Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

That was true, Kincaid had to admit. Since Kit had turned thirteen at the end of June, he’d been finding it increasingly difficult to share with Toby, and now, with the beginning of the new school term, it was becoming clear that he would need a more private space for his schoolwork.

Gemma had gone on brightly, throwing herself into planning and decorating the room, but to Kincaid her enthusiasm seemed brittle. It had been almost a year since her miscarriage, and on the one occasion he’d gingerly brought up the idea of trying again, she’d looked away and changed the subject. It was still too soon, he’d told himself, but now he wondered if her willingness to give up the nursery to Kit meant she’d rejected the idea altogether. The thought struck him with a fierce and unexpected sense of loss.

“I think that’s all I can do here,” said Kate Ling, drawing him back to his surroundings. “Let’s bag and tag, and I’ll get to the postmortem as soon as I can.”

Kincaid chided himself for letting his attention wander, and as he gazed at the charred remains of the body, he felt a twinge of guilt for his aggravation over the change in his plans, surely a trivial thing when a human life had been so brutally snuffed out.

“Can you rule out self-immolation?” Doug Cullen asked as Ling stood and stripped off her gloves.

Farrell answered, “Again, it seems unlikely unless we turn up some trace of clothing or a positive on accelerant. Let’s give the electronic sniffer a try,” he added, removing the bulky hydrocarbon detector from his evidence collection bag and taking Ling’s place beside the body. After running the collection nozzle over the remains and the surrounding charred area, he shook his head. “I’m not getting a reading.”

He motioned to Martinelli, who had almost completed the outer circuit of the room. “Jake, try over here, will you?”

The others edged out of the way as Martinelli brought the dog over, giving the team room to work.

Kincaid found himself standing beside Rose Kearny. The young woman stood with her hands shoved firmly in the pockets of her anorak, her shoulders hunched. “Is this your first body?” he asked quietly.

When she glanced at him in surprise, he saw that her eyes were a clear cornflower blue. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve seen a lot of coppers at their first crime scene.”

She seemed to consider this for a moment, then she looked back at the group surrounding the victim and said thoughtfully, “I’ve pulled people from buildings who I knew weren’t going to make it, tried to revive them. And I’ve worked my share of fatality road traffic accidents. But this is different, somehow. Maybe it’s not having a job to do. In a fire or a rescue, you only have time to think about what you’re going to do next.”

“It must have been bad in here.” As Kincaid looked round the ruined space, he realized that water was seeping into his shoes.

“The worst I’ve seen,” Rose agreed. “I didn’t realize how fast you could lose it, you know? One minute you’re on top of it, you’re in charge, then the next it all goes to hell.”

“Do you want to go back?” he asked, studying her, his curiosity roused by her candor.

An unexpected smile lit her face. “Oh, yeah. Absolutely. There’s nothing like it.”

“No joy,” Martinelli called out, patting the dog, who looked as if she took her failure personally. “If anything was used here, it’s burned up. We’ll keep looking, but if there’s nothing at the seat of the fire, I’m not hopeful.”

The station officer appeared in the doorway and signaled to Farrell. “The mortuary van’s here, Chief.”

“About time.” Farrell turned to the others. “Let’s move out, let them get on with it. Try to keep to the same track you used coming in.”

Kincaid felt an unanticipated shudder of relief as they stepped out onto the pavement again. He realized he’d been tensing his shoulders as if personally preventing the ceiling from collapsing.

As the mortuary attendants and the white-suited crime scene specialists conferred with Farrell, he decided he’d grab the opportunity to ring Gemma. It was still raining, a steady and relentless drizzle. Ducking across the street, he sheltered in the doorway of an office building and dialed Gemma’s mobile number.

He’d been half expecting her voice mail, but she answered herself, a lift of pleasure in her voice. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until later today. Don’t tell me, you’re off early.” Her tone was half teasing, half hopeful, and he hated having to puncture her mood.

“No, sorry, love. Something’s come up. A special request from the guv’nor. It’s a fire in Southwark, with a possible homicide. I’ll fill you in on the details later.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before she said, “You’ll be tied up for the weekend, at least. Kit will be disappointed about tomorrow.”

“Go to the market without me. It’s better than postponing.”

“And tonight?”

It was only then that he remembered they’d had plans to take Gemma’s friend Erika out for a meal. “Oh, bugger. You’d better cancel, at least on my part.” Erika Rosenthal was an older woman of whom Gemma had become quite fond, and Kincaid had been promising to meet her for months. “Maybe we can reschedule for next weekend.”

“Right. Look, I’ve got to dash,” Gemma said a bit abruptly. “Ring me when you can.”

Winnie pushed the bell at the Ufford Street house, then let herself in when she heard Fanny’s voice, knowing it was hard for her to negotiate the front door from the confines of her wheelchair.

She stepped directly into the sitting room, marveling, as she always did when she came here, that a woman of Chinese descent would choose to create a room that was more English than the English. Shelves on the pale green walls held pottery jugs filled with dried flowers, 1930s green glassware, clocks, and hand-painted china; the open spaces between shelves were filled with cottage watercolors, crewelwork still lifes, and, in the place of honor above the mantel, a large print of a contemplative black-and-white cat among pots of flowers.

The furniture was pine, the squashy settee chintz, and in the back of the room, strategically placed for the view into the tiny garden, was a green velvet chaise longue.

Beside the chaise, Fanny sat in her wheelchair, and if her cotton print dress and beaded cardigan seemed accessories to the room, the metal frame of the chair provided a harsh contrast. Her delicate hands were twisted in the cashmere shawl on her lap, the smooth oval of her face etched with worry.

“Thanks for coming,” Fanny said, her voice quavering as Winnie came across and clasped her cold hands. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Let’s start with some tea, shall we?” said Winnie. “You can tell me everything, then we’ll see what’s to be done.” She went into the kitchen at the rear of the house. Toaster and kettle, along with the necessities for both, were arranged on a low table in front of the window. Although Fanny had had a small bathroom with roll-in shower built off the scullery, she’d told Winnie she refused to have the cabinets and worktops refitted to wheelchair height. Nor had she put in a wheelchair lift for the stairs. To her, both those things had seemed like admissions of defeat.

Fanny was determined to walk again, and while Winnie had learned that people often did make at least a partial recovery from Guillain-Barré syndrome, she knew it could be a slow and laborious process.

“Is there anything you need doing?” she called out as she put the kettle on to boil.

“No. I can manage the basics pretty well on my own,” Fanny answered from the sitting room, her voice steadier. “It’s just the getting out that’s difficult.”