma’s gaze as they crossed the road. “And that everything here in Southwark used to revolve around the river. The churches still hold remembrance masses for those lost at sea.” She opened one of the iron gates and led Gemma up to a covered porch. A wheelchair ramp bridged a slight incline to the front door. She rang the bell, then opened the door and called out, “Fanny? It’s Winnie. I’ve brought a friend.”
“Oh, what a lovely smell,” exclaimed Gemma as she followed Winnie into a sitting room as green and flowery as a cottage garden brought indoors.
“Do you like it?” The woman in the wheelchair rolled towards them, her small oval face lit with pleasure. “It’s one of my candles. I make them, from soy wax and essential oils. This one’s a blend of bergamot, lavender, and ylang-ylang – it’s meant to be calming.” On a small table near her chair, a candle burned in a green glass jar. Beside it lay a walk-about phone.
“Fanny single-handedly supports the church bazaar,” added Winnie, when she’d introduced Gemma. “Her candles are the biggest seller. It’s not only the scents that are wonderful – she uses all sorts of things for containers. Teacups, antique glass jars, flowerpots-”
“Basically, anything I can get my hands on,” Fanny explained. “I used to haunt car boot sales; now I have to make do with what friends bring me. Elaine-” She stopped, her voice suddenly unsteady.
Winnie pulled up a chair for Gemma before sitting on the end of the chaise longue. “Have you heard from her?” she asked Fanny.
On closer inspection, Gemma saw that Fanny Liu looked tired, and that her dark eyes were red-rimmed as if she’d been weeping.
“No.” Fanny shook her head. “Nothing. I tried her office again, just in case.”
“And you’ve rung her mobile phone?” Gemma asked.
“She doesn’t have one. An unnecessary expense, she said. Elaine likes to mind her pennies.” Fanny studied Gemma for a moment, her head tilted to one side. “Winnie said you had something to do with the police, that you could advise us. But you’re not quite what I expected.”
“No uniform?” Gemma smiled. “I’m in CID. We wear plain clothes. Why don’t you tell me about your friend?” she added, leaning forward in her chair, her hands clasped on her knee. “Start from the beginning.”
“Her name is Elaine Holland. She-” Fanny’s voice wavered and cracked. “She – she works in the medical records department at Guy’s Hospital. She’s an administrative assistant.”
“Winnie said she rents a room from you,” prompted Gemma, when Fanny paused. “How did the two of you get together?”
“I posted a notice on the hospital board. I was a nurse before my illness, so I knew it was a good way to find someone compatible. I offered a reduced rent, in return for help with chores around the house and shopping. Elaine was the first applicant I had and we made a deal on the spot.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Almost two years.”
Gemma smiled. “So you must have got on quite well.”
“I- yes, we did. We do.”
“You said this morning that her parents were dead, and she hadn’t any siblings,” put in Winnie. “But what about a boyfriend or an ex-husband? Or a school friend? Is there anyone else she might have gone to?”
“Elaine didn’t – Elaine doesn’t like to talk about personal things,” Fanny said quietly, not meeting their eyes, and Gemma thought that Elaine’s reticence must have hurt her. “But I don’t think she’s ever been married. Somehow I can’t imagine her married,” she added, trying for a smile.
“And she never brought anyone here, to the flat?”
Fanny shook her head. “Never. I told her she was welcome to have her friends in, when she first arrived, but then after a while the subject just never came up. I suppose we got into a routine.”
A slight thump came from the kitchen, and a black-and-white cat appeared in the sitting room doorway. It regarded them seriously for a moment, as if assessing their suitability as guests, before jumping into its mistress’s lap and curling into a ball. “This is Quinn,” Fanny explained to Gemma, stroking the cat. “He has his own cat flap so that I don’t have to let him in and out of the garden. Elaine’s allergic to cats, so it’s better if he doesn’t spend all day in the house. Then she’s all right as long as he stays out of her bedroom, but you know how cats are – it’s a battle of wits between them. If she leaves her door open for a minute he’s in like a shot.”
Gemma smiled, thinking of their cat, Sid, and his unerring talent for picking out those with feline phobia. “Did Elaine have any other health problems that you know of?” she asked. “Seizures? A bad heart?”
“No, not that she ever mentioned. But she was good at looking after others – I mean, she knew how to do… things.” A flush of embarrassment rose in Fanny’s cheeks. “I asked her once, in the beginning, if she’d done any nursing, but she said no. She was a bit sharp about it, to be honest.” She looked up, meeting Gemma’s gaze. “You think she’s fallen ill somewhere. But Winnie’s already rung the hospitals…”
“I think it’s a possibility we have to consider.” Gemma looked round the room, suddenly aware of the one thing missing in the clutter. “Fanny, do you have a photo of Elaine?”
“No.” She frowned, as if the realization surprised her. “I can’t remember there ever being an occasion to take one.”
“She didn’t bring any photos of her own?”
“Not unless they’re upstairs in her room.”
Winnie gave Gemma a quick negative shake of her head.
