To Dwell in Darkness (3 page)

Then something else caught her eye. On her right, near the Marks & Spencer food shop, half a dozen protesters raised placards in unison. As they were facing away from her, she couldn't read the signs, but the group looked harmless enough. Still, she didn't want anything spoiling Andy and Poppy's moment. Looking round, she saw a female uniformed British Transport Police officer walking towards them, radio in hand.

Good. The last thing she wanted was to have to act in an official capacity here. She turned back to the stage as Andy and Poppy's voices rose to a crescendo in the last verse of the song.

She'd raised her hands, ready to applaud, when she heard a whoosh, then a high, keening wail. Voices rose in frantic screams as Melody whirled round.

She jerked back instinctively, gasping. There, in the open space where the arcade led out to the western taxi rank, burned a ball of fire as bright as a flaring match. And in its center was a human form.

St. Pancras Old Church is a Church of England parish church in Somers Town, central London. It is dedicated to the Roman martyr Saint Pancras, and is believed by many to be one of the oldest sites of Christian worship in England.

—Wikipedia, St. Pancras Old Church

Blinded by the flare of light, Melody instinctively threw her arm up to protect her eyes. Then, even as she was blinking and trying to focus, her training kicked in. She yanked her phone from her coat pocket and punched the preprogrammed direct number to Emergency Services Control. The 999 lines would be lighting up like Christmas trees and she couldn't afford to be put on hold. When the dispatcher answered, Melody shouted to make herself heard over the rising clamor in the concourse. “Detective Sergeant Melody Talbot. Emergency. St. Pancras International. Main concourse. A man on fire—possibly a bomb.” The music shuddered to a stop and suddenly she could hear herself shouting. “All services on the doub—”

Then, before her eyes, the figure inside the ball of fire collapsed. A wave of hot, chemical smell singed her nose. She realized that the screams weren't only from panic—there were other people on fire, batting frantically at themselves. “Make that multiple victims,” she said to Control. “All services. Hurry.”

“Stay on the line, Sergeant,” said the female dispatcher. “You'll need to keep us updat—”

“I've got to help. Look, I'll put you on speaker.” Before the dispatcher could argue, she dropped the phone back in her pocket and fumbled her warrant card out, holding it aloft. Looking round, she couldn't spot the British Transport Police officer she'd glimpsed earlier. She was on her own.

The screams grew louder. Smoke began to billow through the concourse. Andy and Poppy were still on the makeshift stage and Andy's voice reverberated over the sound system. “What the—”

“Andy,” she shouted, and saw him searching the crowd for her. She waved her arms, then cupped her hands into a megaphone to make herself heard over the chaos. “Andy! Use the mic. Tell everybody to get out. Then go!”

She saw the relief on his face as he spotted her; then he hesitated. “But you—”

Melody shook her head. “Do it! Get everyone out.”

Moving on, she heard Andy an instant later, shouting into the mic, “Get out! Everybody evacuate! Find the nearest exit! Out, now!”

Melody kept on towards the burned figure, still holding her ID up, an ineffective shield. The smoke turned to white fog. People she couldn't see clearly banged into her, making her stagger. Disembodied voices cried and swore. Her foot slipped on something. Looking down, she saw a spilled cup of AMT Coffee, the brown liquid seeping into a trampled supermarket bouquet of pink carnations.

Poppy's voice now echoed Andy's over the sound system, repeating Andy's exhortations. They both sounded impossibly distant. Then she heard Andy growl a response to some unseen punter, “No, it's not a fucking joke, you moron.”

The smoke grew thicker. Her nose and eyes were streaming and she began to cough. She caught glimpses of people smacking at blobs of fire on their clothes, in their hair. “Roll!” she shouted. “Smother it. Use your coats, anything.” Coughing, she tripped over an abandoned suitcase, banging her shin, fell, then got up again. Her throat burned.

Then, even through the chemical blanket of smoke, the smell hit her. Burned hair. Fat. Meat. Human flesh.

Suddenly there was a man beside her, shouting hoarsely, “Get back! Everybody get back! Don't breathe the smoke!” He pushed at her, a hard shove out of the fog. “I said get the fuck back!”

