Kincaid was tempted to regret his decision a few minutes later when Gemma rang to say she’d been delayed.

“Something came up,” she said enigmatically. “And I had to get the boys some lunch. Besides, Winnie’s tied up on a pastoral visit and won’t be free for another hour.”

“We could go without her,” suggested Kincaid, chafing at the delay.

“I’d rather not,” Gemma told him. “Fanny Liu is going to need all the support she can get. Besides, by the time I get the boys situated and get there myself, it wouldn’t save us that much time. I’ll ring you back when I’ve hooked up with Winnie.”

With that he had to be content, and a moment’s thought reconciled him to the setback. As efficient as Bell’s young DS seemed to be, he wanted to show the photo to the shelter’s staff himself, and the delay would give him time. Although Kath Warren had assured him that all the current residents were accounted for, the woman could be a former resident, or have some connection with one of the current residents.

Bill Farrell was also heading back to the fire scene to supervise the ongoing collection of evidence. “I’ve got a murder weapon to find,” he told Kincaid, “and at least now I have some idea what to look for.”

Kincaid found a parking space near Farrell’s van and walked down the side street to the shelter’s entrance. The front door stood open, as it had the previous day, but the inner door was closed, and there was no answer when he rang the bell. There was no sound or sign of activity, and he doubted the residents answered the bell when the staff was out.

Glancing at his watch, he decided to grab a sandwich, then give it another go. He walked back to Southwark Street and stood for a moment, trying to decide which direction offered the best prospect of food. As he scanned the street, he noticed a girl standing in the shadow of an office doorway. Something furtive in her posture drew his attention; then he realized her face was familiar. Her straight blond hair was loose today, half hiding the curve of her cheek, but he’d no doubt it was the young firefighter he’d met yesterday.

“Rose?” he said, going up to her. “It is Rose, isn’t it? What are you doing here?”

8

THE PATCH OF light moved across the wall above Harriet’s bed. She watched its slow progress for a long time, thinking about the roses on the wallpaper. They were old roses, faded roses, on a background the color of tea stains. Sleepily, she wondered how her mum could have forgotten that she hated flowery, girly things, but the thought drifted lightly away.

She felt very odd, as if she were hovering outside her own body, watching herself, but when she gave her toe an experimental wiggle, it moved reassuringly. It was only then that Harriet realized she was still wearing her shoes. Why had she gone to bed in her shoes?

Frowning, she pushed aside the rough blanket covering her chest. Where was her duvet? And why was she still wearing her sweatshirt, the same one she’d put on for school that morning at Mrs. Bletchley’s? Wait… was that this morning? Or had that been yesterday morning? It had been dark, and she knew, somehow, that she had slept for a long time.

She felt a sickening lurch of panic as fragments of memory coalesced. Her dad… the lady in the front seat of the car… the gray walls… being half carried, half dragged, up narrow and twisting stairs… the darkness closing in…

Harriet sat up, her heart pounding. Her eyes focused on the light pouring in from the rectangle of window on the far wall, but her relief was short-lived. There was daylight pouring in through the window, but it wasn’t her window. Her mind finally wrapped itself around the truth it had been refusing to accept. It wasn’t her room.

She forced herself to look around. Assess things, her mother was always telling her – have all the facts before you act. The room was larger than her bedroom at home. There was the window on the wall opposite the bed, and on the right-hand wall, a door. The left-hand wall sloped down, as if it was set into the eave of the house. The walls were lined with odds and ends of old discarded furniture, and a bookcase under the eave held a few tattered clothbound volumes. There were a stool and a tin pail in one corner, and beside the window, a chest of drawers. On the chest stood a china basin and ewer, patterned in faded pink roses, like the wallpaper.

Carefully, Harriet slid from the bed, and as she moved, the sour, musty smell rose again from the mattress. The odor brought back the memory of the darkness, but she pushed it away.

The bare floorboards had once been painted gray, but the color had aged to the color of dust, and the surface was marred with scuff and drag marks. She placed her feet carefully, afraid to make a noise. Making her way to the window, she looked out of the grimy, spider-snared panes.

A grim prospect greeted her. Below, she saw a dirt yard infested with weeds and rubbish. Across the yard, another wall of gray brick, featureless. Beyond the wall, she could make out the peaks of higher roofs, but nothing looked familiar. She tried the window, but it had been nailed or painted shut. Not that she’d have been able to get out that way, anyway – she could see that it was too high, and a straight drop of several floors. Nor did it look as if anyone would hear her if she called for help.

The choking panic rose in her throat again.

Where was she? What was this place? Why was she here?

Harriet gripped the windowsill as dizziness swept over her. She realized suddenly that she was starving. How long had it been since she’d had anything to eat? A day, two days? The fact that she wasn’t certain frightened her even more.

And she had to pee. The thought made her screw up her courage to try the door. The unpainted wood looked ancient and scarred, and there was a web of scratches around the old-fashioned keyhole. The knob turned in her fingers, but the door didn’t budge.

Gripping the knob more tightly, she turned it hard to the right and leaned back with all her weight, but the door didn’t even quiver. She let go and rubbed her smarting palms against her jeans, then crouched down to peer through the keyhole. There was nothing to see but darkness.

For a moment, the urge to call out was almost overpowering, but she pressed her hand hard to her mouth. A shout might bring worse than being alone and hungry.

Then she heard a noise. A creak, and then another, the soft footfalls of someone climbing the stairs. Harriet’s first instinct was to hide. She looked round wildly, but there was no cover, even beneath the frame of the old iron bed.

Her logical mind told her it wouldn’t matter, that whoever was coming knew she was there, but her body obeyed a different instruction. She ran to the bed and wrapped the blanket around herself, as if the tattered fabric could give her a layer of protection, and huddled back against the wall. Then came the sound of bolts being thrown back, and the clicking of the tumblers as the key turned in the lock. The door swung open.

“Superintendent.” Rose Kearny looked as though he were the last person she wanted to see. Kincaid might have been tempted to take it personally, except that she’d been friendly enough yesterday, and her behavior seemed decidedly odd. She didn’t strike him as the type to be skulking in doorways.

“Are you all right?” he asked, when she didn’t step forward. She was dressed much as she had been at the fire scene yesterday, but with her hair loose rather than pulled back in a ponytail she looked younger, less professional.