Glancing at her friend, Gemma thought it was no wonder Winnie had rung her. All her instincts told her there was something not quite right here. “Why don’t you give me a description, then?” she suggested to Fanny.
“Well, she’s about my age, midthirties, I’d say.” Fanny looked at Winnie as if for verification and Winnie nodded.
“You don’t know exactly?” Gemma asked, curious.
“Elaine didn’t hold with birthdays,” Fanny murmured, her hands twisting in the cat’s fur, but he only stirred a little and narrowed his eyes.
“Okay.” Gemma smiled, trying to put her at ease. “What else?”
“Um, she’s tallish. Fair-complexioned. Brown hair, about like this” – Fanny held a hand level with her chin- “with a bit of wave to it. Light brown eyes.”
“I think that’s good enough for a report. We can just ring-”
Fanny was shaking her head, her eyes wide with distress. “I told Winnie I didn’t want anything official. I don’t want-”
“Look, I understand you don’t want to upset your friend.” Gemma tried to soothe the woman’s agitation. “But I think you have a serious welfare concern here, and for Elaine’s sake, you must report her disappearance to the police. What if she’s lying ill somewhere and needs help? We’ll ring the local station, then Winnie and I can wait with you until they send someone round.”
“You’d do that?” Fanny sounded surprised, and Gemma wondered how much support Elaine had actually provided.
“Of course we would,” Winnie assured her.
Fanny closed her eyes for a moment, her hands still on the cat’s back. Then she sighed, as if coming to a decision, and looked up at Gemma. “Okay. But will you call?” She nodded towards the phone. “I – I don’t want to have to explain why I can’t come in to the station.”
“It’s all right. They won’t expect it,” Gemma told her, but she was happy enough to comply. She rang the local station directly, as she hated to tie up a 999 line with a nonemergency call, and identified herself. The duty officer said he’d send someone round as soon as he could, but they were a bit shorthanded because they’d had a fire.
“Yeah, got half my constables tied up with house-to-house and perimeter control,” the officer responded. “Southwark Street, not far from your address.”
It was close, Gemma thought as she hung up, visualizing the page of the A to Z she’d glanced at before meeting Winnie. Why not take the tube from London Bridge Station, rather than Waterloo, when she returned to the office? Her route would take her right past Southwark Street – she could see what was going on, have a word with Duncan.
In the meantime, however, she had another idea. As Winnie volunteered to make them all a cup of coffee, Gemma said, “Fanny, do you mind if I have a look at Elaine’s things? I might see something that Winnie missed this morning.”
Fanny gave her a bleak smile. “If something’s happened to her, it won’t matter that she wouldn’t like it. And if she’s okay, she’ll be so furious with me for making a fuss that I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Go ahead.”
Gemma climbed the narrow stairs and looked in the first room at the top. The flowers and antiques identified it as Fanny’s, but it had the desolate feel acquired by rooms whose inhabitants had died. An ornate mahogany dressing table held the personal photos she had expected to see downstairs – Fanny as a girl, posed between a well-dressed Asian couple who looked both proud and rather stiffly formal, as if the portrait had been an occasion. Fanny playing in a garden with a Border collie, laughing into the camera. Fanny alone, in a nursing sister’s uniform, her expression grave. Gemma touched the photo with a fingertip, then went out, closing the door firmly behind her.
She examined the bathroom more closely, this time looking for traces of Elaine Holland. The medicine cabinet held paracetemol, plasters, cotton swabs, a bottle of over-the-counter cough remedy. There were no prescription medications, no hairbrush, no toothbrush. Frowning, Gemma tried the cupboard above the toilet. It held only toilet tissue, tampons, a few bars of inexpensive soap, and a bottle of Boots brand bubble bath.
Perhaps Elaine kept her personal things in her bedroom, Gemma thought, moving on to the third room in the corridor and opening the door. Winnie had told her over lunch that the room was bare, but the description hadn’t prepared Gemma for the bleakness that met her eyes as she stood on the threshold.
In Gemma’s experience, the need to stamp one’s personality on one’s living space seemed a basic human need, one that surfaced as soon as the essentials of food and shelter were provided. She’d seen prostitutes’ rooms decorated with ribbons, pictures – only bits of tat from the street markets, but much loved tat nonetheless. She’d seen nursing-home quarters filled with personal mementos. She’d even known rough sleepers on the streets to guard their few possessions as fiercely as they did their blankets, as if those possessions allowed them to keep a remnant of the identity life had stripped away.
But this room bore no more imprint than a cheap hotel room slept in for a night – it was as if Elaine Holland had vigilantly erased herself every day of the two years she had lived in this house. There were no photos, no books, no magazines or CDs, no clothes left haphazardly strewn across the bed or the chair. Gemma crossed to the bureau and ran a finger across its surface – there was only a light coating of dust.
Methodically, she opened the drawers. At least the woman wore underwear, she thought with a grin, although they were nondescript Marks and Spencer’s cotton knickers and bras. One drawer held a pad of cheap writing paper with matching envelopes, a few stamps, elastic bands, and pens marked with the hospital logo, but there were no bills or personal documents.
