Scanning the faded numbers, she quickly found the one she sought and stopped the car with an unexpected stomp on the brake. “This is it. This must be it.”
She and Winnie slid out of the car and stood staring at the house before them in dismay. Its flat front was as inhospitable as a prison, its windows opaque with years of grime. To one side, a wall the height of the ground floor sported coils of spiked wire and a frosting of broken glass.
“It looks like no one’s been here for years,” said Gemma. But as she looked more closely she saw that the sill of the door was free of accumulated rubbish and that the windowpane nearest the door had a spot about the size of a fifty-pence piece rubbed clear of grime. “No, I take that back,” she whispered. “She has been here, and recently.”
“What should we-” began Winnie, but Gemma was already striding towards the door.
She pounded the tarnished knocker against the wood, calling out, “Elaine Holland! Police! Open up!”
The house seemed to stare back at them in malevolent silence. Gemma tried the door, but the latch held fast. She pounded once more, then stepped back, her hand smarting from the effort. There was no sign of a watching eye at any of the windows.
“Can you get a warrant?” asked Winnie worriedly.
“Warrants take hours.” Gemma moved back several more paces, until she stood in the street and could survey 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 Pickwick Papers
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.