To Dwell in Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.

  CHAPTER THREE  
    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.
    â€”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.
    â€œPark 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.
    â€œSO15?” Kincaid asked.
    â€œJust 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