“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.