“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.

“Then you’ll have to make one, won’t you, Dougie?”

Cullen flashed Kincaid a grin and pulled the Astra up, half on the double-yellows and half on the pavement. As a uniformed constable trotted over to wave them away, Cullen held his ID up to the window.

Kincaid saw with relief that the rain had eased to a drizzle and he abandoned his umbrella, merely turning up the collar of his mac as he climbed from the car.

With his first breath, the smell hit him in a tangible wave, the bitterness of charred wood mingling with the darkness of wet ash in the back of his mouth. Looking up to the right, he saw what remained of Michael Yarwood’s Victorian warehouse. He recognized the building immediately, having noticed it when passing by because of its particularly attractive architecture.

Its four stories were a solid gray-brown brick belied by the graceful arches of large windows. The square edges of its corners were softened by gentle curves, its dark facade lightened by touches of cream brick round windows and roof.

Now the roof sagged and the front door hung crookedly from its hinges. The shattered windows glared like blind eyes, those on the front of the building ringed by the black stain of smoke. A firefighter in helmet and tunic raked through the broken glass and smoldering debris littering the pavement. Hoses still snaked inside from the brigade engine, along with cables from the utility lorry.

The building and the surrounding area had been cordoned off with crime scene tape. Pedestrians milled outside the barrier, a few sporting the telltale notebooks and cameras of the press. A sole television van remained, waiting, Kincaid assumed, for the removal of the body and a statement from the police.

Well, they could wait a bit longer, but he’d have to deal with them eventually. Speaking to the media was a necessary part of a senior police officer’s job, but he didn’t particularly enjoy it. Giving a brief thought to the tie he’d put on that morning, a loud Liberty print Gemma’s mum had given him the previous Christmas, he shrugged and smiled to himself. Maybe he’d set a police fashion trend.

As they neared the warehouse entrance, Kincaid saw a uniformed firefighter with an Alsatian dog. Beside him stood a tall man wearing a firefighter’s tunic over civilian clothes and a woman in a suit and tan wool coat. The tall man Kincaid pegged as a member of the Fire Investigation Team, and there was something in the woman’s bearing that marked her unmistakably as CID. There was a tension in their postures, as if they’d been arguing.

“You’ll be Scotland Yard, I expect,” said the tall man, turning towards Kincaid and Cullen with an air of relief.

Kincaid introduced himself. “And you’re-”

“Fire Investigation Officer Farrell, Southeast FIT,” the man acknowledged. He was balding and bearded, with a lined, intelligent face and eyes that seemed narrowed in a permanent squint, as if he’d spent too many hours poring over minute fragments of evidence. “I was just telling Inspector Bell here that we’d wait until you arrived to view the scene – the less disturbance inside, the better. My team and the Home Office pathologist should be here any moment.”

The woman nodded at them but kept her hands firmly in her coat pockets. “Maura Bell, Southwark CID.” Her voice held a trace of Glasgow Scots. She was dark-haired, thirtyish, with a thin, sharp-boned face and a less than welcoming expression. “I’ve been asked to help you coordinate the local area investigation. We’ll set up an incident base for you at Southwark headquarters.”