"In A Dark House" - читать интересную книгу автора (Crombie Deborah)

2

THE REVEREND WINIFRED CATESBY MONTFORT was finding it more difficult than she’d expected to adjust to life in London. After the past few years at her country church outside Glastonbury, the concrete and grime of urban South London seemed a barren landscape to a soul parched for the gentle spread of green across the Somerset Levels.

But her exile was only temporary, she told herself for the hundredth time as she searched the unfamiliar cupboards of St. Peter’s Rectory, hoping that something would materialize for her lunch. She also reminded herself that her exile was of her own making, and that she had no real cause for complaint. When her old friend and theological college mentor, Roberta Smith, had developed asthma so severe that her doctor ordered her to leave the city for a few months, Winnie had suggested that they swap parishes.

At the time it had seemed the right thing to do, as if God had offered her an opportunity to serve too obvious to refuse, but now she wondered if it had been merely her ego jumping at a chance to be seen as a rescuer - St. Winnie saves the day. And so she had abandoned her husband of less than a year, as well as others at home and in her parish who depended on her, to minister to what she had imagined as the poor and huddled masses.

Instead, she found a fairly comfortable and disinterested parish, the same round of bureaucratic meetings she’d left behind, and an ache of homesickness and longing for Jack that plagued her like a missing organ.

Well, there was nothing for it now but to get on with things, she chided herself as she rooted out a tin of tuna from the cupboard shelf and checked its use-by date. Too much self-examination smacked of self-absorption and was unproductive to boot – and her situation did have its compensations.

The rectory, a flat in Mitre Road across from St. Peter’s Church, was cozy, filled with the bright wall hangings and artifacts Roberta had collected on her trips to Africa and Asia. Southwark Cathedral was only a few streets away, and Winnie found the frequent exposure to cathedral life both fascinating and moving.

Then there was Borough Market, nestled up against the side of the cathedral, its bustle and color an unending source of culinary and sensual delight. When Jack could get up to London for the weekend, they began it with a trip to the market.

She now had a family connection in London as well, Jack’s cousin, Duncan, and Duncan’s partner, Gemma, and their two boys. With the zeal of the newly wed, Winnie hoped that she might encourage the couple to take the same step. She knew the dangers of meddling, of course, but she also knew that sometimes a sympathetic ear and a bit of a gentle nudge were all it took to set things in motion.

And then there were her parishioners, some of whom she was beginning to know and like. One in particular was her neighbor, Frances Liu, a woman near her own age who had been stricken a few years ago by the mysterious and debilitating Guillain-Barré syndrome. As Fanny remained partially paralyzed and housebound, Winnie had quickly got into the habit of stopping in after work as often as she could, and she took the sacraments to her on Sundays.

On the latter occasions, Winnie felt the disapproval of Fanny’s flatmate, Elaine, but she hadn’t discovered whether the woman’s hostility was personal or ideological. Nor had she quite worked out the exact nature of the relationship between the two women, but she sensed that Elaine perceived her as a threat and knew she must tread carefully. Winnie had no wish to make Fanny’s life any more difficult. Perhaps if she could learn more about Elaine, she could draw her out – and then there was the fact that Elaine was a striking woman, and Winnie’s curiosity was naturally piqued.

Resolving to make more of an effort next time she saw the two flatmates, Winnie finished her sandwich and began tidying up. She’d just dried her plate and cup when the rectory phone rang.

“I was just thinking of you,” she said when she heard Fanny Liu’s voice. “I thought I’d pop by after work-”

“Winnie, can you come now?” Fanny’s words were hurried, breathy.

Winnie frowned in concern. “Are you all right?”

“I- it’s Elaine. She wasn’t here this morning, and when I called the hospital, they said she hadn’t shown up for work.”

“You mean she wasn’t in the flat at all?” Winnie asked, puzzled. “Perhaps she went for a walk-”

“At daybreak, in this foul weather, when she never goes walking? Why would she do that?” Fanny’s voice rose. “And even if she had, why not come home or go to work?”

She could have felt ill, Winnie thought, but doubted the suggestion would dampen her friend’s growing panic. “Did she leave a note?” she asked instead.

“Not that I can find,” Fanny said tightly, and Winnie imagined her frustration, her search limited by the range of her wheelchair. Nor would Fanny have been able to check upstairs, she realized, thinking of a young woman in her home parish who had died suddenly of an aneurysm. What if Elaine, upstairs, alone, had fallen ill and been unable to call for help?

