To Dwell in Darkness (4 page)

The concourse had begun to clear as the panicked crowd moved towards the exits. Most of those that remained were helping the injured or seemed too shocked to function. A few flames still spluttered here and there.

Melody knew she had to secure the scene and move any uninjured witnesses out of the station and into some kind of containment area. Where the hell was assistance?

The big station clock in the south end of the upper concourse caught her eye—had it really been less than ten minutes since this had begun?

She realized she still held her phone in her hand. As she was about to ask Control for aid once more, she saw two officers wearing the yellow safety vests of the British Transport Police jogging towards her from the south end of the concourse.

She held up her ID and shouted, “CID!”

The younger man reached her first. “You're the detective sergeant?” He was blond and pink-cheeked, a little short of breath.

“Melody Talbot. Look, where the hell is—”

“Oh, Christ,” said the Transport officer, echoing Andy, his eyes fixed on the body beyond Melody. “Control said a fatality, but—”

Melody cut him off. “Give me a report. Where's the bloody fire brigade? Uniformed backup?”

“Brigade's on their way,” said the older officer, having caught up. “Traffic's completely shut down with the evacuation from the station. We're on lockdown. Transport's armed unit is gearing up while we wait for SO15.”

SO15. Counter Terrorism. The enormity of what had happened began to hit Melody. She'd been reacting, not thinking. Now she drew a breath. “Any other incidents?”

“Nothing reported. We're still clearing the station. But we've had to shut down all services, here and at King's Cross as well, including the tube station. It'll be a hell of a mess.” His glance strayed back to the corpse. “The bugger blew himself up?”

“Not a bomb. Some sort of incendiary device. Someone”—she thought again of her vanished companion—“mentioned phosphorus. We've got burn victims that need treatment as soon as possible. I'll secure the scene until the senior investigating officer arrives.” It was a bit tricky, she knew, as British Transport had jurisdiction in the station. But she was the only CID officer on hand, and she wasn't turning the scene over to anyone but an investigator.

She just hoped that whoever landed the case knew what the hell they were doing.

The [St. Pancras Old Church] church is situated on Pancras Road in the London Borough of Camden . . . Largely rebuilt in the Victorian era, it should not be confused with St. Pancras New Church about a kilometer away, on the Euston Road.

—Wikipedia, St. Pancras Old Church

Even though the March days were lengthening, the drizzle and heavy gray skies had drawn the dusk in early. The flashing blue lights from the phalanx of emergency vehicles gathered round St. Pancras International threw a pattern on the dark red brick of the great Victorian train station that might, under other circumstances, have seemed festive.

To Duncan Kincaid, it looked like disaster.

It had taken nearly half an hour to mobilize cars and drive the short distance from Holborn Police Station. It was rush hour, and the exodus of evacuees from the railway station, combined with the arrival of the emergency vehicles, had slowed traffic to a standstill. The flood of adrenaline in Kincaid's system made the lights look sharp and jagged round the edges and he drummed his fingers on the car's armrest.

Seething with frustration, Kincaid jumped from the car when they reached Euston Road, taking Jasmine Sidana with him and leaving DC Sweeney behind the wheel.

“Park it somewhere,” he snapped to Sweeney. “Up on the pavement if you have to.”

Sidana stayed close to his shoulder as they crossed Euston Road and began pushing their way through the crowd on the pavement. Kincaid had been told to meet his SO15 counterpart at the station's east entrance. As they passed the King's Cross/St. Pancras Underground station, he saw uniformed officers blocking access.

Turning the corner into Pancras Road, they passed the Costa Coffee and another guarded Underground entrance. The north wind hit them full in the face and Kincaid felt once more the stinging of drops of sleet. The east side of the station stretched ahead of them. Kincaid quickened his pace, dodging pedestrians. Sidana broke into a jog in order to keep up with his long stride. They passed the Eurostar taxi drop-off, which was guarded as well.

