He mingled with the crowd, moving around the fringes, careful to keep his expression neutral, careful not to watch too greedily. He’d left the scene last night before the brigade arrived – staying to watch a burn was a luxury he’d long since learned to deny himself – and had only come back after full daylight, when they’d begun to clear up.

A purposeful air was an essential part of his camouflage. A morning coffee, a bit of shopping, a paper from the newsagents – he’d even brushed deliberately against one of the detectives as the man sheltered in the doorway of an office building, making a phone call.

He’d seen the CID arrive, of course, and smiled to himself as they poked through the debris, looking for clues he hadn’t left.

He’d seen the pathologist, too, and had watched the removal of the body bag with a mild surprise. The body was a first, a bonus, like the prize in a Christmas cracker after the pop. He felt no remorse, only curiosity, and an unexpected spike of excitement. The future might prove more interesting than even he had thought.

AS SHE HUNCHED her shoulders against the persistent drizzle, Maura Bell grimaced at the stench coming from the damp wool of her coat. Even in the relatively fresh air outside the building, the cloth held the rankness of smoke and a faint scent of corruption. The coat was new, as well, carefully budgeted for, and put on for the first time early that morning. To think she’d been pleased at the drop in temperature, unusual for September, that had allowed her to wear her purchase early. Now, she’d have to send the coat to the dry cleaners as soon as she could change, and God knew if even that would salvage it.

It amazed her to think that there were those, like Farrell and Jake Martinelli, who chose to work fire scenes on a daily basis – but then there were plenty who’d say the same about her choice of profession. Not that there weren’t days when she’d agree with them, and this was certainly looking like one of them.

She’d organized the uniformed constables into search teams for the house-to-house – or rather building-to-building – and was now awaiting the arrival of the warehouse’s construction foreman, one Joe Spender. In a futile effort to keep out the damp, she hitched her collar up, and wished it were possible to organize a crime scene while holding a brolly. That was all she needed, to prance about like Mary bloody Poppins when she had Scotland Yard on her patch.

In retrospect, the day had begun well enough. She’d got into the station early, beating the traffic from her flat on the Isle of Dogs. She liked to drive rather than take the train and the tube; the time cocooned in her car allowed her to sort her thoughts, gear up or unwind, and having the car in the Borough gave her the freedom to follow up case leads without depending on the station motor pool.

First on the rota, she’d been pleased to draw a major case, a suspicious fire with a possible homicide, and when a trace of the building’s ownership had returned a holding company linked with Michael Yarwood, she’d felt a shiver of excitement. Sensitive, yes – Yarwood was an important presence in the Borough – but this was the sort of case that could add rocket fuel to a career.

Then her chief superintendent had called her into his office and told her Michael Yarwood had requested that the Yard be brought in, and she’d been fuming with resentment ever since. Power and influence, that was what it was all about, and if she’d thought the job was proof against it, she’d been a fool.

And what had high-and-mighty Scotland Yard accomplished so far? They’d slouched through the crime scene, the superintendent had nipped off to make a phone call, and the sergeant was chatting up one of the female SOCOs. Even had she been disposed to feel charitable towards the Scotland Yard superintendent sent to pour oil on the waters, his casual demeanor would have raised her hackles. You’d have thought he was out for a walk in the park, for all the urgency in his manner, and he was too good-looking by half. Maura distrusted handsome men in general, and found the combination of looks and rank particularly threatening.

The sergeant, now, he wasn’t so bad, although a bit rabbity with his fair English coloring and his Harry Potter glasses. Not her type, of course; she liked her men big and brawny; but he seemed friendly enough and not too full of himself.

She fished in the pockets of her coat for the cigarettes she’d been trying to give up. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she thought with a grimace. Surely no one could complain that her hair and clothes smelled of cigarette smoke, not after her exposure to the fire reek. Not, she reminded herself, that there was anyone likely to complain…

“Inspector Bell.” It was the sergeant, Cullen, followed by an enormous man in a flat cap and yellow safety jacket. “This is Joe Spender, the job foreman.”

“Mr. Spender.” Maura hastily stuffed the unlit cigarette back in her pocket and forced herself not to step back as Spender loomed over her. He must have been all of six foot five, with a belly that hung over his belt, and the florid complexion indicative of high blood pressure. “What can you tell us?”

He was shaking his head even as she spoke, his eyes flicking towards the ruin of the warehouse. “I can’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it when Mr. Yarwood rang me this morning.” His accent was East End, comfortable. “Yesterday, when we finished up, everything was shipshape.”

Kincaid, the Scotland Yard man, had finished his phone call and come across to the group, but he stood a few feet back, listening.

“You didn’t leave anyone behind in the building?” asked Maura.

“No. But that’s the first thing I thought when I heard. What if one of my blokes forgot his lunch pail or something and went back, but I checked right off, and all my crew are accounted for. Crazy idea, anyway, as I’m the only one with a key.”

“And you locked the premises before you left?”

“’Course I did,” Spender said vehemently, but Maura thought she saw a bit of the color leach from his flushed face. “I always lock up, side door and then the front. Yesterday was no different.”

“Anyone else have access to your key?” asked the superintendent. When Spender gave him a startled glance, he introduced himself. “Scotland Yard. I’m Superintendent Kincaid.”

Spender glanced at his warrant card, shaking Kincaid’s hand a little more enthusiastically than he had Maura’s. “Not unless you count my wife and my two girls at home in Poplar. They’re eight and six, by the way, my girls.”

“What about the furniture?” Maura put in quickly, determined not to lose control of the interview. The man would be pulling out wallet photos of his kiddies if she wasn’t careful. “Where did it come from?”

Spender turned back to the building. “Cheap furnished flats, that’s how the place was being used when Mr. Yarwood bought it. Not much better than squats. He had a time getting the last of the tenants out, had to cut the power and water, but then we were able to get in.

“We started on the ground floor, pulling out walls to make the restaurant space. Then we moved all the furniture from the flats downstairs, ready for the rubbish skips. Should have come yesterday, the skips, but there was a delay with the delivery.”

“Restaurant space?” Kincaid asked, frowning.

“Luxury flats upstairs, restaurant downstairs. A celebrity chef, you know, like what’s his name, the cheeky chappy. But now…” Spender sighed, shrugged. “Who knows how long it will take to get this sorted, if at all.”