“Look, I’ll be right over.” She gathered up her bag and jacket, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel into her tone. “But I imagine she’s just decided to play truant for a day. Everyone deserves to play truant once in a while, even Elaine.”

“No,” said Fanny, refusing to be placated, her voice level now. “Something dreadful’s happened to her. I know it.”

The rain began as they crossed Waterloo Bridge. Kincaid had been glad to let Cullen drive, and now could look out at the Thames with the pleasure he always felt when crossing the river. He glanced upstream, at gray water melding into gray sky, then downstream, towards Blackfriars Bridge obscured by the curtain of rain. Beyond the bridge lay the Tate Modern, the Millennium Bridge, the Globe, all part of trendy new Bankside, which so recently had only been crumbling dockside. The transformation had been due, in part, to the vision of men like Michael Yarwood.

Cullen, who had been quickly briefed, seemed to pick up Kincaid’s thoughts. “Have you ever met Yarwood?”

“No, just seen him on the telly.” Yarwood was not easily forgotten – stocky and balding, with a face mashed flat like a bulldog’s, his speech and manner as blunt as his looks. In spite of his ingrained skepticism towards all politicians, Kincaid had found himself both impressed and intrigued by the man.

“Why all the fuss about him making a bob or two on a real estate venture?” asked Cullen, deftly negotiating the turn from Waterloo Road into Stamford Street.

Kincaid thought about it for a moment. “It’s not that he’s ever taken an antidevelopment position, but he’s supported projects that benefit the community as a whole-”

“And bringing in yuppie flat owners with money to spend doesn’t?” Cullen asked with evident sarcasm.

“Yes, the new tenants patronize restaurants and shops,” Kincaid said, finding himself in the role of advocate. “But what happens to the lower-income residents displaced by the renovation? They can’t afford alternative housing in the area, and it’s these people who are the backbone of Yarwood’s constituency.” Yarwood had come from just such a working-class Southwark family, with roots in the neighborhood that went back generations.

“Well, I’d be happy enough to contribute to the economy by leasing one of his flats, if I could afford it.” There was an edge of bitterness in Cullen’s voice. Kincaid knew how much his sergeant disliked his dreary Euston flat, and he suspected that Cullen’s girlfriend, the well-off and well-connected Stella Fairchild-Priestly, had friends with flats in the Borough or Bankside.

“How is Stella, by the way?” Kincaid asked.

Cullen glanced at him as if surprised by his apparent non sequitur, but answered readily enough. “Bloody insufferable. She’s been promoted.”

Kincaid knew that Stella, a buyer for an upscale home-furnishings shop, would only be content with Cullen’s choice of job if he were suddenly and miraculously promoted to chief constable, and he suspected that her impatience would only increase as her career advanced. “Bully for her,” he told Cullen, keeping his reservations to himself. “We’ll have to have you over sometime soon, to celebrate,” he added cheerfully, knowing Gemma would view the prospect with as much enthusiasm as for a root canal. Although Gemma got on well with Cullen, her few encounters with Stella had not been successful.

The traffic began to back up as they reached Blackfriars Road, slowing to a crawl as they eased into Southwark Street. “Looks like they’ve still got things partially blocked off,” said Cullen.

Ahead, Kincaid could just make out the red bulk of the brigade appliances and the blue flash of lights on the Met patrol cars. A brigade utility lorry was pulled up behind the fire engine. “There’s no bloody place to put the car,” Cullen grumbled.

“Then you’ll have to make one, won’t you, Dougie?”

Cullen flashed Kincaid a grin and pulled the Astra up, half on the double-yellows and half on the pavement. As a uniformed constable trotted over to wave them away, Cullen held his ID up to the window.

Kincaid saw with relief that the rain had eased to a drizzle and he abandoned his umbrella, merely turning up the collar of his mac as he climbed from the car.

With his first breath, the smell hit him in a tangible wave, the bitterness of charred wood mingling with the darkness of wet ash in the back of his mouth. Looking up to the right, he saw what remained of Michael Yarwood’s Victorian warehouse. He recognized the building immediately, having noticed it when passing by because of its particularly attractive architecture.

Its four stories were a solid gray-brown brick belied by the graceful arches of large windows. The square edges of its corners were softened by gentle curves, its dark facade lightened by touches of cream brick round windows and roof.