Ahead, Kincaid saw two fire brigade engines, another cluster of blue-and-yellow-liveried Met cars, and three ambulances. As they drew nearer, he saw people huddled on the pavement, some sitting on their suitcases, watched over by more uniformed officers. They'd reached the station's main entrance.

The press had got there first. Already reporters shoved against the police cordon, video and still cameras held high, microphones to mouths. Good luck with getting any decent sound in this wind, Kincaid thought, but he wondered if they already knew something he didn't.

He and Sidana showed their IDs to the closest uniformed officer, who let them through.

“SO15?” Kincaid asked.

“Just inside, sir,” said the constable, motioning towards the glass doors under the main entrance arches.

The first thing that struck Kincaid as they entered the station proper was the warmth. The second was the emptiness. This central part of the station, bisecting the long north-south concourses, was normally filled with people rushing to and fro between train lines or grabbing food from the various kiosks and markets.

Now there were only British Transport Police, several in full armed-response gear, firefighters, and a few plainclothes officers.

Kincaid picked out Nick Callery, the DCI from SO15, without an introduction. Silvery-blond hair, cut almost to a buzz. Silvery-gray suit, expensive, no tie, no overcoat. He was trim and moved lightly on his feet, like a boxer. As he saw Kincaid, he broke off his conversation with another officer and came towards him, hand out.

“Callery. Counter Terrorism.”

Kincaid introduced himself and Sidana, then said, “What's the situation?”

“Far as we can tell, one nutter burned himself to a crisp. White phosphorus, according to the fire brigade. Nothing else suspicious in the station so far, but we're still clearing.” Callery had a trace of a northern accent.

“Other injuries?” Kincaid asked.

“Quite a few. The medics are doing triage now.”

“Any ID on the victim?”

“Ha.” Callery shook his head. “Not bloody likely. You'll see for yourself. I'll take you—he's up by the Marks and Sparks.”

Kincaid felt a clutch of dread. That was where the station set up the temporary concert stage. “Was there a band playing? A duo?” Jasmine Sidana gave him a puzzled look.

Frowning, Callery said, “I saw some equipment. Nothing looked damaged. Can't say about any musicians. They may have been evacuated.”

Kincaid had not seen Andy or Poppy among those gathered outside the east entrance, but surely people had left by other exits.

“Luckily, there was a DS on hand who secured the scene until we could get here,” Callery added. “The fire brigade will have hazmat gear for us.”

“Right.” Kincaid nodded. “Let's see what we've got.”

The main concourse looked as eerily empty as the market and ticketing area. The glass-fronted shops were lit but deserted. Here and there, a dropped coat or scarf, bits of food stall debris scattered like confetti, a spilled bag of groceries. Outside the Peyton and Byrne tea shop, a chair had been left overturned.

“No luggage left behind?” Kincaid asked Callery.

“There were a few pieces, but we've had the dogs go over them before we locked them in the station manager's office. Funny how good people are at holding on to their belongings in a crisis.”

“You were remarkably quick.”

“Most of that's down to British Transport. The dogs were already on hand for the Eurostar luggage.” Callery gestured towards the upper concourse, where Kincaid could just glimpse a sleek yellow Eurostar train on the departure platform. “The station manager is already pulling her hair out,” Callery went on. “It's not just that it's prime time for international arrivals and departures. Any delay on the domestic lines can back up rail traffic all over the country, but we can't reopen the station until we've cleared the crime scene and made certain there are no other mad buggers hiding in the woodshed. A cluster fuck.”

Glancing at Sidana as she walked beside him, Kincaid saw her pinch her lips together in disapproval. He wondered how someone who couldn't tolerate profanity had lasted so long in police work. Callery seemed oblivious to her discomfort.

A uniformed British Transport Police dog handler came towards them, his springer spaniel straining at the end of its lead. The dog worked methodically, checking doorways and left or dropped objects.

“Second pass,” the dog handler told Callery, stopping for a moment. “Clear so far.”

“Can the dog detect phosphorus?” Kincaid asked.

“She's not trained on it specifically,” answered the handler. “But she is trained on fertilizer-based explosives, so I think she'd pick up something. And we want to make sure there are no other nasty surprises.” As the dog whined in impatience, the handler moved on.

