Deborah Crombie: In A Dark House

“Fire Investigation Officer Farrell, Southeast FIT,” the man acknowledged. He was balding and bearded, with a lined, intelligent face and eyes that seemed narrowed in a permanent squint, as if he’d spent too many hours poring over minute fragments of evidence. “I was just telling Inspector Bell here that we’d wait until you arrived to view the scene – the less disturbance inside, the better. My team and the Home Office pathologist should be here any moment.”

The woman nodded at them but kept her hands firmly in her coat pockets. “Maura Bell, Southwark CID.” Her voice held a trace of Glasgow Scots. She was dark-haired, thirtyish, with a thin, sharp-boned face and a less than welcoming expression. “I’ve been asked to help you coordinate the local area investigation. We’ll set up an incident base for you at Southwark headquarters.”

Bell might have been asked to assist, Kincaid thought, but that didn’t necessarily make her happy about having Scotland Yard on her patch. He’d have to tread carefully if he wanted more than minimal cooperation from her. She must have guessed why they’d been called in, even if she hadn’t been told outright – Southwark CID would have been responsible for informing Yarwood of the damage to his building.

Farrell turned to the uniformed firefighter. “This is Sub Officer Jake Martinelli, and Scully.”

“That’s a name to live up to,” Kincaid acknowledged, admiring the dog. She was black and tan, with dark comma-shaped patches above her eyes that gave her a quizzical expression. “Search and rescue, or explosives?” The Alsatian sniffed his proffered fingers, then went back to gazing expectantly at her handler.

Martinelli gave Kincaid a friendly grin. Olive-skinned and dark-eyed, he had broad cheekbones, which hinted at a dash of the exotic mixed with his Italian heritage. “Neither. Scully’s an accelerant detection dog. Her nose is a hundred times more sensitive than the mechanized hydrocarbon sniffers-”

“Don’t let him start,” broke in Farrell. “He’ll bend your ear till it’s blue. Not that Scully isn’t a good advertisement, but as I was just saying to Inspector Bell, we can’t take her in until the scene has cooled down sufficiently.” The dog whined and moved restively, as if aware her name had been mentioned, and Martinelli stroked her head.

“Easy, girl,” he said to her, then added, “she knows what she’s here to do, and she’s eager to get started.”

“Do you have reason to suspect arson at this point?” Kincaid asked.

“There’s always a possibility of arson with a fire, but no one’s reported a man running from the scene with a can of petrol.” Farrell grinned. “We should be so lucky.”

In Kincaid’s experience, fire investigation officers tended to be a cautious species, refusing to commit themselves to anything less obvious than whether or not the sun was shining until they had irrefutable evidence, and sometimes not even then. At least this one appeared to have a sense of humor. “What do you have so far?” Kincaid asked without great expectations.

“The alarm came in at twelve thirty-six,” Farrell began deliberately, ignoring the impatience radiating from the angular Inspector Bell, as well as the drizzle, which was steadily growing heavier again. It occurred to Kincaid that perhaps Inspector Bell’s temper was not improved by being wet.

Nor was his, and he was beginning to sympathize with Cullen’s craving for hot coffee.

“Called in by someone next door, a resident in one of the flats who looked out the window and saw flames,” Farrell went on, nodding towards the adjacent building, of similar but less elaborate architecture. Together, the two structures had formed a bastion of grace among an array of concrete shop fronts.

“Could it have been the torch?” Kincaid asked, knowing that sometimes arsonists called in their own fires.

“Not likely. According to Control, it was a woman, and there were small children audible in the background.”

“No sign of anyone hanging about when the brigade arrived?”

“No, and the response time was under three minutes. The appliances came from Southwark Fire Station, just up the road. The station officer believed the fire had been in progress ten to fifteen minutes when they arrived. It was well established on the ground floor and beginning to take hold on the upper floors.”

“The door wasn’t locked.” The soft voice came from behind Kincaid and he turned, startled. A young woman stood there, dressed in jeans and anorak. Her corn-fair hair was tied back in a ponytail and she looked tired, her eyes red-rimmed. “I’m Leading Firefighter Kearny, Southwark station,” she explained, seeing their expressions. “My partner and I were first on the scene, BA crew.”

Farrell seemed to assess her disheveled appearance. “You’re just off your watch, then?”

“Yes, sir. Thought I’d make sure the relief had it all under control.” Kearny smiled but shifted on her feet, as if she felt a bit awkward under their scrutiny. “And I thought, if you had any questions, I’d save you waiting until the watch came back on duty tonight.”

“You’re interested in fire investigation?” Farrell asked with a trace of amusement.

“Yes, sir.” The girl met his gaze squarely, her chin up. Although her face was scrubbed pink, her bare neck still bore traces of soot, and the contrast struck Kincaid as rather endearing. Both Cullen and Martinelli were eyeing her with obvious interest, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Were there persons reported when you went in?” Farrell asked.

“No, sir. We were just doing a routine search, trying to lay a guideline for the hose. But it got really hot, and when Simms and I started to evacuate, I crawled into… it.” She made a faint grimace. “We could see there was no point in rescue.”

“Any smell of petrol before you went in?” Martinelli asked.

Kearny frowned, then shook her head. “Not that I remember. And then afterwards I had my mask on…”

“You said you found the front door open,” Kincaid said. “Is there more than one entrance?”

“There’s a side door,” Farrell told him, gesturing towards the narrow street on their right. “It was open when we got here, as well. There’s no sign of damage to it, and none of the crew reported forcing entry.”

“So someone with legitimate access opened the doors?”

“Too soon to say,” Farrell cautioned.

“The builders’ crew might have left them open accidentally,” offered Cullen.

“One, maybe, but both?” Farrell shook his head. “I suppose it’s possible, but not all that likely, in my opinion. Which takes us back to an illegitimate entry, but if that’s the case, we’ve not turned up anything noteworthy on the preliminary outside search.”

The station officer came up and spoke to Farrell. “The SOCOs have finished their preliminary examination, guv, and the structure seems stable. I think it’s cool enough for the dog, if she wears her booties.” He gave the dog a friendly pat, but she ignored him, all her attention focused on the building. When Martinelli pulled a set of paw protectors from his tunic pocket, she began to dance and strain at her lead.

“All right, girl, all right,” he soothed, kneeling to slip the rubber boots over her paws.

“Let me get my kit from the van, will you?” Farrell said, adding, “It’s Rose, is it? Since you’re here, Rose, you can go through the scene with us, tell us if anything strikes you.”

Farrell strode to the brigade van, returning with a bulky evidence collection bag and a notebook. “Right, then, let’s have a look.”

They queued up behind Farrell single file – Indian file, Kincaid would have said as a child, and he felt a flicker of regret for a politically correct age in which his children would never be encouraged to play cowboys and Indians, or army. He had done both, and had still grown up relatively civilized.