In A Dark House

9

KINCAID SPRINTED TO one end of the short street, then to the other, but there was no sign of Tony Novak in either direction. When he returned to the shelter, he found Kath Warren standing on the pavement, looking out for him anxiously. “Did you see him?” she asked.

Shaking his head while he caught his breath, he resolved to take up jogging. His weekly games of football with the boys were obviously not keeping him in as good a shape as he’d thought. Nor did the climate help – a dark bank of cloud was building to the west, and the char-tinged air felt heavy as treacle in his lungs. “No, not a sign,” he told her when he could speak. “Who the hell is this guy, anyway? Is he completely barking mad?”

“No. At least I don’t think so,” Kath qualified, frowning. “I’ve certainly never seen him act like that. He really does work in Trauma at Guy’s, and his wife – his ex-wife – is one of our board members. Laura helps out in our office when she can, but I haven’t seen her in several days.”

“Do you think there’s any truth to his abduction story?”

“I can’t imagine Laura would do something like that. But then…” Kath hesitated. “You never really know about people, do you? I got the impression it was a bitter divorce, but I believe they had a shared custody arrangement that worked well enough. Laura’s not the type to air her dirty laundry in public, though.”

“She wouldn’t have confided in you?”

“We’re not close friends. I’m not sure Laura has any close friends, to tell the truth. She’s very focused on her job, her child, and her volunteer work. She’s a doctor, too, a surgeon at Guy’s.”

Kincaid studied Kath. Her words were polite enough, but her body language said she didn’t much care for Laura Novak. “What did Novak mean when he said you helped women disappear?” he asked.

Her throaty laugh sounded forced. “We don’t bury bodies in the cornfields, Superintendent, in spite of how Tony made it sound. It’s all perfectly legitimate. Sometimes it becomes obvious that counseling and trial separation are not going to do the trick. At that point, if it seems that a resident, or a resident and her family, are in serious physical danger, we make arrangements for them to start over someplace safe. In these cases it’s essential that the husband or partner not be told their whereabouts. Unfortunately,” Kath added with a sigh, “as I said earlier about the shelter, the system’s not foolproof. We’ve had several cases recently where the man has discovered the family’s new location. In one instance a woman was killed.

“Even if the woman is convinced she mustn’t contact her abusive partner, there’s a chance she won’t be able to resist staying in touch with someone else, say, a mother or sister, and” – she shrugged- “the information invariably leaks out.”

“Okay. I understand that. But that still doesn’t explain where Tony Novak would get the idea you were going to help his wife ‘disappear.’”

“I don’t know.” Kath looked genuinely puzzled. “I can’t believe Laura would tell him something like that.”

“Did she ever give you reason to think he was abusive?”

“No. But as I said, she keeps herself to herself, and I’ve enough experience with these things to know that abuse can happen where you’d least expect it. Look.” Kath touched Kincaid’s arm. “Shouldn’t we make sure she’s all right? If she and Tony had a fight that got out of hand, maybe she’s hiding from him. She could be hurt.”

“I’ll need an address,” Kincaid told her with an inward sigh. This was just what he didn’t need – a domestic, on top of an unidentified homicide victim, a possible arsonist, and a disabled woman’s missing roommate. But he couldn’t ignore it, especially if Laura Novak really did turn out to be missing. “And a description,” he added, fishing his notebook from his jacket pocket.

“I can give you her address without looking it up,” said Kath. “She lives in Park Street. We talked about it often enough, because Laura’s always involved in all the neighborhood issues. Her latest project was Crossbones Graveyard – you know, the old cemetery just a street over.” She nodded in the direction of London Bridge Station.

“I’ll need a specific address,” Kincaid said, trying to steer her back to the subject. Time was passing, and Gemma and Winnie would be waiting for him.

Kath gave him a house number, adding, “The house is unmistakable. It’s early nineteenth century. She’s very proud of it.”

“Can you describe Laura for me?”

“Um, I’d say midthirties… I know her daughter is ten, and I think Laura had finished med school when Harriet was born.”

“Looks?” prompted Kincaid.

“Medium height. Thin and wiry. Dark curly hair. Naturally curly, not permed.”

“But light-skinned?”

“Oh, yes. Freckles. Brown eyes, I think – I never paid that much attention.”

Kincaid realized with an unwelcome chill that Laura Novak matched the pathologist’s description of their homicide victim. He’d have to move this up on his priority list. But the woman in the warehouse had been alone, which didn’t account for a missing child. “And the daughter?” he asked. “You said her name is Harriet? Can you describe her, too?”