Now the roof sagged and the front door hung crookedly from its hinges. The shattered windows glared like blind eyes, those on the front of the building ringed by the black stain of smoke. A firefighter in helmet and tunic raked through the broken glass and smoldering debris littering the pavement. Hoses still snaked inside from the brigade engine, along with cables from the utility lorry.

The building and the surrounding area had been cordoned off with crime scene tape. Pedestrians milled outside the barrier, a few sporting the telltale notebooks and cameras of the press. A sole television van remained, waiting, Kincaid assumed, for the removal of the body and a statement from the police.

Well, they could wait a bit longer, but he’d have to deal with them eventually. Speaking to the media was a necessary part of a senior police officer’s job, but he didn’t particularly enjoy it. Giving a brief thought to the tie he’d put on that morning, a loud Liberty print Gemma’s mum had given him the previous Christmas, he shrugged and smiled to himself. Maybe he’d set a police fashion trend.

As they neared the warehouse entrance, Kincaid saw a uniformed firefighter with an Alsatian dog. Beside him stood a tall man wearing a firefighter’s tunic over civilian clothes and a woman in a suit and tan wool coat. The tall man Kincaid pegged as a member of the Fire Investigation Team, and there was something in the woman’s bearing that marked her unmistakably as CID. There was a tension in their postures, as if they’d been arguing.

“You’ll be Scotland Yard, I expect,” said the tall man, turning towards Kincaid and Cullen with an air of relief.

Kincaid introduced himself. “And you’re-”

“Fire Investigation Officer Farrell, Southeast FIT,” the man acknowledged. He was balding and bearded, with a lined, intelligent face and eyes that seemed narrowed in a permanent squint, as if he’d spent too many hours poring over minute fragments of evidence. “I was just telling Inspector Bell here that we’d wait until you arrived to view the scene – the less disturbance inside, the better. My team and the Home Office pathologist should be here any moment.”

The woman nodded at them but kept her hands firmly in her coat pockets. “Maura Bell, Southwark CID.” Her voice held a trace of Glasgow Scots. She was dark-haired, thirtyish, with a thin, sharp-boned face and a less than welcoming expression. “I’ve been asked to help you coordinate the local area investigation. We’ll set up an incident base for you at Southwark headquarters.”

Bell might have been asked to assist, Kincaid thought, but that didn’t necessarily make her happy about having Scotland Yard on her patch. He’d have to tread carefully if he wanted more than minimal cooperation from her. She must have guessed why they’d been called in, even if she hadn’t been told outright – Southwark CID would have been responsible for informing Yarwood of the damage to his building.

Farrell turned to the uniformed firefighter. “This is Sub Officer Jake Martinelli, and Scully.”

“That’s a name to live up to,” Kincaid acknowledged, admiring the dog. She was black and tan, with dark comma-shaped patches above her eyes that gave her a quizzical expression. “Search and rescue, or explosives?” The Alsatian sniffed his proffered fingers, then went back to gazing expectantly at her handler.

Martinelli gave Kincaid a friendly grin. Olive-skinned and dark-eyed, he had broad cheekbones, which hinted at a dash of the exotic mixed with his Italian heritage. “Neither. Scully’s an accelerant detection dog. Her nose is a hundred times more sensitive than the mechanized hydrocarbon sniffers-”

“Don’t let him start,” broke in Farrell. “He’ll bend your ear till it’s blue. Not that Scully isn’t a good advertisement, but as I was just saying to Inspector Bell, we can’t take her in until the scene has cooled down sufficiently.” The dog whined and moved restively, as if aware her name had been mentioned, and Martinelli stroked her head.

“Easy, girl,” he said to her, then added, “she knows what she’s here to do, and she’s eager to get started.”

“Do you have reason to suspect arson at this point?” Kincaid asked.

“There’s always a possibility of arson with a fire, but no one’s reported a man running from the scene with a can of petrol.” Farrell grinned. “We should be so lucky.”

In Kincaid’s experience, fire investigation officers tended to be a cautious species, refusing to commit themselves to anything less obvious than whether or not the sun was shining until they had irrefutable evidence, and sometimes not even then. At least this one appeared to have a sense of humor. “What do you have so far?” Kincaid asked without great expectations.

“The alarm came in at twelve thirty-six,” Farrell began deliberately, ignoring the impatience radiating from the angular Inspector Bell, as well as the drizzle, which was steadily growing heavier again. It occurred to Kincaid that perhaps Inspector Bell’s temper was not improved by being wet.

