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 waiting ambulance. She owed him that, and so much more.
Their relief had arrived, an hour into the fire, but the entire watch had stayed on, watching and waiting. You didn’t leave a mate, not like that. The paramedics had stood by as well, even though any hope that they would be needed faded as the fire blazed unabated, and the minutes lengthened into hours.
The pumpers poured out hundreds of thousands of gallons, and it seemed, for a long while, that the water only fed the flames. Then the roof had begun to cave, the inrush of oxygen sending up sparks and new tongues of fire, but it had been the beginning of the end. The glow had dimmed, the fierce heat fading, until she had felt the night air cool against her face. At last, the ladder crew had gone in, to search out the last stubborn, smoldering pockets, but victory had come at too great a price.
Rose reached out as the stretcher slid into the ambulance, but Station Officer Wilcox stilled her hand with his own, and the doors clanged shut.
As the ambulance pulled away, he said, “He didn’t suffer, Rose. And there was nothing you could have done.”
She looked at those gathered round her, their eyes red-rimmed, their faces stained with snot and soot, and she knew she couldn’t belittle their grief by giving way to hers. Nodding, she stepped back.
Steven Winston and Simon Forney came up to her. “We’re taking you home, Rose,” said Steven. “I’ll drive you, and Simon will bring your car.”
“But I can-”
“Just do as you’re told and don’t argue for once, Kearny,” interrupted Simon, and the familiar hectoring tone had eased the tightness in her chest.
She rode with Steven in silence, after they’d dropped their gear at the station and Simon had picked up her Mini. There was nothing to say, and when they reached the house in Forest Hills and Simon had handed over her car keys, they’d stood in awkward silence for a moment.
“Get some rest, Rose,” Steven had said, and she noticed that when he’d washed up at the station, he’d missed a streak of soot along his left cheek. “A day or two, then we’ll see you back on duty.”
“Right. A day or two,” she’d agreed, and gone in.
She found her mother sitting up in the reading chair in the conservatory, a book facedown in her lap.
“Rose?” she called, putting the book aside and standing up. In her dressing gown, with her face scrubbed free of makeup and the gray showing visibly in her blond hair, she suddenly looked all of her fifty-two years. “Rose, Officer MacCauley called me. I’m so sorry.” She reached out, but Rose stepped away from her.
“No, Mum, please. I can’t. I just can’t.” She couldn’t bear sympathy now – it would dissolve the fragile glue that was holding her together. Steven and Simon had known that.
After a moment, her mother nodded and sank back into the chair. “Can I get you something to eat? Or something hot to drink?”
“No, Mum. I just want to sleep.” Rose leaned down and quickly brushed her lips across her mother’s forehead. “But thanks. I – we’ll talk in the morning.”
Once upstairs, she showered, scrubbing her skin until it stung, then fell into her clean white bed. But the forgetfulness of sleep, so longed for, evaded her. She dozed eventually, in fits and starts, always waking with the same urgent feeling of having forgotten something crucial, of needing to be somewhere, needing to do something, if only she could remember what.
She woke fully when the first light of dawn began to pale the windows, her mind suddenly preternaturally clear and alert. Throwing on a sweatshirt and jeans, she left a scribbled note in the kitchen and snuck quietly out of the house. The early-morning air smelled clean and fresh, making her think suddenly of the year her father had helped her throw a paper route. There had been a secret pleasure in getting up together while the world still slept.
She chased away the thought before it could progress to longing – she had no time for that now – and climbed into the Mini. Laying a copy of the map she had made carefully on the passenger seat, she drove north to Southwark.