“Do you think those bastards were responsible for this?” Yarwood asked, beginning to sound like a crusading politician again. “Do you think they killed that poor woman as an example? Or because they thought she was Chloe?”
Kincaid thought back over what Cullen had told him. “No. First of all, I don’t think they wanted Chloe dead. That would have meant killing the goose before it laid the golden egg. And from what Chloe’s told us, it seems pretty obvious that the victim knew her killer.”
“Then why kill her in my warehouse? And why burn it?” Yarwood shook his head. “I’m sorry. That sounds callous. I only meant-”
“We don’t know. We don’t know if the fire was set as the last attempt to hide the victim’s identity, or if there was an unrelated motive. We may never, in fact, prove that the fire was set at all.” Kincaid couldn’t broadcast the fact that they suspected they might be dealing with a serial arsonist turned murderer, not to someone with Yarwood’s media connections, and not when Yarwood stood to gain by making such news public.
But the conversation had started him thinking about Rose’s theory again, and as he paid for his sandwich at a takeaway near the station, he had an idea. Glancing at his watch to make sure he could squeeze in a few more minutes, he went back into the station and found Sarah, the sergeant who had helped with the CCTV video.
“Can you print me another still from the tape?” he asked. When he’d shown her what he wanted, he ate his sandwich while waiting for the photo, then drove to Southwark Fire Station.
He found Rose and Bill Farrell sequestered in an unused office, surrounded by a mountain of files. They both looked tired and discouraged. The London Fire Brigade only hired new staff irregularly, and then they were inundated with thousands of applications for a few hundred positions.
“No possibles?” he asked, and they both shook their heads.
Rose sat on the floor against the back wall, her knees drawn up, a box of files beside her.
Kincaid handed her the print he’d made. “Maybe this will help.”
She took it and stared at it. “What – where did you get this?”
Hearing the excitement in her voice, Farrell joined her and bent to look.
“It’s the man who walked by the Southwark Street warehouse a few minutes after Chloe Yarwood and her friend went inside. He only hesitated a moment as he passed, so we didn’t think anything of it. Do you recognize him?”
“Yes. I – I think so.” She looked at the time stamp on the print. “But this was only a little after ten. The fire wasn’t reported until after midnight.”
“Maybe he came back,” Kincaid suggested.
“At midnight?” asked Farrell.
“Or earlier, if he killed Laura Novak.” Kincaid told them what they’d learned from Chloe Yarwood. “We’ve no way of knowing exactly when she died, and even if it was nearer ten than twelve, we don’t know how long he spent… preparing the body.”
Rose flinched. “But why this particular woman? I mean, I can understand, in a bizarre sort of way, his wanting to kill a firefighter if he has some sort of grudge against the brigade. But why Laura Novak?”
Kincaid thought again of the words Chloe had overheard. Could Laura have learned about the fires and confronted the arsonist? But how could she have discovered something like that? What connection could she have had with this man?
His phone rang and he snapped it open, irritated at the interruption when he knew he was in danger of running late for Kit’s hearing. It was Maura Bell.
“Guv, we’ve found another body.”
“What? Where?” He felt a sick dread. “It’s not Harriet-”
“No. But you’d better come. It’s Crossbones Graveyard, just behind the Southwark Street warehouse. And we’ve met her. It’s Beverly Brown, the young woman who reported the fire.”
“The woman from the shelter? Mouse?” He saw instantly the pinched little face, the hair with its badgerlike white streak.
“Yes. And it looks like she’s been strangled.”
17
Let us be moral. Let us contemplate existence.
CHARLES DICKENS
Martin Chuzzlewit
THEY MET IN the judge’s chambers. It was a comfortable room, anchored by a long, polished, mahogany table. The Honorable Sophie O’Donnell, an attractive woman in her fifties with smartly styled, blond-streaked hair, sat at the head.
On one side were Kit’s maternal grandparents, Eugenia and Bob Potts, and their solicitor, a rabbity-faced man named Cavanaugh; on the other, Gemma, Kit, and Miles Kelly, their solicitor. It was shaping up to be the battle of the Irish, thought Gemma, but she couldn’t summon a smile. The large clock on the wall behind the judge read straight up two o’clock, and Kincaid hadn’t arrived.
Neither party had spoken to the other. Eugenia was in full war paint, her fair hair freshly lacquered, but it seemed to Gemma that her clothes hung too loosely and there was a feverish look to her eyes. Bob merely looked diffident and distressed, the classic henpecked husband, and Gemma wondered if he might someday snap and bite the hand that had led him such a merry dance.
Miles Kelly glanced at Gemma, raising very black eyebrows over very blue eyes, and she gave a tiny, worried shrug. Beside her, Kit sat silent and strained. She’d bought him new gray flannels and a navy blazer for the occasion, and he looked painfully grown up.
The judge glanced at her watch and cleared her throat. “I think, Mr. Kelly, that we should begin, but we seem to be missing your client.”
“I know Superintendent Kincaid is on his way, Your Honor,” replied Kelly with his most charming smile. “Perhaps he’s been detained in traffic. If you could give us just a few more moments-”
Gemma jumped as the mobile phone clipped to her waist began to vibrate. A quick glance at the caller ID told her it was Kincaid. After looking at the judge, who nodded permission, she excused herself and moved a few steps away from the table, turning her back to the room before she answered.
She listened briefly, spoke in monosyllables, and rang off. Then she stood for a moment, trying to get her dismay under control before she faced the others.
When she turned round, Kit said, his voice tight, “He’s not coming, is he?”
“Something’s happened, Kit,” she answered quietly, then spoke to the judge. “Your Honor, Superintendent Kincaid has been unavoidably detained on urgent police business. He apologizes to the court and asks if we can reschedule this meeting at a later time.”
“Do sit down, Ms. James,” said the judge, sounding very displeased.
As she slipped into her chair, her face blazing with embarrassment, Gemma caught the flash of triumph in Eugenia Potts’s eyes.
“This is very irregular,” Judge O’Donnell went on, frowning. “Under ordinary circumstances I would not be inclined to grant such a request, but considering the nature of Mr. Kincaid’s job, I will think about it.” Before Gemma could breathe a sigh of relief, she continued: “However, I must say this gives me serious doubts about Mr. Kincaid’s suitability as a guardian for Christopher.”
Seeing the protest forming on Kit’s face, she raised a hand to silence him. “I’ve had a brief discussion with Christopher before we began this meeting, and I’m aware of his feelings on the matter. I’ve also looked over Christopher’s father’s rather unusual petition requesting that you, Ms. James, and Mr. Kincaid be allowed to provide care for Christopher until he comes of age.
“I’m always most reluctant to disrupt what seems to be a stable home situation, particularly when a child has suffered a loss.” She fixed Gemma with a sharp eye. “But the demands of a police officer’s job are both heavy and unpredictable, as Mr. Kincaid has demonstrated today, and as both of you are officers of senior rank, I’m not sure you can provide the sort of environment Christopher needs. And as neither of you has any blood tie to the boy, and we don’t know what Christopher’s mother would have wished for him, I’m inclined to give consideration to his grandparents’ petition for custody.”