Nor was his, and he was beginning to sympathize with Cullen’s craving for hot coffee.

“Called in by someone next door, a resident in one of the flats who looked out the window and saw flames,” Farrell went on, nodding towards the adjacent building, of similar but less elaborate architecture. Together, the two structures had formed a bastion of grace among an array of concrete shop fronts.

“Could it have been the torch?” Kincaid asked, knowing that sometimes arsonists called in their own fires.

“Not likely. According to Control, it was a woman, and there were small children audible in the background.”

“No sign of anyone hanging about when the brigade arrived?”

“No, and the response time was under three minutes. The appliances came from Southwark Fire Station, just up the road. The station officer believed the fire had been in progress ten to fifteen minutes when they arrived. It was well established on the ground floor and beginning to take hold on the upper floors.”

“The door wasn’t locked.” The soft voice came from behind Kincaid and he turned, startled. A young woman stood there, dressed in jeans and anorak. Her corn-fair hair was tied back in a ponytail and she looked tired, her eyes red-rimmed. “I’m Leading Firefighter Kearny, Southwark station,” she explained, seeing their expressions. “My partner and I were first on the scene, BA crew.”

Farrell seemed to assess her disheveled appearance. “You’re just off your watch, then?”

“Yes, sir. Thought I’d make sure the relief had it all under control.” Kearny smiled but shifted on her feet, as if she felt a bit awkward under their scrutiny. “And I thought, if you had any questions, I’d save you waiting until the watch came back on duty tonight.”

“You’re interested in fire investigation?” Farrell asked with a trace of amusement.

“Yes, sir.” The girl met his gaze squarely, her chin up. Although her face was scrubbed pink, her bare neck still bore traces of soot, and the contrast struck Kincaid as rather endearing. Both Cullen and Martinelli were eyeing her with obvious interest, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Were there persons reported when you went in?” Farrell asked.

“No, sir. We were just doing a routine search, trying to lay a guideline for the hose. But it got really hot, and when Simms and I started to evacuate, I crawled into… it.” She made a faint grimace. “We could see there was no point in rescue.”

“Any smell of petrol before you went in?” Martinelli asked.

Kearny frowned, then shook her head. “Not that I remember. And then afterwards I had my mask on…”

“You said you found the front door open,” Kincaid said. “Is there more than one entrance?”

“There’s a side door,” Farrell told him, gesturing towards the narrow street on their right. “It was open when we got here, as well. There’s no sign of damage to it, and none of the crew reported forcing entry.”

“So someone with legitimate access opened the doors?”

“Too soon to say,” Farrell cautioned.

“The builders’ crew might have left them open accidentally,” offered Cullen.

“One, maybe, but both?” Farrell shook his head. “I suppose it’s possible, but not all that likely, in my opinion. Which takes us back to an illegitimate entry, but if that’s the case, we’ve not turned up anything noteworthy on the preliminary outside search.”

The station officer came up and spoke to Farrell. “The SOCOs have finished their preliminary examination, guv, and the structure seems stable. I think it’s cool enough for the dog, if she wears her booties.” He gave the dog a friendly pat, but she ignored him, all her attention focused on the building. When Martinelli pulled a set of paw protectors from his tunic pocket, she began to dance and strain at her lead.

“All right, girl, all right,” he soothed, kneeling to slip the rubber boots over her paws.

“Let me get my kit from the van, will you?” Farrell said, adding, “It’s Rose, is it? Since you’re here, Rose, you can go through the scene with us, tell us if anything strikes you.”

Farrell strode to the brigade van, returning with a bulky evidence collection bag and a notebook. “Right, then, let’s have a look.”

They queued up behind Farrell single file – Indian file, Kincaid would have said as a child, and he felt a flicker of regret for a politically correct age in which his children would never be encouraged to play cowboys and Indians, or army. He had done both, and had still grown up relatively civilized.

But any pleasant thoughts of childhood were quickly banished as he stepped through the warehouse doorway behind Farrell and Rose Kearny. If the smell had been bad outside, in here it was choking, a physical substance that permeated skin, hair, clothing, sinuses. As he blinked his watering eyes, he detected another odor beneath the pervasive char, the faint, oily sweetness of roasted flesh.

Water from the firefighters’ attack had pooled on the warehouse floor, standing several inches deep in places, and Kincaid made a mental note to be careful where he placed his feet. Swallowing hard against the burning in his throat, he focused his attention on Farrell, who had stopped a few feet into the interior.

