“The firefighters found their progress into the ground-floor space impeded by a pile of soft furniture gathered in the center of the room,” Kincaid continued. “Behind the furniture they discovered the charred body of the victim. Bill Farrell, the FIO, thinks it likely that the fire started in the furniture, but they’ve found no obvious signs of arson.”

“Does that mean the death may have been accidental?” asked Gemma.

“Possible, but I’d say not likely, as Kate Ling found a massive fracture to the back of the skull.”

“Kate was here?” Gemma felt a twinge of jealousy. She knew that Kate fancied him, but how he felt about Kate she’d never quite been able to work out. Obviously, he respected the doctor professionally, and just as obviously he found her attractive, but it never seemed to occur to him that the feeling might be reciprocated. Men could be so clueless, thought Gemma, but in this case Kincaid’s blind spot was a blessing. She just hoped he never saw the light where Kate Ling was concerned.

“Been and gone. She’ll get to the postmortem as soon as she can.” He turned to greet a tall, balding man. “Here’s Farrell now.”

“Are these flats, then?” asked Gemma when she’d been introduced, looking up at the building they were about to enter. It was larger than its burned neighbor, and a bit more ornate, but it showed obvious signs of decay and neglect. “You said someone called from here after midnight.”

“Not flats,” Farrell told her. “It’s a family violence shelter.” He pointed out a small plaque near the door, which bore the legend helping hands. “It was one of the residents who called in the fire. We’re going to have a word with the director before we interview the young woman. I’ve got the entry code from the constable who took the original statement.”

The street door stood open, showing a small entry hall fitted with stained coco matting, but as Gemma tailed after the others, she saw that an interior door had been fitted with an expensive new security keypad. Farrell entered a code and, when the door swung open, led them into a dingy stairwell. Looking back over his shoulder, he said, “First off, we need to make sure they haven’t misplaced a resident who fits our victim’s description.”

“I doubt they were expecting a delegation,” Maura Bell muttered as they climbed.

“A delegation of detectives?” Kincaid quipped. “Or would a murder of detectives be more appropriate? I rather like that.”

Gemma touched Kincaid’s arm. “Wait. Are you saying your victim was female? I just assumed, when you said you had a possible homicide, that the victim was male, someone to do with the site.”

“No. We’ve got a Jane Doe. Female, no ID, and burned beyond recognition. Why?”

Gemma’s mind raced. Surely it was too much of a coincidence – but was it? The fire scene was only a few streets from Fanny Liu’s house… but what would Elaine Holland have been doing in an empty warehouse at night?

Unless she’d been moonlighting as a prostitute, and that might explain the hidden clothes and shoes, the secret mobile phone. Gemma remembered hearing that call girls worked Union Street at night – a doorway in nearby Southwark Street might have provided a quieter rendezvous, a bit more privacy. But then-

“Gemma?” Kincaid’s voice snapped her out of her speculations. They had reached the top of the stairs.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Just a wild idea. I’ll tell you later.”

A woman awaited them in the first-floor corridor. “Hi, I’m Kath Warren, Helping Hands’ director. You’re the police?” She’d started to offer her hand but let it fall to her side, seemingly daunted by their number. Gemma guessed the woman to be in her well-preserved forties, with an air of no-nonsense competence softened by an attractive face with a slightly upturned nose. She wore a honey-colored trouser suit that complemented her streaked blond hair, and her green eyes held a hint of wariness.

Farrell stepped easily into the breach. “I’m Bill Farrell, from the fire brigade.” He nodded at the others, clustered behind him like ducklings, as he made the introductions. “Superintendent Kincaid, Scotland Yard. Sergeant Cullen. Inspector Bell. Inspector James,” he added last, with a questioning glance in her direction to assure he’d got it right.

Kath Warren looked round the corridor, as if realizing its unsuitability for conversation. “Um, perhaps we’d better go into my office. It’s not much larger, but at least there’s somewhere to sit.”

“I should say our office,” she added as they followed her into the first room off the corridor. “This is Jason Nesbitt, the agency’s assistant director.”

The room held two utilitarian desks, a sagging sofa, several mismatched straight-backed chairs, and ranks of metal filing cabinets. A young man sat at the second desk, one hand on the telephone, the other balancing a manila file folder. At their entrance he returned the handset to its cradle and stood up.

“It’s the police, Jason,” said Kath, motioning them to the assorted furniture as she slipped behind the other desk.

“So I gathered. We must really rate.” His grin was sardonic but engaging. He was tall, rail thin, with blond-tipped hair and a wide, expressive mouth. His dark shirt and tie hinted at a certain vanity, and a closer look made Gemma revise her estimate of his age to nearer thirty than twenty.

“Please sit down. You’ll have to excuse our lack of elegance,” said Kath, with a shrug that indicated the office. “The place is a bit of a tip, but we’re funded primarily by the council, and that leaves no room for frills.”

Cullen and Bell sat rather awkwardly together on the sofa, while Farrell and Gemma perched on two of the hard-backed chairs. Kincaid remained standing, resting his hip against a filing cabinet.

“You take in women who’ve been abused by their husbands?” said Gemma, forgetting for a moment that it wasn’t her place to ask. Bell gave her a dark look.

“Women and their children, more often than not.” Kath Warren seemed more comfortable behind her desk. “Not that men aren’t sometimes victims of spousal abuse, but the council makes other arrangements in that case. We give women a safe haven, a chance to sort things out, and if that’s not possible, we help them move on to new lives.”

“How many rooms do you have?” Kincaid asked.

“Ten, all full at the moment. Not the most salubrious of accommodations, but that may not matter for much longer. It looks as if our time here is limited. This building, like the one next door, is ripe for redevelopment. The front half is already vacant, and the asking price for the property will be much more than the local council can afford.”

It seemed to Gemma that what had begun as a practiced spiel had become personal, that the impending loss of the agency’s premises affected Kath Warren in some intimate way. “What will happen then?” she asked.

“Oh, they’ll find a new spot for us eventually, but it may mean our shutting down for some time. The council will do their best to find places for our residents with other agencies, of course.” She forced a smile. “But I’m waffling on about things that don’t concern you, when I’m sure you have questions.”

Jason Nesbitt had been listening, his eyes darting occasionally from Kath to the others, but his mobile face was unreadable. It occurred to Gemma that the impending closure of the facility might mean that both Nesbitt and Kath Warren would be out of a job.

“Your residents, Miss Warren,” interjected DI Bell, almost springing from her seat in her impatience, “are they all accounted for?”

“Yes, of course. The residents must sign a log when they exit or enter the building, and we do have a ten p.m. curfew. Sometimes at night the women start to miss their husbands and the curfew helps prevent lapses. And it’s Mrs. Warren, by the way,” she added, but she looked down at her hands as she spoke, twisting her wedding ring, rather than at DI Bell. “We saw the mortuary van, you know, and the attendants loading the… body… into it. Does this mean you don’t know who it was?”