Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

She cut through Borough Market, which bustled with the early-morning wholesale trade, as it had for centuries. Then she crossed the cathedral yard and climbed the stairs to London Bridge.

When she reached the bridge’s center, she stopped, gazing first at St. Paul’s to the northwest, its dome glowing golden in the light of the rising sun. Then she turned back to the south, until she could see the square tower of Southwark Cathedral. She remembered reading somewhere that this was the only spot in England from which one could see two cathedrals, and she thought that on another day, she might find that a wondrous thing.

Then her gaze swept on, to all that lay beyond. She recalled what she had thought she’d known about the fires, and what she had seen that morning, and the pattern began subtly to shift. The shadowy form flitting from fire to fire took on clarity, and substance, and moved easily into the nightmare of last night’s blaze.

She saw him in her mind, she understood what made him act, and then – then she saw something so terrible that she sagged against the railing, her hand pressed to her mouth to stop the rising bile.

The squeal of car tires tore Kincaid’s attention from the remains of the padlock. A jaunty red Mini swerved, too fast, round the corner into Webber Street, then jerked to a halt behind his car. As the dog began to bark at the unexpected commotion, Rose Kearny got out and ran towards them.

She halted before Farrell, her breath coming hard, her eyes wide and dilated.

“Rose!” said Kincaid. “What is it? What are you doing here?”

She glanced at him, then turned her attention back to Bill Farrell. “I rang the station. They told me you were here. I’ve just realized – I was wrong – or at least only partly right – about why he sets the fires. He has picked sites that haven’t required added accelerant because he wants to prove he’s smarter than we are, but that’s only been an added convenience, icing on the cake.”

Martinelli, who had quieted the dog, looked baffled. “What are you-”

“I’ve looked at the map, and I’ve looked at the sites themselves, one after the other. I think he’s re-creating historic fires.”

“I don’t understand,” said Farrell.

“Well, maybe not the first one, the Waterloo lockup. That might have been a practice run, testing his skills. But the others have been either Victorian warehouses, or he’s recreated an aspect of a Victorian warehouse fire.” Impatiently, Rose shoved a stray hair behind her ear, and Kincaid saw that her hand was trembling. “Look at the contents. Groceries. Paint. Fabric.”

Understanding began to bloom in Farrell’s craggy face, but Kincaid was completely at a loss.

“Tooley Street?” said Farrell, and she nodded.

“Scovell’s warehouses and Cotton’s Wharf. Tea, rice, sugar. Paint. Rum. Hemp, cotton, and jute.” Rose turned to Kincaid. “The Tooley Street fire burned for two days, in 1861. It did over two million pounds’ worth of damage. It was the worst fire to strike London since the Great Fire, and it wouldn’t be equaled until the Blitz.”

Martinelli was nodding now too. “It’s wild, but yeah, I can see it. But why?”

“I don’t know why,” said Rose. “But I think he’s escalating – building up to something much bigger than anything we’ve seen. And-” She stopped, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

“What?” said Farrell gently. “Tell us, Rose.”

She took a ragged breath. “I think – I think I saw him. Last night. The man who shouted that there was someone in the window on the third floor. It was a bogus call. There was never anyone in this building. But he wanted us to go in. He wanted to kill a firefighter. And I saw him. I saw his face.”

“Can you describe him?” asked Farrell, his voice tight now.

“Tall. Youngish. Dark hair, pale skin.” Rose closed her eyes, frowning with the effort of recollection. “And his sleeve… it was dark blue, a uniform sleeve.”

“Bloody fucking hell,” said Martinelli, and at the anger in his tone Scully growled and raised her hackles. “Are you saying it was a fireman? A fucking fireman?”

Rose shook her head. “No – I don’t know. It wasn’t a brigade uniform. I’d have seen that instantly. This was something else, almost like a mock-up of a real uniform. But wait – Say he has a grudge, this guy, against firefighters. Or maybe not just firefighters, but the whole brigade. Look at the dates of the fires, from the first one. When was the last hiring take-up?”

“Jesus.” Farrell rubbed at his beard furiously, as if it had caught a cinder. “You think this guy might have been a rejected applicant? And you think you’d recognize him, if you saw him again?”

Rose nodded once.

“Right,” muttered Farrell, half to himself. Then he grasped Rose by the shoulder. “We’ll go to the station, pull the entire brigade files if we have to. Jake, can you oversee the forensics team when they get here?” He turned to Kincaid. “And, Duncan, I still don’t see where the Southwark Street body fits into this, but if Rose is right, Bryan Simms’s death is a homicide. Can you-”

But Kincaid’s phone was ringing, and he excused himself, turning away as he unclipped it from his belt.

When he answered, Konnie Mueller said, “Bingo.”

“Sorry, Konnie – what was that?”

“I said ‘Bingo,’ mate.” Konnie sounded tired but jubilant. “One out of three is not bad. You’ve got a match on all points. Your Jane Doe is – or was – Laura Novak.”

KINCAID FELT A growing unease as he returned to Borough High Street Station. They’d made progress, with the discovery that Bryan Simms’s death was a possible homicide, and the positive identification of Laura Novak as the victim in the Southwark Street fire, but he couldn’t shake the sense that he was missing something crucial, and that his time was running out.

He’d taken what action he could, leaving the search for the arsonist in the capable hands of Bill Farrell and Rose, and mobilizing every resource in the search for Harriet Novak and Elaine Holland, but now he had to face giving Tony Novak the news about his ex-wife.

He’d had Novak brought into the interview room where they had spoken the previous day. The man looked a bit more tidy this morning, clean-shaven and dressed in a pressed shirt and chinos, but more hollow-eyed and gaunt than ever.

Cullen had rung while Kincaid was at the fire scene, saying he was still trying to trace Chloe Yarwood and Nigel Trevelyan, so Maura Bell would be assisting with the interview.

“Is there some news about Harriet?” demanded Tony as soon as Kincaid and Maura had taken their seats.

“No, we’ve heard nothing about your daughter,” Kincaid said, unwilling to keep him in suspense any longer than necessary. “But I have to tell you that Laura is dead. I’m sorry.”

“Laura?” Tony sounded shocked, but it seemed to Kincaid that there was the slightest easing of tension in the man’s body, as if the news had been expected. “But why – How did you-”

“We informed you yesterday that we were going to search your ex-wife’s house, Mr. Novak,” said Bell. “Her DNA sample matched that of the victim of the warehouse fire.”

“Dear God,” Tony whispered, blanching. “That fire… Laura… I can’t-”

“We think she was already dead when the fire started, if that’s any comfort,” Kincaid told him. “She didn’t suffer from the burns.”

“But who would – You don’t think Beth-”