In A Dark House

4

AS SHE HUNCHED her shoulders against the persistent drizzle, Maura Bell grimaced at the stench coming from the damp wool of her coat. Even in the relatively fresh air outside the building, the cloth held the rankness of smoke and a faint scent of corruption. The coat was new, as well, carefully budgeted for, and put on for the first time early that morning. To think she’d been pleased at the drop in temperature, unusual for September, that had allowed her to wear her purchase early. Now, she’d have to send the coat to the dry cleaners as soon as she could change, and God knew if even that would salvage it.

It amazed her to think that there were those, like Farrell and Jake Martinelli, who chose to work fire scenes on a daily basis – but then there were plenty who’d say the same about her choice of profession. Not that there weren’t days when she’d agree with them, and this was certainly looking like one of them.

She’d organized the uniformed constables into search teams for the house-to-house – or rather building-to-building – and was now awaiting the arrival of the warehouse’s construction foreman, one Joe Spender. In a futile effort to keep out the damp, she hitched her collar up, and wished it were possible to organize a crime scene while holding a brolly. That was all she needed, to prance about like Mary bloody Poppins when she had Scotland Yard on her patch.

In retrospect, the day had begun well enough. She’d got into the station early, beating the traffic from her flat on the Isle of Dogs. She liked to drive rather than take the train and the tube; the time cocooned in her car allowed her to sort her thoughts, gear up or unwind, and having the car in the Borough gave her the freedom to follow up case leads without depending on the station motor pool.

First on the rota, she’d been pleased to draw a major case, a suspicious fire with a possible homicide, and when a trace of the building’s ownership had returned a holding company linked with Michael Yarwood, she’d felt a shiver of excitement. Sensitive, yes – Yarwood was an important presence in the Borough – but this was the sort of case that could add rocket fuel to a career.

Then her chief superintendent had called her into his office and told her Michael Yarwood had requested that the Yard be brought in, and she’d been fuming with resentment ever since. Power and influence, that was what it was all about, and if she’d thought the job was proof against it, she’d been a fool.

And what had high-and-mighty Scotland Yard accomplished so far? They’d slouched through the crime scene, the superintendent had nipped off to make a phone call, and the sergeant was chatting up one of the female SOCOs. Even had she been disposed to feel charitable towards the Scotland Yard superintendent sent to pour oil on the waters, his casual demeanor would have raised her hackles. You’d have thought he was out for a walk in the park, for all the urgency in his manner, and he was too good-looking by half. Maura distrusted handsome men in general, and found the combination of looks and rank particularly threatening.

The sergeant, now, he wasn’t so bad, although a bit rabbity with his fair English coloring and his Harry Potter glasses. Not her type, of course; she liked her men big and brawny; but he seemed friendly enough and not too full of himself.

She fished in the pockets of her coat for the cigarettes she’d been trying to give up. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she thought with a grimace. Surely no one could complain that her hair and clothes smelled of cigarette smoke, not after her exposure to the fire reek. Not, she reminded herself, that there was anyone likely to complain…

“Inspector Bell.” It was the sergeant, Cullen, followed by an enormous man in a flat cap and yellow safety jacket. “This is Joe Spender, the job foreman.”

“Mr. Spender.” Maura hastily stuffed the unlit cigarette back in her pocket and forced herself not to step back as Spender loomed over her. He must have been all of six foot five, with a belly that hung over his belt, and the florid complexion indicative of high blood pressure. “What can you tell us?”

He was shaking his head even as she spoke, his eyes flicking towards the ruin of the warehouse. “I can’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it when Mr. Yarwood rang me this morning.” His accent was East End, comfortable. “Yesterday, when we finished up, everything was shipshape.”

Kincaid, the Scotland Yard man, had finished his phone call and come across to the group, but he stood a few feet back, listening.

“You didn’t leave anyone behind in the building?” asked Maura.

“No. But that’s the first thing I thought when I heard. What if one of my blokes forgot his lunch pail or something and went back, but I checked right off, and all my crew are accounted for. Crazy idea, anyway, as I’m the only one with a key.”

“And you locked the premises before you left?”