She went on to the wardrobe with as little success. A few pairs of sensible shoes, trousers and jackets in neutral colors suitable for work and, Gemma noted, in the same size she wore. A shelf held neatly folded blankets and bed linens. The wardrobe was quite deep, and on an impulse, Gemma lifted down the linens, then pulled over the bureau chair and climbed up on it so that she could reach all the way to the back of the shelf.
Her fingers closed on a small cardboard box and she drew it into the light, exclaiming as she saw the bright colors. It was the manufacturer’s container for an Orange phone, and it was empty.
So, in spite of her protestations to Fanny, Elaine owned a mobile phone. But why had she lied?
Flushed by her success, Gemma climbed down from the chair and stood back, surveying the storage space. There had to be more – she was sure of it. Pushing all the hanging clothes aside, she was rewarded for her diligence. A low door was set into the back wall of the cupboard, a not unusual feature in many old houses. The extra storage space was remarkably easy to access, once you knew of its existence, and the latch was a simple hook and eye.
Kneeling, Gemma swung open the door. A faint odor of old mothballs wafted out, and she saw immediately that she had hit a treasure trove. Some of the open shoe boxes on the floor held strappy, high-heeled sandals, others an assortment of lacy lingerie. Folded over hangers on a low bar were sequined tops and sleek skirts, a few low-cut cocktail dresses, a beaded vintage cardigan.
Gemma sat back, wondering what to make of her find. One thing was certain – there was more to Elaine Holland than her housemate had dreamed.
When asked by her fellow firefighters why she still lived at home, Rose would say the decision was purely practical – there was room in her parents’ house, after all, and why should she waste money paying rent when she could be saving towards a deposit on a place of her own? Living in London was prohibitively expensive, and firefighters’ earnings ranked on the low end of the scale.
She didn’t talk about her father’s unexpected death from heart failure the previous year, nor about her reluctance to leave her mother alone in the house her parents had shared for the thirty years of their marriage. She was even less likely to admit that she couldn’t yet bear the thought of leaving the house that still bore such tangible reminders of the father she’d adored.
The drive from Southwark southeast to suburban Forest Hills usually came as a relief at the end of her watch. With some of the money she saved on rent she’d splashed out on her car, a fire-engine-red Mini with a Union Jack painted on the top. She loved the way the little car handled, and the sense of physical engagement she felt as she drove helped her shed the stresses of her shift. The blokes teased her about the car, of course, but it was the good-natured ribbing of approval. They could understand her attachment to a collection of nuts and bolts.
But today not even the drive had helped her unwind, and as she pulled up in front of the semidetached house not far from the main parade in Forest Hills, she realized she had the steering wheel clenched in a white-knuckled grip. She flexed her fingers and stretched the kinks from her neck, making a conscious effort to ease the tension from her body. It was a ritual with her, trying not to take the job inside, even though she knew her mum would be at work. The house was sanctuary, the one place she could be entirely herself.
She gazed at the familiar curve of the bay window, the gingerbread of the porch gable with the distinctive crosses at the bottom ends, the stained glass of the front door. At work, only Bryan Simms knew she lived in a “Christmas” house, as no explanation would allay the teasing if the rest of the watch were privy to that little tidbit. It wasn’t that she was usually thin-skinned – in most cases she actually welcomed the firehouse banter and the practical jokes because they were a sign of acceptance – but the passion for the house had been shared with her dad, and it was an area still too tender for public exposure.
Edward Christmas’s company thrived between 1888 and 1930, and while his houses weren’t as well known as those by Arts and Crafts architects such as Voysey and Lutyens, they had a wealth of detail and a unique charm. Her parents had bought the place cheaply in the late seventies, before the resurgence of interest in the builder’s work, and throughout her childhood her father had spent his spare time lovingly restoring each distinctive feature. And she’d helped him, becoming comfortable early on with woodworking and power tools, brick pointing and glass repair – all things that had stood her in good stead in the male culture of the firehouse. Hey, will ya look at that? The flower can use a chain saw! The memory of her sub officer’s surprise still made her smile.
A magpie lit on the gate a few feet from her car and examined her, its bright, beady eye mocking, as if it knew the truth about her. She’d worked so hard at showing she could do the job, at fitting in – had she blown it all that morning? What would her station officer say when he heard she’d gone back to the scene, off duty, without clearing it with him first? Charlie Wilcox was a good boss, a fair man who preferred encouragement to criticism, but she had a sinking feeling that she’d violated some unwritten protocol, made a fool of herself, and by association, of her watch. There was nothing worse than that. The magpie took off with a sharp clap of wings, and her shoulders jerked involuntarily.
What had possessed her? Had she been afraid she’d missed something, made some mistake that would come to light? In the three years she’d been in the fire service, she’d only worked half a dozen large structure fires, and last night was one of the few times she’d had the nozzle. To have the nozzle, be first on the hose, that was what every firefighter lived for – it was the ultimate experience, it was what made you real. She could still feel the exhilaration in her veins, and in an instant of clarity she knew she hadn’t done anything wrong, she’d simply done what she’d been trained to do, and she’d never felt more whole in her life.
