Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

“Why indeed?” agreed Bell lightly, but there was no humor in her voice. “We’ll need the details, of course, Mr. Yarwood, but even if you were safely put up in the Midlands last night, that doesn’t rule out a bit of professional help.”

“Now look, Inspector, you can’t accuse me of setting my own warehouse alight.” Yarwood glared at her with a return of his characteristic attitude, as if he were suddenly on firmer ground.

“No, not at this stage, anyway.” Bell allowed herself a small smile. “But there are rumors going round that you were in financial trouble, that your leases weren’t selling fast enough to cover your construction costs.”

“That’s simply not true,” Yarwood said with assurance. “The project’s barely off the ground, and we’d never expected to sell off all the leases until the flats were finished.” He frowned at Bell, his heavy forehead creasing. “You said possible arson. That means you’ve no proof that the fire wasn’t an accident.”

“Not yet.” Bell’s tone implied that it was only a matter of time, and she gave him a challenging stare.

Kincaid thought he should intervene before they resorted to head-banging. “Mr. Yarwood, let’s just say that we find that the fire was started deliberately. Have you any idea why someone would want to burn your warehouse?”

“No. Absolutely none.” Yarwood’s denial was firm, accompanied by a sharp shake of his head, but this time Kincaid had no doubt. He’d seen the flash of fear in the man’s eyes.

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?”