“I can give you her address without looking it up,” said Kath. “She lives in Park Street. We talked about it often enough, because Laura’s always involved in all the neighborhood issues. Her latest project was Crossbones Graveyard – you know, the old cemetery just a street over.” She nodded in the direction of London Bridge Station.

“I’ll need a specific address,” Kincaid said, trying to steer her back to the subject. Time was passing, and Gemma and Winnie would be waiting for him.

Kath gave him a house number, adding, “The house is unmistakable. It’s early nineteenth century. She’s very proud of it.”

“Can you describe Laura for me?”

“Um, I’d say midthirties… I know her daughter is ten, and I think Laura had finished med school when Harriet was born.”

“Looks?” prompted Kincaid.

“Medium height. Thin and wiry. Dark curly hair. Naturally curly, not permed.”

“But light-skinned?”

“Oh, yes. Freckles. Brown eyes, I think – I never paid that much attention.”

Kincaid realized with an unwelcome chill that Laura Novak matched the pathologist’s description of their homicide victim. He’d have to move this up on his priority list. But the woman in the warehouse had been alone, which didn’t account for a missing child. “And the daughter?” he asked. “You said her name is Harriet? Can you describe her, too?”

“Not really. I’ve never met her. But from what Laura says, she sounds a precocious kid. I think she goes to Little Dorrit School, though, over on Redcross Way. That’s one reason Laura was up in arms about the graveyard. Harriet had to walk right by it going to and from school, and it’s just the sort of place where perverts or drug dealers might hang out.”

“And what about Tony? Do you have an address for him?”

“I remember Laura saying he’d taken a flat in Borough High Street, near the George Inn, but I’m afraid that’s all I know,” Kath offered apologetically.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure we can find him,” Kincaid assured her. “What concerns me more at the moment is you. This guy is obviously volatile, and he’s targeting you as having something to do with his wife’s disappearance – or supposed disappearance. He knows how to find you. What if you walk out of this building by yourself and he’s waiting for you? Next time he might do more than give you a shake.”

Kath paled. “I hadn’t thought of that. He was a little scary. If you hadn’t been here…”

“Is there anyone who can escort you in and out of the building for the time being, make sure you get home safely? What about your colleague – Jason, isn’t it?”

“Jason’s gone to Kent for the day, to his aunt’s. A family emergency.” Her lips tightened, as if she weren’t happy about Jason’s absence, excuse or not.

“Is there anyone else?”

Kath brightened. “I could get my son to come in on the train and drive back with me. He’s sixteen-”

“I’m not sure a sixteen-year-old-”

“And he has a black belt in kickboxing,” Kath finished with a grin. “I’ll be fine.”

Kincaid’s phone rang again. When he looked at the caller ID, he said, “Maybe I should keep your son with me. I could use a little protection from my partner about now.”

When he reached Gemma on the phone, she and Winnie were waiting for him at Fanny Liu’s house. Her voice sounded strained, and he guessed the visit was proving awkward.

“Something came up,” he explained, “but I’m on my way now.” He’d not taken time to speak to Bill Farrell about Rose, so he would have to track him down later.

“Are you all right?” Gemma asked. “I was worried about you.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but we may have another candidate for our mystery woman. I’ll tell you about it after we’ve seen your friend.”

The drive to Ufford Street was short, but he took time to check in with Doug Cullen. His sergeant informed him that he and Bell had seen Michael Yarwood’s insurance agent, but had had no luck finding either Yarwood or his foreman, Joe Spender. “We’ve left messages,” Cullen told him, “asking them to call back as soon as possible.” Kincaid promised to meet Cullen and Bell at Borough High Street as soon as he’d finished at Fanny Liu’s.

He found the house in Ufford Street easily, parking his ancient MG behind Gemma’s orchid-colored Ford. As he removed his small evidence collection kit, he gave the car an affectionate pat. One day soon he was going to have to part with the old thing. It was a testament to the Midget’s condition that Cullen preferred driving them about in his battered Astra to riding in it. The car was completely unsuitable for family life, as well, and needed more work than Kincaid was willing to invest in it, but he hadn’t quite brought himself to contemplate joining the SUV-wielding hordes.

Gemma had apparently been watching for him, as she answered the door before he could push the bell. “We haven’t told her yet – about the fire,” she whispered as she led him inside. “We’ve just arrived, and besides, we thought it would be better coming from you.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking stock of his surroundings as she led him into a cluttered, flowery sitting room. The room’s fussiness brought on an instant claustrophobia, made worse by the sweet smell pervading the air. Near the back of the room, Winnie sat beside a tiny Asian woman in a wheelchair.

“Winnie,” Kincaid said as she stood to greet him. He gave her a peck on the cheek, thinking how trim and tidy she looked in her clericals.

“Fanny,” Gemma was saying as he turned back to her, “this is Duncan Kincaid. He’s a superintendent with Scotland Yard.”

Kincaid found himself towering awkwardly over Fanny Liu, who looked up at him with frightened eyes. “Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse my lack of manners.” Her voice was soft, her words carefully enunciated. As Kincaid pulled up a chair and sank down to her level, she went on. “It’s just that I can’t imagine Gemma and Winnie would have asked you here to give me good news.”

“We’ve nothing definite to tell you about your friend,” he said quickly. “But there is a possibility we think needs looking into.” There was no gentle way to present the situation, and he knew from long experience that it was best to get the shock over as quickly as possible. “Night before last, there was a fire in a warehouse in Southwark Street, not far from here. A woman’s body was found. I’m afraid she was badly burned, and she had no identification.”

“Oh, no.” Fanny shook her head in denial. “You can’t possibly think it’s Elaine.” Her words held an anguished appeal.

“It’s an option we need to rule out, at least. The victim fits your flatmate’s general description, but there are several other possibilities we’re exploring as well.” Seeing Gemma’s quick glance, he realized he’d had no time to tell her about the woman captured by the CCTV.

Fanny’s skin, pale when he had come in, had blanched to the color of parchment, but she asked steadily, “What do you need to do?”

“First, I need to show you a photo, an image captured by the closed-circuit security camera in the building across the street from the warehouse.” Gemma came to stand behind his chair as he opened his folder and took out a photocopy.

Fanny took it with a trembling hand, a pulse beating visibly in her slender throat. She stared at the photo for a long moment, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “It’s not her,” she whispered. “That’s not Elaine. This woman’s much too young.”

“We had to be sure. But even if the woman in the photo isn’t Elaine, it doesn’t necessarily rule out Elaine as the victim. This woman entered the warehouse at least two hours before the fire. She may have left again by the door not covered by the security camera, and by the same logic, someone else may have entered.”

“But why would Elaine have been in this warehouse?”

“Do you have any idea if Elaine knew Michael Yarwood?” he countered.