Then why did her brain keep replaying the spongy feel of flesh beneath her gloved hand, the glimpse of the contorted face with the bared and blackened teeth? She’d seen worse, for God’s sake – why did this one somehow seem to be her responsibility?
She had to let it go. She had to sleep or she’d be useless on her watch tonight. That she couldn’t afford, especially with the FIT coming in to question the rest of the watch. Her visit to the fire scene was bound to come out; there was no avoiding it. She’d just have to take her lumps from Wilcox and the others, if necessary, and put the whole episode behind her.
With that resolution, she blew a few stray hairs from her face and got out of the car. But as she let herself into the quiet house, she found herself thinking about the coming evening, wondering if the FIT officers would have any new information, and if the superintendent from Scotland Yard would be there as well.
Not wanting to say anything about her discoveries in front of Fanny, Gemma waited until the constable had come and gone, then spoke briefly to Winnie as they stood outside the church office.
Winnie shook her head in bewilderment. “Why go to so much trouble to secrete things away, when she knew Fanny couldn’t climb the stairs? And why hide the things at all? Don’t most single women have a few pairs of sexy knickers?”
“If they don’t, they should,” Gemma replied, grinning. In spite of her newly married status, Winnie could still display an endearingly innocent honesty. “What about the phone?” she asked. “Do you suppose Elaine thought Fanny would be a nuisance if she knew she could reach her on a mobile?”
“It’s always seemed to me that Fanny goes out of her way not to make demands on Elaine.” She shrugged. “But maybe Elaine perceived it differently. I can’t guess at this point. Should we have told the constable about these things?”
“I don’t think having a stash of slightly tarty clothes and a mobile phone constitutes significant detail. But it has made me curious,” she added. “Will you let me know if she turns up? Do you think Fanny will be all right?”
“I’ll look in on her this evening,” Winnie told her. “Thanks for all your help.”
After a quick hug, Gemma went on her way, cutting up Blackfriars Road into Union Street. The rain had begun again, a drizzle too light for umbrellas but heavy enough to be annoying. She turned up the collar of her coat and clutched it closed at her throat, trying to keep the occasional drops from slipping down the back of her neck.
There was one thing she’d noticed that she hadn’t felt comfortable sharing with Winnie. Fanny had frequently used the past tense when talking about her friend, although she’d corrected herself a few times. Did she know more about Elaine’s disappearance than she’d let on?
“That’s a nasty suspicious mind you’ve got,” Gemma chastised herself aloud, earning a surprised glance from a passing man in a pin-striped suit. The woman was confined to a wheelchair, for heaven’s sake, she went on to herself – she couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with her friend’s mysterious disappearance.
And Gemma certainly had enough on her plate, with her own caseload and Kit’s hearing coming up on Monday, without taking on another problem. She’d lost half her afternoon as it was, and she imagined Melody Talbot beleaguered, ready to send out a search party for her. Fishing her phone from her bag, she gave Melody a quick call, explaining that something had come up but that she was now on her way back to the station.
Her ruminations and her phone call having taken her as far as Southwark Bridge Road, she took a moment to orient herself before turning north, towards the river, then right into Southwark Street. She caught sight of the distant cluster of emergency vehicles almost immediately, but it wasn’t until she was almost upon them that she was able to see the scene of the fire itself.
Her first thought was one of regret, for the building had been beautiful, its form and symmetry a striking example of the best of Victorian architecture. How could someone willfully damage something so lovely? she wondered, then remembered that Kincaid had called it a suspicious fire. It might not have been arson.
The appliances had gone, but the generator lorry remained, and against the gray sky the lower windows of the warehouse glowed with the eerily bright light of the arc lamps. Piles of blackened rubble had been raked out onto the pavement, and even from a distance the stench made her throat constrict.
There were several marked police cars and a couple of unmarked but vaguely official-looking vans. She recognized Doug Cullen’s slightly battered Vauxhall Astra pulled up over the curb. She was about to ask one of the constables guarding the perimeter where she might find Kincaid when she saw him, standing a few yards down the side street with Cullen and a dark-haired woman in a tan coat.
Gemma’s lips curved in an involuntary smile; familiarity hadn’t dulled the jolt of pleasure she felt on seeing him after a few hours’ separation. Then he looked up and saw her, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Gemma!” he said, hurrying towards her. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right? The boys-”
“No, no, they’re fine,” she hastened to reassure him. “It’s just that I was in the area – Winnie rang and asked me to lunch – and I thought I’d stop by and see how you were getting on.”
“Very slowly,” he said, slipping an arm round her shoulders for a quick hug and giving her a grin that told her he was glad to see her as well.