“’Course I did,” Spender said vehemently, but Maura thought she saw a bit of the color leach from his flushed face. “I always lock up, side door and then the front. Yesterday was no different.”

“Anyone else have access to your key?” asked the superintendent. When Spender gave him a startled glance, he introduced himself. “Scotland Yard. I’m Superintendent Kincaid.”

Spender glanced at his warrant card, shaking Kincaid’s hand a little more enthusiastically than he had Maura’s. “Not unless you count my wife and my two girls at home in Poplar. They’re eight and six, by the way, my girls.”

“What about the furniture?” Maura put in quickly, determined not to lose control of the interview. The man would be pulling out wallet photos of his kiddies if she wasn’t careful. “Where did it come from?”

Spender turned back to the building. “Cheap furnished flats, that’s how the place was being used when Mr. Yarwood bought it. Not much better than squats. He had a time getting the last of the tenants out, had to cut the power and water, but then we were able to get in.

“We started on the ground floor, pulling out walls to make the restaurant space. Then we moved all the furniture from the flats downstairs, ready for the rubbish skips. Should have come yesterday, the skips, but there was a delay with the delivery.”

“Restaurant space?” Kincaid asked, frowning.

“Luxury flats upstairs, restaurant downstairs. A celebrity chef, you know, like what’s his name, the cheeky chappy. But now…” Spender sighed, shrugged. “Who knows how long it will take to get this sorted, if at all.”

“Problem with the insurance?” Kincaid commented easily, as if it was to be expected, but Spender’s reply was wary.

“Not that I know of. It’s just these things take time. You know how it is.”

Kincaid gazed at the building, hands in the pockets of his Burberry. “Word has it the leases haven’t sold as fast as Mr. Yarwood had hoped.”

“It’s too soon to say that.” Spender’s voice held the first trace of irritation. “There’s no doubt they’d have sold, a place this close to the South Bank and London Bridge Station.”

“Let’s get back to the furniture, shall we?” said Maura, grinding her teeth. “How did you leave it yesterday?”

“Piled in the middle of the bloody room, wasn’t it? To give us as much working space as possible.”

“It didn’t occur to you it was a fire danger?”

“What else were we going to do with the stuff? Put it out in the street for a traffic hazard?”

“What about your crew? Any of them smoke?”

“Look, Inspector.” Spender took a breath and seemed to gain another inch or two in height. The friendly aura had vanished. “None of my lads left a fag end to smolder and set that furniture alight, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’ve more sense than that, and I’ve told you I checked the building over before I locked up. We left nothing out of place.”

“And you’re absolutely positive you locked both doors?” she asked.

“Of course I’m bloody sure. Do you take me for an idiot?”

Maura saw Sergeant Cullen glance at her and thought she read a trace of amusement. “Mr. Spender,” she began tightly, “we do need your cooperation here-”

“Mr. Spender, excuse me,” Kincaid broke in with his easy smile. “You may be able to account for your key, but surely there’s more than one?”

Following Winnie’s instructions, Gemma took the tube to Waterloo and walked south along Waterloo Road, passing the hulk of the railway terminal and the grimy brickwork of the lockups that abutted it. The rain had let up, but puddles stood on the pavement and the sky was still as solidly gray as gunmetal.

How odd, she mused as she picked up her stride, that she should find herself on the edge of Southwark, when Duncan had only that morning been summoned out to a case in the same borough. And odder still, the call from Winnie Montfort, who was not one to make spur-of-the-moment demands.

Fortunately, Gemma hadn’t anything too pressing for a Friday afternoon, and as her lunch usually consisted of a sandwich brought up from the canteen, she didn’t feel terribly guilty about taking a longer than usual lunch break. She had, in fact, been feeling rather restless and unsettled, and was glad for an excuse to stretch her legs and breathe in the cool, damp air flowing from the river.

She and Duncan had managed to see Winnie only once since Winnie had come up to London from her Somerset parish, and that had been on one of the weekends when Jack had joined her. Winnie and Jack had come to Notting Hill, duly admiring the house, and giving Gemma the opportunity to try out her very unpolished cooking and entertaining skills. Gemma had never had much time to cook and, until now, had certainly never lived anywhere with the space or the atmosphere conducive to giving dinner parties.