“Not really. I’ve never met her. But from what Laura says, she sounds a precocious kid. I think she goes to Little Dorrit School, though, over on Redcross Way. That’s one reason Laura was up in arms about the graveyard. Harriet had to walk right by it going to and from school, and it’s just the sort of place where perverts or drug dealers might hang out.”

“And what about Tony? Do you have an address for him?”

“I remember Laura saying he’d taken a flat in Borough High Street, near the George Inn, but I’m afraid that’s all I know,” Kath offered apologetically.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure we can find him,” Kincaid assured her. “What concerns me more at the moment is you. This guy is obviously volatile, and he’s targeting you as having something to do with his wife’s disappearance – or supposed disappearance. He knows how to find you. What if you walk out of this building by yourself and he’s waiting for you? Next time he might do more than give you a shake.”

Kath paled. “I hadn’t thought of that. He was a little scary. If you hadn’t been here…”

“Is there anyone who can escort you in and out of the building for the time being, make sure you get home safely? What about your colleague – Jason, isn’t it?”

“Jason’s gone to Kent for the day, to his aunt’s. A family emergency.” Her lips tightened, as if she weren’t happy about Jason’s absence, excuse or not.

“Is there anyone else?”

Kath brightened. “I could get my son to come in on the train and drive back with me. He’s sixteen-”

“I’m not sure a sixteen-year-old-”

“And he has a black belt in kickboxing,” Kath finished with a grin. “I’ll be fine.”

Kincaid’s phone rang again. When he looked at the caller ID, he said, “Maybe I should keep your son with me. I could use a little protection from my partner about now.”

When he reached Gemma on the phone, she and Winnie were waiting for him at Fanny Liu’s house. Her voice sounded strained, and he guessed the visit was proving awkward.

“Something came up,” he explained, “but I’m on my way now.” He’d not taken time to speak to Bill Farrell about Rose, so he would have to track him down later.

“Are you all right?” Gemma asked. “I was worried about you.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but we may have another candidate for our mystery woman. I’ll tell you about it after we’ve seen your friend.”

The drive to Ufford Street was short, but he took time to check in with Doug Cullen. His sergeant informed him that he and Bell had seen Michael Yarwood’s insurance agent, but had had no luck finding either Yarwood or his foreman, Joe Spender. “We’ve left messages,” Cullen told him, “asking them to call back as soon as possible.” Kincaid promised to meet Cullen and Bell at Borough High Street as soon as he’d finished at Fanny Liu’s.

He found the house in Ufford Street easily, parking his ancient MG behind Gemma’s orchid-colored Ford. As he removed his small evidence collection kit, he gave the car an affectionate pat. One day soon he was going to have to part with the old thing. It was a testament to the Midget’s condition that Cullen preferred driving them about in his battered Astra to riding in it. The car was completely unsuitable for family life, as well, and needed more work than Kincaid was willing to invest in it, but he hadn’t quite brought himself to contemplate joining the SUV-wielding hordes.

Gemma had apparently been watching for him, as she answered the door before he could push the bell. “We haven’t told her yet – about the fire,” she whispered as she led him inside. “We’ve just arrived, and besides, we thought it would be better coming from you.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking stock of his surroundings as she led him into a cluttered, flowery sitting room. The room’s fussiness brought on an instant claustrophobia, made worse by the sweet smell pervading the air. Near the back of the room, Winnie sat beside a tiny Asian woman in a wheelchair.

“Winnie,” Kincaid said as she stood to greet him. He gave her a peck on the cheek, thinking how trim and tidy she looked in her clericals.

“Fanny,” Gemma was saying as he turned back to her, “this is Duncan Kincaid. He’s a superintendent with Scotland Yard.”

Kincaid found himself towering awkwardly over Fanny Liu, who looked up at him with frightened eyes. “Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse my lack of manners.” Her voice was soft, her words carefully enunciated. As Kincaid pulled up a chair and sank down to her level, she went on. “It’s just that I can’t imagine Gemma and Winnie would have asked you here to give me good news.”

“We’ve nothing definite to tell you about your friend,” he said quickly. “But there is a possibility we think needs looking into.” There was no gentle way to present the situation, and he knew from long experience that it was best to get the shock over as quickly as possible. “Night before last, there was a fire in a warehouse in Southwark Street, not far from here. A woman’s body was found. I’m afraid she was badly burned, and she had no identification.”

