Reduced to rubble. Maybe it was fitting for a bricklayer’s son with aspirations above his station. He’d been eighteen when he’d bought his first small delivery van with the earnings from his second job; twenty-five when he’d stood for his first council seat. He’d balanced his anomalous roles as small-business owner and Labour activist by his personal rejection of the greed-driven principles of big business and his unswerving dedication to improving his borough. Until, driven by his worries over Chloe, he’d given in to the temptations of the property market, and now he was facing financial disaster.
Or worse. His secretary had informed him that the prime minister’s office had unofficially requested that Scotland Yard oversee the case, and that was the last thing he needed.
A movement caught his eye. Turning, he saw a reporter coming towards him, accompanied by an assistant wielding a handheld video cam like an unnatural appendage. For a moment he wondered wildly if he had conjured them up from the depths of his imagination. But no, they were real enough. The red eye of the camera held him mercilessly, and he struggled to resurrect his public face as the reporter held out a mike.
But before the reporter could speak, there was a touch on his shoulder and a quiet voice said, “Mr. Yarwood? I’m with the police. If we could have a word.”
Kincaid had recognized Yarwood immediately, but had been content to observe him for a few moments. The man was smaller in stature than he appeared on television, nor did he seem to have the assurance that had always leapt from the screen. Was it shock, Kincaid wondered, or did the camera amplify certain character traits?
Yarwood wore no overcoat – he had not, perhaps, planned to spend his day standing in the rain – and the fit of his dark suit suggested Savile Row. No amount of tailoring, however, could really make the man look as though he belonged in a suit. He was too burly, too barrel-chested, his arms and shoulders out of proportion to the rest of his body, his legs short as a wrestler’s.
It had seemed strange to see Yarwood’s bulldog face wiped clean of its usual cheerful belligerence; stranger still to see his expression of dismay at the journalists’ approach.
Seeing no advantage to letting the press have their way with Yarwood just yet, Kincaid hurried to the rescue. When he’d introduced himself, deftly turning Yarwood away from the camera, he looked round for a place where they could talk.
The rain seemed to have stopped for the moment, at least, making shelter less of a necessity, but it was still difficult to find somewhere that afforded privacy and the least likelihood of being trampled by firefighters with rakes and axes. The side street between Yarwood’s warehouse and the similar building next door had been blocked off completely with crime scene tape. Making a quick decision, Kincaid ducked under the tape and led Yarwood towards a spot by the facing building’s side door.
Cullen was busy taking details from Spender, the job foreman, but DI Bell caught his eye and came to join them. Kincaid introduced them, but Yarwood seemed not to take it in. He stared at the burned building as if mesmerized.
“The body – they say you found a body – is it still…” His eyes shifted towards the building, like an involuntary tic.
“No,” Kincaid told him. “It’s been taken to the morgue, for examination. Have you any idea how a woman ended up dead in your building, Mr. Yarwood?”
“A woman?” Was it Kincaid’s imagination, or had he seen a jolt of panic in the man’s eyes? If so, Yarwood managed to disguise it, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet. “My guess would be that the construction crew left the building open and some poor soul wandered in off the street.”
“That occurred to us as well,” Kincaid said agreeably. “But Mr. Spender, your job foreman, says he checked the locks himself when they finished up for the day, and both doors were well fastened.”
“Well, perhaps he’s mistaken,” Yarwood ventured after a moment’s pause. It was obvious he didn’t want to call his foreman a liar.
“Or maybe someone came along later and unlocked it again,” suggested Bell, her Scots accent sounding clearly. “Where were you last night, Mr. Yarwood?”
Yarwood stared at her in surprise. “You’re not suggesting-”
If Kincaid had needed a partner in good cop/bad cop, he had certainly got it. “It’s routine, you understand, Mr. Yarwood. We have to ask these things, and it’s to your benefit to get things clear from the beginning.”
“My benefit?” Yarwood sounded puzzled.
“We have a possible homicide and a possible arson here. As you are the owner of the property, the Fire Investigation Team will naturally need to rule you out – as will your insurance company. Insurance fraud is more common than you’d think.”
Yarwood ran a hand through his short, thinning hair, and seemed to gather himself. “Of course. I understand that. I was in Birmingham, at a party conference. I had dinner in the hotel restaurant with some other attendees, then went to bed.”
“Mr. Spender says you have the only other set of keys to the warehouse. Did you have them with you?” asked Bell.
“No, they’re at home in my flat. Why would I carry them with me?”
“Why indeed?” agreed Bell lightly, but there was no humor in her voice. “We’ll need the details, of course, Mr. Yarwood, but even if you were safely put up in the Midlands last night, that doesn’t rule out a bit of professional help.”
“Now look, Inspector, you can’t accuse me of setting my own warehouse alight.” Yarwood glared at her with a return of his characteristic attitude, as if he were suddenly on firmer ground.
“No, not at this stage, anyway.” Bell allowed herself a small smile. “But there are rumors going round that you were in financial trouble, that your leases weren’t selling fast enough to cover your construction costs.”
“That’s simply not true,” Yarwood said with assurance. “The project’s barely off the ground, and we’d never expected to sell off all the leases until the flats were finished.” He frowned at Bell, his heavy forehead creasing. “You said possible arson. That means you’ve no proof that the fire wasn’t an accident.”
“Not yet.” Bell’s tone implied that it was only a matter of time, and she gave him a challenging stare.
Kincaid thought he should intervene before they resorted to head-banging. “Mr. Yarwood, let’s just say that we find that the fire was started deliberately. Have you any idea why someone would want to burn your warehouse?”
“No. Absolutely none.” Yarwood’s denial was firm, accompanied by a sharp shake of his head, but this time Kincaid had no doubt. He’d seen the flash of fear in the man’s eyes.
5
The chief features in the still life of the street are green shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and bell-handles; the principal specimens of animated nature, the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the baked-potato man.
CHARLES DICKENS
The Pickwick Papers
GEMMA AND WINNIE left the pub, crossing the busy road, then soon made a jog into the aptly named Short Street. Winnie pointed out her church, a nondescript brown brick structure that paralleled the street on their left.
“And that’s Mitre Road.” Winnie gestured to the street of neat Victorian terraces that ran off to the right. “My flat’s about halfway along, first floor. It’s quite nice – cozy compared to my drafty vicarage at home. I promise I’ll have you both over for a meal.
“And Fanny’s house is just there,” she added as Short Street came to an abrupt end at Ufford Street. “Practically on my doorstep.”