There had been times that evening, watching the group around her candlelit dining room table, when she’d felt like a child playing dress-up. But if she’d felt like an impostor in her own home, she had also, rather to her surprise, enjoyed herself. Not that she was in any danger of turning into Stella Fairchild-Priestly, the queen of hostesses, but perhaps her social life had begun to evolve past spag bol and a bottle of plonk.

Of course, she and Winnie had ended the evening with promises to get together soon, but then work had intervened on her part and she supposed the same had been true for Winnie. It was a shame, she thought now, as she was beginning to realize how desperately she missed having a close female friend now that Hazel Cavendish had gone.

Reaching The Cut, she turned left, passing the Old Vic Theatre on one side and a council estate on the other. Winnie had suggested they meet for a quick lunch at a pub called the Hope and Anchor, near her church and her temporary accommodation. Then, Winnie had promised, she’d explain why she’d rung.

The Cut, for all its unusual name, was an unremarkable street, lined with small grocer’s shops, cafés, dry cleaners, newsagents. Damp squares of betting slips littered the pavement outside a bookie’s premises, like giant confetti, and Gemma thought she smelled a faint tang of smoke beneath the traffic fumes.

Just as she spotted the pub’s name above an unassuming shop front, she saw Winnie standing outside, watching for her. If Winnie Montfort was not strictly beautiful, most people forgot it as soon as she smiled. Her pleasant face radiated honesty and humor, and she had the knack of making those she spoke to feel they had her undivided attention. Today, her soft brown hair curled about her face in the damp, and her clerical collar provided a slash of contrast beneath her cherry-colored raincoat.

Her face lit with pleasure at Gemma’s approach, and she gave her a quick hug. “Gemma, thanks for coming. They’re holding a table for us – I’ve just checked.”

“Busy place?” Gemma asked as she followed her inside.

“It’s gaining quite a reputation as a gastro pub,” Winnie told her, grinning. “Awful term, isn’t it? Always makes me think of some unmentionable complaint. But the food is good, and it’s more or less my local.”

The bar, with simple wooden tables and an upright piano in the corner, took up the right-hand side of the space, while partially drawn velvet drapes marked off the restaurant area to the left. A waiter seated them at a small table near the back of the restaurant and handed them laminated menu cards.

When they’d ordered – pollock and greens for Gemma, a chicken and mushroom pie for Winnie – they settled back with their drinks. “All right, first things first,” said Gemma, spreading a piece of brown, crusty bread with pale fresh butter. “How’s Jack? Is he coming up to town this weekend?”

“’Fraid not. The commission in Bristol is keeping him busy. He may not get away again until the job’s complete.”

“Can you not go to him?”

“I only have one day off a week – not long enough to go to Glastonbury and back. And even that day is subject to emergencies.”

“Sounds a bit like the police,” Gemma said ruefully. “Good thing you picked an understanding bloke.”

“It is, isn’t it?” agreed Winnie, sipping at the small glass of Pinot Grigio she’d ordered with her meal. “Although sometimes I wonder if I’d feel less guilty about juggling the job and the relationship if he weren’t so understanding. What about Duncan and the boys? Any news on the Eugenia front?”

“We’ve a preliminary hearing scheduled next week.” As if their family situation weren’t already complicated enough, Kit’s maternal grandmother, Eugenia Potts, had filed for custody of thirteen-year-old Kit. Since Kit’s legal guardian, Ian McClellan, had moved to Canada, he had allowed Kit to live with Duncan, his natural father, and Gemma.

Eugenia, however, appeared to blame Duncan for her daughter’s death, and could not bear the idea of her grandson living happily with his father. And although Kit despised his grandmother, he’d not been willing to take the DNA test that would prove Duncan’s paternity without a doubt, thus giving Duncan clear legal rights.

Kit’s stubbornness over the testing meant that Duncan and Gemma would be forced to rely on the understanding of the family court judge, and on the hope that the judge would see Kit as old enough to decide where, and with whom, he wanted to live. It was all very worrying, and since Eugenia had filed her petition the previous May, tensions had been running high in their household.

