Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

“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.