In A Dark House

“What about race, Doctor?” asked Maura Bell. “The skin looks black, but the hair that’s left seems reddish.”

“Neither skin nor hair are good indicators here. The dark color of the skin is due to charring, but the hair color is also misleading. Dark hair can often lighten due to oxidation. My guess is that this woman was a Caucasian brunette.”

Bell looked puzzled. “Caucasian? But you’ve just said you couldn’t tell the color of the skin.”

“We can’t.” Ling smiled. “But we can tell the shape of the skull, both from visual assessment and from X-rays.” She touched a gloved finger to the head of the corpse. “This skull is high and wide. The nasal opening is narrow. The cheekbones do not project, nor does the jaw. These are all defining Caucasian characteristics.”

“Okay, Doc,” said Kincaid. “We’ve got white, female, brunette, medium height, between twenty and forty. But did she die in the fire?”

“Patience, Duncan, patience. I’m just getting to the interesting bit. Let’s take a closer look at the skull. We noted at the scene that there was fracturing, but we also know that intense heat can cause fracturing. In that case, however, the plates of the skull tend to separate at the sutures. What we can see here, on closer examination, is more consistent with a depressed fracture due to blunt force trauma.”

“Clear as mud,” Cullen said, and Kincaid gave him a silencing frown.

“Microscopic examination of the edges of the fractured bone will tell us more,” Ling went on. “But there’s also evidence of frontal trauma, moderate Le Fort fractures. The nose has been broken” – she traced the bridge of the nose with her finger- “as has one cheekbone.”

“Excuse me, Doctor.” Bell stepped forward, resting her hands on the gallery railing. “Are you telling us this woman was killed by a blow – or blows – to the head, rather than by the fire?”

“No, I’m merely saying that it’s more than likely the skull fractures were not caused by the heat from the fire. That doesn’t rule out the possibility that the victim was alive at the time of the fire, or that these injuries were sustained during the fire. Although the last scenario is unlikely, I’ll admit, as there was no evidence of structural collapse at the scene, and it’s not very plausible that the victim could have fallen and injured both the front and back of her head at the same time.

“There is some soot visible in the nose and mouth, which could indicate that she was still breathing, but it might also be a result of settling, as she was lying faceup. We won’t know for sure until we’ve examined the airway and lungs. So let’s have a look.” Switching her mike back on, Ling turned to her assistant, who had been patiently standing by, and accepted a scalpel. “Thanks, Sandy. Let’s begin with the larynx and trachea.”

Kincaid had never quite got over the instinctive flinch brought on by the pathologist’s first incision, but he forced himself to watch as Ling made a precise cut, murmuring a detailed description into the microphone. The mortuary cold had begun to make his bones ache, but at least, he realized, his nose had gone numb, acclimatized to the smell. Stealing a glance at his companions, he saw that Cullen looked increasingly cross, Farrell impassive, and Bell wore a glazed expression that made him think of a deer caught in the headlamps of a car.

“Ah, now this is interesting,” said Kate Ling, glancing up at them. “There’s no sign of soot in the windpipe, but there is something else – bruising of the underlying tissues of the throat that was not visible on the skin.”

“She was choked?” Kincaid asked, surprised.

“The hyoid bone is intact, but yes, I’d say so. She could have lost consciousness long enough to have been bashed in the head and face.”

“And the absence of soot means she was dead when the fire started?”

“Well, there is always the possibility of vagal inhibition – that’s a reflexive constriction of the pharynx – from inhaling hot gases, but considering her other injuries, I’d say yes, it’s likely she was dead when the fire started.”

“Hallelujah!” breathed Cullen, and a smile flickered across Bell’s face.

“Can you tell us what was used to inflict the blunt trauma injuries?” asked Farrell.

“We’ll know more when we get into the skull, of course, but I’d say something with a fairly large surface area.”

