Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

“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.