Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

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?