“Maybe the client had a key?”

His eyes widened. “Right now, that would narrow it down to Michael Yarwood and his foreman, Spender. We’re already checking their alibis for last night. But there are other possibilities. Estate agents, former owners, janitorial services…”

“I don’t envy you that,” Gemma said, thinking of the massive paperwork involved in following up these leads. “What about Elaine Holland? Will you want to speak to Fanny again today? What about a proper search of the house?”

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, let’s wait until we get the results of the postmortem. There’s no point in jumping the gun here. For all we know, at this point the PM may tell us something that would rule her out entirely – say, the victim was a teenager or nonwhite. Kate said she’d try to schedule the PM tonight or first thing tomorrow, and she’ll keep me informed. We’ll go from there. But in the meantime, I’d better fill in the others.” He turned back to her and reached out to cup her cheek in his hand. “I don’t know when I’ll get home.”

“I know.”

“Then we’d better make the most of the moment,” he said, sliding his fingers down to her chin and turning her face so that he could brush his lips against hers.

He tasted very slightly of coffee. Gemma struggled, laughing, as he nuzzled her neck. “Don’t do that. Someone will see us.”

“That’s the idea. You wouldn’t want to disappoint Doug, would you?”

Why the hell didn’t the woman answer her bloody phone?

Tony Novak stood in London Bridge Railway Station, mobile phone in hand, panic rising in his throat. He’d told Beth to bring Harriet to meet him at the flower stall at twelve o’clock, and there he’d been standing for the last hour.

After half an hour had passed, he’d started ringing Beth’s mobile, but the stupid fucking thing went directly to voice mail. It was only then that the truth began to dawn – he had a name and a mobile number, nothing else, and he’d left his daughter with her.

Dear God, what had he been thinking? Sweat stung his armpits, stuck his shirt damply to his back, and his knees felt suddenly as if they might give way. He sank down onto the large suitcase, rubbing his face with his free hand. People milled past him, wheeling luggage, shouldering briefcases, as if the world hadn’t come to a dead stop. A pretty girl slowed, gave him a tentative smile, then looked away and hurried on as if something she’d seen in his face had frightened her. Good bloody riddance.

They had always been his downfall – girls, women. He attracted them like flies to honey, and in spite of the best of intentions, he had never learned to say no. This little weakness had ruined his marriage to Laura, as well as every other relationship he’d had since adolescence.

And that was how he’d met Beth, in the bar at the George Inn in Borough High Street, near his flat. An attractive woman, obviously looking for company; he in the throes of postseparation shock, an easy mark. When she’d chatted him up, he’d seen no reason to refuse. He’d taken her back to his flat that night, surprised but intrigued by her ferocity.

Afterwards, lying naked in his bed, she’d told him she was married, her husband a commercial traveler, a jealous man. She said she would come to him again if he wanted, and he had wanted it. It helped fill the hours, numbed his mind, and he had liked the fact that she was married, unavailable for more than their regular trysts.

Lately, though, things had begun to change. He should have seen it coming – he’d never known a woman to remain satisfied with simple sex. He recognized the signs easily enough – hints of dissatisfaction with her marriage, hints that things might be different between them – and he’d begun to think of finding a way to terminate the relationship.

Then things had blown up with Laura and his life had spun out of control. His plans hastily conceived, he’d realized he needed someone to watch Harriet while he retrieved her documents from Laura’s flat and withdrew his funds from the bank, and Beth had seemed the logical choice.

It was only now that he remembered the odd look on her face last night when he’d told her what he meant to do, but then she’d smiled and said yes, of course she’d help him, and in his hurry and his relief he’d quickly buried any uneasiness.

A garbled announcement came over the tannoy, a train departing for some unidentifiable location. The sound made his head hurt. He rubbed at his face again, trying to clear his mind, trying to bring back any little tidbits of information that Beth had revealed in postcoital conversations.

She worked in an estate agent’s in the Borough, she had told him that much. She’d grown up in South Africa, a daughter of missionaries, and had only come to London in her late teens. She’d been married once before, but it hadn’t worked out.

Fat lot of good any of that did him. What was he going to do, go round to every estate agent’s in the Borough, hoping to find her? He might as well ring directory inquiries and ask for a listing for Beth. It was madness.

Mary, mother of Jesus, how could he have been so stupid? He stood again, looking round wildly, as if his daughter’s face might suddenly appear in the crowd.

Had Beth taken Harriet to the authorities? But in that case, wouldn’t she have also told them where he was? He’d been waiting in the same spot for close on an hour and a half now, and no one had approached him.

But the alternative was more terrifying still. If she had not reported him, what in hell had she done with his child?

6

ROSE HAD DRAWN kitchen duty for that night’s watch, her least favorite chore. Growing up, she’d not had any interest in cooking, while her mother had enjoyed it and had been content to let her help her dad with his projects rather than insisting she do her share in the kitchen.

But cooking, she quickly discovered, was an essential skill in the fire service, and she’d set out with her usual diligence to become competent. Now, at least the other members of the watch didn’t roll their eyes and suggest Chinese takeaway when it was her turn to prepare meals.

She’d come in a half hour early, hoping to have a word with Station Officer Wilcox before the tour of duty began. It would be better if he heard about her visit to the fire scene from her rather than the FIT.

But Wilcox hadn’t yet come in, so she decided to get the dinner ready to go in the oven before roll call. That way she had more chance of getting the meal finished if they had a busy night, and it would give her something to do while she kept an eye out for Wilcox. Using a mallet, she pounded chicken breast halves into an even thickness before coating them in seasoned bread crumbs and drizzling them with olive oil. Then she scrubbed and quartered potatoes for roasted potato wedges; both dishes could be popped in the oven later. She could throw a salad together at the last minute, and there was ice cream in the freezer for a sweet.

Yawning as she finished her tasks, she rubbed at eyes burning from lack of sleep. Although a nap and a shower had helped, she still felt frayed round the edges. It would be a long night, but she knew better than to wish for a quiet one – that only seemed to guarantee that the bells would go nonstop.

Bryan Simms wandered into the kitchen as she was finishing up, carrying a takeaway coffee. “You look knackered,” he offered after examining her critically.