“Oh, no.” Fanny shook her head in denial. “You can’t possibly think it’s Elaine.” Her words held an anguished appeal.

“It’s an option we need to rule out, at least. The victim fits your flatmate’s general description, but there are several other possibilities we’re exploring as well.” Seeing Gemma’s quick glance, he realized he’d had no time to tell her about the woman captured by the CCTV.

Fanny’s skin, pale when he had come in, had blanched to the color of parchment, but she asked steadily, “What do you need to do?”

“First, I need to show you a photo, an image captured by the closed-circuit security camera in the building across the street from the warehouse.” Gemma came to stand behind his chair as he opened his folder and took out a photocopy.

Fanny took it with a trembling hand, a pulse beating visibly in her slender throat. She stared at the photo for a long moment, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “It’s not her,” she whispered. “That’s not Elaine. This woman’s much too young.”

“We had to be sure. But even if the woman in the photo isn’t Elaine, it doesn’t necessarily rule out Elaine as the victim. This woman entered the warehouse at least two hours before the fire. She may have left again by the door not covered by the security camera, and by the same logic, someone else may have entered.”

“But why would Elaine have been in this warehouse?”

“Do you have any idea if Elaine knew Michael Yarwood?” he countered.

“The MP?” Fanny looked startled. “No. Why would you think she did?”

“The warehouse where the body was found belongs to Yarwood. It was under renovation as luxury flats. If Elaine knew Yarwood, it’s possible she might have met him there.”

Fanny looked from Kincaid to Gemma. “I don’t understand.”

“We don’t either,” Gemma said gently, and from her tone Kincaid suspected she thought he was handling Fanny a little roughly. “Listen, Fanny,” Gemma went on. “The only way we can positively eliminate Elaine is to compare a sample of her DNA against the victim’s.”

“How can you get Elaine’s DNA?” Fanny asked. “I thought that was only from blood, or you know, from rape cases.”

“People leave traces of themselves behind all the time – in the bathroom, in the bedroom. If you’ll let me have a look, I’ll see what I can find,” Kincaid said.

“It can’t be Elaine,” Fanny protested. “That’s just not possible.” They all waited silently, giving her time to come to terms with the idea. After a few moments, she glanced at Winnie, as if for confirmation, before letting her breath out in a sigh. “Okay. Do whatever it is you have to do.”

“Good.” Kincaid gave her a reassuring smile. “Believe me, the sooner we get this done, the better for everyone. Now, I understand you don’t use the upstairs bathroom. Is that right?” When Fanny nodded assent, he turned to Gemma and Winnie. “Did either of you use the basin or throw anything away in the bathroom?”

Winnie shook her head as Gemma said, “I didn’t. But I think we both looked in the medicine cabinet, and I looked in the cupboard over the toilet.”

“Your hair should be fairly easy to rule out if you shed one or two in the basin.” He shot her an affectionate glance. “But I’ll try the tub first, as that way we can eliminate Winnie more easily. What about the bed? Did either of you turn back the sheets?”

Gemma gave Winnie a questioning look before answering for them both. “No.”

Kincaid turned back to Fanny. “Anyone else have access to the upstairs?”

“No. I can’t remember when anyone else has been up there, until Winnie and Gemma came yesterday. Elaine did the cleaning herself. I told her I’d pay someone to come in, but she always wanted to save me money.”

“Right, then. I’ll get started.”

As Kincaid climbed the stairs, he felt a profound sense of relief. It wasn’t just the suffocating atmosphere in the room, he realized – Fanny Liu herself had made him uncomfortable. He was accustomed to dealing with people suffering from the grief and shock that accompanied a tragedy. Was it her illness that put him off? Of course he felt sorry for her. But if forced, he’d have to admit his pity was tinged with revulsion.

Feeling a flush of shame at his reaction to someone handicapped, he stopped at the head of the stairs. For a moment, he imagined Gemma struck down with some unexpected and devastating disease, confined to a wheelchair. Would he respond the same way? The thought horrified him.

But Gemma would rail against fate – she would be cranky and cross and difficult, and she would find a way to get on with her life. It was not Fanny’s physical condition that bothered him, he realized, but the fact that she radiated neediness. The woman wore her vulnerability like a flag. If Elaine Holland had taken advantage of her, it would come as no surprise. But if Fanny Liu was the victim in that relationship, what had happened to Elaine Holland?

