Free To Dwell in Darkness by Deborah Crombie Page B

CROSSRAIL said another, and a third had CROSSRAIL marked with the universal NO symbol.
    The protesters looked alert and rather full of themselves, not as if they knew one of their members was about to burn himself to a crisp not more than a few dozen yards away.
    Just as they started to pump the placards up and down and chant what looked like “No Crossrail,” Colleen Rynski appeared. She gestured towards the exit. Matthew argued with her, waving his free hand. Rynski spoke into her shoulder mic and put her hand on the baton at her belt. She jerked her head towards the exit.
    After glancing at Matthew, the group began moving in the direction she’d indicated, still halfheartedly holding up their signs. They disappeared from the camera view.
    The time counter on the tape ticked onwards. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. Then, suddenly, all the heads in the crowd swiveled as one, mouths opening in shock or horror. People began running, shoving, dropping parcels and shopping bags. Within a few seconds, smoke as thick as pea-soup fog obscured the view.
    â€œIt’s five minutes before the smoke begins to clear,” said Gikas. “Do you want to see more?”
    Kincaid realized that everyone in the room had gathered round, watching in silence. “Not now,” he answered. “Have we got a view of the victim?”
    Gikas tapped keys and another camera angle appeared on the screen. “It’s not great. He must have known where the cameras were.”
    Now Kincaid saw the other side of the arcade. There were Tam and Caleb, standing by one of the café tables, looking towards the temporary stage. He saw Tam smile, and Caleb lift a mug to his lips.
    â€œThere.” Simon Gikas pointed a pencil at a figure who appeared just at the edge of the screen, a man carrying a lightweight backpack and wearing a hoodie. At least Kincaid assumed the figure was male. The clothing was dark and slightly bulky; the hood was pulled forward so that it shadowed the face and covered any visible hair. The figure appeared to be of medium height compared to the other passersby.
    The figure stopped, but did not look towards the band. His head moved—might he have been searching for the group on the other side of the arcade?—but he didn’t turn his face to the camera. Then he stood for a long moment as the crowd ebbed and flowed around him. His right hand was in his pocket. Kincaid felt a jolt of dread and an urge to reach out, to stop the action from unfolding.
    The crowd around the figure thinned, cleared. The figure took his hand from his pocket but his grasp obscured the object he held. He looked up then, but the hood still shadowed his face.
    Then he brought his hands together, and a moment later, fire blossomed between them.
    â€œSweet Jesus,” muttered one of the detective constables. Kincaid heard an intake of breath from someone else behind him as the flames billowed up in a great ball, engulfing the figure.
    For an instant, it looked as if the man’s arms rose up in the flames. He might have been a conjurer, casting a spell, or a great bird about to take flight. Then the cloud of smoke obscured all.

  CHAPTER SIX  
    The graves, like the corpses they bear, are jumbled; a frantic mass of jagged stones that break the earth as fractured concentric circles, imposing the macabre on an otherwise peaceful area of the churchyard. Bodies lay upon bodies, graves upon graves.
    â€”Jamesthurgill.com,
The Hardy Tree, St. Pancras
Old Church, London
    Sidana and Sweeney came in as the video finished. “Absolutely bonkers,” said Sweeney, shaking his head. “A bloody human candle. Do you think he felt anything?”
    Kincaid was glad enough to have Sweeney break the mood in the room. “I hope not. But there’s no way he’s going to tell us, is there? Did you come up with anything?” he asked, including Sidana in the question.
    Sidana flipped open her notepad.