While Kate Ling continued with her examination, Kincaid let his mind wander over the implications of what she’d told them. Although Farrell still hadn’t found any definitive evidence of arson, this made it look as if they were dealing with a fire started to cover up a homicide – which in turn made it less likely that insurance fraud was the motive. But did that mean Michael Yarwood was out of the frame?

It didn’t explain how the murderer had gained access to the building, and Kincaid still harbored a strong feeling that Yarwood was somehow involved.

It hadn’t escaped him that he’d been asked to look after Yarwood’s interests, but if Yarwood’s bosses had thought that appealing to their connections at Scotland Yard would guarantee favoritism, they’d been much mistaken. As far as Kincaid was concerned, his brief was simply to make sure Michael Yarwood was not accused without grounds.

Kincaid also realized that Ling’s description of the victim could fit the profile of Winnie’s friend’s missing flatmate. He’d have to ring Gemma as soon as they were finished at the hospital and arrange to get a sample of the woman’s DNA for the lab. He could put in a sample request through official channels, of course, as a report had been filed, but out of consideration for Winnie he preferred to take care of it in person.

And he had to admit his curiosity had been aroused by Gemma’s description of the house and the missing woman’s odd lifestyle. If there was any chance the woman in the warehouse might turn out to be Elaine Holland, he wanted to see both house and flatmate for himself.

As Dr. Ling began the Y-incision that would allow her to remove and examine the victim’s internal organs, Maura Bell’s phone rang. She stepped back, shielding the phone and speaking quietly so as not to disturb the procedure, but when she rang off her face shone with barely suppressed excitement.

“That was Borough station,” she said. “About the CCTV footage. They’ve found something.”

Congratulating herself on her luck, Gemma slipped the car into a parking space in Pembridge Gardens, just off the top of Portobello Road. A spot so near Portobello Market on a Saturday morning was not to be passed up, although the location meant she’d have a struggle with Toby when they walked past the library. He’d begun to read simple books on his own, and their usual Saturday visits to the library were the highlight of his week, but today they had another agenda.

Having let the boys skip breakfast at home in the interests of speed, she distracted Toby with a reminder of her promise to buy them hot cocoa and croissants from the street stall at Mr. Christian’s Deli. That way they could eat and shop at the same time.

Soon they joined the lemminglike flood of pedestrians pouring into the top of Portobello Road. With one hand firmly gripping Toby and the other her handbag, Gemma relaxed into the flow, letting herself enjoy the color and bustle of the crowd. Beside her, Kit looked happier than she’d seen him in weeks.

She loved the view from the top end of Portobello Road, and it was never more beautiful than on a sunny autumn morning. Below them the street curved gently, lined on both sides with houses and shop fronts painted every color of the rainbow.

It made her feel she’d been picked up out of ordinary London and plunked down in the middle of somewhere more exotic – a village in Italy, or maybe the south of France – except that this, too, was typical of London, where it was not unusual for colorful and eccentric pockets to butt up against sedate Victorian villas. Snatches of music came from the buskers farther down the road, fading in and out, as if someone were twirling the dial on a cosmic radio, and the odor of garlic cooking wafted up from a basement kitchen as they passed.

It took Gemma a moment to put a name to the feeling that welled up inside her. With a start of surprise she realized it was contentment. It wasn’t only the view she loved, but all of Portobello, and Notting Hill, and the house she shared with Duncan and the boys. She loved the connections they had made – friends, neighbors, shopkeepers – and it came to her that she had never before felt so at home. Not in Islington, not even in Leyton where she had grown up.

Her parents had known that sense of community, of belonging, she was sure, but she’d always been focused on moving on, getting out, making her own life. Then, during her marriage to Rob, her pregnancy, Toby’s babyhood, she’d always been looking round the corner, anticipating what came next. Her life had been a litany of afters - after the wedding, after the baby, after she returned to work, after the divorce, after the promotion. Even living in Hazel’s garage flat, her perceptions had been colored by the knowledge that