Gemma had to force herself not to follow Kincaid as he left the room. Her natural instinct was always for action. She wanted to be doing something, not sitting in the too-quiet room, watching as Fanny seemed to shrink before her eyes. It seemed to her that the woman’s flesh had melted away from her bones just since yesterday, and with Kincaid’s departure Fanny had sunk even further into herself, as if she’d used up all her energy reserves.

The creaking of Kincaid’s footsteps as he moved about above them was clearly audible. Gemma found herself straining for the next sound, willing him to hurry. Beside her, Winnie sat quietly, and Gemma envied her supportive patience. But then she’d never been much good at hand-holding, even as a constable – and fortunately, these days her job allowed her to delegate such things to those more suited for it.

Then Winnie’s phone rang, breaking the silence. After a murmured conversation, Winnie rang off and stood. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to run over to the church office for a bit. Fanny, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She leaned down to give Fanny a brief hug, then said quietly to Gemma as she went out, “Stop in at the office before you go?”

Winnie’s departure seemed to have roused Fanny. She sat a little straighter in her chair and focused her dark gaze on Gemma. “I still don’t understand why Elaine would have been in a warehouse. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe she didn’t know Michael Yarwood, but could she have been meeting someone else?” suggested Gemma, quick to take advantage of the opening.

“Who? Elaine went to work and came home. She didn’t socialize.”

“Someone from work, then?”

“She didn’t really like anyone in her department. She never went along when the other women met at the pub, or got together for birthday lunches. They invited her, but she said they were cats, all of them, and she’d rather spend her time with…” Fanny faltered for the first time. “With me. And even if she had met someone, what happened to the other person? Why weren’t they burned in the fire?”

Gemma wasn’t about to tell her that, according to the pathologist, the woman in the warehouse had been brutally murdered and left to burn by her companion. Maybe by the time that information was made public and Fanny’s knowledge of it unavoidable, they’d have a positive ID on both murderer and victim. “We don’t know,” she said simply. She did, however, think it was time Fanny knew a little more about her flatmate. “Fanny, you said Elaine never went out. But when I was checking her room yesterday, I found a number of evening things.” When Fanny looked at her blankly, she elaborated. “You know, dressy outfits, high-heeled shoes… Did you ever see her wearing them?”

“Elaine?” Fanny smiled. “No. I can’t imagine. Maybe she used to go out more, before we… before she moved in with me.”

Gemma was unconvinced. She could have sworn that some of the things she’d seen were a good deal less than two years old. “The really odd thing,” she continued, “was that these clothes were hidden away. Did you know there was a storage cupboard in the back of the wardrobe in that room?”

Fanny shook her head. “No. I only bought this house after my parents died, and I got sick not long after. I never really used that room for anything. But why would Elaine want to hide her things?”

“Why would Elaine tell you she didn’t have a mobile phone?” countered Gemma. “I found the box on the shelf in her wardrobe.”

“Elaine has a phone?” Fanny whispered.

“It certainly looks that way.” Gemma thought for a moment. “Fanny, didn’t you say that the evening before Elaine disappeared, she was late home from work?”

“Yes. But that wasn’t unusual. Elaine often worked late. She said she could get more done when everyone else had gone home.”

It was the classic excuse, thought Gemma, used by many an errant husband or wife, but it had obviously never occurred to Elaine’s housemate to doubt her. “Did you never ring her at work after hours?” she asked, wondering how Fanny could have been so gullible.

“No. I wouldn’t have wanted to interrupt her. She-” Fanny stopped as they heard Kincaid’s tread on the stairs.

“I’ll be off, then,” he said from the doorway. “The sooner I get these samples off to the lab, the better. Miss Liu – Fanny – we’ll let you know as soon as we have a result. Gemma, a word?” He jerked his head towards the door.

Gemma said a quick good-bye to Fanny and followed him out into the street, fuming at being summoned like a lackey. “Did I fail to notice the house was on fire?”

“What? Oh, sorry,” he said distractedly as he unlocked his car and set the collection kit in the passenger seat. “I just got a call from Cullen. Michael Yarwood’s coming into the station to look at the CCTV tape. They’re waiting for me.”

“Did you get anything?” She gestured at the kit.

