Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

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.”