“We had an outing planned to Portobello Market tomorrow to look for some things for Kit,” Gemma told Winnie, and found herself expressing feelings she hadn’t been able to articulate to herself. “I really thought we should all be together, as a family, to reassure Kit that we’ll continue to be a family… But Duncan can’t make it…”

“Work?”

Gemma nodded. “A case came up. Here in Southwark, as a matter of fact.”

“I wouldn’t worry about your outing,” said Winnie. “Kit knows how committed you are, and the last thing he needs now is to feel any sort of divisiveness between you and Duncan.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Gemma admitted. “It’s just nerves. I suppose I hate the idea of being put on show as a model family. What if we don’t measure up?”

“You measure up as far as Kit’s concerned, and I’m sure that’s what counts.” Winnie buttered a slice of bread for herself. “What about your friend Hazel? I’m sure she’d testify on your behalf.”

“She would, but she’s in Scotland.”

“Trying to make a go of her distillery?”

Gemma nodded, fighting back the sudden, mortifying prickle of tears. After the tragic events of the previous spring, she’d encouraged Hazel to do what she thought right, even if it meant staying in Scotland, but she hadn’t realized what it would mean to lose the supportive presence of her closest friend.

She took a sip from her half pint of cider, concentrating on the feel of the bubbles against her tongue, hoping that her voice wouldn’t betray her. “She and Tim are talking, at least, and they’ve agreed for the time being not to sell the Islington house.”

“Any hope of a reconciliation?”

Gemma sighed. “I don’t know. It would be hard, after what’s happened, for either of them.” Their food arrived, and Gemma was glad of an excuse to change the subject.

“Now, why don’t you tell me why you rang?” she said, picking up her cutlery, but a cloud of steam rose from the perfectly arranged food on her plate. “I’m dying of curiosity.”

“Well, I hope I haven’t been hasty,” confessed Winnie. “But this is outside my experience, and I wasn’t sure if it was a matter for the police, so you seemed the obvious person to consult. And my parishioner wasn’t too keen on the idea of going to the police…”

“I was the unofficial solution?” Gemma asked, a little amused, imagining a teenager caught stealing, or an accumulation of traffic citations. She hoped she hadn’t been called out for a kitten stranded on a fire escape, but in any case it looked as if she was going to get a good lunch for her time.

As Winnie began to tell her about Frances Liu’s missing roommate, her amusement quickly faded.

“I’ve been round to Guy’s Hospital, where Elaine works,” Winnie continued, “and got them to tell me that not only did she not show up for work this morning, she didn’t call in. Her coworkers say she’s very punctual and dependable; she’s seldom missed work at all, and never without notice.”

“Does she have family you could ring? Boyfriend? Ex-husband?”

“Not that Fanny knows of, and that strikes me as a bit funny as well. I mean, how many people do you know without connections of some sort?”

“Had she been behaving oddly?”

“Not that Fanny noticed… or not that Fanny admits noticing, anyway.”

Deciding her food had cooled enough to taste, Gemma took a bite of meltingly tender white fish and sautéed greens. “Blimey,” she said, closing her eyes in bliss. “This is wonderful.” Swallowing, she forced her attention back to the matter at hand. “What about the local hospitals? Did you check to see if she’d been admitted?”

“I checked Guy’s and St. Thomas’s,” answered Winnie. “No one by that name, nor any Jane Does. And that left me at a dead end. I thought that perhaps if you were to talk to Fanny, you could convince her to file a missing-persons report.”

“Do you know why she’s so reluctant?”

The pub had filled to capacity since they’d come in, and Winnie leaned a little closer in order to be heard above the rising babble of voices. “She said Elaine’s very protective of her privacy, and would be angry if Fanny had called attention to her unnecessarily.” Winnie frowned and toyed with a forkful of her chicken pie. “But I also think that Fanny has a horror of making a fuss, of being seen as the hysterical invalid.”

“That’s understandable, I suppose,” Gemma said thoughtfully. “But although the most likely explanation is that her friend has done a runner, the situation is odd enough that I think she’s justified in sounding an alarm. Does she live nearby, then?” she added, thinking reluctantly of the work that would be piling up on her desk at Notting Hill. She wouldn’t be getting away early enough that evening to toast Sergeant Talley’s birthday.

