snatched it back.
“Don’t eat raw potato, it’s disgusting. You’ll get a disease or something.”
“Hasn’t hurt me yet.” Lounging against the oven, he sipped his coffee and watched her wipe the worktops. “Besides, I need something to keep my strength up. I’ve got phone duty, and I hear the press calls about last night’s fire have been coming in nonstop.” He’d have checked with the previous watch’s duty officer for any ongoing problems. “I’m to refer all queries to Lambeth PR.”
Rose dried her hands on a tea towel, debating whether to tell him about her visit to the scene that morning. “Bryan-”
The blare of the tannoy drowned out her words as Seamus MacCauley, the sub officer, announced roll call. “Never mind,” she said, patting her hair to make sure it was tucked up in regulation fashion. “Tell you later.”
But later never seemed to materialize. During roll call, MacCauley informed them that the FIT was expected at seven o’clock and would be debriefing the entire watch in the lecture room, so from roll call they scattered to complete their routine maintenance of the equipment and appliances.
Wilcox was closeted in his office with MacCauley, and as she’d caught up on her kitchen chores, Rose offered to fill in for one of the pump ladder’s crew on a call to a nearby office building, a person stuck in a lift. By the time they returned and she’d dashed into the kitchen to put the food in the oven, the rest of the watch had gathered in the lecture room. Having missed her chance to talk to Wilcox, Rose slid into a chair in the back. The tension that had been temporarily dissipated by the call returned with a vengeance.
As she looked round the room, she thought how seldom she saw them all gathered together, except on the rare occasions when both crews managed to sit down to a meal at the same time. It was a good watch, the best she’d ever had, due in part to the personalities of the men themselves and in part to Charlie Wilcox’s scrupulous refusal to tolerate any sort of hazing or bullying on his team. Rumors of Wilcox’s potential promotion to divisional officer circulated with distressing regularity. What might be a gain for the fire service administration would be a loss for Southwark Station.
Their sub officer, Seamus MacCauley, at fifty-four the oldest member of the watch, was nearing retirement, and Rose suspected he had never actively sought promotion. A whipcord-thin Geordie with an unlikely Scots-Irish name, he was a good and patient teacher, a mediator whose easygoing manner helped keep conflict to a minimum.
As if aware of her regard, he looked over at her from his position by the door and smiled. “You ready for the inquisition, flower? Mean bastards, this lot,” he added, and winked.
“Just as long as they don’t keep me from my dinner,” said Simon Forney from the row in front of her. Simon and the man beside him, Steven Winston, although not in fact brothers, were usually referred to as Castor and Pollux because of their uncanny resemblance to each other. Round-headed, barrel-chested, and proud of their strength, they’d only begun to accept her when she’d proved she could swing an axe and haul hose as well as any bloke.
The buzz of conversation in the room died away as Wilcox came in with the investigators. He introduced Station Officer Farrell and Sub Officer Martinelli, then the three detectives Rose had met that morning. Kincaid, the superintendent, caught Rose’s eye and nodded in recognition.
Rose hadn’t really noticed Martinelli earlier that day – any attention she’d turned in that direction had been focused on his dog – but now she realized he was younger than she’d thought, perhaps only in his early thirties. His Italian heritage was evident in his dark coloring, but the slant of his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes hinted at another racial component, Asian or maybe Polynesian. He gave her a friendly grin and she looked away, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring.
“We’ll keep this informal,” Farrell told them as he hitched himself up on the table at the front of the room. The others stood about a bit awkwardly until Kincaid took charge, pulling chairs from the empty front row and flipping them round so that they could sit facing the group. “You’ll need to make individual statements for the coroner’s report,” Farrell continued, “as is always the case with a fatality fire, but first I’d like to hear if anyone noted anything unusual at the scene last night. We’ve already heard from Firefighter Kearny earlier today about her discovery of the victim.”
Rose felt a sudden intensifying of attention in the room. Simms gave her a surprised glance, frowning as he turned back to Farrell.
“No one saw anyone loitering near the scene?” Farrell prompted. “Or smelled anything unusual?”
After a few silent minutes, Simms spoke up. “Sir. You think it was arson, then?”
“We haven’t found any obvious use of accelerants, but of course that’s not conclusive,” replied Farrell evasively.
“What about the videos from the appliances?” Simms continued, undiscouraged. The pump and pump ladder carried cameras mounted in their cabs that provided investigators with a view of any suspicious activity en route to a scene.
“No joy there, I’m afraid.”
“What about CCTV, sir?” put in MacCauley.
“Those tapes are still being collected,” answered Superintendent Kincaid. “We’ll be having a look at them in the morning, but our findings shouldn’t prejudice your observations. We would appreciate your cooperation on this,” he added.
A ripple of bodies shifting in chairs and a few mutters signaled the watch’s interest.
From the doorway, MacCauley directed a comment to Farrell. “It seems we’ve had an unusual number of structure fires in the Borough the last few months, guv. Might be worth checking to see if there’s some sort of pattern.”
“We’ll keep that in mind.” Farrell stood. “Okay, if there’s nothing else, we’ll get your statements. It shouldn’t take long.”
Superintendent Kincaid and the other detectives stood as well. Kincaid murmured something in Farrell’s ear, then flashed a smile at Rose as the three detectives left the room. The FIT officers moved round to the far side of the table to take statements. As she slipped into the rough queue formed by the firefighters, Rose wondered at the generous police presence. She’d been too frazzled that morning to pay much attention to the rumors flying round the scene that the building belonged to Michael Yarwood, the Labour MP, but she supposed that would account for the amount of attention being given the case.
Beside her, Steven Winston said quietly, “You oughta remember to wipe your nose, Kearny.”
She reached up instinctively, then flushed and dropped her hand as she realized what he meant. Although his tone had been teasing, his eyes were cold. Before she could respond, he nudged her and added, “Boss wants you.”
Turning, she saw Wilcox watching her from the door. When he had her attention, he jerked his head in the direction of his office. “Rose. A word.”
She followed him, her throat tight, very much aware of the stares directed at her retreating back. Expecting the worst, she stepped into the room and, at Wilcox’s nod, closed the door behind her.
He stood behind his desk, studying her for a moment, then said quietly, “Initiative is a good thing, Rose, up to a point. But we don’t need freelancers on the watch. No loose cannons, on the fire ground or off. If you know, or remember, anything that might be relevant to last night’s fire, you talk to me first and from there we’ll take it through the proper channels. Understood?”
Rose swallowed and resisted the urge to explain herself. “Yes, sir.”
The days when aggression in a firefighter was prized above all else were gone. Freelancing – charging into a fire, or any situation, without thought for partner or team – was as frowned upon now as going into a fire without a mask.
“I don’t want any unnecessary entanglements with the FIT on my watch. It complicates things. And you don’t want the rest of the team feeling you’ve gone behind their backs. You’re a good firefighter, and you handled yourself well last night. Don’t do anything to screw up your record.” Wilcox sat down at his desk and picked up a stack of reports, effectively dismissing her.
“Sir.” Knowing she’d got off lightly, Rose breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the door. Then, her hand on the knob, she turned back, her curiosity overcoming her better judgment. “Guv, about those other warehouse fires. Wouldn’t the brigade database-”
“Let the FIT do their job, Rose,” growled Wilcox, looking up at her with irritation. “You’ve done yours. Leave it
