In A Dark House Read online

  “There’s not going to be a next time,” her mum had said quietly, taking Harriet’s arm in a viselike grip and turning them both towards the door. As they reached the building, Harriet looked round and saw her dad pulling away, and if he had tried to ring her since, her mum hadn’t told her.

  Harriet hadn’t dared ask her mother what she’d meant, but the words had stayed with her over the past few days, disturbing her sleep and haunting her waking hours.

  She shifted her backpack and frowned again, aware of a headache coming on. She hadn’t eaten her breakfast and her empty stomach was starting to cramp.

  That was one of the worst things about her parents’ separation – now, with her dad gone, when her mother had to work night duty at the hospital, she left Harriet with old Mrs. Bletchley, who lived in one of the cottages across from the school. Mum said Mrs. B. was lonely and enjoyed having children stay with her, but the woman reminded Harriet of the witch in Hansel and Gretel, and her house smelled of cats. That morning she had given Harriet some sort of unspeakable hot cereal for breakfast, which Harriet had mushed around in the bowl and tipped in the bin when Mrs. B. wasn’t looking.

  A shiny black Range Rover pulled up to the school gate and a boy climbed from the back, shrugging into his backpack with impossible-to-imitate eleven-year-old cool. Shawn Culver was a year ahead of Harriet, and the most popular boy in school.

  “Hey, Harry,” he called out, seeing her watching. She nodded without smiling, determined not to appear impressed, but she didn’t protest his use of the hated nickname. She tugged her hair more tightly into its bunch, suddenly aware that she looked as if she hadn’t bothered to wash that morning – which she hadn’t. And if her hair weren’t bad enough at home, when she could smooth it down with some of her mum’s gel, on a Bletchley morning it was impossible.

  The bell rang. She’d turned to follow Shawn with a studied nonchalance when the sound of a car braking fast made her look back. It was a dark green Volvo, like her dad’s – no, it was her dad’s. As she made out his face through the tinted glass, she saw that he was motioning to her. What was he doing here, before school?

  She started towards the car slowly, aware of the second ring of the bell, of the play yard emptying behind her. As she neared the car she realized there was a second person in the passenger seat, a woman, and for a moment her heart flared in wild hope.

  Then her dad reached back and swung open the rear door, and she saw that the woman was not her mother, but someone she had never seen before.

  “Want some coffee, guv?” asked Doug Cullen, popping his head into Detective Superintendent Duncan Kincaid’s office. “I mean real coffee, not that slop,” Cullen added, nodding at the mug on Kincaid’s desk.

  Kincaid grimaced at his sergeant and laid down his pen, stretching the stiffness out of his shoulders. “You just want an excuse to get out, and we’ve not been here an hour.” They’d come in early the past few days, catching up on accumulated paperwork, and the warren of cubicles that made up Scotland Yard’s CID had begun to seem more like a prison than an office.

  “Guilty.” With his thatch of straight blond hair and wire-framed spectacles, Cullen looked more like a schoolboy than a detective sergeant. But in the year since Kincaid’s former partner, Gemma James, had been promoted to detective inspector and posted to the Metropolitan Police, he had learned to work well with Cullen, respecting the younger officer’s intelligence and dogged persistence when faced with a problem.

  Not that Cullen or anyone else could truly replace Gemma as a partner. Although he and Gemma had been living together since the previous Christmas, he found he still missed working with her.

  Glancing out his window, he was tempted to play truant along with Cullen, but the pile of paper on his desk argued against it. Besides, the day had gone perceptibly grayer since he’d come in, and he wasn’t in the mood to get drenched. “Okay,” he said, stifling a sigh. “A coffee. But just coffee, mind you, no poncey lattes.”

  Cullen grinned and gave him a mock salute. “Right, boss. Back in a tick.”

  It was a bad sign, Kincaid thought, when going out on such a dreary morning seemed preferable to work, but administrative reports had never been his strong suit. Not that he didn’t have the aptitude for it; he just lacked the patience. He hadn’t joined the force to become a bloody bureaucrat, yet that seemed more and more the case. And he had reached the point in his career where he felt increasingly pressured to seek promotion, but such a move would mean still less work in the field.