“Not five minutes from here, just across from my church.” Winnie smiled. “It’ll give me a chance to show you where I slave away my days.”

Kath Warren shut herself in the toilet adjoining her office and leaned against the basin, holding on to the cold porcelain edge as if it were the only anchor in an unstable universe. She took deep breaths, counting in, counting out, and after a moment she turned on the cold tap and held her wrists beneath the stream. When the faintness began to pass, she shut the water off and reached for the towel, only to find it had disappeared from the hook – nicked by one of the shelter residents, she supposed, as per bloody usual. Tearing off a bit of toilet tissue from the roll, she dried her hands and gazed at herself in the fly-specked mirror over the basin.

She saw carefully streaked hair, expensively feathered over her ears and at the nape of her neck. Regular features, nose a bit turned up, skin taut and evenly tanned from weekly sessions in the tanning salon. A good face, she told herself, an attractive face, but in the cold light filtering through the toilet window, there was no denying it was the face of a forty-five-year-old woman.

How could she possibly have convinced herself it didn’t matter? She’d risked her job, her marriage, her children, her comfortable semidetached house in Peckham, all for a few quick encounters on the stained and threadbare sofa in her office.

Encounters. That was a euphemism even shabbier than passed on or developmentally challenged. She could at least be honest with herself. It had been sex - sweaty, pulseracing, heart-pounding, skin-tingling sex – and she had wanted it with a ferocity she hadn’t known she possessed.

And she had believed that it mattered as much to him as it did to her. She had been an utter fool, a stupid, pathetically middle-aged fool, and now she would have to deal with the consequences.

The phone call had come that morning as Michael Yarwood was downing a last cup of coffee in his Birmingham hotel room before beginning the first day of a three-day Labour conference. While the official agenda held topics such as “Communicating with Your Constituents” and “The Question of Tax,” the real purpose of the meeting was to meet and greet, to make or cement alliances that would further one’s political ambitions. If he had been naive enough in his early days as an MP to think that his own convictions mattered, he had long since learned the error of his ways. But if he’d learned to play the game, he’d also learned to enjoy it for its own sake, and he’d been looking forward to the weekend as a way to take his mind off more personal troubles.

Then the police had rung his London office, and the dominoes had begun to topple. His secretary had rung him, her voice squeaky with distress; he had taken the first available train, then a taxi from the station, stopping only to drop off his overnight bag at his flat. Now, he stood staring in disbelief at the remains of his building, struggling for breath as if he’d just been kicked in the chest by a draft horse. He hadn’t imagined it would be so bad, hadn’t really visualized the gaping windows, the piles of rubble on the pavement.

Reduced to rubble. Maybe it was fitting for a bricklayer’s son with aspirations above his station. He’d been eighteen when he’d bought his first small delivery van with the earnings from his second job; twenty-five when he’d stood for his first council seat. He’d balanced his anomalous roles as small-business owner and Labour activist by his personal rejection of the greed-driven principles of big business and his unswerving dedication to improving his borough. Until, driven by his worries over Chloe, he’d given in to the temptations of the property market, and now he was facing financial disaster.

Or worse. His secretary had informed him that the prime minister’s office had unofficially requested that Scotland Yard oversee the case, and that was the last thing he needed.

A movement caught his eye. Turning, he saw a reporter coming towards him, accompanied by an assistant wielding a handheld video cam like an unnatural appendage. For a moment he wondered wildly if he had conjured them up from the depths of his imagination. But no, they were real enough. The red eye of the camera held him mercilessly, and he struggled to resurrect his public face as the reporter held out a mike.

But before the reporter could speak, there was a touch on his shoulder and a quiet voice said, “Mr. Yarwood? I’m with the police. If we could have a word.”

Kincaid had recognized Yarwood immediately, but had been content to observe him for a few moments. The man was smaller in stature than he appeared on television, nor did he seem to have the assurance that had always leapt from the screen. Was it shock, Kincaid wondered, or did the camera amplify certain character traits?

Yarwood wore no overcoat – he had not, perhaps, planned to spend his day standing in the rain – and the fit of his dark suit suggested Savile Row. No amount of tailoring, however, could really make the man look as though he belonged in a suit. He was too burly, too barrel-chested, his arms and shoulders out of proportion to the rest of his body, his legs short as a wrestler’s.

