the entire house and its heavily fortified yard. “And there’s certainly no other way to get in.” The wall was impossible to scale, the windows French-paned, and she suspected that even if she could gain access to a latch, the windows wouldn’t open. Still, it was worth a try, and if Elaine was inside it might get a reaction.
There was nothing in the street of accommodating size and weight, so she popped open the boot of her car and pulled out a spanner. She cracked the pane above the center sash smartly, then tapped the glass out. No one in the neighboring houses stirred – the entire street seemed eerily abandoned.
Gemma could see the latch now. She reached in and flipped it open, then pushed upwards on the sash, straining until her arms ached. The window didn’t budge. “Okay, that’s out. These windows haven’t been opened for a very long time.”
“Then we’ll have to wait,” Winnie said. “Although I hate to think-”
“No. We’re not going to wait.” Gemma rubbed her sweaty palms against the jacket of her best suit, flipped open her mobile phone, and hit the speed dial for 999.
When Control answered, she gave her name, rank, and location. “There’s smoke coming out of the house,” she said, “and we think a child is trapped inside. I can’t rouse the resident.” She suspected the panic in her voice sounded genuine enough.
Winnie gaped at her as she hung up, then looked frantically back at the house. “But, Gemma, I don’t-”
“When they get here, tell them you saw smoke coming from the back of the house, over the roof.” Gemma could already hear the two-tone of the siren and she sprinted to her car, pulling it up well out of the way.
Rejoining Winnie, she said, “I’ll be in enough trouble without blocking access,” but she was grinning with the euphoric rush of having taken action.
The fire brigade’s pump ladder careened around the corner, air horn sounding, and screeched to a stop. As the crew jumped out, Gemma showed the officer her badge and gave her explanation once more. One of the firefighters banged on the door and tried the latch, but the door didn’t move.
“A fire, ma’am? Are you sure?” asked the officer. He’d had time to examine the prospect himself and had seen no sign of smoke.
“Yes.” Gemma pointed over the roof. “I definitely saw smoke coming from the back.”
“All right, ma’am. On your head be it.” The officer studied the map brought to him by his driver, then added, “No way to get in from the back. Place is a regular fortress.” He gestured at his men. “Okay, lads. Let’s have some fun.”
One of the firefighters took an axe to the door, reducing the heavy barrier to kindling within a few minutes. The leading firefighters rushed in, Gemma and Winnie right on their heels. Ignoring the furious shouts of the officer, Gemma ran from room to room. There was no sign of Elaine or Harriet, or any evidence that the house had recently been occupied at all.
“Thought you said there was a fire, ma’am,” said one of the firefighters, coming out of the kitchen. “Have to admit the bloody old place is a firetrap, though.”
“Upstairs. It was upstairs, in the back. The smoke was curling over the top of the house.”
“Right, then.” He motioned to his partner. “Let’s have a look-see.” They climbed, Gemma trying to make herself invisible as she trod in their wake, with Winnie behind her.
The first-floor rooms were empty, and to Gemma the air seemed impregnated with age and illness, barely masked by the odor of dust. She felt an unwanted stab of pity for the child who had grown up in this place, but the pity only fueled her rage towards the woman that little girl had become.
“She’s gone,” murmured Winnie. “Elaine’s gone, isn’t she?”
Gemma sensed she was right – there was no watchfulness here – and her heart gave a lurch of despair. Had she taken Harriet with her?
But another, narrower flight of stairs continued upwards. Following the firefighters, Gemma looked back only once, to give Winnie a reassuring glance, then had to drag her mind away from the vision of old Mrs. Castleman tumbling down the dark chute.
When they reached the top landing they found only one door, locked. The leading firefighter pounded, then looked at Gemma and shrugged. She nodded. “Step back, then, ladies,” he said, and swung his axe.
The old locks were no match for the force of the blade. The door swung wide and the smell hit them like a blow, a sickening miasma of human waste, illness, and fear. Peering past the bulk of the firefighters’ shoulders, Gemma took in the chest with its ewer and basin, the bookcase, the pail in the corner. She pushed forward, and the firefighter let her by.
Then she saw the bed, and the frightened, feverish eyes of the little girl who lay huddled beneath the tattered blanket.
“Jesus Christ,” said the firefighter, shaking his head, his weather-beaten face creased with horror. “I’ll swear to any amount of smoke you like, ma’am.”
But all Gemma’s focus was on the child, still alive, still aware. Safe. Moving to the bed, she dropped to her knees. “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s all right now,” she whispered, and then she lifted Harriet in her arms.
19
Grief never mended no broken bones, and as good people’s wery scarce, what I says is, make the most on ’em.
CHARLES DICKENS
THE WEATHER HAD changed at last, bringing a light frost in the night, followed by a bright, crisp day. As Gemma drove through northeast London, she saw that the city had suddenly taken on an autumn tint, and above the faint flush of color in the trees the sky looked impossibly blue.
She followed the familiar road that led to Leyton, but on this day her destination was not her parents’ bakery but Abney Park Cemetery in nearby Stoke Newington. She’d promised Kincaid she’d meet him at Bryan Simms’s funeral, but she’d been delayed at work by a meeting with her guv’nor. Knowing she’d missed the church service, she’d headed directly to the cemetery instead.
Abney Park, like Kensal Green in Notting Hill, was one of the great Victorian cemeteries, built when churchyards could no longer hold the multitude of dead. As she drove through the gates into the rambling grounds, she stopped and glanced at the map she’d downloaded from the Internet, comparing it with the directions to Bryan Simms’s grave site.
But as she scanned the page, James Braidwood’s name jumped out at her. The great Victorian fireman was buried here, she saw, in a monument on the main drive. Putting the car into gear, she drove on, gazing at the marble tomb as she bumped past it.
What, she wondered, would happen to the poor remains of Jimmy Braidwood, who had had no family to claim him?
She soon saw that her map was superfluous, as parked cars filled the roads like arterial blood pumping out from a heart. She followed the main track until she saw the crowds, then found a spot for her little Ford and walked back, leaving the road for a rough, grassy track. Her long russet coat provided a welcome protection against the chill breeze.
As she crested a rise, she looked down upon a sea of mourners, almost all in navy-blue uniforms. The fire service had turned out to honor its own.
She stood at the back of the crowd for a few minutes, listening as an occasional snatch of the burial service drifted to her on the wind. Then she moved to one side and edged her way through the packed bodies until she could see the mourning party.
The pallbearers, all firefighters, sat to one side, ramrod straight in their dress uniforms. On the other side of the grave sat Bryan Simms’s family, recognizable by their dark skin. Her throat tightened and she blinked until the feeling eased. The tears made her feel a hypocrite – she had never met the young man. And yet she knew that he