She grabbed at him, catching his jacket. “I'm a cop! Help me, for God's sake!”

Through a break in the haze she saw his face, soot smudged, now inches from her own. Light brown hair, red-rimmed blue eyes. “Cover your face,” he said, nodding an acknowledgment. She saw that he had a blue handkerchief in his hand. “The fire—it's bloody phosphorus.”

Holding the handkerchief to his face like a mask, he grabbed her elbow with his other hand. Together they pushed forward, through the knot of people jostling the other way. With her free hand she followed his example, pulling her coat up over her mouth and nose.

Then suddenly the smoke was above them, rising into the pale blue height of the concourse, and Melody saw clearly what lay ahead.

The charred body lay in the pugilist position, arms and legs drawn up in an obscene parody of a boxer. Wisps of smoke still rose from the blackened and tattered skin and clothing. Along the body, little spurts of fire ignited randomly, then winked out, like fireflies on a summer evening.

“Oh, God.” The man beside her tightened his grip on her arm until it felt like a vise.

Melody dragged her gaze from the corpse. She met her companion's eyes and saw not just horror, but anguish.

“What the— How did—” His voice was a croak. He shook his head, tried again. “Shit. There's nothing—nothing we can do for him now. Nothing anyone can do for him now.”

Duncan Kincaid stood at the door of his office in Holborn Police Station, looking into the CID room and surreptitiously stifling a yawn.

He thought of Scotland Yard with an almost physical stab of longing. There had been slow days in Homicide Liaison, yes, but still there had always been a hum of purposefulness in the building. And he missed having his own office, occupied so comfortably for so long that it had felt like a second home.

He hadn't even bothered moving his books into this one. He felt temporary here. Displaced. Yet the result was a sterile environment that didn't inspire him to spend one moment longer than necessary at work.

So he entertained himself by examining his new detective inspector. Jasmine Sidana was thirty-five years old, and single. This he knew from her personnel file. It also told him that she had a degree from University College London, and that she'd worked her way quickly through the ranks, from uniform to CID, until she'd reached her current position.

She wore the same starched white long-sleeved blouse to work every day, and the same dark knee-length skirt. She apparently didn't drink alcohol, and was conspicuously absent from any after-work fraternizing within the department. She was neat, efficient, and organized to a fault. It was also apparent that she had badly wanted his job, and the promotion that would have gone with it. Sidana made no secret of her resentment, or of the fact that she felt she'd been discriminated against on gender and racial grounds.

“Sir?” said Sidana, even more frostily than usual, looking up from her desk, and he chided himself for having been caught staring.

“Nothing, Detective.” Kincaid had yet to solve the problem of what to call her. With most officers in his command, he'd felt comfortable addressing them at least by their surnames, if not their given names. But with Sidana even that felt awkward, and yet he couldn't go round calling her “Detective Inspector” unless it was in a formal meeting.

He sighed, and for the barest instant he thought he saw a flash of concern in her expression. If so, it was quickly replaced by a frown that drew her dark brows together in a formidable line. Point for Sidana, he thought.

He'd slipped his phone from his pocket, intending to ring Gemma, when he heard Sweeney's phone's distinctive text tone—the pop of a bottle opener. Then Sidana's postman's bell, and as they were reaching for their phones, the other mobiles in the room began to chirp and chime and whistle.

Then his phone began to vibrate in his hand.

His was not a text, but a call, and his caller ID informed him it was the borough commander, Chief Superintendent Thomas Faith. “Bugger,” Kincaid muttered under his breath, straightening automatically, suddenly wide awake.

“Sir,” he answered.

Faith's voice was tight. “Possible bombing. St. Pancras International. SO15 is on it, and the brigade, but I want CID there in full force as well. You'll be liaising with DCI Callery from SO15.”

SO15. Counter Terrorism Command. Shit.

Kincaid saw that his team was already on their feet, grabbing jackets and bags. “Any other information, sir?”

“No. Just get there. Report as soon as you know anything.” Faith clicked off.

It was only then Kincaid remembered that his friend Andy Monahan was meant to be playing a concert in the St. Pancras concourse.

