Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

The buzz of conversation in the room died away as Wilcox came in with the investigators. He introduced Station Officer Farrell and Sub Officer Martinelli, then the three detectives Rose had met that morning. Kincaid, the superintendent, caught Rose’s eye and nodded in recognition.

Rose hadn’t really noticed Martinelli earlier that day – any attention she’d turned in that direction had been focused on his dog – but now she realized he was younger than she’d thought, perhaps only in his early thirties. His Italian heritage was evident in his dark coloring, but the slant of his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes hinted at another racial component, Asian or maybe Polynesian. He gave her a friendly grin and she looked away, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring.

“We’ll keep this informal,” Farrell told them as he hitched himself up on the table at the front of the room. The others stood about a bit awkwardly until Kincaid took charge, pulling chairs from the empty front row and flipping them round so that they could sit facing the group. “You’ll need to make individual statements for the coroner’s report,” Farrell continued, “as is always the case with a fatality fire, but first I’d like to hear if anyone noted anything unusual at the scene last night. We’ve already heard from Firefighter Kearny earlier today about her discovery of the victim.”

Rose felt a sudden intensifying of attention in the room. Simms gave her a surprised glance, frowning as he turned back to Farrell.

“No one saw anyone loitering near the scene?” Farrell prompted. “Or smelled anything unusual?”

After a few silent minutes, Simms spoke up. “Sir. You think it was arson, then?”

“We haven’t found any obvious use of accelerants, but of course that’s not conclusive,” replied Farrell evasively.

“What about the videos from the appliances?” Simms continued, undiscouraged. The pump and pump ladder carried cameras mounted in their cabs that provided investigators with a view of any suspicious activity en route to a scene.

“No joy there, I’m afraid.”

“What about CCTV, sir?” put in MacCauley.

“Those tapes are still being collected,” answered Superintendent Kincaid. “We’ll be having a look at them in the morning, but our findings shouldn’t prejudice your observations. We would appreciate your cooperation on this,” he added.

A ripple of bodies shifting in chairs and a few mutters signaled the watch’s interest.

From the doorway, MacCauley directed a comment to Farrell. “It seems we’ve had an unusual number of structure fires in the Borough the last few months, guv. Might be worth checking to see if there’s some sort of pattern.”

“We’ll keep that in mind.” Farrell stood. “Okay, if there’s nothing else, we’ll get your statements. It shouldn’t take long.”

Superintendent Kincaid and the other detectives stood as well. Kincaid murmured something in Farrell’s ear, then flashed a smile at Rose as the three detectives left the room. The FIT officers moved round to the far side of the table to take statements. As she slipped into the rough queue formed by the firefighters, Rose wondered at the generous police presence. She’d been too frazzled that morning to pay much attention to the rumors flying round the scene that the building belonged to Michael Yarwood, the Labour MP, but she supposed that would account for the amount of attention being given the case.

Beside her, Steven Winston said quietly, “You oughta remember to wipe your nose, Kearny.”

She reached up instinctively, then flushed and dropped her hand as she realized what he meant. Although his tone had been teasing, his eyes were cold. Before she could respond, he nudged her and added, “Boss wants you.”

Turning, she saw Wilcox watching her from the door. When he had her attention, he jerked his head in the direction of his office. “Rose. A word.”

She followed him, her throat tight, very much aware of the stares directed at her retreating back. Expecting the worst, she stepped into the room and, at Wilcox’s nod, closed the door behind her.

He stood behind his desk, studying her for a moment, then said quietly, “Initiative is a good thing, Rose, up to a point. But we don’t need freelancers on the watch. No loose cannons, on the fire ground or off. If you know, or remember, anything that might be relevant to last night’s fire, you talk to me first and from there we’ll take it through the proper channels. Understood?”

Rose swallowed and resisted the urge to explain herself. “Yes, sir.”

The days when aggression in a firefighter was prized above all else were gone. Freelancing – charging into a fire, or any situation, without thought for partner or team – was as frowned upon now as going into a fire without a mask.

“I don’t want any unnecessary entanglements with the FIT on my watch. It complicates things. And you don’t want the rest of the team feeling you’ve gone behind their backs. You’re a good firefighter, and you handled yourself well last night. Don’t do anything to screw up your record.” Wilcox sat down at his desk and picked up a stack of reports, effectively dismissing her.

“Sir.” Knowing she’d got off lightly, Rose breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the door. Then, her hand on the knob, she turned back, her curiosity overcoming her better judgment. “Guv, about those other warehouse fires. Wouldn’t the brigade database-”

“Let the FIT do their job, Rose,” growled Wilcox, looking up at her with irritation. “You’ve done yours. Leave it alone.”

The phone rang twice before the voice mail clicked in, just as it had the last dozen times Yarwood had called. “You’ve reached Tia and Chloe,” the soft, drawling voice informed him. “We’re busy at the moment, but leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”

It was not Chloe’s voice, but Tia’s. The girl’s Sloane Ranger upbringing was apparent in her stretched vowels, and Yarwood had recently noticed that Chloe had begun to imitate her flatmate, a fact that made him furious. He slammed down the phone in frustration.

He’d been trying to reach his daughter, either at her flat or on her mobile, since he’d left the fire scene that morning, with no success. The only possibility he hadn’t tried was Chloe’s mother, Shirley. He might be worried, but he wasn’t yet desperate enough to call his ex-wife.

Yarwood went back to pacing the sitting room of his flat, stopping to stare out the window at the fading light in Hopton Street. He felt edgy and confined. It was ironic, really, as until Shirley’s last decorating binge had swathed the room in pale blue and green fabrics and filled it with ornate gilded furniture, he’d always found the small space comforting.

That was just before she’d run off with the interior designer, damn the bitch. The pair was now living in happily wedded bliss, according to Chloe, catering to the tastes of the blue-rinse set in Brighton. Good riddance to them both as far as he was concerned.

It was a shame about the flat, though. The building was one of the oldest in Southwark, and deserved something more in keeping with its character. He’d bought the flat years ago, when the Globe Theatre had been merely Sam Wanamaker’s dream, and living in the hulking shadow of Bankside Power Station had not been seen as an advantage. Now the Globe had become a reality, the power station had metamorphosed into the Tate Modern, and Bankside had become a major destination for the tourists and the trendy.

Of course, the value of the flat had increased exponentially, and Shirley had nagged him incessantly to sell it. They could buy a place in the country, she’d said, or one of those new flats on the river.