It had seemed strange to see Yarwood’s bulldog face wiped clean of its usual cheerful belligerence; stranger still to see his expression of dismay at the journalists’ approach.

Seeing no advantage to letting the press have their way with Yarwood just yet, Kincaid hurried to the rescue. When he’d introduced himself, deftly turning Yarwood away from the camera, he looked round for a place where they could talk.

The rain seemed to have stopped for the moment, at least, making shelter less of a necessity, but it was still difficult to find somewhere that afforded privacy and the least likelihood of being trampled by firefighters with rakes and axes. The side street between Yarwood’s warehouse and the similar building next door had been blocked off completely with crime scene tape. Making a quick decision, Kincaid ducked under the tape and led Yarwood towards a spot by the facing building’s side door.

Cullen was busy taking details from Spender, the job foreman, but DI Bell caught his eye and came to join them. Kincaid introduced them, but Yarwood seemed not to take it in. He stared at the burned building as if mesmerized.

“The body – they say you found a body – is it still…” His eyes shifted towards the building, like an involuntary tic.

“No,” Kincaid told him. “It’s been taken to the morgue, for examination. Have you any idea how a woman ended up dead in your building, Mr. Yarwood?”

“A woman?” Was it Kincaid’s imagination, or had he seen a jolt of panic in the man’s eyes? If so, Yarwood managed to disguise it, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet. “My guess would be that the construction crew left the building open and some poor soul wandered in off the street.”

“That occurred to us as well,” Kincaid said agreeably. “But Mr. Spender, your job foreman, says he checked the locks himself when they finished up for the day, and both doors were well fastened.”

“Well, perhaps he’s mistaken,” Yarwood ventured after a moment’s pause. It was obvious he didn’t want to call his foreman a liar.

“Or maybe someone came along later and unlocked it again,” suggested Bell, her Scots accent sounding clearly. “Where were you last night, Mr. Yarwood?”

Yarwood stared at her in surprise. “You’re not suggesting-”

If Kincaid had needed a partner in good cop/bad cop, he had certainly got it. “It’s routine, you understand, Mr. Yarwood. We have to ask these things, and it’s to your benefit to get things clear from the beginning.”

“My benefit?” Yarwood sounded puzzled.

“We have a possible homicide and a possible arson here. As you are the owner of the property, the Fire Investigation Team will naturally need to rule you out – as will your insurance company. Insurance fraud is more common than you’d think.”

Yarwood ran a hand through his short, thinning hair, and seemed to gather himself. “Of course. I understand that. I was in Birmingham, at a party conference. I had dinner in the hotel restaurant with some other attendees, then went to bed.”

“Mr. Spender says you have the only other set of keys to the warehouse. Did you have them with you?” asked Bell.

“No, they’re at home in my flat. Why would I carry them with me?”

“Why indeed?” agreed Bell lightly, but there was no humor in her voice. “We’ll need the details, of course, Mr. Yarwood, but even if you were safely put up in the Midlands last night, that doesn’t rule out a bit of professional help.”

“Now look, Inspector, you can’t accuse me of setting my own warehouse alight.” Yarwood glared at her with a return of his characteristic attitude, as if he were suddenly on firmer ground.

“No, not at this stage, anyway.” Bell allowed herself a small smile. “But there are rumors going round that you were in financial trouble, that your leases weren’t selling fast enough to cover your construction costs.”

“That’s simply not true,” Yarwood said with assurance. “The project’s barely off the ground, and we’d never expected to sell off all the leases until the flats were finished.” He frowned at Bell, his heavy forehead creasing. “You said possible arson. That means you’ve no proof that the fire wasn’t an accident.”

“Not yet.” Bell’s tone implied that it was only a matter of time, and she gave him a challenging stare.

Kincaid thought he should intervene before they resorted to head-banging. “Mr. Yarwood, let’s just say that we find that the fire was started deliberately. Have you any idea why someone would want to burn your warehouse?”

“No. Absolutely none.” Yarwood’s denial was firm, accompanied by a sharp shake of his head, but this time Kincaid had no doubt. He’d seen the flash of fear in the man’s eyes.