Deborah Crombie: In A Dark House

“I’m sorry to put this on you, Duncan,” said Childs, his voice surprisingly soft for a man his size.

Not a promising start, Kincaid thought, settling himself in a chair. Perhaps he should have stayed with the paperwork, after all. “But?”

“But as you have nothing pressing on at the moment, and as you have a knack for soothing ruffled feelings…” – Childs’s lips turned up in the smallest of smiles- “you seemed the best man for the job.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“You can look on it as a diplomatic challenge. It will mean liaising with the Fire Investigation Team and Southwark CID. A fire broke out in the early hours of this morning, in a warehouse on Southwark Street. Do you know it?”

“Southwark Street? That’s near London Bridge Station, isn’t it? But why send me?”

“Patience, boyo, patience. I’m getting there.” Childs leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together, a familiar gesture. “This particular building is Victorian, and was in the process of being made over into luxury flats. The fire apparently started on the ground floor, but by the time the brigade got there it had done considerable damage to the upper floors and had begun to threaten the building next door.”

“The warehouse was empty, then, if it was undergoing renovation?”

“Not quite. When the brigade got inside, they found a body among the debris. Quite badly burned, I’m afraid. And no identification.”

“A tramp, smoking-”

“Possibly, although tramps aren’t usually found naked with no effects. And it gets a bit more complicated. This particular building happens to be owned by one of our more illustrious MPs, Michael Yarwood.”

“Yarwood?” Kincaid sat up a bit straighter in surprise. “I didn’t know Yarwood was developing property.” The vocal and abrasive Yarwood leaned far to the left of the government’s moderate Labour party and was often heard publicly castigating anyone capitalist enough to make a profit. “This could be awkward for him, I take it? And the press will be on it like flies.”

“An understatement. A public relations nightmare in the making, to be more accurate, especially with an important by-election coming up. Not to mention that the loss adjusters are already sniffing round and muttering about possible insurance fraud. And I’ve heard rumors from other quarters – one of my golfing mates who’s in the property market – that Yarwood hasn’t had the early interest in his leases that he expected.”

“Ouch.” Kincaid winced. “So he might have a very costly boat anchor on his hands – or he did until last night.”

“Not that he’d admit it. But the powers-that-be are worried enough that someone from Number Ten rang the assistant commissioner and called in a favor.”

“And that’s where I come into it?” Kincaid said, enlightenment dawning.

“The word is, they only want to be sure the investigation is given high priority-”

“Meaning they want to be sure Yarwood’s interests are well represented.” Kincaid weighed the prospect of taking on such a politically sensitive case against going back to his performance reviews. It could prove messy, both literally and figuratively. He hated self-important politicians, and fire scenes had always given him a bit of the creeps.

“You can refuse, of course,” said Childs, with a deceptive gentleness Kincaid recognized. Not only did Childs want him on the investigation, he knew that Kincaid could use the good mark in the AC’s book.

“Is the body still in situ?” Kincaid asked.

Childs permitted himself another small smile. “I told them to wait for you.”

THE REVEREND WINIFRED CATESBY MONTFORT was finding it more difficult than she’d expected to adjust to life in London. After the past few years at her country church outside Glastonbury, the concrete and grime of urban South London seemed a barren landscape to a soul parched for the gentle spread of green across the Somerset Levels.

But her exile was only temporary, she told herself for the hundredth time as she searched the unfamiliar cupboards of St. Peter’s Rectory, hoping that something would materialize for her lunch. She also reminded herself that her exile was of her own making, and that she had no real cause for complaint. When her old friend and theological college mentor, Roberta Smith, had developed asthma so severe that her doctor ordered her to leave the city for a few months, Winnie had suggested that they swap parishes.

At the time it had seemed the right thing to do, as if God had offered her an opportunity to serve too obvious to refuse, but now she wondered if it had been merely her ego jumping at a chance to be seen as a rescuer - St. Winnie saves the day. And so she had abandoned her husband of less than a year, as well as others at home and in her parish who depended on her, to minister to what she had imagined as the poor and huddled masses.

Instead, she found a fairly comfortable and disinterested parish, the same round of bureaucratic meetings she’d left behind, and an ache of homesickness and longing for Jack that plagued her like a missing organ.

Well, there was nothing for it now but to get on with things, she chided herself as she rooted out a tin of tuna from the cupboard shelf and checked its use-by date. Too much self-examination smacked of self-absorption and was unproductive to boot – and her situation did have its compensations.

The rectory, a flat in Mitre Road across from St. Peter’s Church, was cozy, filled with the bright wall hangings and artifacts Roberta had collected on her trips to Africa and Asia. Southwark Cathedral was only a few streets away, and Winnie found the frequent exposure to cathedral life both fascinating and moving.

Then there was Borough Market, nestled up against the side of the cathedral, its bustle and color an unending source of culinary and sensual delight. When Jack could get up to London for the weekend, they began it with a trip to the market.

She now had a family connection in London as well, Jack’s cousin, Duncan, and Duncan’s partner, Gemma, and their two boys. With the zeal of the newly wed, Winnie hoped that she might encourage the couple to take the same step. She knew the dangers of meddling, of course, but she also knew that sometimes a sympathetic ear and a bit of a gentle nudge were all it took to set things in motion.

And then there were her parishioners, some of whom she was beginning to know and like. One in particular was her neighbor, Frances Liu, a woman near her own age who had been stricken a few years ago by the mysterious and debilitating Guillain-Barré syndrome. As Fanny remained partially paralyzed and housebound, Winnie had quickly got into the habit of stopping in after work as often as she could, and she took the sacraments to her on Sundays.

On the latter occasions, Winnie felt the disapproval of Fanny’s flatmate, Elaine, but she hadn’t discovered whether the woman’s hostility was personal or ideological. Nor had she quite worked out the exact nature of the relationship between the two women, but she sensed that Elaine perceived her as a threat and knew she must tread carefully. Winnie had no wish to make Fanny’s life any more difficult. Perhaps if she could learn more about Elaine, she could draw her out – and then there was the fact that Elaine was a striking woman, and Winnie’s curiosity was naturally piqued.

Resolving to make more of an effort next time she saw the two flatmates, Winnie finished her sandwich and began tidying up. She’d just dried her plate and cup when the rectory phone rang.