slighter body beneath her, ignoring her cries of pain. Then she pulled her to her feet and marched her back up the stairs.
“You tricked me,” she hissed, her breath panting hot in Harriet’s ear. “You tricked me, and you’re going to be sorry.” She shoved Harriet into the room, slamming the door so hard the walls shook and the china basin on the chest made a chinking sound.
For a long time, Harriet lay where she fell, too afraid to move. The room brightened, then grew dimmer as the sun passed its zenith. At last, driven by the pain in her arm, she shuffled across the floor and climbed up on the bed. Shivering in spite of the heat, she pulled the blanket round her.
The hours passed, the room grew gray as the afternoon faded to evening, and nothing stirred in the house. Harriet’s head swam with hunger as well as pain. She’d had nothing to eat or drink since last night’s meager supper. The tray still sat on the chest where
Congealed oatmeal, dried fruit, a cup of warm, flat water. Harriet drank all the water, no longer caring if she had to use the pail, then made herself eat a few bites of the oatmeal and nibble a piece of fruit. But she had felt ill, too dizzy to stand for long, and she soon crawled back into bed.
Now, as she lay staring into the dark, her stomach cramped with emptiness.
She recalled again what she’d seen, in the brief minutes of her flight. A landing. An open door. A room as dusty and disused as the one that held her. The bottom of the stairs had yawned dark as a cavern – there had been no light, no sound, anywhere in the house.
Harriet thought of the meals she’d been given; the dried food, the stale water. Then she thought of the utter silence that surrounded her, and of the way she heard the sound of the boiler and the grumble of the plumbing when she lay in her own bed at night.
This house was dead, she realized, abandoned. There was no power, no water, and no one had lived here for a long time, until the woman had brought her here.
It made it worse, somehow, to think of the house so desolate, so empty, and she felt very cold and very afraid. Suddenly, she wanted her mother more than she had ever wanted anything in the world. She cried out in the darkness, but her mother didn’t come.
Kincaid groped for the alarm, trying to shut off the insistent ringing. His fingers found the Snooze button, but the sound didn’t stop. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. It was the phone, not the alarm.
Squinting at the digital readout of the clock as he fumbled for the handset, he saw that it was only a few minutes after six, and that a dusky light had just begun to show at the gap in the bedroom curtains. Gemma groaned and pulled the pillow over her head as he got the phone to his ear.
“Kincaid,” he croaked.
“Duncan, it’s Bill Farrell here. Sorry to ring so early, but I thought you’d want to know.”
He pulled himself up against the headboard, coming fully awake. “Know what?”
“There was another warehouse fire in Southwark yesterday evening, just before the day watch ended. I was off duty yesterday, so another team took the initial investigation. I didn’t hear about it until I got up this morning.”
“What hap-”
“I only know it was a bad fire, fully involved, and that a firefighter was killed.”
“Jesus.” Kincaid remembered Rose telling him she was working a day tour yesterday. “Do you know who it was?”
“Not yet. I’m meeting Martinelli at the scene. I thought you might want to come. It’s just off Waterloo Road – at Webber Street.”
“Give me half an hour.”
When Kincaid hung up, he found Gemma awake and watching him, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Another fire in Southwark,” he said, before she could ask. “I’ve got to go.”
He drove east, into a glorious rising sun, and tried to think of anything other than Rose Kearny. The city was just coming to life, its pulse quickening in anticipation of the coming day, and when he crossed the Thames at Waterloo, the water reflected the sky in a molten sheet of pink. Such beauty seemed incongruous with death, and it made the dread weigh more heavily on his heart.
As he turned off the Waterloo Road, following Farrell’s directions, he realized how close the fire had been to Ufford Street and Fanny Liu’s house. Then he saw the blackened hulk of the building, stark against a sky turning quickly to gold. The roof of the warehouse had fallen in, and the remaining walls stuck up like jagged, rotting teeth. The surrounding yard was filled with piles of burned debris and broken fencing, and the rank smell of the fire penetrated the car. The perimeter of the blue-and-white crime scene tape fluttered lightly in a rising breeze.
He recognized Bill Farrell’s van parked in the road, and saw Farrell himself, gazing up at the remains of the warehouse. With him was Jake Martinelli, and Scully.
The men turned to greet him as he climbed from the car, and the dog wagged her tail in recognition. Kincaid bent to stroke her, burying his hands in the thick ruff of fur on her neck. Still clasping the dog, he looked up at Farrell. “Did you-”
“I stopped by the station. It was a young firefighter named Bryan Simms. He was Rose Kearny’s partner.”
Kincaid felt a flood of relief, then shame. Why should this death be any less tragic because he had not known the victim? Why did it matter so much to him, that Rose was safe?
Seeking a moment’s distraction to get his emotions under control, he rubbed the dog’s head and said to her, “Have you got a job today, girl?” Scully licked his ear, obligingly. Then he stood, turning to Farrell. “How did it happen?”
“They’d had to abandon an interior attack when a person was reported on the third floor. Simms and Kearny went up on the aerial ladder. There was no flame showing, so they went in through the window.” Farrell looked away, gazing at the building. “The smoke was heavy; they were blind. It was an unsecured lift shaft. He fell to the bottom. It was three hours before the crews could get the fire damped down enough to get to him.” He rubbed at his jaw. “Wouldn’t have mattered, though, if that’s a blessing. Some falling debris partially protected the body. There was enough left that they could tell he’d broken his neck.”
“Oh, Christ.” Kincaid swallowed. “And Rose?”
Farrell shrugged. “They’ve given her leave, of course. It wasn’t her fault, though I doubt she’d believe it. The floor within four or five feet of the window was solid, so they had no warning of the drop. Simms stepped in front of her.”
“What about the person on the third floor? Did they get him out?”
“They didn’t find anyone – at least not yet. We’ll see what my lads turn up when it’s full light.”
“Was she right?” Kincaid asked, thinking of the papers Rose had given him, and that he had carried around so carelessly for a day. Had he been in some way responsible for this? “Was there a pattern?”
“There was a propane tank in the building,” said Martinelli. “We won’t know if an additional accelerant was used until we get the lab results. But like the other fires, there seems to be only one obvious point of origin. And the overhaul crew turned up a few bits of cardboard that could have been used as the initial fuel.”
“And we found this, this morning.” Farrell pointed at the ground a few yards from the twisted doors. Kincaid moved closer and peered down. It was a heavy-duty padlock, rusty from exposure, but a bright gleam of metal showed where the linkage had been sheared clean through.
“The entry crew-”
“They didn’t cut it. This was done before the fire.”
Kincaid looked up and met Farrell’s eyes.
“We may not find any more hard evidence,” said Farrell, “but I’d stake my career that this was arson. He’s clever, but he’s not clever enough. And I’m going to nail the bastard to the wall.”
Rose had held on to a flicker of hope until they carried Bryan’s body out of the ruins of the fire.
She’d made a sound then, and Seamus MacCauley had tried to hold her, to turn her away, but she’d pushed herself free of his encircling arm. The others had stepped back in silence, had let her walk beside Bryan to the