“Yeah. Quite a bit of hair from the bathtub drain and a few from the bed. And I found some tissues in the bathroom waste bin. Looks like someone had a good cry, and if it wasn’t you or Winnie, we’ll have to assume it was Elaine Holland.” He shoved a hand through his hair impatiently. “Listen, I’ve got to-”

“I’m going to stop by Guy’s Hospital,” said Gemma, making the decision even as she spoke. “I want to see if I can talk to someone in Elaine’s department.”

Kincaid stared at her, his momentum temporarily halted. “Gemma, it’s not your case.”

“Someone needs to do it. Someone should already have done it.”

He frowned at the implied criticism. “We’ve had other priorities. You know this is a long shot. If you were working the case you’d have a bit more perspective.”

Gemma knew he was probably right, but she didn’t like being dismissed. And besides, she was too curious now to let it go. “Maybe you need someone without perspective, then. And what harm can it do? It’ll save your team a job.”

“All right, go,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “We’ll talk about it when I get home. Then you can tell me how I’m going to clear this with DI Bell.”

“Anyone would think the woman was going to bite your head off,” Gemma retorted.

“Oh, I think she might do much worse than that.” He flashed his familiar grin at her as he folded himself into the little car. “You’d better hope I’m still intact by the time this case is over.”

It was only as he drove away that Gemma realized she was going to miss yet another piano lesson. “Bloody hell,” she swore as she glanced at her watch, wondering if she could go by the hospital and still get back in time to take the boys to Erika’s for tea. She could, she decided, if she didn’t dally.

She rang Wendy, her piano teacher, and made her excuses, then went in search of Winnie.

Gemma found her in the tiny church office, staring in dismay at the stacks of leaflets covering her desk. “The printer’s made a mistake on the Order of Service,” she explained. “Again. Oh, well, perhaps no one will notice we’re singing a hymn about crossing the barren dessert.”

Gemma laughed. “Maybe they’ll think you’ve run out of buns to serve at coffee hour.” She went on to update Winnie on her plans, then added, “I feel guilty, leaving Fanny like that. If this were an ordinary case – if we had a definite identification of a victim, or even some evidence of foul play – I’d have a constable or a family liaison officer stay with her until we could get a friend or family member in.”

With a sigh, Winnie said, “Except in this case, there doesn’t seem to be anyone. It’s usually only the elderly who are so isolated. I’ve offered to have volunteers from the congregation take it in turn to stay with her, but she won’t have it. I’m learning that Fanny can be unexpectedly stubborn when she has a mind to it.”

Gemma perched on the edge of Winnie’s visitor’s chair. “I know she lost her parents, but do you suppose she had any friends before her illness?”

“She lost touch with her coworkers, obviously. She was hospitalized for months. And I suppose other friends may have drifted away because they didn’t know what to say or do – I suspect that happens more often than we care to think. But I’ve never heard her mention anyone other than Elaine. It’s as if Fanny’s life started when Elaine Holland moved into her house.”

“Winnie, doesn’t the relationship between these two women strike you as odd?”

“If you’re implying that two single women living together must be lesbians,” Winnie said a little tartly, “I thought that sort of sentiment went out with our parents’ generation.”

“And our parents may have been right more often than we credit,” Gemma replied with a quick smile, “because it was socially unacceptable to tell the truth. But that’s less true now, especially as neither Elaine nor Fanny has family to disapprove. And anyway, it’s not their sexual orientation that worries me, it’s the whole emotional setup. It just feels wrong. There’s Elaine’s secretiveness, and Fanny’s dependence… At first, it seemed that Elaine was taking advantage of Fanny, but now I’m not so sure. I’m beginning to wonder who really pulled the strings in the relationship.”

Winnie fingered the small silver cross she wore over her clerical collar, a habit Gemma had observed when she was thinking. After a moment, she said, “Fanny had no trouble going against Elaine when it was something that mattered to her, like having me bring in Communion on Sundays. Elaine didn’t care for that at all.”

“I think there was more going on here than Fanny’s told either of us. The question is, does it have anything to do with Elaine’s disappearance? Maybe if you could talk to Fanny-”

“Gemma, you know I couldn’t pass on anything Fanny told me in confidence.”

“No,” Gemma agreed ruefully, “I suppose not. But you could encourage her to talk to me. That wouldn’t be against regulations.”

Winnie smothered a laugh. “It’s not the God police, you know. It’s my conscience that’s the issue. But I promise I’ll try.” Then, sobering, she gazed at Gemma for a moment before she said, “Gemma, about this body in the warehouse. I know you said it was only a possibility… but do you really think Elaine Holland is dead?”

