Kincaid took a small pitcher of water from the table and added a splash of water to his glass and Cullen’s, but Maura shook her head when he offered it to her. She was a Scot, in case he hadn’t noticed, and the one thing she did know was that Scots drank their whisky neat. “Cheers,” she said, and tipped back her glass for a hearty swallow.

Fire ripped at her throat and knifed down into her chest. A spasm of coughing racked her, and by the time she caught her breath, her eyes were streaming. “For Christ’s sake,” she gasped. “What is this stuff, turps?”

Both Cullen and Kincaid were barely containing their smirks. “It’s cask strength,” Kincaid told her. “I should have explained. The alcohol by volume is well over fifty percent on most of these. Here, have some water.”

This time she accepted the pitcher and added a good dollop before attempting another very small sip. “Have I passed some sort of initiation, then?” she asked, scowling at them.

“With flying colors,” said Cullen. “At least it’s not the Hellfire Club.”

She wasn’t sure whether it was the effects of the whisky or the fact that she didn’t see how she could possibly make a bigger fool of herself than she already had, but Maura felt a pleasant sense of ease spread through her muscles.

“Now.” Kincaid set down his glass and leaned forward. “I had a call from Kate Ling while I was at the bar. She’s scheduled the PM for nine in the morning, at St. Thomas’s. We’re to meet her at the morgue. After that, we’ll at least have something to go on. Maura, you’ve not heard anything new from missing persons?”

“Not as of an hour ago.”

He frowned. “Gemma’s report must not have been processed yet – either that or it didn’t get flagged.”

Cullen looked surprised. “Gemma’s report?”

“I haven’t had a chance to tell you,” Kincaid explained, including Maura with a glance. “And I’m not at all sure it’s relevant. My cousin’s wife is an Anglican priest on a temporary assignment here in Southwark. She rang Gemma today, wanting some advice because one of her parishioners said her flatmate had disappeared overnight. That’s why Gemma was in Southwark. She talked to the woman, convinced her to file a report.”

Cullen gestured excitedly, sloshing a little whisky over the edge of his glass. “But that’s-”

“Gemma also said it looked as if the woman might have decamped voluntarily. It sounds as if she stole out of the house sometime in the night – by which time our victim may already have been dead – and that she might have taken personal items with her, perhaps an overnight bag. Nothing like that has turned up at the scene.” He paused, sipping his drink. “I thought we should wait until we knew a little more about the victim before we pursued it further.”

“What’s the woman’s name?” Maura pulled a notebook from her bag and was surprised to find it took a bit more effort than usual to grip the pen.

“Elaine Holland. Midthirties. White. Lives in Ufford Street and works at Guy’s Hospital.

“Right now, however, I’m more concerned about Michael Yarwood and his foreman. I want to make sure their alibis are solid.”

“I’ve asked Birmingham to send someone to make inquiries at Yarwood’s hotel,” said Maura, glad to have her notes handy. “And I’ve got a DC from our station checking on Spender.”

“What do you know about Yarwood?” Kincaid asked.

She shrugged. “Just what you read in the papers or see on the telly. I’d never met him before today, but I’ve never heard anything dodgy about him, either. Seems to be a pretty straight guy. I think he’s divorced, with a twenty-something daughter. He started up his own fleet of delivery vans when he was just a kid, before he went into politics. I think this warehouse is his first venture into real estate.”

“He didn’t strike me as the sort to go in for insurance fraud,” Kincaid mused, swirling the dregs in his glass. “And I think he was genuinely distressed over the loss of the building, but he was also nervous. I want to know why.”

“You think it was more than knowing the press would be on him like sharks?” asked Cullen.

“Yarwood’s spent his whole career dealing with sharks. That’s what politicians do. My guv’nor – that’s Chief Superintendent Childs,” he explained to Maura, “mentioned rumors that Yarwood’s leases weren’t selling as fast as expected, but both Yarwood and Spender denied it. We need to find out where that’s coming from and whether or not it’s true.”

Cullen looked pleased. “That’s right up my alley. I’ll see what I can dig up on the Internet tonight. Then I can follow up leads tomorrow.”

“And I’ll have a word with Childs. We also need to talk to Yarwood’s insurance agent, if we can track him down on a Saturday.” Turning to Maura, Kincaid added, “And you’ve got the CCTV in hand?”

As was her habit when collecting her thoughts, she started to reach again for a cigarette, then checked herself and sipped at her drink instead. “We should have the tapes collected and scanned by morning. There’s only a view of the front door, though, and even that was a lucky break. The office building across the street recently put in a camera, as they’ve been having some security problems. We’ve also collected tapes from the other cameras in the area, just in case they’ve picked up something suspicious.”

“What about the fires the sub officer mentioned tonight?” Kincaid asked. “Do you know anything about that?”

She frowned, trying to recall snippets of talk she hadn’t given much attention. “I do remember hearing about a couple of fires in the past few months, but I don’t think they were tagged as arson.”

“Nor is this one yet. But my gut tells me that Farrell is certain of it; he’s just not willing to commit himself without evidence. Farrell’s sharp, and if there’s anything to this, I think he’ll ferret it out.” Kincaid glanced at his watch. “Blast. I’d better dash. Toby’ll be in bed, but I’d like to at least say good night to Kit, since our plans for tomorrow are shot to hell.”

“I can run you back to the Yard, guv.” Cullen started to rise, but Kincaid waved him back.

“I’ll get the tube from Chancery Lane; worry about the car in the morning. Can I get you two another round before I go?”

Maura shook her head. She’d be legless if she had another.

“I’d better not,” said Cullen, and she noticed his whisky was barely touched. He seemed to hesitate before adding, “How is Kit, guv?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose, under the circumstances.” Kincaid stood, and although his response had been polite, Maura sensed it was a subject he didn’t want to pursue. “I’ll leave things in your capable hands, then.” He nodded at them both. “See you in the morning.”

Maura watched him walk away, her curiosity aroused. “Who’s Kit?”

“His son,” Cullen said, his expression guarded, as if he regretted bringing it up, and he quickly changed the subject. “Are you sure I can’t get you another drink? I can have them put it against Duncan’s membership.”

“No, thanks. I’d better get the tube as well. I left my car at the station, and I’ve things to check on before I go home.”

“Then let me run you back to Borough High Street. It’s right on my way.”

She gave him a quizzical glance. “Where do you live?”

“Um…” He grinned. “Euston.”

“You’ve an odd way of getting there. Over the river and back again.”

“I find driving relaxing,” he told her, poker-faced. “What do you say we get a bite to eat first? I’m starved, and the pub downstairs is brilliant.”

“No little missus waiting dinner for you at home, Sergeant?”

“That’d be a fine thing.” He grimaced. “My flat runs to a bit of moldy cheese in the fridge, along with a beer or two if I’m lucky. What about you?”

She took a mental inventory. “Olives, shriveled. Some good cheese from Borough Market. A half bottle of wine going bad.”

“Does that make us even? I think the least we could do for the sad state of our affairs is to join forces for a decent meal.”