Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

Afterwards, lying naked in his bed, she’d told him she was married, her husband a commercial traveler, a jealous man. She said she would come to him again if he wanted, and he had wanted it. It helped fill the hours, numbed his mind, and he had liked the fact that she was married, unavailable for more than their regular trysts.

Lately, though, things had begun to change. He should have seen it coming – he’d never known a woman to remain satisfied with simple sex. He recognized the signs easily enough – hints of dissatisfaction with her marriage, hints that things might be different between them – and he’d begun to think of finding a way to terminate the relationship.

Then things had blown up with Laura and his life had spun out of control. His plans hastily conceived, he’d realized he needed someone to watch Harriet while he retrieved her documents from Laura’s flat and withdrew his funds from the bank, and Beth had seemed the logical choice.

It was only now that he remembered the odd look on her face last night when he’d told her what he meant to do, but then she’d smiled and said yes, of course she’d help him, and in his hurry and his relief he’d quickly buried any uneasiness.

A garbled announcement came over the tannoy, a train departing for some unidentifiable location. The sound made his head hurt. He rubbed at his face again, trying to clear his mind, trying to bring back any little tidbits of information that Beth had revealed in postcoital conversations.

She worked in an estate agent’s in the Borough, she had told him that much. She’d grown up in South Africa, a daughter of missionaries, and had only come to London in her late teens. She’d been married once before, but it hadn’t worked out.

Fat lot of good any of that did him. What was he going to do, go round to every estate agent’s in the Borough, hoping to find her? He might as well ring directory inquiries and ask for a listing for Beth. It was madness.

Mary, mother of Jesus, how could he have been so stupid? He stood again, looking round wildly, as if his daughter’s face might suddenly appear in the crowd.

Had Beth taken Harriet to the authorities? But in that case, wouldn’t she have also told them where he was? He’d been waiting in the same spot for close on an hour and a half now, and no one had approached him.

But the alternative was more terrifying still. If she had not reported him, what in hell had she done with his child?

ROSE HAD DRAWN kitchen duty for that night’s watch, her least favorite chore. Growing up, she’d not had any interest in cooking, while her mother had enjoyed it and had been content to let her help her dad with his projects rather than insisting she do her share in the kitchen.

But cooking, she quickly discovered, was an essential skill in the fire service, and she’d set out with her usual diligence to become competent. Now, at least the other members of the watch didn’t roll their eyes and suggest Chinese takeaway when it was her turn to prepare meals.

She’d come in a half hour early, hoping to have a word with Station Officer Wilcox before the tour of duty began. It would be better if he heard about her visit to the fire scene from her rather than the FIT.

But Wilcox hadn’t yet come in, so she decided to get the dinner ready to go in the oven before roll call. That way she had more chance of getting the meal finished if they had a busy night, and it would give her something to do while she kept an eye out for Wilcox. Using a mallet, she pounded chicken breast halves into an even thickness before coating them in seasoned bread crumbs and drizzling them with olive oil. Then she scrubbed and quartered potatoes for roasted potato wedges; both dishes could be popped in the oven later. She could throw a salad together at the last minute, and there was ice cream in the freezer for a sweet.

Yawning as she finished her tasks, she rubbed at eyes burning from lack of sleep. Although a nap and a shower had helped, she still felt frayed round the edges. It would be a long night, but she knew better than to wish for a quiet one – that only seemed to guarantee that the bells would go nonstop.

Bryan Simms wandered into the kitchen as she was finishing up, carrying a takeaway coffee. “You look knackered,” he offered after examining her critically.

“Thanks.” She shot him a sour glance. “You really know how to boost a girl’s confidence.”

“Anytime.” He grinned at her. “Dinner looks good, though.” He reached for a slice of raw potato, but she snatched it back.

“Don’t eat raw potato, it’s disgusting. You’ll get a disease or something.”

“Hasn’t hurt me yet.” Lounging against the oven, he sipped his coffee and watched her wipe the worktops. “Besides, I need something to keep my strength up. I’ve got phone duty, and I hear the press calls about last night’s fire have been coming in nonstop.” He’d have checked with the previous watch’s duty officer for any ongoing problems. “I’m to refer all queries to Lambeth PR.”

Rose dried her hands on a tea towel, debating whether to tell him about her visit to the scene that morning. “Bryan-”

The blare of the tannoy drowned out her words as Seamus MacCauley, the sub officer, announced roll call. “Never mind,” she said, patting her hair to make sure it was tucked up in regulation fashion. “Tell you later.”

But later never seemed to materialize. During roll call, MacCauley informed them that the FIT was expected at seven o’clock and would be debriefing the entire watch in the lecture room, so from roll call they scattered to complete their routine maintenance of the equipment and appliances.

Wilcox was closeted in his office with MacCauley, and as she’d caught up on her kitchen chores, Rose offered to fill in for one of the pump ladder’s crew on a call to a nearby office building, a person stuck in a lift. By the time they returned and she’d dashed into the kitchen to put the food in the oven, the rest of the watch had gathered in the lecture room. Having missed her chance to talk to Wilcox, Rose slid into a chair in the back. The tension that had been temporarily dissipated by the call returned with a vengeance.

As she looked round the room, she thought how seldom she saw them all gathered together, except on the rare occasions when both crews managed to sit down to a meal at the same time. It was a good watch, the best she’d ever had, due in part to the personalities of the men themselves and in part to Charlie Wilcox’s scrupulous refusal to tolerate any sort of hazing or bullying on his team. Rumors of Wilcox’s potential promotion to divisional officer circulated with distressing regularity. What might be a gain for the fire service administration would be a loss for Southwark Station.

Their sub officer, Seamus MacCauley, at fifty-four the oldest member of the watch, was nearing retirement, and Rose suspected he had never actively sought promotion. A whipcord-thin Geordie with an unlikely Scots-Irish name, he was a good and patient teacher, a mediator whose easygoing manner helped keep conflict to a minimum.

As if aware of her regard, he looked over at her from his position by the door and smiled. “You ready for the inquisition, flower? Mean bastards, this lot,” he added, and winked.

“Just as long as they don’t keep me from my dinner,” said Simon Forney from the row in front of her. Simon and the man beside him, Steven Winston, although not in fact brothers, were usually referred to as Castor and Pollux because of their uncanny resemblance to each other. Round-headed, barrel-chested, and proud of their strength, they’d only begun to accept her when she’d proved she could swing an axe and haul hose as well as any bloke.