Gemma realized that the dark-haired woman was watching her with a less than welcoming regard. “I don’t want to trespass on your patch. If it’s inconvenient-”
“You’re fine. Don’t worry about the grim-visaged Inspector Bell,” he added in her ear. “She improves as she thaws. We’re just about to have a word with the woman who reported the fire. Come along with us – I’ll be glad to have your take on this. Then you can tell me about Winnie.”
They’d reached the others. Doug Cullen took her hand warmly, then introduced her to DI Maura Bell. Bell put out her hand in response to Gemma’s, but jerked it free after the slightest press of fingers. Slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am, Gemma thought, amused. This was a woman who obviously did not relish physical contact or having an uninvited investigator on her case.
“While we’re waiting for the fire investigation officer, Bill Farrell, I can give you a quick rundown of what we have so far,” Kincaid said, ignoring Bell’s scowl. “The building belongs to Michael Yarwood, the MP, who was in the process of turning it into luxury flats with a restaurant on the ground floor. The emergency call came in just after half past twelve last night, and the fire was well involved by the time the brigade arrived. They entered through the front door, which they found unlocked, and they later discovered the side door unlocked as well.” He gestured towards the door facing them across the narrow side street. The rear of the building jutted out in a sort of attached tower with a window at each level, leading Gemma to assume that the door opened into a rear staircase.
“The firefighters found their progress into the ground-floor space impeded by a pile of soft furniture gathered in the center of the room,” Kincaid continued. “Behind the furniture they discovered the charred body of the victim. Bill Farrell, the FIO, thinks it likely that the fire started in the furniture, but they’ve found no obvious signs of arson.”
“Does that mean the death may have been accidental?” asked Gemma.
“Possible, but I’d say not likely, as Kate Ling found a massive fracture to the back of the skull.”
“Kate was here?” Gemma felt a twinge of jealousy. She knew that Kate fancied him, but how he felt about Kate she’d never quite been able to work out. Obviously, he respected the doctor professionally, and just as obviously he found her attractive, but it never seemed to occur to him that the feeling might be reciprocated. Men could be so clueless, thought Gemma, but in this case Kincaid’s blind spot was a blessing. She just hoped he never saw the light where Kate Ling was concerned.
“Been and gone. She’ll get to the postmortem as soon as she can.” He turned to greet a tall, balding man. “Here’s Farrell now.”
“Are these flats, then?” asked Gemma when she’d been introduced, looking up at the building they were about to enter. It was larger than its burned neighbor, and a bit more ornate, but it showed obvious signs of decay and neglect. “You said someone called from here after midnight.”
“Not flats,” Farrell told her. “It’s a family violence shelter.” He pointed out a small plaque near the door, which bore the legend helping hands. “It was one of the residents who called in the fire. We’re going to have a word with the director before we interview the young woman. I’ve got the entry code from the constable who took the original statement.”
The street door stood open, showing a small entry hall fitted with stained coco matting, but as Gemma tailed after the others, she saw that an interior door had been fitted with an expensive new security keypad. Farrell entered a code and, when the door swung open, led them into a dingy stairwell. Looking back over his shoulder, he said, “First off, we need to make sure they haven’t misplaced a resident who fits our victim’s description.”
“I doubt they were expecting a delegation,” Maura Bell muttered as they climbed.
“A delegation of detectives?” Kincaid quipped. “Or would a murder of detectives be more appropriate? I rather like that.”
Gemma touched Kincaid’s arm. “Wait. Are you saying your victim was female? I just assumed, when you said you had a possible homicide, that the victim was male, someone to do with the site.”
“No. We’ve got a Jane Doe. Female, no ID, and burned beyond recognition. Why?”
Gemma’s mind raced. Surely it was too much of a coincidence – but was it? The fire scene was only a few streets from Fanny Liu’s house… but what would Elaine Holland have been doing in an empty warehouse at night?
Unless she’d been moonlighting as a prostitute, and that might explain the hidden clothes and shoes, the secret mobile phone. Gemma remembered hearing that call girls worked Union Street at night – a doorway in nearby Southwark Street might have provided a quieter rendezvous, a bit more privacy. But then-
“Gemma?” Kincaid’s voice snapped her out of her speculations. They had reached the top of the stairs.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Just a wild idea. I’ll tell you later.”
A woman awaited them in the first-floor corridor. “Hi, I’m Kath Warren, Helping Hands’ director. You’re the police?” She’d started to offer her hand but let it fall to her side, seemingly daunted by their number. Gemma guessed the woman to be in her well-preserved forties, with an air of no-nonsense competence softened by an attractive face with a slightly upturned nose. She wore a honey-colored trouser suit that complemented her streaked blond hair, and her green eyes held a hint of wariness.
Farrell stepped easily into the breach. “I’m Bill Farrell, from the fire brigade.” He nodded at the others, clustered behind him like ducklings, as he made the introductions. “Superintendent Kincaid, Scotland Yard. Sergeant Cullen. Inspector Bell. Inspector James,” he added last, with a questioning glance in her direction to assure he’d got it right.
