Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

“Any luck finding a view of the side door?” he asked.

“No, sorry.” The sergeant, a young Asian woman, sounded as if she took the failure personally. “There’s nothing there except the shelter, and they said that although they’d considered a security camera, they hadn’t managed to work it into their budget.” She picked up the remote control and continued more briskly, “Now, we’re just coming up to the critical time, if you’ll bear with me.” The time stamp in the screen’s bottom corner read 9:55. As she rolled the tape, a figure popped into view on the left-hand side of the screen and moved quickly across – a man, head down, coat collar pulled up high – then vanished on the right. “A harmless pedestrian,” said the sergeant, “but then things get more interesting.” She fast-forwarded the tape until 10:00 showed on the screen, then slowed to normal speed.

This time the figures came from the right, walking more slowly, and stopped before the warehouse door. Although their backs were to the camera, they were recognizable as male and female. The woman wore a short skirt with some sort of blousy jacket; the man was several inches taller and wore what looked like a set of motorcycle leathers. There was something oddly lumpy about the back of the man’s head, but Kincaid couldn’t quite make out what it was.

The couple shuffled and bumped against each other, as if they were a bit tipsy, while the woman dug in her handbag, and the man threw an arm briefly across the woman’s shoulders. Something glinted in her hand as she let the bag drop to her side, and then, for just an instant, she turned round and surveyed the street.

The sergeant froze the frame and they all gazed at the face looking eerily back at them, as if the woman were aware of their regard. The image was blurred and grainy, but still an identifiable likeness.

At first, Kincaid thought that she was too young to fit their profile, but as he studied her face more closely, he decided she could be in her early twenties, maybe even older. Although it was hard to be certain because of the poor quality of the image, she appeared to be white, and brunette. Her lips were pursed in a pout of concentration.

“Anyone recognize her?” the sergeant asked. When no one responded, she said, “We’ve printed photos from this frame – it’s the best shot – and so far none of our regular beat officers have recognized her, either. That makes it less likely she’s a hooker, but doesn’t rule it out altogether. I had my doubts about the skirt anyway – doesn’t look short enough for a girl on the game.”

“Were those keys in her hand?” Kincaid asked.

“She did pull something from her handbag. It might have been keys or lock picks, but it could just as well have been a small torch or even a light saber.”

“A warrior princess.” Kincaid grinned, then just as quickly sobered as he thought of what might have happened to this woman. “Okay, what next?” he asked.

“Go forward again, slowly, Sarah,” instructed Maura Bell.

As the tape jerked into motion, the woman turned back to her companion. Having evidently decided the coast was clear, they both stepped forward into the doorway. After a moment, the shadows round them seemed to darken. Then the couple disappeared.

The man’s face had never been visible to the camera.

“We’ve got two more hours of tape before the fire,” explained Sarah, “and neither of them comes out again – at least not by this door.” She pointed the remote at the screen. “I’m going to fast-forward again. You’ll see a few pedestrians, then, at a few minutes past ten, this man.” A few jerky figures crossed the screen without giving the doorway so much as a glance; then, as the tape slowed, a man in a dark coat came into view, again from the right. His head swiveled towards the doorway as he passed. He seemed to hesitate for an instant, then went on. “And that’s it,” said Sarah, “until the fire brigade arrives two hours later.” The camera had never caught the man’s face, and nothing else distinguished him.

“Did he see the open door and disregard it?” Cullen mused aloud. “Or hear someone moving about?”

“We can’t very well ask him, can we?” Kincaid said, venting his frustration in sarcasm. “And troops could have been moving in and out on the side street, for all we know, with a marching band and Hannibal’s elephants.”

“We’ve a photo of the girl that’s good enough for an ID,” Maura Bell said sharply, as if wanting to make sure her team got the credit they deserved. “I say we start by showing it to Michael Yarwood and his foreman.”

“I can take a batch and canvas the street,” offered the DS, showing commendable initiative.

Kincaid thought of the arrangements he’d made to meet Gemma. Could this woman possibly be old enough to fit the description of Elaine Holland? The camera could be deceiving, and it was dangerous to make assumptions at this stage of an investigation. And even if Winnie’s friend did not identify the woman in the photo as her missing roommate, they had no proof that the woman was in fact the victim found in the fire more than two hours later.

As much as he wanted to question Yarwood and the job foreman about the photo himself, it made more sense to delegate. “Doug, why don’t you and DI Bell try to track down Yarwood and Joe Spender? I’m going to follow through on the missing roommate, and I’ll need an evidence collection kit.”

Kincaid was tempted to regret his decision a few minutes later when Gemma rang to say she’d been delayed.

“Something came up,” she said enigmatically. “And I had to get the boys some lunch. Besides, Winnie’s tied up on a pastoral visit and won’t be free for another hour.”

“We could go without her,” suggested Kincaid, chafing at the delay.

“I’d rather not,” Gemma told him. “Fanny Liu is going to need all the support she can get. Besides, by the time I get the boys situated and get there myself, it wouldn’t save us that much time. I’ll ring you back when I’ve hooked up with Winnie.”

With that he had to be content, and a moment’s thought reconciled him to the setback. As efficient as Bell’s young DS seemed to be, he wanted to show the photo to the shelter’s staff himself, and the delay would give him time. Although Kath Warren had assured him that all the current residents were accounted for, the woman could be a former resident, or have some connection with one of the current residents.

Bill Farrell was also heading back to the fire scene to supervise the ongoing collection of evidence. “I’ve got a murder weapon to find,” he told Kincaid, “and at least now I have some idea what to look for.”

Kincaid found a parking space near Farrell’s van and walked down the side street to the shelter’s entrance. The front door stood open, as it had the previous day, but the inner door was closed, and there was no answer when he rang the bell. There was no sound or sign of activity, and he doubted the residents answered the bell when the staff was out.

Glancing at his watch, he decided to grab a sandwich, then give it another go. He walked back to Southwark Street and stood for a moment, trying to decide which direction offered the best prospect of food. As he scanned the street, he noticed a girl standing in the shadow of an office doorway. Something furtive in her posture drew his attention; then he realized her face was familiar. Her straight blond hair was loose today, half hiding the curve of her cheek, but he’d no doubt it was the young firefighter he’d met yesterday.

“Rose?” he said, going up to her. “It is Rose, isn’t it? What are you doing here?”