  Could he stay where he was, watching the university fast-trackers like Cullen pass him by, without becoming bitter? It was not a prospect he wanted to consider, so with a scowl he turned his attention back to the performance survey on his desk. But when his phone rang a moment later, he leapt on it like a drowning man.

  It was his guv’nor’s secretary, summoning him to a meeting with the chief superintendent. Kincaid straightened his tie, grabbed his jacket from the coatrack, and was out the door with only a twinge of regret for his missed coffee.

  Chief Superintendent Denis Childs had moved office recently, now commanding a view of the parks and the river, but in spite of his elevated status the man remained as Buddha-like as ever. His round, heavy face betrayed little emotion, but Kincaid had learned to read the slightest flicker in the deep brown eyes half hidden by folds of skin. Today he detected apology, annoyance, and what might have been a trace of worry.

  “I’m sorry to put this on you, Duncan,” said Childs, his voice surprisingly soft for a man his size.

  Not a promising start, Kincaid thought, settling himself in a chair. Perhaps he should have stayed with the paperwork, after all. “But?”

  “But as you have nothing pressing on at the moment, and as you have a knack for soothing ruffled feelings…” – Childs’s lips turned up in the smallest of smiles- “you seemed the best man for the job.”

  “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “You can look on it as a diplomatic challenge. It will mean liaising with the Fire Investigation Team and Southwark CID. A fire broke out in the early hours of this morning, in a warehouse on Southwark Street. Do you know it?”

  “Southwark Street? That’s near London Bridge Station, isn’t it? But why send me?”

  “Patience, boyo, patience. I’m getting there.” Childs leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together, a familiar gesture. “This particular building is Victorian, and was in the process of being made over into luxury flats. The fire apparently started on the ground floor, but by the time the brigade got there it had done considerable damage to the upper floors and had begun to threaten the building next door.”

  “The warehouse was empty, then, if it was undergoing renovation?”

  “Not quite. When the brigade got inside, they found a body among the debris. Quite badly burned, I’m afraid. And no identification.”

  “A tramp, smoking-”

  “Possibly, although tramps aren’t usually found naked with no effects. And it gets a bit more complicated. This particular building happens to be owned by one of our more illustrious MPs, Michael Yarwood.”

  “Yarwood?” Kincaid sat up a bit straighter in surprise. “I didn’t know Yarwood was developing property.” The vocal and abrasive Yarwood leaned far to the left of the government’s moderate Labour party and was often heard publicly castigating anyone capitalist enough to make a profit. “This could be awkward for him, I take it? And the press will be on it like flies.”

  “An understatement. A public relations nightmare in the making, to be more accurate, especially with an important by-election coming up. Not to mention that the loss adjusters are already sniffing round and muttering about possible insurance fraud. And I’ve heard rumors from other quarters – one of my golfing mates who’s in the property market – that Yarwood hasn’t had the early interest in his leases that he expected.”

  “Ouch.” Kincaid winced. “So he might have a very costly boat anchor on his hands – or he did until last night.”

  “Not that he’d admit it. But the powers-that-be are worried enough that someone from Number Ten rang the assistant commissioner and called in a favor.”

  “And that’s where I come into it?” Kincaid said, enlightenment dawning.

  “The word is, they only want to be sure the investigation is given high priority-”

  “Meaning they want to be sure Yarwood’s interests are well represented.” Kincaid weighed the prospect of taking on such a politically sensitive case against going back to his performance reviews. It could prove messy, both literally and figuratively. He hated self-important politicians, and fire scenes had always given him a bit of the creeps.

  “You can refuse, of course,” said Childs, with a deceptive gentleness Kincaid recognized. Not only did Childs want him on the investigation, he knew that Kincaid could use the good mark in the AC’s book.

  “Is the body still in situ?” Kincaid asked.

  Childs permitted himself another small smile. “I told them to wait for you.”

