10

HAVING NEITHER LIVED nor worked south of the river, Gemma had never before had occasion to visit Guy’s Hospital. She knew that the two great hospitals, St. Thomas’s and Guy’s, had once faced each other across St. Thomas Street, until St. Thomas’s had been moved to its present location in Lambeth to make room for an extension to London Bridge Station.

Winnie had told her to be sure to have a look at the chapel, so when she’d parked the car on St. Thomas Street, she entered the hospital’s main quadrangle. It was an imposing vista, although the symmetry of the eighteenth-century buildings was marred, in her opinion, by the addition of a sixties tower block. After taking a moment to examine the statue of Sir Thomas Guy in the quadrangle’s center, she saw a small sign designating the chapel on the right-hand side of the quad.

Gemma passed through the chapel’s unassuming entrance with little expectation, then caught her breath in delight. She felt she might have stepped inside a Fabergé Easter egg. The cream walls were touched with gilt and aqua, the arched stained-glass windows glowed like living gems, the rich wood of the simple pews shone with years of polish. The air smelled faintly of lilies.

The chapel was empty, the quiet so intense it felt like a physical force. Gemma stood, letting the silence seep into her. How many had come to this place over the years, seeking solace from their worry or grief? Had they found comfort here… or did the air hold a weight of accumulated sorrow?

Her thoughts strayed to the parents of the child she’d failed to find. There would be no consolation for their loss, here or anywhere else. Gemma turned and went out into the gray austerity of the quadrangle.

“Mr. Yarwood, did you have some reason to think your daughter might have been in the building?” Kincaid asked, remembering the tension he’d seen in Yarwood’s body before the tape began.

They had encouraged Yarwood to sit, and Cullen had fetched him a cup of water. Now, while Cullen and Bell stood back, Kincaid took the chair across the table from him. He could see Yarwood beginning to pull himself together, and he wanted answers while the man was still vulnerable from shock.

“No, no, of course not.” Yarwood set down the plastic cup and scrubbed a hand across his face. “It’s just that I hadn’t spoken to her for a few days, and I was a bit worried.”

The room, small and poorly ventilated, had become stuffier as the afternoon warmed. Kincaid thought he detected, beneath the musty odor of the building itself, the acrid smell of fear. “Your daughter doesn’t live with you, then?”

“No. Chloe shares a flat with a friend, near Westbourne Grove. She’s twenty-one, and you know how kids are. She’s very independent.”

“But you speak to her every day on the phone?”

“No,” Yarwood said again. “It’s just that I’d been trying to ring her since the fire. I didn’t want her to read it in the papers or see it on the telly. I thought she might worry.”

“Have you spoken to her flatmate?”

“No. No one’s answered the phone or the door. Look, that tape… the time said ten o’clock, and the fire didn’t start until after midnight, so there’s no reason to think…” Yarwood gave Kincaid a look of appeal.

“Mr. Yarwood,” Kincaid said gently, “unless we find some proof that your daughter left the building again, or we can get in touch with her, I’m afraid we do have to consider her as a possible victim. She fits the parameters given by the pathologist.”

Michael Yarwood pressed both hands flat against his face, but not before Kincaid had seen his lips twist in a spasm of distress. “Let me see the body,” he said, his voice muffled.

“There’s nothing you could recognize. I’m sorry.”

Yarwood was silent for a moment. Then he dropped his hands and stared hard at Kincaid. “DNA, then. Can’t you do a DNA test?”

“I’m sure we can get a DNA sample from your daughter’s flat. We could also take a sample of your blood, if necessary, and we can check your daughter’s dental records if they’re easily available. But it seems to me we’re jumping the gun a bit here. First, have you any idea why your daughter was at the warehouse?”

“No. I can’t imagine.”

“Do you have any idea how your daughter got into the warehouse?” put in Bell. “Did she have a key?”

“No, of course not. Why would I have given her a key?”

“Did she have access to your key, then?” Kincaid asked.

“N-” Yarwood hesitated. “Well, I- I suppose it’s possible. I left the key at the flat – I had no reason to carry it around with me.”

“And Chloe has access to your flat?”

“Of course she does. It’s her home.”

“So she could have copied the key,” stated Bell, making a note.

“Again, I suppose it’s possible, but I can’t imagine why she’d do such a thing. Why are you assuming she did?”

Kincaid leaned forward, so that only the width of the tabletop separated his face from Yarwood’s. “The way I see it, there are three possibilities. One, your foreman lied about locking the door and he left the building open. But in that case, how would Chloe have known she could get into the building?

“Two, whoever entered the building picked the lock. It’s obvious from the CCTV footage that your daughter and her companion entered almost immediately, which makes that option highly unlikely.

“Three, your daughter had a key, more than likely a copy she had made from yours. And that implies premeditation on her part. Do you get on well with your daughter, Mr. Yarwood?”

“What sort of question is that?” Yarwood rose out of his seat until he was halfway across the table. “What the hell are you getting at?”

Kincaid didn’t back away. “I’m wondering if your daughter had any reason to set fire to your warehouse.”

After a moment, Yarwood sank back into his chair. “No. Chloe wouldn’t do something like that,” he said slowly, but Kincaid thought he heard the slightest hesitation.

“What about the man with her?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. Look, I’ve told you all I know. You’ve got to find out if that’s my daughter. I can’t bear-”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Kincaid assured him. “But first we’re going to need some information from you.”

“And you’ll keep this from the press?”

“Until we have a definite identification-”

“Sir,” interrupted Bell, “could I have a word?” She gestured towards the door, and after a moment’s hesitation, Kincaid excused himself and followed her into the corridor.

“What-”

“Sir, shouldn’t we be asking him about the gambling connection?”

Kincaid made an effort to control his own impatience. It showed restraint on Bell’s part that she’d bothered to consult him at all, rather than charging ahead with the questioning on her own. “Look, Maura, we’re dealing with a man who thinks he may have lost his only daughter. We can’t in good conscience accuse him of something based on completely unsubstantiated rumor. We’ll talk to him about it if and when we have something to back it up-”

“I doubt you’d be so delicate if you didn’t have instructions to treat the man with kid gloves,” she retorted, her dark eyes snapping with disapproval.

Kincaid’s forbearance vanished. “I’m not treating Michael Yarwood differently than I’d treat anyone else in such circumstances. And you, Inspector, are out of line.”

The interview room door swung open and Cullen came out. “Keep your voices down, for God’s sake. Do you want to broadcast to the entire station?” He glared at them both, then added, with his usual peacemaker’s instinct, “Look, I’ve got Chloe Yarwood’s address. I say we find out if the girl’s really missing before we go any further with this. Maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to Daddy.”