As he drove to Borough station, Kincaid rang his longtime contact in the Home Office lab, Konrad Mueller. Mueller, in spite of his Germanic name, was half Egyptian and, although in his late thirties, still lived the life of a lad in a flat overlooking the Grand Union Canal.

Kincaid had met him in his early days at Scotland Yard, when Mueller had been working as a crime scene tech, and had watched his rise through the forensic science service with interest. He’d kept up the connection, although he tried not to ask favors too often.

He’d made a point, however, of getting Mueller’s home phone number when he discovered they were nearly neighbors, thinking he’d invite him round for drinks some weekend, and now his forethought came in handy.

Rather to his surprise, Mueller picked up right away. When Kincaid explained what he wanted, Mueller gave a gusty sigh audible over the phone.

“You do realize there’s a football match tomorrow, mate?” he asked, sounding aggrieved. “Not to mention the fact that I just met this really hot chick at the supermarket and made a date for tonight.”

The odd contrast between Mueller’s olive skin and the gelled spikes of his bleached-blond hair didn’t seem to deter women. Kincaid had never known him not to have at least two on the string.

“I wouldn’t ask, Konnie,” he said, “but I’ve got the AC’s office breathing down my neck on this one, and I can’t get anywhere with it until I have a positive ID on the victim. You won’t have to run the sample against the database,” he added, knowing that was the most time-consuming factor in the DNA testing process. “I just need a simple match.”

After a pause in which Kincaid could hear the insistent thump of techno music in the background, Mueller gave in with another resigned sigh. “All right, mate. I’ll see if I can get to the lab sometime tomorrow. But you owe me big-time for this one.”

“Anything short of providing you with your own personal harem,” Kincaid agreed, ringing off with a grin.

When he reached Borough station, he turned his samples over to Bell’s sergeant, Sarah, with a request to send them directly to Mueller at the lab.

After taking down his instructions, she directed him to an interview room that had been set up with a television and a VCR in readiness for Yarwood’s visit. As Kincaid opened the door, Cullen was saying something in Bell’s ear and she was laughing in response. It was the first time Kincaid had seen her face lit by a genuine smile, and he realized she was actually quite pretty when she wasn’t brooding like a disgruntled hawk.

Then the pair registered his presence. Both their faces froze into the instant solemnity of guilty children.

“Spoiled the party, have I?” Kincaid asked. Seeing their blank expressions, he couldn’t resist taking the piss a bit more. “Are you two going to let me in on the secret?”

Bell glowered at him and Cullen blushed an unbecoming blotchy red. “It’s nothing, guv, just a joke,” Cullen told him.

“I like jokes,” Kincaid said, at his most innocent. “Do tell me.”

“It wasn’t that sort of a joke, sir.” Cullen’s face was now puce, and Kincaid thought he might explode at any moment.

Knitting his brows, Kincaid said sternly, “You’re not telling rude jokes to the female officers again, Dougie? We’ve had words about this before-”

“I’ll just let you two get on with it while I check on Yarwood,” broke in Bell, giving them both a scathing glance as she marched from the room.

“What in hell are you on about?” Cullen hissed furiously as soon as the door shut behind her.

Kincaid had braced himself against the conference table and was laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. “Sorry,” he managed to gasp. “It was just your faces. You looked like you’d been caught with your knickers down in the school-yard, and then you blushed-”

“You made me feel a complete idiot.”

“I am sorry, Doug, really.” Kincaid made a valiant effort to control his mirth, but the corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily. “You must like her. I didn’t realize.” He had wondered, when he’d left them at the club last night, if they might find more in common on their own, but they seemed to have exceeded expectations. If Cullen had actually managed to slip Stella’s lead long enough to enjoy himself, he didn’t deserve Kincaid giving him a hard time.

“I don’t mind so much being made a fool,” Cullen said with a return of his usual good humor, “but I don’t think Maura takes well to being teased.”

“Good God, Doug, how’s she going to survive in the job if she can’t deal with a little friendly ragging? How’s she stuck it out this long, for that matter?”

Bell came back in before Cullen could reply. “Got it all out of your systems, now, have you?” she asked. In spite of her poker face, Kincaid thought he saw a gleam in her eye, and he wondered if Cullen was underestimating her. “Yarwood’s PA says he’s on his way,” she added. “He’s coming from his office, apparently. Station Officer Farrell should be here soon, as well.”

