Not a promising start, Kincaid thought, settling himself in a chair. Perhaps he should have stayed with the paperwork, after all. “But?”

“But as you have nothing pressing on at the moment, and as you have a knack for soothing ruffled feelings…” – Childs’s lips turned up in the smallest of smiles- “you seemed the best man for the job.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“You can look on it as a diplomatic challenge. It will mean liaising with the Fire Investigation Team and Southwark CID. A fire broke out in the early hours of this morning, in a warehouse on Southwark Street. Do you know it?”

“Southwark Street? That’s near London Bridge Station, isn’t it? But why send me?”

“Patience, boyo, patience. I’m getting there.” Childs leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together, a familiar gesture. “This particular building is Victorian, and was in the process of being made over into luxury flats. The fire apparently started on the ground floor, but by the time the brigade got there it had done considerable damage to the upper floors and had begun to threaten the building next door.”

“The warehouse was empty, then, if it was undergoing renovation?”

“Not quite. When the brigade got inside, they found a body among the debris. Quite badly burned, I’m afraid. And no identification.”

“A tramp, smoking-”

“Possibly, although tramps aren’t usually found naked with no effects. And it gets a bit more complicated. This particular building happens to be owned by one of our more illustrious MPs, Michael Yarwood.”

“Yarwood?” Kincaid sat up a bit straighter in surprise. “I didn’t know Yarwood was developing property.” The vocal and abrasive Yarwood leaned far to the left of the government’s moderate Labour party and was often heard publicly castigating anyone capitalist enough to make a profit. “This could be awkward for him, I take it? And the press will be on it like flies.”