“An unidentified female, ma’am,” said Bill Farrell. “That’s been released to the media and is really all we can say at the moment. Now, we understand that one of your residents notified the fire brigade of the fire?”

“Yes, Beverly Brown-Mouse, we call her. Both her kids have got bad colds at the moment, and she was up with one of them when she looked out the window and saw the flames. She had to use the phone in the hallway – we can’t allow residents to have mobile phones. Again, it makes access too easy for both parties.”

Nesbitt stood up. “I’ll just go get Mouse, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, he eased his way round his desk, and as he passed her, Gemma caught the musky scent of expensive cologne.

“That seems rather an infringement of their rights,” ventured Cullen, speaking for the first time.

“They come here voluntarily, but to enter the program they must agree to the rules. It’s a waste of our time and theirs if they’re not willing to make changes – that’s the only way to break the patterns of habitual abuse.” Kath Warren stood, as if the waiting made her nervous. “Can I get you all some coffee? We keep a pot going in the scullery.”

By the time they had all refused, Jason Nesbitt had come back with his charges. He ushered the woman and the two children into the room, then stood behind them protectively.

If ever someone looked in need of protection, it was this woman, thought Gemma. She was small and slight, appearing hardly more than a child herself, playing dress-up in her T-shirt and combat trousers. Her skin had a junkie’s pallor, and a streak of pure white hair sprang from her widow’s peak, making her look more like a little badger than a mouse. Her face was pinched with fright, and Gemma guessed that talking to a roomful of coppers was not her idea of a good time.

The children were girls, perhaps two and five, pale as their mother and snotty nosed. They clung to their mother’s legs, ducking their faces behind the meager barricade she provided. A good thing, too, thought Gemma, as she had to fight the temptation to pull tissues from her bag and give their faces a good scrubbing.

“Do you want to sit down, Beverly?” asked Kath Warren, but the woman shook her head. “These people are trying to find out what caused the fire last night, and they need to ask you a few questions. I’m sure it won’t take long.”

“It’s all right, Mouse,” said Jason Nesbitt. “They won’t bite you.”

Beverly nodded, eyes wide, but didn’t speak.

Bill Farrell shifted his chair to face her. “Beverly, can you tell me exactly what you saw last night? You can start by describing what you were doing beforehand.”

“It was Brittany,” she said in a soft, high voice that made the reason for her nickname evident, pulling the older child out from behind her leg as if wanting to prove her existence. “Her cough was that bad, she couldn’t sleep.” The child coughed on cue, a racking sound that made Gemma cringe. “I went down to the kitchen to steam a pan of water for her to breathe. When I came back to the room I made her sit over it, you know, with a towel to keep the steam in. Ten minutes, I told her, and I promised to watch the clock. That’s when I looked out the window.” Her voice had grown stronger, as if she was encouraged by their interest. “At first I thought it was weird, you know, there was a red light in the building across the street. I thought, why would someone have a red light, must be a wild party. And then I saw it flicker, and suddenly I go, wow, it’s not a light, it’s a fire.”

“And that’s when you called 999?”

“Yeah. They were fast, you know. Couldn’t have been much more than a minute before we heard the sirens.”

“And you kept watching?”

“Well, yeah, it was exciting, you know?” She ducked her head, as if not sure that was an acceptable response. “Brandy woke up, too, so we all watched.”

Farrell smiled at her. “There’s nothing like a good fire. I’d be the first to agree with you on that. Now, did you see anything else before the brigade arrived? Anyone on the street or coming out the side door?”

“No. There wasn’t nobody.”

“The building would have burned down if it hadn’t been for Mummy,” piped up Brittany. She wiped a fist across her nose and glared at Farrell, as if daring him to contradict her.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Farrell said kindly. “Your mummy saved the day. Now, you know what to do if you see a fire, don’t you?”

“Call 999,” Brittany informed him, puffing out her little chest in its stained Scooby-Doo T-shirt. “I know where nine is on the phone. Three nines. I can count them.”

“That’s great, sweetheart.” Farrell turned back to her mother. “Beverly, did you see anything before you noticed the fire? Or hear anything unusual?”

Beverly shook her head, perhaps a bit too quickly, Gemma thought. “No. I was asleep. It was only Brittany’s coughing that woke me up.”

“What about earlier in the evening, before you went to bed?” Kincaid asked. “Did you see anything then?”

“No. I didn’t look, did I? I was putting the girls to bed.” She turned to Kath Warren. “Can I go now, Kath? I have to take Brittany to the clinic.”

Kath glanced at Bill Farrell, who nodded.

Farrell handed Beverly a card. “There’s my number, if you think of anything else,” he told her.

“Yeah, okay,” she said, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. She slipped out the door, her children still clinging like limpets, and Gemma noticed that she adroitly managed to avoid touching Jason Nesbitt.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Gemma shielded her eyes against the rain, which was coming down harder now, the drops stinging her skin like biting midges.

Kincaid looked round at the warehouse frontages and at the office buildings across Southwark Street, none of which offered any protection from the downpour; then he shouted at Doug Cullen, who was conferring with Farrell and a firefighter with an Alsatian. “Hey, Dougie! Lend us your keys for a minute, will you?”

Cullen tossed them over with a grin. “Careful you don’t fog up my windows.”

They sprinted for the car, and when Kincaid had managed to get the doors unlocked, fell inside, laughing.

“I left my brolly at the office,” he admitted, wiping his face.

“Me, too,” said Gemma. “I thought it had stopped.” She could almost feel her hair curling from the moisture, springing free from its clip.

“Here.” Kincaid retrieved a box of tissues from among the gum wrappers and crisp packets littering the car floor. “Will these help?”

Gemma tried not to touch the box as she pulled out a few tissues and dried her face. Then, looking round for someplace to put the soggy remains, she grimaced at the mess. “This car’s a tip. I wouldn’t have thought it of Doug.”

“I think he’s rebelling against having to keep his flat spotless for Stella. Now.” He turned towards her. “Tell me what’s up with Winnie? Are she and Jack all right?”

“Of course.” Touching his cheek, she remembered his reaction when he’d seen her. She was so close she could see the tiny patch of stubble he’d missed when he’d shaved that morning and smell the damp warmth of his skin. “You’re a bit mother-henish today.”

“Maybe I don’t like fires,” he confessed with a shrug. “There’s something about a burned body, as illogical as it is.”

Gemma felt the lump of Fanny Liu’s candle inside the bag on her lap, a sudden burden, weighted by possibility. “Okay. I know this is going to sound far-fetched.” She took a breath and proceeded to tell him about Winnie’s phone call, about Fanny Liu and her missing roommate, Elaine Holland, and about her theory that Elaine might have been moonlighting on the street and somehow ended up in Yarwood’s warehouse.

Kincaid tapped his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment when she’d finished, gazing out at the warehouse through the slanting curtain of rain. “It is far-fetched, I’ll give you that,” he said slowly. “But it’s the first report of a missing woman we’ve had that fits the time frame. I think that alone makes it worth consideration. But say, just for the moment, that you’re right and she was with a john, sheltering in the doorway. How did she end up inside the building?”