Ahead, Kincaid saw figures in protective gear, moving around a temporary screen. Then, he caught the first whiff of a strange smell. Burned matches and . . . garlic?

A firefighter came to meet them, pulling off his hood and respirator. “Detective.” He nodded at Callery and gave Kincaid a questioning glance.

“Detective Superintendent Kincaid, Camden CID.” Kincaid still hesitated when he introduced himself. It seemed odd to say “Camden” rather than “Scotland Yard.” “And DI Sidana,” he added.

“John Stacey, crew manager,” said the firefighter, a burly man with short, thinning hair. “The good news is that I don't think we have too much of a hazmat issue here, with the air moving through the station. Most of the smoke has already dissipated.”

Kincaid realized that even in the heated lower concourse, the station was bitterly cold.

“I would recommend that the crime scene techs and the pathologist wear protective gear since they are going to have prolonged exposure to the victim. And you three as well if you intend to get up close and personal.”

“That smell,” Kincaid said. “Was there an explosion in the café as well?”

“You mean the garlic odor? No, that's a component of the white phosphorus. But I don't think you'll want to get too close to the victim without a respirator, contamination or no.”

Now Kincaid detected a hint of nauseating oiliness beneath the phosphorus.

“I've got the DS who contained the scene into a suit,” Stacey continued. “Is she one of yours?”

“She?” Kincaid shook his head. “No, I don't think so.”

“Good job, anyway. Look, I'll get you some suits. You can gear-up by the cash point, just this side of the temporary stage.”

The square center of Searcys champagne bar spanned the upper concourse just ahead, and beneath it Kincaid saw the freestanding vertical oblong of one of the station's cash machines. The stage must have been really close to the incident, then, but he held his concerns about Andy and Poppy until he could see for himself.

Stacy spoke into his radio and another firefighter brought them three Tyvek suits.

When they had done the always-awkward dance of slipping into the suits and booties, Stacey handed them the respirators and led them forward.

Beyond the stairs leading up to the upper concourse, he could see firefighters and ambulance service medics assisting the injured and setting up stretchers. Then he saw what lay behind the temporary barrier and all other thoughts fled.

“Jesus.”

Beside him, Sidana gave a little gasp, audible even through the respirator, but this time it was not because she was offended by his language. They both stared at the thing on the floor.

“Told you,” said Callery, but without satisfaction.

It was not the first time Kincaid had seen a body consumed by fire—the blaze in the Southwark warehouse flashed through his mind, as well the horrible events in Henley the previous autumn. But there seemed something particularly obscene in the contrast between the charred corpse and the gleaming perfection of the station.

Callery had referred to the victim as male, but Kincaid wasn't sure anyone but the pathologist could be certain of the gender.

A smaller, suited figure moved away from the body and came towards them. “Here's your sergeant,” said Callery.

Beneath the suit hood and the respirator, Kincaid glimpsed dark hair and familiar blue eyes. He shook his head in disbelief. “Melody?” His voice was muffled by the respirator.

Grasping his arm, she squeezed it, relief visible even beneath the mask. She motioned back the way they'd come and the others followed.

When they reached the cash point, Melody yanked off her respirator and pulled back her hood. Her face was smudged, her eyes red rimmed. “Duncan! I'm so glad it's you. Somehow I hadn't realized—”

“I take it you two know each other,” broke in Nick Callery, as they all removed their masks.

“Mel— DS Talbot works on a South London team with my wife.” Kincaid turned to Sidana. “Melody, this is my DI, Jasmine Sidana.”

Melody started to extend a gloved hand, thought better of it, and gave Sidana a shaky smile instead.

“You were here for the concert,” Kincaid said, light dawning.

“I saw it happen.” Melody's eyes were wide. “I mean, I saw him burn. I tried to help but it was too late.”

“You're sure it was a man?” asked Kincaid.

Melody hesitated, frowning. “I think so, yes. I saw his outline in the flames. It never occurred to me to think otherwise.”