The possibilities were laid out in his mind like a series of jewels on a map of the Borough, all carefully researched and explored, waiting to be plucked when the time seemed right. Did last night’s gift mean he should act sooner than he’d planned?
Anticipation pumped his heart, made the breath puff from his nostrils. He whipped his shirt from the board and switched off the iron – no one knew better than he the dangers of fire – his mind alight with the thrill of choice.
“That was a frigging waste of time,” Maura Bell muttered as she walked out of the fire station into Sawyer Street, Kincaid and Cullen on either side of her. The rain had stopped at last, and above them a few patches of dusky purple sky showed against the banks of pewter cloud. The temperature had dropped with the sunset. Glancing back, she saw warm light spilling from the windows in the fire station’s red bay doors, a glimpse of a closed and comforting world.
She shrugged the collar of her coat closer around her throat.
Kincaid glanced at her, raising an eyebrow, as Cullen said easily, “Maybe, maybe not,” as if he’d nothing better to do than sit around watching a bunch of surly firefighters shuffle their feet and look clueless. “Somebody may remember something. Never hurts to plant a seed. Listen,” Cullen added as they reached his car, left in the fire station car park, “we’ll give you a lift back to the nick. There’s not much more we can do tonight.”
“I’ve a better idea,” Kincaid said. “Why don’t we all have a drink. My treat. We can map out our agenda for tomorrow.”
Her response was automatic, instinctive. The last thing she wanted to do was have a chummy pint with Scotland Yard. “I’ve things to do at the station.”
“Surely they can wait a bit,” Kincaid said lightly. “Call it conference time, if it will ease your guilty conscience, but I think we could all use a break.”
“The CCTV films-”
“That’s what constables are for,” chimed in Cullen, opening the car’s back door for her. “You have to learn to delegate.”
Maura shifted some of the papers that had slid back into the space she’d cleared in Cullen’s backseat on the short ride from Southwark Street to the fire station. The task gave her a moment to think.
She’d checked in with the incident room staff just before their meeting at the fire station, so she knew there were no breaking developments that urgently needed her attention.
She was also aware that her refusal to socialize with the other detectives could mark her as a bad sport, and possibly a prig – not the reputation she wanted to establish on her first outing with Scotland Yard. “Okay, just a quick one, then,” she said, trying to give in gracefully. “I know a good pub in Borough High Street. Or there’s this one.” She pointed at the pub that occupied the bottom corner of the fire station premises. “The Goldsmith-”
“If I’m buying, I get to choose,” interrupted Kincaid, sounding amused. He glanced at Cullen. “The society?”
Cullen nodded. “Right.”
“But-”
“Don’t worry,” Kincaid assured her. “We’ll have you back before you turn into a pumpkin.”
With this, Maura had to be content. She sank back into her seat, curiosity beginning to override her indignation.
In moments they were crossing Blackfriars Bridge. The river caught the remnants of the sunset in a gleaming swath of gold, and beyond it the floodlit dome of St. Paul’s was haloed by the fading pink sky. Cullen drove with an assurance she had somehow not expected, and Kincaid sat beside him without criticizing, unlike some of her superior officers.
Once in the City, Cullen sped up New Bridge Street and around Holborn Circle, into Hatton Garden, the heart of the diamond district. Maura knew this part of town only by reputation. “Doing a little after-hours shopping, are we?” she asked as Cullen slipped the car into a vacant parking space on the street.
“We should be so lucky,” said Cullen, his fingers barely brushing her elbow as they followed Kincaid across the street. “But this is almost as good. You’ll see.”
Maura relaxed a bit as they came to a cheerful-looking pub, but Kincaid passed it by, ducking into the narrow alleyway that ran alongside it. He stopped at a sleek door made of pale wood and keyed an entry pad.
Maura hung back. “What-”
“Never fear, it’s not a brothel.” Grinning, Cullen guided her inside. The pair reminded her of her older brothers playing a prank – not an auspicious omen.
The foyer opened directly onto a staircase made of more blond wood and brushed steel. “Private club,” Kincaid tossed over his shoulder as he started to climb. “The Scotch Malt Whisky Society. Good whisky’s the best antidote to the taste of a fire scene.”
She knew what he meant. The acrid smoke seemed to have settled permanently in her sinus cavities and the back of her throat, and the sandwich she’d managed to snatch for lunch had tasted of ashes.
They had reached the first floor. Maura followed the men through a cloak area and into a large room that contradicted all her preconceived notions of a private club. There was a handsome bar down one side, but the furniture was contemporary, more Habitat than gentleman’s club, and the white walls were splashed with bright, abstract paintings. The room was quite full, but Kincaid spied an empty table in the far corner and led them to it. “Shall I choose?” he asked as they settled into their chairs.
Picking up a booklet from the low table, Maura found it filled with pages of whiskies identified only by numbers and rather fulsome descriptions.
“The society does its own bottling, straight from casks it buys directly from the distilleries,” Kincaid explained. “It assigns a number to each bottling, but there is a key that links the numbers with the names of the distilleries, if you’re interested.”
She shook her head and closed the booklet. “I’ll trust you on this. So, are you some sort of whisky connoisseur?”
“Not really. It’s just that we’ve a friend who’s trying to get a small Highland distillery back on its feet, so I’m doing my bit to support the industry.”
“Very noble of you, I’m sure.”
“Yeah.” He grinned at her, and for the first time she was aware of the power of his smile. She suspected he used it like a weapon and dislike surged through her. “Why don’t I see what they have on special tonight?” Kincaid added, then stood and threaded his way to the bar.
“Your superintendent’s quite the charmer,” she said to Cullen.
“He has his moments,” Cullen agreed, as if unaware of her sarcasm. “He’s a good guv’nor, the best I’ve had.”
How like a man, she thought furiously, to defend another male no matter how inexcusable his behavior. “And does he snog all his female officers when he gets them in a car?” she blurted.
“Snog?” Cullen looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “In a car – oh, you mean Gemma?” Enlightenment dawned in his face. “In my car. Did he really? Good for him.” He gave a whoop of laughter.
“How can you-”
“Look, Inspector – Maura – I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Duncan’s not Gemma’s boss. She works out of Notting Hill Division, not the Yard. They live together. She was in Southwark today for personal reasons. And I’ve never seen Duncan behave inappropriately with any female officer under his command, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Maura felt the blood rising in her face. “But – I thought-” Kincaid returned at that moment, balancing three tumblers. She gave Cullen a pleading glance, hoping he wouldn’t mortify her further by repeating her comment.
“This is a lighter Speyside,” Kincaid said as he handed round glasses filled with pale gold liquid. “I thought it might be more to your taste than some of the heavily sherried or peated whiskies.” She had no idea what he was talking about but forced a smile. She opened her bag to reach for a cigarette, then, realizing that neither of them smoked, thought better of it and closed the bag.