Kath Warren looked round the corridor, as if realizing its unsuitability for conversation. “Um, perhaps we’d better go into my office. It’s not much larger, but at least there’s somewhere to sit.”
“I should say our office,” she added as they followed her into the first room off the corridor. “This is Jason Nesbitt, the agency’s assistant director.”
The room held two utilitarian desks, a sagging sofa, several mismatched straight-backed chairs, and ranks of metal filing cabinets. A young man sat at the second desk, one hand on the telephone, the other balancing a manila file folder. At their entrance he returned the handset to its cradle and stood up.
“It’s the police, Jason,” said Kath, motioning them to the assorted furniture as she slipped behind the other desk.
“So I gathered. We must really rate.” His grin was sardonic but engaging. He was tall, rail thin, with blond-tipped hair and a wide, expressive mouth. His dark shirt and tie hinted at a certain vanity, and a closer look made Gemma revise her estimate of his age to nearer thirty than twenty.
“Please sit down. You’ll have to excuse our lack of elegance,” said Kath, with a shrug that indicated the office. “The place is a bit of a tip, but we’re funded primarily by the council, and that leaves no room for frills.”
Cullen and Bell sat rather awkwardly together on the sofa, while Farrell and Gemma perched on two of the hard-backed chairs. Kincaid remained standing, resting his hip against a filing cabinet.
“You take in women who’ve been abused by their husbands?” said Gemma, forgetting for a moment that it wasn’t her place to ask. Bell gave her a dark look.
“Women and their children, more often than not.” Kath Warren seemed more comfortable behind her desk. “Not that men aren’t sometimes victims of spousal abuse, but the council makes other arrangements in that case. We give women a safe haven, a chance to sort things out, and if that’s not possible, we help them move on to new lives.”
“How many rooms do you have?” Kincaid asked.
“Ten, all full at the moment. Not the most salubrious of accommodations, but that may not matter for much longer. It looks as if our time here is limited. This building, like the one next door, is ripe for redevelopment. The front half is already vacant, and the asking price for the property will be much more than the local council can afford.”
It seemed to Gemma that what had begun as a practiced spiel had become personal, that the impending loss of the agency’s premises affected Kath Warren in some intimate way. “What will happen then?” she asked.
“Oh, they’ll find a new spot for us eventually, but it may mean our shutting down for some time. The council will do their best to find places for our residents with other agencies, of course.” She forced a smile. “But I’m waffling on about things that don’t concern you, when I’m sure you have questions.”
Jason Nesbitt had been listening, his eyes darting occasionally from Kath to the others, but his mobile face was unreadable. It occurred to Gemma that the impending closure of the facility might mean that both Nesbitt and Kath Warren would be out of a job.
“Your residents, Miss Warren,” interjected DI Bell, almost springing from her seat in her impatience, “are they all accounted for?”
“Yes, of course. The residents must sign a log when they exit or enter the building, and we do have a ten p.m. curfew. Sometimes at night the women start to miss their husbands and the curfew helps prevent lapses. And it’s Mrs. Warren, by the way,” she added, but she looked down at her hands as she spoke, twisting her wedding ring, rather than at DI Bell. “We saw the mortuary van, you know, and the attendants loading the… body… into it. Does this mean you don’t know who it was?”
“An unidentified female, ma’am,” said Bill Farrell. “That’s been released to the media and is really all we can say at the moment. Now, we understand that one of your residents notified the fire brigade of the fire?”
“Yes, Beverly Brown-Mouse, we call her. Both her kids have got bad colds at the moment, and she was up with one of them when she looked out the window and saw the flames. She had to use the phone in the hallway – we can’t allow residents to have mobile phones. Again, it makes access too easy for both parties.”
Nesbitt stood up. “I’ll just go get Mouse, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, he eased his way round his desk, and as he passed her, Gemma caught the musky scent of expensive cologne.
“That seems rather an infringement of their rights,” ventured Cullen, speaking for the first time.
“They come here voluntarily, but to enter the program they must agree to the rules. It’s a waste of our time and theirs if they’re not willing to make changes – that’s the only way to break the patterns of habitual abuse.” Kath Warren stood, as if the waiting made her nervous. “Can I get you all some coffee? We keep a pot going in the scullery.”
By the time they had all refused, Jason Nesbitt had come back with his charges. He ushered the woman and the two children into the room, then stood behind them protectively.
If ever someone looked in need of protection, it was this woman, thought Gemma. She was small and slight, appearing hardly more than a child herself, playing dress-up in her T-shirt and combat trousers. Her skin had a junkie’s pallor, and a streak of pure white hair sprang from her widow’s peak, making her look more like a little badger than a mouse. Her face was pinched with fright, and Gemma guessed that talking to a roomful of coppers was not her idea of a good time.
The children were girls, perhaps two and five, pale as their mother and snotty nosed. They clung to their mother’s legs, ducking their faces behind the meager barricade she provided. A good thing, too, thought Gemma, as she had to fight the temptation to pull tissues from her bag and give their faces a good scrubbing.