  2

  “But let him look at me, in prison, and in bonds here. I endure without murmuring, because it is appointed that I shall so make reparation for my sins.”

  CHARLES DICKENS

  Little Dorrit

  THE REVEREND WINIFRED CATESBY MONTFORT was finding it more difficult than she’d expected to adjust to life in London. After the past few years at her country church outside Glastonbury, the concrete and grime of urban South London seemed a barren landscape to a soul parched for the gentle spread of green across the Somerset Levels.

  But her exile was only temporary, she told herself for the hundredth time as she searched the unfamiliar cupboards of St. Peter’s Rectory, hoping that something would materialize for her lunch. She also reminded herself that her exile was of her own making, and that she had no real cause for complaint. When her old friend and theological college mentor, Roberta Smith, had developed asthma so severe that her doctor ordered her to leave the city for a few months, Winnie had suggested that they swap parishes.

  At the time it had seemed the right thing to do, as if God had offered her an opportunity to serve too obvious to refuse, but now she wondered if it had been merely her ego jumping at a chance to be seen as a rescuer - St. Winnie saves the day. And so she had abandoned her husband of less than a year, as well as others at home and in her parish who depended on her, to minister to what she had imagined as the poor and huddled masses.

  Instead, she found a fairly comfortable and disinterested parish, the same round of bureaucratic meetings she’d left behind, and an ache of homesickness and longing for Jack that plagued her like a missing organ.

  Well, there was nothing for it now but to get on with things, she chided herself as she rooted out a tin of tuna from the cupboard shelf and checked its use-by date. Too much self-examination smacked of self-absorption and was unproductive to boot – and her situation did have its compensations.

  The rectory, a flat in Mitre Road across from St. Peter’s Church, was cozy, filled with the bright wall hangings and artifacts Roberta had collected on her trips to Africa and Asia. Southwark Cathedral was only a few streets away, and Winnie found the frequent exposure to cathedral life both fascinating and moving.

  Then there was Borough Market, nestled up against the side of the cathedral, its bustle and color an unending source of culinary and sensual delight. When Jack could get up to London for the weekend, they began it with a trip to the market.

  She now had a family connection in London as well, Jack’s cousin, Duncan, and Duncan’s partner, Gemma, and their two boys. With the zeal of the newly wed, Winnie hoped that she might encourage the couple to take the same step. She knew the dangers of meddling, of course, but she also knew that sometimes a sympathetic ear and a bit of a gentle nudge were all it took to set things in motion.

  And then there were her parishioners, some of whom she was beginning to know and like. One in particular was her neighbor, Frances Liu, a woman near her own age who had been stricken a few years ago by the mysterious and debilitating Guillain-Barré syndrome. As Fanny remained partially paralyzed and housebound, Winnie had quickly got into the habit of stopping in after work as often as she could, and she took the sacraments to her on Sundays.

  On the latter occasions, Winnie felt the disapproval of Fanny’s flatmate, Elaine, but she hadn’t discovered whether the woman’s hostility was personal or ideological. Nor had she quite worked out the exact nature of the relationship between the two women, but she sensed that Elaine perceived her as a threat and knew she must tread carefully. Winnie had no wish to make Fanny’s life any more difficult. Perhaps if she could learn more about Elaine, she could draw her out – and then there was the fact that Elaine was a striking woman, and Winnie’s curiosity was naturally piqued.

  Resolving to make more of an effort next time she saw the two flatmates, Winnie finished her sandwich and began tidying up. She’d just dried her plate and cup when the rectory phone rang.

  “I was just thinking of you,” she said when she heard Fanny Liu’s voice. “I thought I’d pop by after work-”

  “Winnie, can you come now?” Fanny’s words were hurried, breathy.

  Winnie frowned in concern. “Are you all right?”

  “I- it’s Elaine. She wasn’t here this morning, and when I called the hospital, they said she hadn’t shown up for work.”

  “You mean she wasn’t in the flat at all?” Winnie asked, puzzled. “Perhaps she went for a walk-”

  “At daybreak, in this foul weather, when she never goes walking? Why would she do that?” Fanny’s voice rose. “And even if she had, why not come home or go to work?”

