Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

Farrell produced his identification. “Fire investigator. Do us a favor, though, don’t tell your neighbor we were asking about him before we’ve had a chance to talk to him.”

“Hey. The guy’s done something wrong, I don’t want to talk to him.” His teeth flashed white as he grinned. “You take him away, maybe I get a pretty neighbor. But if you want to talk to him, you better talk soon.” He glanced at the clock on the shop wall. “Guy usually leaves for work about now. Some security job.”

Farrell and Rose both thanked him, but the lingering smile he reserved for Rose.

“I should take you round with me more often,” Farrell teased as they stepped out onto the pavement again.

“Now what do we do?” asked Rose. They had left messages for Kincaid and for Jake Martinelli, explaining their situation, but neither had yet responded.

Farrell rubbed his beard. “I say we go ahead. We’re just going to have a friendly chat, see what he has to say for himself – assuming it is Jimmy Braidwood in this flat. I’ve told Kincaid and Martinelli to meet us here, and Martinelli to bring the dog, just in case this guy’s left any trace of accelerants about.”

“Won’t we need a warrant?”

“Not if he lets us in, and for that we’ll depend on your charm. Like I said, it’s just a friendly visit.”

Rose couldn’t quite see how you could accuse someone of arson in a friendly way, and as much as she liked Bill Farrell, she had a brief wish for Kincaid’s comforting presence.

There was no bell at the flat’s street entrance, and the door opened easily. From the bottom of the stairs, they could see that the door at the top stood open, and as they began to climb, Rose realized she no longer heard the radio.

Farrell stopped at the top landing and rapped on the door-frame. “Mr. Braidwood?”

As Rose slipped up behind him, she saw a small room, drab and dingy, but neat as an army barracks. A man stood at an ironing board in trousers and cotton vest, carefully ironing a blue uniform shirt. He was thin, thinner than she’d realized, but his bare arms were well muscled. His acne-pitted cheeks were hollow, and his eyes, when he glanced at Rose, seemed curiously flat and passed over her without a sign of recognition.

She shuddered and made an effort to keep her expression pleasantly neutral.

“What can I do for you, folks?” said Braidwood. Turning off the iron, he set it on the end of the table, then slipped into his shirt, buttoning each button with careful deliberation. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer in the way of hospitality.”

He didn’t invite them to sit but didn’t seem to object when Farrell led the way farther into the room. Rose could see now that the walls held a collection of framed Victorian prints, many from the Illustrated London News, showing Southwark warehouses and docks, and the horse-drawn engines of the original London Fire Establishment.

“We’re from the fire brigade,” said Farrell. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the fire on Southwark Street last Thursday night.” When Braidwood merely looked at him, Farrell went on. “A security camera recorded you looking in the open warehouse door a short time before the building burned.”

“I may have,” Braidwood answered slowly. “But is that a crime, Mr.- what did you say your name was? Farrell?”

“Most citizens would have reported an unsecured door,” countered Farrell, “especially someone in your profession.”

“My profession?” Braidwood gazed at them and Rose couldn’t tell if the flat eyes were interested or mocking. “How is it that you know my name and my job from a CCTV film?”

“We know quite a bit more than that, Mr. Braidwood,” said Rose. “You see, I saw you at last night’s fire, directing firefighters to save someone who didn’t exist – deliberately putting firefighters at risk. It seemed to me that only a person with a grudge against the fire brigade would do such a thing, so we started looking through the files for applicants who had been fairly recently rejected. We found you, and your file photo matched the CCTV film, as well as my description.

“We also found that you have an obsession with James Braidwood and with Victorian fires. You like to recreate them, and you are especially fascinated by Tooley Street, where James Braidwood died.”

Braidwood’s eyes held open dislike now, and a spark of respect. “That’s very clever of you, but it doesn’t prove anything about anything.”

“Oh, but we will,” said Farrell. “Now that we know who you are and where you are, we’ll be rechecking every bit of forensic evidence from those fires – not just the last two, but the half-dozen before that. And then we’ll be checking your work schedule and your movements against the times of the fires, we’ll be checking into your background – and we’ll be searching your premises for trace evidence connecting you to the fires. So, you see, we’re all going to be very busy together for a good while.”

“Don’t mock me,” snapped Braidwood, and for just an instant, Rose glimpsed the blazing anger that hid behind the flat, expressionless eyes. “You think you’re so clever,” he went on. “But you’re not clever enough. I’ve always been one step ahead of you.

“Do you think I’ll let you paw through my life, my things, as if I were some sort of exhibit?

“Yes, I set those fires – although Southwark Street was an unexpected gift, divine intervention, I like to think-”

“And the woman who died in the fire?”

Braidwood shrugged. “Not down to me. I didn’t know she was there until they pulled her out the next day. But it was a nice touch, I thought. I would have tried it again.” He turned to Rose. “Now, as to your firefighter, he really should have been more careful. The fire brigade is not what it used to be,” he added with a sigh.

Farrell dug his fingers into Rose’s shoulder, paralyzing her before she could react.

“I told them that,” Braidwood went on, “but they wouldn’t listen.”

Rose could feel the tension in Farrell’s fingers. He said with great sincerity, “I’m sure they’ll listen now, Mr. Braidwood.”

Braidwood showed his yellowed teeth, and the menace in the smile made Rose really afraid for the first time. “Oh, I’m sure they will. The question is, will you live to tell them what fools they were?”

Reaching down behind his ironing board, he lifted a gallon can and in one fluid motion twisted off the top and sloshed the liquid all over himself. Then he swept his arm out in an arc, flinging the liquid towards them, and threw the can into the door. As the fumes hit Rose – it was acetone, dear God, acetone – she saw what Braidwood was lifting from the corner of the sofa, where it had been concealed behind a cushion. It took her brain an instant to process such a familiar thing in an unexpected circumstance, then it all clicked and she shouted with terror. It was a road flare, and she saw his hand grip the cap to twist it.

“Rose, out!” Farrell was shouting in her ear. “Out the window. It’ll blevy! Jump, God damn it! Jump!” He was pushing her and she was climbing, sliding, and then with a gasp dropping to the pavement, wrenching her ankle as she fell.

She looked up at Farrell, half out the window, hands grasping the sill, when there was a great whomp of sound and a ball of flame blew out the window and Farrell was falling, crumpling to the ground. She hobbled to him, pushing bystanders out of the way, shouting, “I’m a firefighter, let me through.” One of his legs was twisted at an odd angle, and the tops of his hands and his forehead were burned, but he was conscious and shouting, “That crazy bastard!! He’s going to burn down the whole goddamn road. Get the pumper – make it pumps two-”