“Easy, girl,” he said to her, then added, “she knows what she’s here to do, and she’s eager to get started.”

“Do you have reason to suspect arson at this point?” Kincaid asked.

“There’s always a possibility of arson with a fire, but no one’s reported a man running from the scene with a can of petrol.” Farrell grinned. “We should be so lucky.”

In Kincaid’s experience, fire investigation officers tended to be a cautious species, refusing to commit themselves to anything less obvious than whether or not the sun was shining until they had irrefutable evidence, and sometimes not even then. At least this one appeared to have a sense of humor. “What do you have so far?” Kincaid asked without great expectations.

“The alarm came in at twelve thirty-six,” Farrell began deliberately, ignoring the impatience radiating from the angular Inspector Bell, as well as the drizzle, which was steadily growing heavier again. It occurred to Kincaid that perhaps Inspector Bell’s temper was not improved by being wet.

Nor was his, and he was beginning to sympathize with Cullen’s craving for hot coffee.

“Called in by someone next door, a resident in one of the flats who looked out the window and saw flames,” Farrell went on, nodding towards the adjacent building, of similar but less elaborate architecture. Together, the two structures had formed a bastion of grace among an array of concrete shop fronts.

“Could it have been the torch?” Kincaid asked, knowing that sometimes arsonists called in their own fires.

“Not likely. According to Control, it was a woman, and there were small children audible in the background.”

“No sign of anyone hanging about when the brigade arrived?”

“No, and the response time was under three minutes. The appliances came from Southwark Fire Station, just up the road. The station officer believed the fire had been in progress ten to fifteen minutes when they arrived. It was well established on the ground floor and beginning to take hold on the upper floors.”