After taking down his instructions, she directed him to an interview room that had been set up with a television and a VCR in readiness for Yarwood’s visit. As Kincaid opened the door, Cullen was saying something in Bell’s ear and she was laughing in response. It was the first time Kincaid had seen her face lit by a genuine smile, and he realized she was actually quite pretty when she wasn’t brooding like a disgruntled hawk.

Then the pair registered his presence. Both their faces froze into the instant solemnity of guilty children.

“Spoiled the party, have I?” Kincaid asked. Seeing their blank expressions, he couldn’t resist taking the piss a bit more. “Are you two going to let me in on the secret?”

Bell glowered at him and Cullen blushed an unbecoming blotchy red. “It’s nothing, guv, just a joke,” Cullen told him.

“I like jokes,” Kincaid said, at his most innocent. “Do tell me.”

“It wasn’t that sort of a joke, sir.” Cullen’s face was now puce, and Kincaid thought he might explode at any moment.

Knitting his brows, Kincaid said sternly, “You’re not telling rude jokes to the female officers again, Dougie? We’ve had words about this before-”

“I’ll just let you two get on with it while I check on Yarwood,” broke in Bell, giving them both a scathing glance as she marched from the room.

“What in hell are you on about?” Cullen hissed furiously as soon as the door shut behind her.

Kincaid had braced himself against the conference table and was laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. “Sorry,” he managed to gasp. “It was just your faces. You looked like you’d been caught with your knickers down in the school-yard, and then you blushed-”

“You made me feel a complete idiot.”

“I am sorry, Doug, really.” Kincaid made a valiant effort to control his mirth, but the corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily. “You must like her. I didn’t realize.” He had wondered, when he’d left them at the club last night, if they might find more in common on their own, but they seemed to have exceeded expectations. If Cullen had actually managed to slip Stella’s lead long enough to enjoy himself, he didn’t deserve Kincaid giving him a hard time.

“I don’t mind so much being made a fool,” Cullen said with a return of his usual good humor, “but I don’t think Maura takes well to being teased.”

“Good God, Doug, how’s she going to survive in the job if she can’t deal with a little friendly ragging? How’s she stuck it out this long, for that matter?”

Bell came back in before Cullen could reply. “Got it all out of your systems, now, have you?” she asked. In spite of her poker face, Kincaid thought he saw a gleam in her eye, and he wondered if Cullen was underestimating her. “Yarwood’s PA says he’s on his way,” she added. “He’s coming from his office, apparently. Station Officer Farrell should be here soon, as well.”

“Why did Yarwood offer to come in, rather than have us bring a photo round?” Kincaid asked.

“He didn’t say, and ours is not to question why,” Bell replied. “We’re just the police flunkies.”

“What did you find out from his insurance agent?”

Cullen took a chair at the table and rocked it back, in what Kincaid recognized as his “preparing to lecture” position. “He’s not overinsured, according to Mr. Cohen. He hasn’t changed the policy, and as far as Cohen knows, he’s not having financial difficulties with the project. He suggested those rumors might have come from a competitor. Of course, their loss adjuster will be working with Bill Farrell, but at least for now they don’t consider Yarwood a likely candidate for arson. But” – Cullen paused long enough to make sure he had their attention – “I did some phoning round this morning. I have a contact at one of the tabloids, who told me that her contact in Vice said there are rumors lately of Yarwood dealing with some pretty heavy hitters.”

“What sort of heavy hitters?” Kincaid asked, trying to imagine the Michael Yarwood of reputation involved with drugs or prostitution. That would be a scandal worth murdering to cover up.

“West End gambling. Just because these posh club owners wear bespoke suits doesn’t mean they don’t collect their debts.”

“Yarwood, gambling?” Kincaid supposed it was not unlikely that Yarwood’s political connections frequented West End clubs, but it still seemed out of character for Yarwood himself. He turned to Bell. “Any luck verifying his alibi for the Thursday night?”

“I had a message from Birmingham CID. Yarwood was seen at dinner at his hotel, then in the bar until at least ten o’clock. There’s no way he could have got back to London to start a fire a little after midnight.”

“He could have hired someone,” Kincaid mused. “But that wouldn’t explain the body. Why would a paid arsonist have killed a woman before starting the fire?”

“If it was the couple in the video, maybe she protested when she realized what he meant to do,” suggested Bell. “They struggle, he kills her, then strips her so she can’t be identified.”

“I’ve another possibility for our victim.” Kincaid told them about his encounter with Tony Novak at the shelter and Novak’s claim that his wife and daughter had gone missing. “We’ll have to follow up. I’ve got an address for the wife, and we should be able to find the husband easily enough.”

“You going to charge him with assault, guv?” asked Cullen with a grin.

“No. But I think he might be dangerous. I’ve told Kath Warren to watch herself until we can talk to the man again.”

Before they could speculate further, the sergeant popped her head in the room. “Excuse me, ma’am. Mr. Yarwood’s here.”

“Bring him in, will you, Sarah?” said Bell. “I don’t think we’ll wait on Farrell,” she told Kincaid and Cullen. “We can fill him in afterwards.”

A moment later, the sergeant ushered in Michael Yarwood. If Yarwood had come straight from his parliamentary office, he had dressed casually for a Saturday’s work. His polo shirt emphasized his massive shoulders and chest, and his heavy features seemed more prominent without the distraction of a tie. His eyes, however, still seemed as penetrating as they did on the telly, as he raked an impatient glance round the three of them.

“Your message said you found something on CCTV,” he said abruptly, clearly in no mood for pleasantries.

Kincaid saw Bell bristle and guessed she wasn’t about to relinquish control of the interview without a fight. The woman would give herself a heart attack if she didn’t learn to ease up a bit. Before she could butt heads with Yarwood again, he said, “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Yarwood, and we’ll cue it up for you.”

“I’ll stand, thanks. Let’s just get on with this, can we?” Yarwood was the picture of the busy politician, not bothering to expend charm on those who didn’t matter, but there was a tension in his posture that made Kincaid wonder if his rudeness was due to worry rather than irritation.

Kincaid nodded at Cullen. “Let’s have a look, then, Doug. As you’ll see,” he continued to Yarwood, “it’s just coming up to ten o’clock on the night of the fire. Let us know if you want to freeze the image.”

Yarwood stood with his hands plunged in his pockets as the screen came to life, his head lowered in the familiar bulldog pose. After a moment, the two figures moved into view, then stopped before the warehouse door. Yarwood suddenly reached out, his finger pointed as if he might touch the screen. Then, as the woman turned towards the camera, the color drained from his face. He reached blindly for the back of the nearest chair, grasping it for support.

“Are you all right, Mr. Yarwood?” Kincaid hovered with a hand near Yarwood’s elbow, in case the man went all the way down, while motioning to Cullen to stop the tape.

Yarwood looked at him, as if trying to recall who he was. “Dear God,” he whispered. “That’s my daughter.”