She smiles at him weakly, as though she’s not sure she believes him.

“Do you know if he spoke to the vicar yet?”

She pushes a lock of stray hair behind her right ear. He’s seen her do the same thing at least a dozen times today. “He said he couldn’t find him, but . . .” She leaves it there, her cheeks coloring slightly as she realizes he might consider this tale-telling. She doesn’t need to say any more, however. He knew Daley wouldn’t follow it up, certainly not on his say-so. He’d just been drawing Daley out, trying to find out what secret task Doggett had given him. It had been far easier than he’d thought it would be.

“All right,” he tells her.

“Was it important?”

“Probably not.”

She still seems uncomfortable, as though there’s something she wants to say but can’t quite bring herself to.

“What is it?”

The lock of hair has fallen loose again and hangs across her face. “I don’t mind staying if . . .” She trails off.

He’s not used to working with others, with subordinates. He’s forgotten that you’re supposed to direct them, tell them every little thing. “Get yourself home,” he says, and then remembers, belatedly, to add, “Thanks.”

She hovers a moment longer, then sighs heavily, turns, and stalks away from him down the driveway. He wonders what he’s done now. She can’t still be pissed off with him about that business with Doggett. He got her on the case, what more does she want? He goes back over the day, considering her performance at the cottage, the way she pushed Burnside during the interview. She’d shown him up, in a way; they were questions he should have asked, would have asked, if he hadn’t been so fixated on Oscar. Was that why he chastised her about the research she’d done into the girlfriend? That was a bit unfair. It was good work, intuitive. Perhaps that’s why she’s so narked. He makes a mental note to try harder with her tomorrow. She has the potential to be a good detective, if she can just learn to keep her temper.

He smiles at the irony of his own thoughts and looks down at the brick in his hand. One side is black with soot. He juggles it for a moment, testing the weight. Then he heads back to the incident room and opens the door. The heat radiates out in a wave, like he’s just opened the door to an oven. He bends down and places the brick in front of the door. It holds. As he straightens, he takes one last look at the decaying house with its dancing shadow flames before stepping back into the sauna.

—

He works for another half hour or so, going over some of the reports from the SOCOs, but eventually the stale air is too much. He drains the last of the water he sent Rabbani out for earlier, grabs the jacket he brought with him but really doesn’t need, and steps out onto the driveway.