“Do you want to sit down, Beverly?” asked Kath Warren, but the woman shook her head. “These people are trying to find out what caused the fire last night, and they need to ask you a few questions. I’m sure it won’t take long.”
“It’s all right, Mouse,” said Jason Nesbitt. “They won’t bite you.”
Beverly nodded, eyes wide, but didn’t speak.
Bill Farrell shifted his chair to face her. “Beverly, can you tell me exactly what you saw last night? You can start by describing what you were doing beforehand.”
“It was Brittany,” she said in a soft, high voice that made the reason for her nickname evident, pulling the older child out from behind her leg as if wanting to prove her existence. “Her cough was that bad, she couldn’t sleep.” The child coughed on cue, a racking sound that made Gemma cringe. “I went down to the kitchen to steam a pan of water for her to breathe. When I came back to the room I made her sit over it, you know, with a towel to keep the steam in. Ten minutes, I told her, and I promised to watch the clock. That’s when I looked out the window.” Her voice had grown stronger, as if she was encouraged by their interest. “At first I thought it was weird, you know, there was a red light in the building across the street. I thought, why would someone have a red light, must be a wild party. And then I saw it flicker, and suddenly I go, wow, it’s not a light, it’s a fire.”
“And that’s when you called 999?”
“Yeah. They were fast, you know. Couldn’t have been much more than a minute before we heard the sirens.”
“And you kept watching?”
“Well, yeah, it was exciting, you know?” She ducked her head, as if not sure that was an acceptable response. “Brandy woke up, too, so we all watched.”
Farrell smiled at her. “There’s nothing like a good fire. I’d be the first to agree with you on that. Now, did you see anything else before the brigade arrived? Anyone on the street or coming out the side door?”
“No. There wasn’t nobody.”
“The building would have burned down if it hadn’t been for Mummy,” piped up Brittany. She wiped a fist across her nose and glared at Farrell, as if daring him to contradict her.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Farrell said kindly. “Your mummy saved the day. Now, you know what to do if you see a fire, don’t you?”
“Call 999,” Brittany informed him, puffing out her little chest in its stained Scooby-Doo T-shirt. “I know where nine is on the phone. Three nines. I can count them.”
“That’s great, sweetheart.” Farrell turned back to her mother. “Beverly, did you see anything before you noticed the fire? Or hear anything unusual?”
Beverly shook her head, perhaps a bit too quickly, Gemma thought. “No. I was asleep. It was only Brittany’s coughing that woke me up.”
“What about earlier in the evening, before you went to bed?” Kincaid asked. “Did you see anything then?”
“No. I didn’t look, did I? I was putting the girls to bed.” She turned to Kath Warren. “Can I go now, Kath? I have to take Brittany to the clinic.”
Kath glanced at Bill Farrell, who nodded.
Farrell handed Beverly a card. “There’s my number, if you think of anything else,” he told her.
“Yeah, okay,” she said, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. She slipped out the door, her children still clinging like limpets, and Gemma noticed that she adroitly managed to avoid touching Jason Nesbitt.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Gemma shielded her eyes against the rain, which was coming down harder now, the drops stinging her skin like biting midges.
Kincaid looked round at the warehouse frontages and at the office buildings across Southwark Street, none of which offered any protection from the downpour; then he shouted at Doug Cullen, who was conferring with Farrell and a firefighter with an Alsatian. “Hey, Dougie! Lend us your keys for a minute, will you?”
Cullen tossed them over with a grin. “Careful you don’t fog up my windows.”
They sprinted for the car, and when Kincaid had managed to get the doors unlocked, fell inside, laughing.
“I left my brolly at the office,” he admitted, wiping his face.
“Me, too,” said Gemma. “I thought it had stopped.” She could almost feel her hair curling from the moisture, springing free from its clip.
“Here.” Kincaid retrieved a box of tissues from among the gum wrappers and crisp packets littering the car floor. “Will these help?”
Gemma tried not to touch the box as she pulled out a few tissues and dried her face. Then, looking round for someplace to put the soggy remains, she grimaced at the mess. “This car’s a tip. I wouldn’t have thought it of Doug.”
“I think he’s rebelling against having to keep his flat spotless for Stella. Now.” He turned towards her. “Tell me what’s up with Winnie? Are she and Jack all right?”
“Of course.” Touching his cheek, she remembered his reaction when he’d seen her. She was so close she could see the tiny patch of stubble he’d missed when he’d shaved that morning and smell the damp warmth of his skin. “You’re a bit mother-henish today.”
“Maybe I don’t like fires,” he confessed with a shrug. “There’s something about a burned body, as illogical as it is.”
Gemma felt the lump of Fanny Liu’s candle inside the bag on her lap, a sudden burden, weighted by possibility. “Okay. I know this is going to sound far-fetched.” She took a breath and proceeded to tell him about Winnie’s phone call, about Fanny Liu and her missing roommate, Elaine Holland, and about her theory that Elaine might have been moonlighting on the street and somehow ended up in Yarwood’s warehouse.