“Stay behind me if you can,” Farrell said. “We don’t want to muck things up more than necessary.”

“I’m not sure muck is the appropriate word,” Cullen muttered, and Kincaid heard what might have been a snort of agreement from Inspector Bell.

They stood in a large, open area, lit by arc lights powered from generators on the brigade lorry and by what weak daylight filtered in through the intact windows, but the illumination made only a feeble sally against the encroaching blackness. Walls, ceilings, floors, the unidentifiable objects that filled the room – all might have been black holes, absorbing light into a dense and solid darkness.

As his eyes adjusted, Kincaid began to differentiate shapes. To his left, near the windows, a long object resolved itself into a stack of lumber, but Kincaid couldn’t tell if it had been new or salvage from the renovation. Four posts, equidistant from the room’s center, rose floor to ceiling, and he assumed they were the structural supports left behind when interior walls had been removed. The charring on the posts seemed fairly shallow, but he still gave an anxious glance at the ceiling.

Then, to the left of the posts, he saw a large, lumpy pile of objects, an obscene parody of furniture. Blackened coils and springs protruded from the mass at odd angles, like a bizarre modernist sculpture.

Martinelli moved away from the group, murmuring words of encouragement to the dog as he began a careful circuit of the area’s perimeter.

“Tell us what you saw,” Farrell said to Rose Kearny.

“We couldn’t see. Not more than a foot or two. The smoke was low, and black.” She turned slowly in a circle, examining the space. “We must have come straight in, but after a few yards, there was nothing but the line to anchor us. We didn’t know there weren’t any walls, so when I bumped into that” – she gestured towards the furniture- “I thought I’d hit a wall or some sort of room divider. Then I realized it felt soft, but it still didn’t make sense for a few seconds – you don’t expect furniture to tower over your head.”

At the invitation of a mate in the fire service, Kincaid had once suited up and gone into a burn house on a training exercise. The memory of the searing heat and complete disorientation still made him shudder, but the experience had given him tremendous respect for anyone who could face such a situation on a daily basis.

“Where was it burning hottest?” Farrell asked. “Could you tell?”

“The fire was everywhere – it must have been close to flashover. But” – Kearny frowned, nodding towards the furniture- “I’d say it was most intense there.”

Turning to his little group of followers, Farrell said, “The first thing we do in a fire investigation is identify the point of origin. Look.” He pointed at the floor surrounding the furniture. “See, the char is deepest here, as if it burned the longest. And there” – he nodded at the rear wall, a few feet behind the piled furniture- “see the V pattern?”

Kincaid found that he could make it out, now that his attention had been directed to it, a faint lightening of the soot in a pattern wider at the top than at the bottom.

“Fire tends to travel upward and outward, and to burn longer and more intensely near the point of origin. The expanding gases typically leave such a pattern, but there are other indicators, of course.”

“You’re telling us that the fire started in the furniture?” said Inspector Bell, sounding interested in spite of herself. She edged forward so that she stood in front of Kincaid.

“That would be my guess, but that doesn’t tell us whether the cause of ignition was deliberate or accidental.”

“But surely if it started in the furniture, it must have been arson,” Bell insisted.

“Not necessarily. First off, until we interview the job foreman, we don’t know whether the furniture was stacked up by the builders or by an unknown party.” Farrell ticked one forefinger against the other, striking off an imaginary list. “Then, even if the work crew left the furniture this way, that still doesn’t tell us if the fire was started by accident or design. The foam in these cushions and mattresses is highly flammable. One of the workmen could have dropped a cigarette, left it to smolder. Or there might have been a spark from the wiring they’ve torn loose.” He pointed to a flex hanging from the ceiling, shrugged, then called out to Martinelli, “Any hits yet?”

“No. She’s not picking up anything definite,” Martinelli answered. “She’s feeling a bit frustrated,” he added as the dog whined and nosed at his tunic pocket.

“If the dog doesn’t find an accelerant, can you rule out arson?” asked Cullen.

“Oh, no.” Farrell sounded almost gleeful. “The accelerant could have burned off completely, or the fire could have been started without an accelerant. Amateur torches love to splash the petrol around, but often more practiced arsonists prefer to start a fire using only what’s available at a scene. More of a challenge that way, I should think.”