“Why did Yarwood offer to come in, rather than have us bring a photo round?” Kincaid asked.

“He didn’t say, and ours is not to question why,” Bell replied. “We’re just the police flunkies.”

“What did you find out from his insurance agent?”

Cullen took a chair at the table and rocked it back, in what Kincaid recognized as his “preparing to lecture” position. “He’s not overinsured, according to Mr. Cohen. He hasn’t changed the policy, and as far as Cohen knows, he’s not having financial difficulties with the project. He suggested those rumors might have come from a competitor. Of course, their loss adjuster will be working with Bill Farrell, but at least for now they don’t consider Yarwood a likely candidate for arson. But” – Cullen paused long enough to make sure he had their attention – “I did some phoning round this morning. I have a contact at one of the tabloids, who told me that her contact in Vice said there are rumors lately of Yarwood dealing with some pretty heavy hitters.”

“What sort of heavy hitters?” Kincaid asked, trying to imagine the Michael Yarwood of reputation involved with drugs or prostitution. That would be a scandal worth murdering to cover up.

“West End gambling. Just because these posh club owners wear bespoke suits doesn’t mean they don’t collect their debts.”

“Yarwood, gambling?” Kincaid supposed it was not unlikely that Yarwood’s political connections frequented West End clubs, but it still seemed out of character for Yarwood himself. He turned to Bell. “Any luck verifying his alibi for the Thursday night?”

“I had a message from Birmingham CID. Yarwood was seen at dinner at his hotel, then in the bar until at least ten o’clock. There’s no way he could have got back to London to start a fire a little after midnight.”

“He could have hired someone,” Kincaid mused. “But that wouldn’t explain the body. Why would a paid arsonist have killed a woman before starting the fire?”

“If it was the couple in the video, maybe she protested when she realized what he meant to do,” suggested Bell. “They struggle, he kills her, then strips her so she can’t be identified.”

“I’ve another possibility for our victim.” Kincaid told them about his encounter with Tony Novak at the shelter and Novak’s claim that his wife and daughter had gone missing. “We’ll have to follow up. I’ve got an address for the wife, and we should be able to find the husband easily enough.”

“You going to charge him with assault, guv?” asked Cullen with a grin.

“No. But I think he might be dangerous. I’ve told Kath Warren to watch herself until we can talk to the man again.”

Before they could speculate further, the sergeant popped her head in the room. “Excuse me, ma’am. Mr. Yarwood’s here.”

“Bring him in, will you, Sarah?” said Bell. “I don’t think we’ll wait on Farrell,” she told Kincaid and Cullen. “We can fill him in afterwards.”

A moment later, the sergeant ushered in Michael Yarwood. If Yarwood had come straight from his parliamentary office, he had dressed casually for a Saturday’s work. His polo shirt emphasized his massive shoulders and chest, and his heavy features seemed more prominent without the distraction of a tie. His eyes, however, still seemed as penetrating as they did on the telly, as he raked an impatient glance round the three of them.

“Your message said you found something on CCTV,” he said abruptly, clearly in no mood for pleasantries.

Kincaid saw Bell bristle and guessed she wasn’t about to relinquish control of the interview without a fight. The woman would give herself a heart attack if she didn’t learn to ease up a bit. Before she could butt heads with Yarwood again, he said, “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Yarwood, and we’ll cue it up for you.”

“I’ll stand, thanks. Let’s just get on with this, can we?” Yarwood was the picture of the busy politician, not bothering to expend charm on those who didn’t matter, but there was a tension in his posture that made Kincaid wonder if his rudeness was due to worry rather than irritation.

Kincaid nodded at Cullen. “Let’s have a look, then, Doug. As you’ll see,” he continued to Yarwood, “it’s just coming up to ten o’clock on the night of the fire. Let us know if you want to freeze the image.”

Yarwood stood with his hands plunged in his pockets as the screen came to life, his head lowered in the familiar bulldog pose. After a moment, the two figures moved into view, then stopped before the warehouse door. Yarwood suddenly reached out, his finger pointed as if he might touch the screen. Then, as the woman turned towards the camera, the color drained from his face. He reached blindly for the back of the nearest chair, grasping it for support.

“Are you all right, Mr. Yarwood?” Kincaid hovered with a hand near Yarwood’s elbow, in case the man went all the way down, while motioning to Cullen to stop the tape.

Yarwood looked at him, as if trying to recall who he was. “Dear God,” he whispered. “That’s my daughter.”