Kincaid tapped his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment when she’d finished, gazing out at the warehouse through the slanting curtain of rain. “It is far-fetched, I’ll give you that,” he said slowly. “But it’s the first report of a missing woman we’ve had that fits the time frame. I think that alone makes it worth consideration. But say, just for the moment, that you’re right and she was with a john, sheltering in the doorway. How did she end up inside the building?”
“Maybe the client had a key?”
His eyes widened. “Right now, that would narrow it down to Michael Yarwood and his foreman, Spender. We’re already checking their alibis for last night. But there are other possibilities. Estate agents, former owners, janitorial services…”
“I don’t envy you that,” Gemma said, thinking of the massive paperwork involved in following up these leads. “What about Elaine Holland? Will you want to speak to Fanny again today? What about a proper search of the house?”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, let’s wait until we get the results of the postmortem. There’s no point in jumping the gun here. For all we know, at this point the PM may tell us something that would rule her out entirely – say, the victim was a teenager or nonwhite. Kate said she’d try to schedule the PM tonight or first thing tomorrow, and she’ll keep me informed. We’ll go from there. But in the meantime, I’d better fill in the others.” He turned back to her and reached out to cup her cheek in his hand. “I don’t know when I’ll get home.”
“I know.”
“Then we’d better make the most of the moment,” he said, sliding his fingers down to her chin and turning her face so that he could brush his lips against hers.
He tasted very slightly of coffee. Gemma struggled, laughing, as he nuzzled her neck. “Don’t do that. Someone will see us.”
“That’s the idea. You wouldn’t want to disappoint Doug, would you?”
Why the hell didn’t the woman answer her bloody phone?
Tony Novak stood in London Bridge Railway Station, mobile phone in hand, panic rising in his throat. He’d told Beth to bring Harriet to meet him at the flower stall at twelve o’clock, and there he’d been standing for the last hour.
After half an hour had passed, he’d started ringing Beth’s mobile, but the stupid fucking thing went directly to voice mail. It was only then that the truth began to dawn – he had a name and a mobile number, nothing else, and he’d left his daughter with her.
Dear God, what had he been thinking? Sweat stung his armpits, stuck his shirt damply to his back, and his knees felt suddenly as if they might give way. He sank down onto the large suitcase, rubbing his face with his free hand. People milled past him, wheeling luggage, shouldering briefcases, as if the world hadn’t come to a dead stop. A pretty girl slowed, gave him a tentative smile, then looked away and hurried on as if something she’d seen in his face had frightened her. Good bloody riddance.
They had always been his downfall – girls, women. He attracted them like flies to honey, and in spite of the best of intentions, he had never learned to say no. This little weakness had ruined his marriage to Laura, as well as every other relationship he’d had since adolescence.
And that was how he’d met Beth, in the bar at the George Inn in Borough High Street, near his flat. An attractive woman, obviously looking for company; he in the throes of postseparation shock, an easy mark. When she’d chatted him up, he’d seen no reason to refuse. He’d taken her back to his flat that night, surprised but intrigued by her ferocity.
Afterwards, lying naked in his bed, she’d told him she was married, her husband a commercial traveler, a jealous man. She said she would come to him again if he wanted, and he had wanted it. It helped fill the hours, numbed his mind, and he had liked the fact that she was married, unavailable for more than their regular trysts.
Lately, though, things had begun to change. He should have seen it coming – he’d never known a woman to remain satisfied with simple sex. He recognized the signs easily enough – hints of dissatisfaction with her marriage, hints that things might be different between them – and he’d begun to think of finding a way to terminate the relationship.
Then things had blown up with Laura and his life had spun out of control. His plans hastily conceived, he’d realized he needed someone to watch Harriet while he retrieved her documents from Laura’s flat and withdrew his funds from the bank, and Beth had seemed the logical choice.
It was only now that he remembered the odd look on her face last night when he’d told her what he meant to do, but then she’d smiled and said yes, of course she’d help him, and in his hurry and his relief he’d quickly buried any uneasiness.
A garbled announcement came over the tannoy, a train departing for some unidentifiable location. The sound made his head hurt. He rubbed at his face again, trying to clear his mind, trying to bring back any little tidbits of information that Beth had revealed in postcoital conversations.
She worked in an estate agent’s in the Borough, she had told him that much. She’d grown up in South Africa, a daughter of missionaries, and had only come to London in her late teens. She’d been married once before, but it hadn’t worked out.
Fat lot of good any of that did him. What was he going to do, go round to every estate agent’s in the Borough, hoping to find her? He might as well ring directory inquiries and ask for a listing for Beth. It was madness.
Mary, mother of Jesus, how could he have been so stupid? He stood again, looking round wildly, as if his daughter’s face might suddenly appear in the crowd.
Had Beth taken Harriet to the authorities? But in that case, wouldn’t she have also told them where he was? He’d been waiting in the same spot for close on an hour and a half now, and no one had approached him.
But the alternative was more terrifying still. If she had not reported him, what in hell had she done with his child?