Kincaid was beginning to sympathize with the dog’s frustration and Inspector Bell’s impatience. “Well, we do have one without-a-doubt fact here. Someone died, whether it was before, during, or after the fire. What do you say we have a look at the body?”

“There.” Rose Kearny stepped forward gingerly. “We must have gone past the furniture, then turned slightly to the right.”

Kincaid followed her, and as they edged into the gap between the furniture and the rear wall, he saw it.

The remains were identifiably human, at least. The body lay on its back, arms and legs drawn up in the pugilistic pose caused by muscular contraction, the skin blackened, the teeth showing in a grotesque parody of a smile. The few remaining tufts of hair were charred, and there were no traces of clothing. Although the tissue damage was extensive, the breasts were still recognizable, and that somehow made it worse. Kincaid swallowed against the sudden rise of bile in his throat.

Rose Kearny’s hand had flown to her mouth, but as Kincaid glanced at her she forced it back to her side.

“Bloody hell,” Cullen mumbled, looking a bit green, and even Inspector Bell seemed momentarily to have lost her composure.

When a light female voice spoke from the warehouse doorway, they all spun round as if they’d been caught at something unspeakable.

“I take it I’ve the right address?” said the white-suited figure, and with a flash of pleasure Kincaid recognized Kate Ling, his favorite Home Office pathologist. Now they might get some answers.

Tony Novak pulled things from the bureau drawers and threw them into the open suitcase on his bed, the largest he’d been able to find. Laura would have criticized his untidiness, but then Laura would not only have packed neatly, she would have made a list of essentials for the journey and checked it off as she stowed each item.

And, of course, Laura would have criticized his impulsiveness, but there were times when impulsiveness could be a virtue. And, he reminded himself, it no longer mattered what Laura thought.

They had been polar opposites from the beginning of their relationship, first attracted by their differences, then, as time went on, just as fiercely repelled. If she’d teased him at first, saying he’d bluffed his way through medical school, he’d thought there was some part of her that had admired his recklessness. Later, she had seen that quality only as a character defect to be mended.

What she had never understood was that his failings were also his strengths, interwoven with an intuitive understanding and an ability to make quick decisions, and it was these qualities that had made him a success at emergency medicine.

When they’d closed down the Accident and Emergency at Guy’s, his loyalty to the hospital had kept him on in Minor Trauma, but days spent dealing with flu and broken fingers, with objects inappropriately placed in body orifices, had quickly soured. He missed the adrenaline rush, the sense of flow that came only in a crisis, when time seemed to telescope in on itself. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the bureau mirror, his face lean and tired, with new lines about the mouth.

Work was only a small part of the discontent he’d felt lately – it was nothing compared with the gaping hole left in his life by the absence of his daughter since he and Laura had separated. He looked down at the suitcase, at the few things Harriet had accumulated on her weekends in his dreary rented flat on Borough High Street, and felt the familiar despair.

For a moment, his courage failed him. But no, he had gone too far, and he knew Laura too well. He knew about her increasing involvement with the women’s shelter, and he knew that the agency made it possible for women to disappear with their children. And he’d known, when she’d threatened him on Sunday, what it was she meant to do.

Well, she’d lost her chance, he thought, his resolve returning. Hadn’t it occurred to her that two could play at that game, and that he had the advantage? There was no place easier to vanish into with a child than Eastern Europe, and he had family in Czechoslovakia who would help him. A change of name, a new set of papers, a job in a backwater town where doctors were desperately needed, all easily accomplished. He and Harriet would start a new life together, and nothing would separate them again.

The hospital would be in a crunch for a bit, no doubt, losing him without notice, but there were other doctors who could bandage cuts and prescribe antibiotics.

It was Harriet that mattered, and he had Harriet safely tucked away – he hadn’t dared wait until later in the day to pick her up. Once he’d set things in motion, he’d been driven by a mounting sense of urgency. Now, all that remained was a trip to the bank, and Harriet’s passport. The passport meant he had to get into Laura’s flat, and he had to do it when he could guarantee no one would be home.

Nor could he take Harriet with him, as he hadn’t yet told her what he meant to do, so he’d been forced to call on the one person he felt he could trust to take Harriet for a few hours. He’d arranged to meet them at London Bridge Station at noon, and then he’d tell Harriet he had a surprise planned for her, an adventure. The truth could wait until they were across the Channel, away from England and all the misery of the past months. He would tell her when he felt the time was right, and he smiled at the thought that from now on, as far as his daughter was concerned, only his decisions mattered.