JOHN TAYLOR, 1630
ROSE HAD DRAWN kitchen duty for that night’s watch, her least favorite chore. Growing up, she’d not had any interest in cooking, while her mother had enjoyed it and had been content to let her help her dad with his projects rather than insisting she do her share in the kitchen.
But cooking, she quickly discovered, was an essential skill in the fire service, and she’d set out with her usual diligence to become competent. Now, at least the other members of the watch didn’t roll their eyes and suggest Chinese takeaway when it was her turn to prepare meals.
She’d come in a half hour early, hoping to have a word with Station Officer Wilcox before the tour of duty began. It would be better if he heard about her visit to the fire scene from her rather than the FIT.
But Wilcox hadn’t yet come in, so she decided to get the dinner ready to go in the oven before roll call. That way she had more chance of getting the meal finished if they had a busy night, and it would give her something to do while she kept an eye out for Wilcox. Using a mallet, she pounded chicken breast halves into an even thickness before coating them in seasoned bread crumbs and drizzling them with olive oil. Then she scrubbed and quartered potatoes for roasted potato wedges; both dishes could be popped in the oven later. She could throw a salad together at the last minute, and there was ice cream in the freezer for a sweet.
Yawning as she finished her tasks, she rubbed at eyes burning from lack of sleep. Although a nap and a shower had helped, she still felt frayed round the edges. It would be a long night, but she knew better than to wish for a quiet one – that only seemed to guarantee that the bells would go nonstop.
Bryan Simms wandered into the kitchen as she was finishing up, carrying a takeaway coffee. “You look knackered,” he offered after examining her critically.
“Thanks.” She shot him a sour glance. “You really know how to boost a girl’s confidence.”
“Anytime.” He grinned at her. “Dinner looks good, though.” He reached for a slice of raw potato, but she snatched it back.
“Don’t eat raw potato, it’s disgusting. You’ll get a disease or something.”
“Hasn’t hurt me yet.” Lounging against the oven, he sipped his coffee and watched her wipe the worktops. “Besides, I need something to keep my strength up. I’ve got phone duty, and I hear the press calls about last night’s fire have been coming in nonstop.” He’d have checked with the previous watch’s duty officer for any ongoing problems. “I’m to refer all queries to Lambeth PR.”
Rose dried her hands on a tea towel, debating whether to tell him about her visit to the scene that morning. “Bryan-”
The blare of the tannoy drowned out her words as Seamus MacCauley, the sub officer, announced roll call. “Never mind,” she said, patting her hair to make sure it was tucked up in regulation fashion. “Tell you later.”
But later never seemed to materialize. During roll call, MacCauley informed them that the FIT was expected at seven o’clock and would be debriefing the entire watch in the lecture room, so from roll call they scattered to complete their routine maintenance of the equipment and appliances.
Wilcox was closeted in his office with MacCauley, and as she’d caught up on her kitchen chores, Rose offered to fill in for one of the pump ladder’s crew on a call to a nearby office building, a person stuck in a lift. By the time they returned and she’d dashed into the kitchen to put the food in the oven, the rest of the watch had gathered in the lecture room. Having missed her chance to talk to Wilcox, Rose slid into a chair in the back. The tension that had been temporarily dissipated by the call returned with a vengeance.
As she looked round the room, she thought how seldom she saw them all gathered together, except on the rare occasions when both crews managed to sit down to a meal at the same time. It was a good watch, the best she’d ever had, due in part to the personalities of the men themselves and in part to Charlie Wilcox’s scrupulous refusal to tolerate any sort of hazing or bullying on his team. Rumors of Wilcox’s potential promotion to divisional officer circulated with distressing regularity. What might be a gain for the fire service administration would be a loss for Southwark Station.
Their sub officer, Seamus MacCauley, at fifty-four the oldest member of the watch, was nearing retirement, and Rose suspected he had never actively sought promotion. A whipcord-thin Geordie with an unlikely Scots-Irish name, he was a good and patient teacher, a mediator whose easygoing manner helped keep conflict to a minimum.
As if aware of her regard, he looked over at her from his position by the door and smiled. “You ready for the inquisition, flower? Mean bastards, this lot,” he added, and winked.
“Just as long as they don’t keep me from my dinner,” said Simon Forney from the row in front of her. Simon and the man beside him, Steven Winston, although not in fact brothers, were usually referred to as Castor and Pollux because of their uncanny resemblance to each other. Round-headed, barrel-chested, and proud of their strength, they’d only begun to accept her when she’d proved she could swing an axe and haul hose as well as any bloke.
The buzz of conversation in the room died away as Wilcox came in with the investigators. He introduced Station Officer Farrell and Sub Officer Martinelli, then the three detectives Rose had met that morning. Kincaid, the superintendent, caught Rose’s eye and nodded in recognition.
Rose hadn’t really noticed Martinelli earlier that day – any attention she’d turned in that direction had been focused on his dog – but now she realized he was younger than she’d thought, perhaps only in his early thirties. His Italian heritage was evident in his dark coloring, but the slant of his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes hinted at another racial component, Asian or maybe Polynesian. He gave her a friendly grin and she looked away, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring.
“We’ll keep this informal,” Farrell told them as he hitched himself up on the table at the front of the room. The others stood about a bit awkwardly until Kincaid took charge, pulling chairs from the empty front row and flipping them round so that they could sit facing the group. “You’ll need to make individual statements for the coroner’s report,” Farrell continued, “as is always the case with a fatality fire, but first I’d like to hear if anyone noted anything unusual at the scene last night. We’ve already heard from Firefighter Kearny earlier today about her discovery of the victim.”
Rose felt a sudden intensifying of attention in the room. Simms gave her a surprised glance, frowning as he turned back to Farrell.
“No one saw anyone loitering near the scene?” Farrell prompted. “Or smelled anything unusual?”
After a few silent minutes, Simms spoke up. “Sir. You think it was arson, then?”
“We haven’t found any obvious use of accelerants, but of course that’s not conclusive,” replied Farrell evasively.
“What about the videos from the appliances?” Simms continued, undiscouraged. The pump and pump ladder carried cameras mounted in their cabs that provided investigators with a view of any suspicious activity en route to a scene.
“No joy there, I’m afraid.”
“What about CCTV, sir?” put in MacCauley.
“Those tapes are still being collected,” answered Superintendent Kincaid. “We’ll be having a look at them in the morning, but our findings shouldn’t prejudice your observations. We would appreciate your cooperation on this,” he added.
A ripple of bodies shifting in chairs and a few mutters signaled the watch’s interest.
From the doorway, MacCauley directed a comment to Farrell. “It seems we’ve had an unusual number of structure fires in the Borough the last few months, guv. Might be worth checking to see if there’s some sort of pattern.”