Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

“It must be hard.”

Rose shrugged as the waitress brought their tea. “Sometimes, but not like it used to be. The fire service is changing. Some of the old-timers may not like women coming in, but they know there’s nothing they can do about it. And the good officers, like my guv’nor, realize that women have things to offer that are as important as brute strength. Not that I’m not strong, mind you,” she added, with another small smile. “But I think the strength thing is overrated. I can haul hose and lift ladders with the best of them, but there are techniques that women, or smaller men, can use to make things easier. It seems to me that should be the point – getting the job done as efficiently as possible. Safer for personnel, safer for victims, safer for property.” Her face was alight with enthusiasm, and Kincaid found himself hoping that the wear and tear of the job wouldn’t erode too much of her crusading spirit.

“What about hazing? Is that still a problem?” Kincaid asked as their food arrived.

Rose considered for a moment. “There’s teasing, of course. It’s part of the culture, and I think that if you’re going to make it as a woman in the fire service, you have to let a certain amount roll off your back.” She frowned and added slowly, “The tough part is knowing when you have to draw the line, because eventually you will, with someone. I’m sure it must be the same for women in the police.”

Kincaid thought of the difficulties Gemma had had with one of the sergeants under her command at Notting Hill. It had taken a delicate combination of tact and authority for her to establish a good working relationship with the man, but then she’d had the advantage of rank.

He was watching Rose slather butter on her scone, and congratulating himself a bit because he’d never felt particularly threatened by female police officers, when it occurred to him that he’d never worked with a woman who outranked him. If he did, would he find he was a hypocrite, and a self-righteous one at that? It was an uncomfortable thought. He made an effort to concentrate on his sandwiches, but he couldn’t help wondering if he’d condescended to Maura Bell in a way he wouldn’t have if she’d been male.

“What about you?” asked Rose. “We’ve established that I don’t have a jealous boyfriend. Are you married?”

Kincaid looked up, startled, and tried not to choke on his tuna sandwich. “Um, no. But I live with my partner and our two sons.”

“That sounds very progressive of you.” Her smile was a little too quick, and he saw a telltale flush of color stain her cheeks, as if she’d embarrassed herself by asking. “Bohemian.”

“It’s not, really.” He hesitated, imagining himself trying to explain their family situation, or telling her how hard it had been just to persuade Gemma to live with him. God forbid he should mention marriage. That was a can of worms he didn’t want to contemplate himself, much less reveal to a stranger. “Long story,” he said at last, then, not wanting to seem abrupt, added, “we’re both in the job, so it complicates things. We used to work together.”

“Really?” Rose sounded interested. “What happened?”

“She put in for promotion and a transfer.” More than ready to change the subject, he said quickly, “Why don’t you tell me what it was you wanted with Bill Farrell?”

Now, Rose seemed to feel awkward. With her fingertip, she pushed scone crumbs into a pile on her plate. “I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to tell Station Officer Farrell how to do his job. But after the meeting last night I was curious, so I started looking back through the fire reports for the Borough in the last year.” She pulled some folded papers from her jacket pocket and spread them out on the table. “I found five structure fires in the past seven months that seem to fit a pattern.”

He could see that the top pages were fire brigade incident reports. “I’m sure Farrell will have checked for arson reports as a matter of routine-”

“But that’s just the thing,” interrupted Rose. “None of these fires were ever definitely flagged as arsons. They were all listed as undetermined cause. Here, I’ve marked them on a map.” She pushed the bottom sheet across the table to him. It was a photocopy of an area map, showing six scattered red rings. He recognized one location, the Southwark Street warehouse.

“They started small,” Rose said, tapping the ring on the map’s western boundary. He noticed that her nails were short and unpolished, her hands slender. “The first one was in a lockup behind Waterloo Station. Accumulated rubbish, no sign of accelerants, no more than one point of origin. Multiple points of origin are usually a dead giveaway for arson.”

He frowned. “So you’re saying it did n’t look like arson?”

“No, wait, hear me out.” She tapped another circle, this one to the east, near the top of Borough High Street. “Number two was a vacant basement flat in a council estate. Same scenario, more bang. Keep in mind that basements are ideal for starting a good fire, because fire spreads upwards.

“Then a small grocer off the Borough Road. The fire started in accumulated polystyrene meat-packing trays, a great accelerant. That’s how the fire was started in Leo’s Grocery in Bristol. Anyone with an interest in fires would know that.”

“Number four, a paint store.” She touched a spot near Blackfriars Road. “That burned for two days, and took two adjoining buildings with it.”

“And the fifth?”

“A warehouse near the Hay’s Galleria. Stored fabric for a clothing manufacturer. Went up a treat.”

“And you think last night’s fire was the sixth,” Kincaid said, intrigued now. “What about access in the first five?”

“No sign of forced entry in any instance. The only place with an alarm was the warehouse, but it was an old building and the system wasn’t sophisticated.”

“So what makes you think there’s any connection? Why not a series of accidents? Or if they were arson, unrelated attempts at insurance fraud?”

“You can rule out insurance fraud on the first two. The lockup was abandoned, the flat vacant. It’s a possibility with the others, but the investigators would have looked for financial problems or insurance irregularities. As for connections…” Rose ate the last bite of her scone and leaned towards him. “What do all these fires have in common?”

Kincaid felt like a slow pupil. “Besides the fact that they weren’t proved arson? I don’t know. But I think you’re dying to tell me.”

“Okay.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “Most people think that arsonists go about splashing petrol all over the place and setting off timing devices, but that’s not always true. A pro will use fuels available at the scene, and the simpler the ignition, the better. If you have a good fuel load, you can use a very small amount of accelerant to get things going and there won’t be a trace left after the burn. You put a bit of petrol or paraffin on a pile of loose paper or some plastic cartons, light it with a cigarette lighter, and presto!” She sat back, looking pleased with herself.

Kincaid popped his last bite of sandwich into his mouth while he thought it over. “And all these places had the right sort of material for fuel, and were pretty well guaranteed to burn on their own from a small ignition?” She nodded. “Say you’re right,” he continued. “What makes you think last night’s fire fits the pattern?”

“It would be hard to find a better fuel load than a pile of old furniture filled with polyurethane foam. The stuff was highly flammable, and arranged for maximum burn. It was a perfect set. And the time between fires has been getting progressively shorter. There were only two weeks between the last warehouse fire and this one.”