Deborah Crombie: In A Dark House

But any pleasant thoughts of childhood were quickly banished as he stepped through the warehouse doorway behind Farrell and Rose Kearny. If the smell had been bad outside, in here it was choking, a physical substance that permeated skin, hair, clothing, sinuses. As he blinked his watering eyes, he detected another odor beneath the pervasive char, the faint, oily sweetness of roasted flesh.

Water from the firefighters’ attack had pooled on the warehouse floor, standing several inches deep in places, and Kincaid made a mental note to be careful where he placed his feet. Swallowing hard against the burning in his throat, he focused his attention on Farrell, who had stopped a few feet into the interior.

“Stay behind me if you can,” Farrell said. “We don’t want to muck things up more than necessary.”

“I’m not sure muck is the appropriate word,” Cullen muttered, and Kincaid heard what might have been a snort of agreement from Inspector Bell.

They stood in a large, open area, lit by arc lights powered from generators on the brigade lorry and by what weak daylight filtered in through the intact windows, but the illumination made only a feeble sally against the encroaching blackness. Walls, ceilings, floors, the unidentifiable objects that filled the room – all might have been black holes, absorbing light into a dense and solid darkness.

As his eyes adjusted, Kincaid began to differentiate shapes. To his left, near the windows, a long object resolved itself into a stack of lumber, but Kincaid couldn’t tell if it had been new or salvage from the renovation. Four posts, equidistant from the room’s center, rose floor to ceiling, and he assumed they were the structural supports left behind when interior walls had been removed. The charring on the posts seemed fairly shallow, but he still gave an anxious glance at the ceiling.

Then, to the left of the posts, he saw a large, lumpy pile of objects, an obscene parody of furniture. Blackened coils and springs protruded from the mass at odd angles, like a bizarre modernist sculpture.

Martinelli moved away from the group, murmuring words of encouragement to the dog as he began a careful circuit of the area’s perimeter.

“Tell us what you saw,” Farrell said to Rose Kearny.

“We couldn’t see. Not more than a foot or two. The smoke was low, and black.” She turned slowly in a circle, examining the space. “We must have come straight in, but after a few yards, there was nothing but the line to anchor us. We didn’t know there weren’t any walls, so when I bumped into that” – she gestured towards the furniture- “I thought I’d hit a wall or some sort of room divider. Then I realized it felt soft, but it still didn’t make sense for a few seconds – you don’t expect furniture to tower over your head.”

At the invitation of a mate in the fire service, Kincaid had once suited up and gone into a burn house on a training exercise. The memory of the searing heat and complete disorientation still made him shudder, but the experience had given him tremendous respect for anyone who could face such a situation on a daily basis.

“Where was it burning hottest?” Farrell asked. “Could you tell?”

“The fire was everywhere – it must have been close to flashover. But” – Kearny frowned, nodding towards the furniture- “I’d say it was most intense there.”

Turning to his little group of followers, Farrell said, “The first thing we do in a fire investigation is identify the point of origin. Look.” He pointed at the floor surrounding the furniture. “See, the char is deepest here, as if it burned the longest. And there” – he nodded at the rear wall, a few feet behind the piled furniture- “see the V pattern?”

Kincaid found that he could make it out, now that his attention had been directed to it, a faint lightening of the soot in a pattern wider at the top than at the bottom.

“Fire tends to travel upward and outward, and to burn longer and more intensely near the point of origin. The expanding gases typically leave such a pattern, but there are other indicators, of course.”

“You’re telling us that the fire started in the furniture?” said Inspector Bell, sounding interested in spite of herself. She edged forward so that she stood in front of Kincaid.

“That would be my guess, but that doesn’t tell us whether the cause of ignition was deliberate or accidental.”

“But surely if it started in the furniture, it must have been arson,” Bell insisted.

“Not necessarily. First off, until we interview the job foreman, we don’t know whether the furniture was stacked up by the builders or by an unknown party.” Farrell ticked one forefinger against the other, striking off an imaginary list. “Then, even if the work crew left the furniture this way, that still doesn’t tell us if the fire was started by accident or design. The foam in these cushions and mattresses is highly flammable. One of the workmen could have dropped a cigarette, left it to smolder. Or there might have been a spark from the wiring they’ve torn loose.” He pointed to a flex hanging from the ceiling, shrugged, then called out to Martinelli, “Any hits yet?”

“No. She’s not picking up anything definite,” Martinelli answered. “She’s feeling a bit frustrated,” he added as the dog whined and nosed at his tunic pocket.

“If the dog doesn’t find an accelerant, can you rule out arson?” asked Cullen.

“Oh, no.” Farrell sounded almost gleeful. “The accelerant could have burned off completely, or the fire could have been started without an accelerant. Amateur torches love to splash the petrol around, but often more practiced arsonists prefer to start a fire using only what’s available at a scene. More of a challenge that way, I should think.”

Kincaid was beginning to sympathize with the dog’s frustration and Inspector Bell’s impatience. “Well, we do have one without-a-doubt fact here. Someone died, whether it was before, during, or after the fire. What do you say we have a look at the body?”

“There.” Rose Kearny stepped forward gingerly. “We must have gone past the furniture, then turned slightly to the right.”

Kincaid followed her, and as they edged into the gap between the furniture and the rear wall, he saw it.

The remains were identifiably human, at least. The body lay on its back, arms and legs drawn up in the pugilistic pose caused by muscular contraction, the skin blackened, the teeth showing in a grotesque parody of a smile. The few remaining tufts of hair were charred, and there were no traces of clothing. Although the tissue damage was extensive, the breasts were still recognizable, and that somehow made it worse. Kincaid swallowed against the sudden rise of bile in his throat.

Rose Kearny’s hand had flown to her mouth, but as Kincaid glanced at her she forced it back to her side.

“Bloody hell,” Cullen mumbled, looking a bit green, and even Inspector Bell seemed momentarily to have lost her composure.

When a light female voice spoke from the warehouse doorway, they all spun round as if they’d been caught at something unspeakable.

“I take it I’ve the right address?” said the white-suited figure, and with a flash of pleasure Kincaid recognized Kate Ling, his favorite Home Office pathologist. Now they might get some answers.

Tony Novak pulled things from the bureau drawers and threw them into the open suitcase on his bed, the largest he’d been able to find. Laura would have criticized his untidiness, but then Laura would not only have packed neatly, she would have made a list of essentials for the journey and checked it off as she stowed each item.

And, of course, Laura would have criticized his impulsiveness, but there were times when impulsiveness could be a virtue. And, he reminded himself, it no longer mattered what Laura thought.