Taking an involuntary step back, Melody coughed and wiped her streaming eyes. For the first time, she was aware of the wail of sirens above the sounds of the crowd.

“Thank God. Help's coming.” She turned, wanting reassurance from her companion as much as she wanted to reassure him.

But he was gone. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers above her elbow where he had gripped her arm. “What the—” She shook her head. Later. She'd think about it later. And he'd been right, there was nothing anyone could do for the poor sod in front of her.

Melody stood for an instant, staring at the burned form on the polished concourse floor.

Suddenly she was transported, once again a green PC at the scene of her first major car crash. The occupants screamed as the car burst into flames, and she caught the scent of singed hair and burning flesh on the hot wind. The smell seemed to lodge itself in her nostrils and on her tongue with a greasy permanence. Bile rose in her throat and she lifted a hand to her mouth.

The gesture, instinctive, brought her back to reality with a jolt. The screams were real. That was a child wailing, a woman sobbing. And that squawking sound was the phone in her coat pocket—she'd left it on speaker and the dispatcher was shouting at her.

Fumbling the phone to her ear, she heard, “. . . situation report! Sergeant Talbot, can you—”

“I'm here.” Melody made an effort to take stock of the chaos around her. “One fatality. Some kind of explosive device. Multiple injuries. I need—”

“Are there any other incidents?”

Melody scanned the crowd. “Not that I—”

It was then that she saw Tam. He was rolling on the floor beside one of the overturned café tables, and he was on fire. Caleb Hart was beating at the flames with his coat.

“Hold on,” Melody told the dispatcher.

As she ran towards them, a young woman came through the doors from the glass-walled interior of the café. She wore the distinctive black uniform of the café's waitstaff, and she carried a fire extinguisher.

“Here!” Melody shouted as she reached her friends. She registered the waitress's white face and pinched lips, but the girl wielded the extinguisher like a pro. The chemical foam covered Tam's midsection and the last of the flames sputtered out.

“Good thinking,” Melody told her, kneeling quickly beside Tam. Looking up, she added, “Can you see who else needs help?” The girl nodded and ran towards another victim.

Turning her attention to Tam, Melody touched his shoulder gently. She couldn't judge the extent of Tam's injuries, but he was pale and sweating, his eyes glazed with shock. His familiar battered cap lay on the floor beside him.

“It just splashed on him, from out of nowhere,” said Caleb, his voice rising. He looked frightened but unhurt. “I threw coffee on him. It was cold. I didn't know what else to do.”

“You did great, Caleb, just right. Now keep him warm while I get help.”

She pulled off her red coat and laid it gently over Tam. He looked up, and she saw recognition flare in his eyes.

“Melody, lass.” The words came out in a croak. “Hurts like the devil.”

“Shhh.” She touched his cheek. “Don't talk. I'm going to get hel—”

She started as a hand grasped her shoulder.

“Melody!” It was Andy, with Poppy right behind him. “Thank God you're all right. I was afraid—” He froze as he saw Tam. “Tam. Oh, shit, man. He's hurt. Is he—”

“He'll be fine,” Melody said with more assurance than she felt. She gestured to Poppy. “You two, stay with Tam and Caleb.” She knew she should make them evacuate. But she knew she'd be wasting her breath if she tried and she didn't have time to argue. “I've got to deal with this.” Involuntarily, she glanced at the corpse, and Andy and Poppy followed her gaze.

“Jesus,” Andy whispered.

The color drained from Poppy's face and she swayed.

Melody grabbed them both roughly. “Andy. You've got to help Caleb with Tam. Poppy, listen to me.” Poppy's eyes came back to hers and the girl swallowed hard. “Poppy.” Melody gave her a little shake. “You help with the injured. If they're mobile, gather them there.” She pointed to a clear space near one of the concourse pillars. “I need you. Okay?”

Poppy nodded and moved to help the girl from the café, who had set down her fire extinguisher and was trying to comfort the victims.

Andy gave Melody a long look. “You're the boss.” He squeezed her shoulder, then knelt by Caleb and Tam. He tucked Melody's coat gently around his injured friend.