“Where was it burning hottest?” Farrell asked. “Could you tell?”
“The fire was everywhere – it must have been close to flashover. But” – Kearny frowned, nodding towards the furniture- “I’d say it was most intense there.”
Turning to his little group of followers, Farrell said, “The first thing we do in a fire investigation is identify the point of origin. Look.” He pointed at the floor surrounding the furniture. “See, the char is deepest here, as if it burned the longest. And there” – he nodded at the rear wall, a few feet behind the piled furniture- “see the V pattern?”
Kincaid found that he could make it out, now that his attention had been directed to it, a faint lightening of the soot in a pattern wider at the top than at the bottom.
“Fire tends to travel upward and outward, and to burn longer and more intensely near the point of origin. The expanding gases typically leave such a pattern, but there are other indicators, of course.”
“You’re telling us that the fire started in the furniture?” said Inspector Bell, sounding interested in spite of herself. She edged forward so that she stood in front of Kincaid.
“That would be my guess, but that doesn’t tell us whether the cause of ignition was deliberate or accidental.”
“But surely if it started in the furniture, it must have been arson,” Bell insisted.
“Not necessarily. First off, until we interview the job foreman, we don’t know whether the furniture was stacked up by the builders or by an unknown party.” Farrell ticked one forefinger against the other, striking off an imaginary list. “Then, even if the work crew left the furniture this way, that still doesn’t tell us if the fire was started by accident or design. The foam in these cushions and mattresses is highly flammable. One of the workmen could have dropped a cigarette, left it to smolder. Or there might have been a spark from the wiring they’ve torn loose.” He pointed to a flex hanging from the ceiling, shrugged, then called out to Martinelli, “Any hits yet?”
“No. She’s not picking up anything definite,” Martinelli answered. “She’s feeling a bit frustrated,” he added as the dog whined and nosed at his tunic pocket.
“If the dog doesn’t find an accelerant, can you rule out arson?” asked Cullen.
“Oh, no.” Farrell sounded almost gleeful. “The accelerant could have burned off completely, or the fire could have been started without an accelerant. Amateur torches love to splash the petrol around, but often more practiced arsonists prefer to start a fire using only what’s available at a scene. More of a challenge that way, I should think.”
Kincaid was beginning to sympathize with the dog’s frustration and Inspector Bell’s impatience. “Well, we do have one without-a-doubt fact here. Someone died, whether it was before, during, or after the fire. What do you say we have a look at the body?”
“There.” Rose Kearny stepped forward gingerly. “We must have gone past the furniture, then turned slightly to the right.”
Kincaid followed her, and as they edged into the gap between the furniture and the rear wall, he saw it.
The remains were identifiably human, at least. The body lay on its back, arms and legs drawn up in the pugilistic pose caused by muscular contraction, the skin blackened, the teeth showing in a grotesque parody of a smile. The few remaining tufts of hair were charred, and there were no traces of clothing. Although the tissue damage was extensive, the breasts were still recognizable, and that somehow made it worse. Kincaid swallowed against the sudden rise of bile in his throat.
Rose Kearny’s hand had flown to her mouth, but as Kincaid glanced at her she forced it back to her side.
“Bloody hell,” Cullen mumbled, looking a bit green, and even Inspector Bell seemed momentarily to have lost her composure.
When a light female voice spoke from the warehouse doorway, they all spun round as if they’d been caught at something unspeakable.
“I take it I’ve the right address?” said the white-suited figure, and with a flash of pleasure Kincaid recognized Kate Ling, his favorite Home Office pathologist. Now they might get some answers.
Tony Novak pulled things from the bureau drawers and threw them into the open suitcase on his bed, the largest he’d been able to find. Laura would have criticized his untidiness, but then Laura would not only have packed neatly, she would have made a list of essentials for the journey and checked it off as she stowed each item.
And, of course, Laura would have criticized his impulsiveness, but there were times when impulsiveness could be a virtue. And, he reminded himself, it no longer mattered what Laura thought.
They had been polar opposites from the beginning of their relationship, first attracted by their differences, then, as time went on, just as fiercely repelled. If she’d teased him at first, saying he’d bluffed his way through medical school, he’d thought there was some part of her that had admired his recklessness. Later, she had seen that quality only as a character defect to be mended.
What she had never understood was that his failings were also his strengths, interwoven with an intuitive understanding and an ability to make quick decisions, and it was these qualities that had made him a success at emergency medicine.
When they’d closed down the Accident and Emergency at Guy’s, his loyalty to the hospital had kept him on in Minor Trauma, but days spent dealing with flu and broken fingers, with objects inappropriately placed in body orifices, had quickly soured. He missed the adrenaline rush, the sense of flow that came only in a crisis, when time seemed to telescope in on itself. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the bureau mirror, his face lean and tired, with new lines about the mouth.
Work was only a small part of the discontent he’d felt lately – it was nothing compared with the gaping hole left in his life by the absence of his daughter since he and Laura had separated. He looked down at the suitcase, at the few things Harriet had accumulated on her weekends in his dreary rented flat on Borough High Street, and felt the familiar despair.
For a moment, his courage failed him. But no, he had gone too far, and he knew Laura too well. He knew about her increasing involvement with the women’s shelter, and he knew that the agency made it possible for women to disappear with their children. And he’d known, when she’d threatened him on Sunday, what it was she meant to do.
Well, she’d lost her chance, he thought, his resolve returning. Hadn’t it occurred to her that two could play at that game, and that he had the advantage? There was no place easier to vanish into with a child than Eastern Europe, and he had family in Czechoslovakia who would help him. A change of name, a new set of papers, a job in a backwater town where doctors were desperately needed, all easily accomplished. He and Harriet would start a new life together, and nothing would separate them again.
The hospital would be in a crunch for a bit, no doubt, losing him without notice, but there were other doctors who could bandage cuts and prescribe antibiotics.
It was Harriet that mattered, and he had Harriet safely tucked away – he hadn’t dared wait until later in the day to pick her up. Once he’d set things in motion, he’d been driven by a mounting sense of urgency. Now, all that remained was a trip to the bank, and Harriet’s passport. The passport meant he had to get into Laura’s flat, and he had to do it when he could guarantee no one would be home.
Nor could he take Harriet with him, as he hadn’t yet told her what he meant to do, so he’d been forced to call on the one person he felt he could trust to take Harriet for a few hours. He’d arranged to meet them at London Bridge Station at noon, and then he’d tell Harriet he had a surprise planned for her, an adventure. The truth could wait until they were across the Channel, away from England and all the misery of the past months. He would tell her when he felt the time was right, and he smiled at the thought that from now on, as far as his daughter was concerned, only his decisions mattered.
3
…trifles make the sum of life.
