Where There's Smoke

Simon Beckett Where There's Smoke

For Hilary

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Dr Sheila Cooke and the team at the University of Sheffield’s Department of Obstetrics and Gynaecology, Jessop Hospital; Dr Gwilym Hayes, Consultant Forensic Psychiatrist at Wathwood Hospital Regional Secure Unit; and Judy Winter, Head of Student Services at the University of Derby.

The article on pages 234–239 refers to two works which are: Faulk, M (1988) Basic Forensic Psychiatry, London, Blackwell Scientific Publications; and Jackson, H F (1994) Assessment of Fire-setters in The Assessment of Criminal Behaviours of Clients in Secure Settings, Eds McMurran M, Hodge J.

Prologue

Some moments burn in the mind for ever. The landing is dark. Light comes from a window at the far end, enough to run by. Breath comes hard. From the stairs sound heavy footfalls of pursuit. The landing ends in a last doorway. There is no more running, only the need to hide. Inside the room it is even darker. It is like walking in ink. Blind, she feels her way through the half-familiar landmarks of beds and bookshelves. And then there is the wall. She presses against it, trying to stifle the breaths that tear at her throat. Her heart thuds. Blood from the wound is sticky, and at her touch there is a white leap of pain that lightens the darkness. She hears the footsteps now, drawing closer. Along the corridor doors are opened, one at a time, until there is only hers left. The smell of petrol is sweet and heavy in its threat. She hugs her stomach, feeling the small pulse of new life inside, curled and vulnerable. The footsteps stop. A whisper of the door opening. Her name. “Kate.”

The light is turned on. Some moments burn in the mind for ever.

Chapter 1

The warehouse had been burning all night. Smoke rolled into the sky, a darker cloud in an overcast morning. The bonfire smell of it thickened the air, giving the spring day a premature flavour of autumn. The rush-hour faces outside King’s Cross were turned to the dark column as Kate came up the steps from the Underground. The smoke rose above the rooftops in front of her, then the buildings closed in and blocked it from view. Kate barely noticed. A tension headache was creeping up her neck. She had just started chewing an aspirin, grimacing at the bitter tang, when she turned a corner and found the fire dead ahead. She halted, startled to find it so close, but carried on when she saw the street wasn’t cut off. The roar and crackle of the blaze grew as she approached. Set back from the road, the warehouse was surrounded by a confusion of uniforms and yellow helmets, white cars and red engines. Hoses snaked across the ground, flinging streamers of water into the smoke. The flames licked out in random snatches of colour, indifferent to them. A hot breath of wind brushed her face, dusting it with ashes. She turned away, eyes stinging, and realised with surprise that she had slowed to a standstill. Irritated with herself for gawking, she walked on, skirting the small crowd that had gathered by the police cordon. The warehouse was left behind. By the time she reached the Georgian terrace, several streets away, Kate had forgotten it. Most of the buildings in the terrace were run down, but one, cleanly painted, stood out like a raised hand in a classroom. Embossed in gold letters on its downstairs window were the words, “Powell PR & Marketing”. Kate went in. Three desks were fitted into the small office, angled to face each other. Standing behind one of them, a tall West Indian man with a shaved head was pouring water into a coffee filter. He gave her a grin. “Morning, Kate.”

“Hi, Clive.”

The filter machine hissed and gurgled. He tipped the last of the water into it and set down the jug. “Well. The big day.”

His voice had a faint Geordie lilt. Kate went to one of the two big filing cabinets and slid out a drawer. “Don’t remind me.”

“Nervous?”

“Let’s say I’ll be glad to find out one way or the other.”

The coffee filter had subsided to low hisses. Clive poured two cups and handed her one. He had worked for her almost since she had started the agency, nearly three years earlier, and if ever she made anyone a partner, it would be him.

“Did you pass the fire on your way in?”

“Mm.” Kate was flicking through the folders inside the cabinet.

“Been burning half the night, apparently. Bad about the kid, wasn’t it?”

She looked at him. “What kid?”

“The baby. A group of squatters were living there. They all got out, except for the baby. It said on the news the mother got burned trying to go back for it. Two months old.”

Kate put down her coffee cup. She was aware of the stink of smoke still clinging to her, and looked down to see tiny flecks of grey ash dotting her clothes. She remembered its feathery touch on her face, the tickle as she had breathed it in. She felt the sting of it again. She closed the filing cabinet without taking anything out. “I’ll be upstairs.”