“I-” She glanced past him, as if seeking a means of escape, then appeared to resign herself to the conversation. “I was hoping to have a word with Station Officer Farrell.”
Kincaid nodded towards the warehouse. “He’s there now, working on the crime scene.”
Rose looked more uncomfortable still. “I- it’s just that – if my guv’nor finds out I’ve been here without clearing it with him, he’ll be livid. But our next duty’s not until tomorrow morning, and there’s something I thought Officer Farrell should know.”
“Something you’ve remembered?” Kincaid asked, his interest quickening.
She shook her head. “No. But I’ve been looking into some things…” She drew farther into the doorway. “It’s nothing, really. Probably a stupid idea. And if any of the lads from my watch see me here-”
“Look.” He recalled now that there was a tea shop a short way up the road. If he was lucky, the place might have sandwiches, too. “Let me buy you a cup of tea, and you can tell me about it. Then I can pass your idea along to Farrell if you don’t want to speak to him yourself.”
After considering for a moment, she said, “Okay. I don’t suppose it’s likely I’ll run into anyone I know in a tea shop.” She smiled for the first time.
“Any rule against you being seen with a detective?” he asked as they headed east on Southwark Street.
“Not as long as it was you wanting to talk to me, but I’d rather not have to explain.”
They reached the place Kincaid remembered. He saw that it was a museum as well as a tea shop, housing displays on the history of tea and collections of teapots, but they could use the restaurant without buying a ticket for the tour. Rose ducked inside with obvious relief.
When they’d found a table near the back and placed their orders – tea and sandwiches for him, tea and a scone for her – he said, “Anyone would think you were hiding from a jealous boyfriend.”
“Rather that than get on the wrong side of my guv’nor. Or the lads – that’s even worse. But no. No boyfriend, jealous or otherwise.”
He wondered what had motivated her to risk discipline, or being ostracized, but thought it better not to push until she’d relaxed a little. “Are you the only woman on your watch?” he asked.
“Yeah, at the moment. We had another, a probationer, when I first transferred in, but she got posted to another station.”
“It must be hard.”
Rose shrugged as the waitress brought their tea. “Sometimes, but not like it used to be. The fire service is changing. Some of the old-timers may not like women coming in, but they know there’s nothing they can do about it. And the good officers, like my guv’nor, realize that women have things to offer that are as important as brute strength. Not that I’m not strong, mind you,” she added, with another small smile. “But I think the strength thing is overrated. I can haul hose and lift ladders with the best of them, but there are techniques that women, or smaller men, can use to make things easier. It seems to me that should be the point – getting the job done as efficiently as possible. Safer for personnel, safer for victims, safer for property.” Her face was alight with enthusiasm, and Kincaid found himself hoping that the wear and tear of the job wouldn’t erode too much of her crusading spirit.
“What about hazing? Is that still a problem?” Kincaid asked as their food arrived.
Rose considered for a moment. “There’s teasing, of course. It’s part of the culture, and I think that if you’re going to make it as a woman in the fire service, you have to let a certain amount roll off your back.” She frowned and added slowly, “The tough part is knowing when you have to draw the line, because eventually you will, with someone. I’m sure it must be the same for women in the police.”
Kincaid thought of the difficulties Gemma had had with one of the sergeants under her command at Notting Hill. It had taken a delicate combination of tact and authority for her to establish a good working relationship with the man, but then she’d had the advantage of rank.
He was watching Rose slather butter on her scone, and congratulating himself a bit because he’d never felt particularly threatened by female police officers, when it occurred to him that he’d never worked with a woman who outranked him. If he did, would he find he was a hypocrite, and a self-righteous one at that? It was an uncomfortable thought. He made an effort to concentrate on his sandwiches, but he couldn’t help wondering if he’d condescended to Maura Bell in a way he wouldn’t have if she’d been male.
“What about you?” asked Rose. “We’ve established that I don’t have a jealous boyfriend. Are you married?”
Kincaid looked up, startled, and tried not to choke on his tuna sandwich. “Um, no. But I live with my partner and our two sons.”
“That sounds very progressive of you.” Her smile was a little too quick, and he saw a telltale flush of color stain her cheeks, as if she’d embarrassed herself by asking. “Bohemian.”
“It’s not, really.” He hesitated, imagining himself trying to explain their family situation, or telling her how hard it had been just to persuade Gemma to live with him. God forbid he should mention marriage. That was a can of worms he didn’t want to contemplate himself, much less reveal to a stranger. “Long story,” he said at last, then, not wanting to seem abrupt, added, “we’re both in the job, so it complicates things. We used to work together.”
“Really?” Rose sounded interested. “What happened?”
“She put in for promotion and a transfer.” More than ready to change the subject, he said quickly, “Why don’t you tell me what it was you wanted with Bill Farrell?”
Now, Rose seemed to feel awkward. With her fingertip, she pushed scone crumbs into a pile on her plate. “I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to tell Station Officer Farrell how to do his job. But after the meeting last night I was curious, so I started looking back through the fire reports for the Borough in the last year.” She pulled some folded papers from her jacket pocket and spread them out on the table. “I found five structure fires in the past seven months that seem to fit a pattern.”
He could see that the top pages were fire brigade incident reports. “I’m sure Farrell will have checked for arson reports as a matter of routine-”
“But that’s just the thing,” interrupted Rose. “None of these fires were ever definitely flagged as arsons. They were all listed as undetermined cause. Here, I’ve marked them on a map.” She pushed the bottom sheet across the table to him. It was a photocopy of an area map, showing six scattered red rings. He recognized one location, the Southwark Street warehouse.
“They started small,” Rose said, tapping the ring on the map’s western boundary. He noticed that her nails were short and unpolished, her hands slender. “The first one was in a lockup behind Waterloo Station. Accumulated rubbish, no sign of accelerants, no more than one point of origin. Multiple points of origin are usually a dead giveaway for arson.”
He frowned. “So you’re saying it didn’t look like arson?”
“No, wait, hear me out.” She tapped another circle, this one to the east, near the top of Borough High Street. “Number two was a vacant basement flat in a council estate. Same scenario, more bang. Keep in mind that basements are ideal for starting a good fire, because fire spreads upwards.
“Then a small grocer off the Borough Road. The fire started in accumulated polystyrene meat-packing trays, a great accelerant. That’s how the fire was started in Leo’s Grocery in Bristol. Anyone with an interest in fires would know that.”
“Number four, a paint store.” She touched a spot near Blackfriars Road. “That burned for two days, and took two adjoining buildings with it.”
“And the fifth?”
“A warehouse near the Hay’s Galleria. Stored fabric for a clothing manufacturer. Went up a treat.”