  She could have felt ill, Winnie thought, but doubted the suggestion would dampen her friend’s growing panic. “Did she leave a note?” she asked instead.

  “Not that I can find,” Fanny said tightly, and Winnie imagined her frustration, her search limited by the range of her wheelchair. Nor would Fanny have been able to check upstairs, she realized, thinking of a young woman in her home parish who had died suddenly of an aneurysm. What if Elaine, upstairs, alone, had fallen ill and been unable to call for help?

  “Look, I’ll be right over.” She gathered up her bag and jacket, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel into her tone. “But I imagine she’s just decided to play truant for a day. Everyone deserves to play truant once in a while, even Elaine.”

  “No,” said Fanny, refusing to be placated, her voice level now. “Something dreadful’s happened to her. I know it.”

  The rain began as they crossed Waterloo Bridge. Kincaid had been glad to let Cullen drive, and now could look out at the Thames with the pleasure he always felt when crossing the river. He glanced upstream, at gray water melding into gray sky, then downstream, towards Blackfriars Bridge obscured by the curtain of rain. Beyond the bridge lay the Tate Modern, the Millennium Bridge, the Globe, all part of trendy new Bankside, which so recently had only been crumbling dockside. The transformation had been due, in part, to the vision of men like Michael Yarwood.

  Cullen, who had been quickly briefed, seemed to pick up Kincaid’s thoughts. “Have you ever met Yarwood?”

  “No, just seen him on the telly.” Yarwood was not easily forgotten – stocky and balding, with a face mashed flat like a bulldog’s, his speech and manner as blunt as his looks. In spite of his ingrained skepticism towards all politicians, Kincaid had found himself both impressed and intrigued by the man.

  “Why all the fuss about him making a bob or two on a real estate venture?” asked Cullen, deftly negotiating the turn from Waterloo Road into Stamford Street.

  Kincaid thought about it for a moment. “It’s not that he’s ever taken an antidevelopment position, but he’s supported projects that benefit the community as a whole-”

  “And bringing in yuppie flat owners with money to spend doesn’t?” Cullen asked with evident sarcasm.

  “Yes, the new tenants patronize restaurants and shops,” Kincaid said, finding himself in the role of advocate. “But what happens to the lower-income residents displaced by the renovation? They can’t afford alternative housing in the area, and it’s these people who are the backbone of Yarwood’s constituency.” Yarwood had come from just such a working-class Southwark family, with roots in the neighborhood that went back generations.

  “Well, I’d be happy enough to contribute to the economy by leasing one of his flats, if I could afford it.” There was an edge of bitterness in Cullen’s voice. Kincaid knew how much his sergeant disliked his dreary Euston flat, and he suspected that Cullen’s girlfriend, the well-off and well-connected Stella Fairchild-Priestly, had friends with flats in the Borough or Bankside.

  “How is Stella, by the way?” Kincaid asked.

  Cullen glanced at him as if surprised by his apparent non sequitur, but answered readily enough. “Bloody insufferable. She’s been promoted.”

  Kincaid knew that Stella, a buyer for an upscale home-furnishings shop, would only be content with Cullen’s choice of job if he were suddenly and miraculously promoted to chief constable, and he suspected that her impatience would only increase as her career advanced. “Bully for her,” he told Cullen, keeping his reservations to himself. “We’ll have to have you over sometime soon, to celebrate,” he added cheerfully, knowing Gemma would view the prospect with as much enthusiasm as for a root canal. Although Gemma got on well with Cullen, her few encounters with Stella had not been successful.

  The traffic began to back up as they reached Blackfriars Road, slowing to a crawl as they eased into Southwark Street. “Looks like they’ve still got things partially blocked off,” said Cullen.

  Ahead, Kincaid could just make out the red bulk of the brigade appliances and the blue flash of lights on the Met patrol cars. A brigade utility lorry was pulled up behind the fire engine. “There’s no bloody place to put the car,” Cullen grumbled.