Chasing Portia Adams

Burning Every Bridge

"Well, it's true, I do love a good picture." I say to the two constables guarding the east perimeter of the crime scene, teams of their peers visible over their uniformed shoulders.

"It's called All Quiet on the Western Front," the younger of the two explains, trying to hold my attention but failing, "and I could get us some tickets for Friday night if you're interested."

"Well, I'll have to check with my parents," I hedge, as another older officer walks our way, and I move a step back to give them a moment to talk in private. That's when I recognize the woman making her way onto the scene, following an older gentleman, and turning the heads of not a few of the men working in the rubble. Portia Adams. I knew she would be interested in this location as well. I try not to be jealous of the difference in our circumstances - she, welcome at a crime scene, and me, trying to con my way into the same situation by batting my eyes at the single coppers.

I throw a glance at the pair of officers now deep in conversation with their superior and decide I have to take a chance. I slink around the parked car and behind some large containers, moving in parallel with Adams and her escort, determined to make contact again.

Adams scoops up some ash and pours it into a small envelope, seals it and then puts the envelope into her satchel. Evidence for later perhaps? I wonder how she plans to analyze it and why she does it separately from the labs at Scotland Yard.

"You two. What are you doing back here?" The man she is walking with calls out to a pair of constables. From this distance, I can see the pips on his uniform indicating that his is a Chief Inspector, and I pull out my notebook to write down his name.

"Yes, sir!" One said, saluting, "We've been assigned to lookin' through all this ash for any more bones, sir!"

"More bones?" Portia Adams says, not lifting her eyes from the ground, "I had not heard of any fatalities."

The young constable seemed unsure of answering a girl younger than he, but when the Chief Inspector nodded, he answered, "Oh no, miss, we think the bones were from a small animal - a cat or dog maybe."

Adams does not acknowledge his words, but the Chief Inspector points at a lorry parked beside them, "Is that what you're shoveling all of this into? To sift through later?"

"No sir," the constable answers, and my attention drifts away, fixed on the girl. She is looking at the lorry, and allowing the ash in her hand to sift through her gloved hand. She doesn't seem to be paying attention to anything the men are saying. She almost seems to be in her own world.

"Will you excuse me, Professor?" she says suddenly, walking away before waiting for an answer. Who is the professor? Is she referring to the Chief Inspector? I write professor next to my description of the man. That should make it easier to identify him if he teaches as well.

Meanwhile, Adams has walked over to one of the frustrated fishermen sitting on the dock waiting to be released by the police cordon. I can't hear her, but she spends a few minutes negotiating with a man with a very dramatic moustache before she hands him a few coins and he hands her a thin net.

What is she up to?

With the help of the fisherman, the two of them secure the thin netting over the back of the truck, and we all understand her plan. With no extra work on the part of the officers, they now had a crude sieve where the ash they shovel into it might be separated from everything else.

I smile in spite of my situation, my heart even more sure that this woman was my path to redemption.

I hastily make a few notes and then follow Adams and the Chief Inspector as they continue their tour. The factory had burned to the ground, leaving warped and twisted metal remnants, and not a lot of cover for me to hide behind. I watch the two of them move right into the centre of the structure, where I unfortunately can't hear them and my eyes search for a better spot to continue my observations.

I turn around just in time to see Sergeant Michaels waddling in their direction and I have to make a quick decision, ducking behind two large dock workers who are also waiting for access to their work place.

"Have you solved the crime yet, Miss Adams?" The rotund Sergeant asks as he approaches. "Would be nice to send my men home early, that's for sure!"

He grins at Portia Adams in a way that bothers me for all women-kind. 

"Come on — pull a dove out of your hat for us, Adams!"

From behind the two men who are serving as temporary camoflage, I see Portia clench her fists before answering his sarcastic comment. 

"Sergeant Michaels, how nice to see you again." She says, giving a small tip of her head. "I'm here to learn, sir. I've never investigated an arson before, and Professor Archer here was kind enough to give me some basic instruction on how it differs from other fires. For example, he just found this potential piece of evidence..."

Ahh, Chief Inspector Archer, is it? I scrawl his name on my notebook.

"Ah no, I don't believe so, sir ... lots of the boys've lost gloves, boots, scarves trying to put this one out," Michaels says, waving his hand at the proffered glove. "I think it was lost by one of ours, but I can double-check if you'd like. This is probably just another fraudulent insurance claim — we're looking for the owner now. A quid says he's in debt to the banks and thought'ee could get loose by burning down his own warehouse."

Archer shrugs, handing the glove to another officer who held a clipboard.

"Is that the motive you found behind the destruction of the house in Cheapside, Sergeant?"  Portia says, her eyes tracking the glove's departure.

"Well, no, that one doesn't make much sense right now. The woman who lived there was a divorcée, her layabout husband in prison, so she didn't have much to gain by burning down her house, and he was ... well ... behind bars. No insurance at all, from what we understand. The poor thing has moved in with her sisters since losing everything." Michaels answers.

So, he doesn't know what I know then. I grin from my vantage point.

"So how are these two arsons related then, Sergeant?" Portia says, making me once again admire her confidence. She doesn't seem like she should be here at a crime scene, the only woman amongst 50 men, but she acts like she should.

"I couldn't agree more that your education is, well, necessary, Adams," Michaels says with a wink to Archer and a deprecating snicker to any of his men close enough to hear. "And if there's anything I can do to help you with your learning, you just let me know!"

Portia's smile is cold, I can see it even from here. "I may take you up on that, sir. I believe there is much we can learn ... from each other."

Archer coughs, and I stifle a giggle, which unfortunately makes my two human camouflage bodies turn around and look at me in surprise.

"Oy! You can't be here!" Michaels yells, coming at me at a run.

Before I can do more than turn on my heel, the man has me by the collar.

"Unhand me, sir! I am a member of the press here on official business!" I hiss, wrenching myself loose from his grip.

Michaels points a meaty finger me that makes me even angrier. "I told you twice, we are in the midst of an investigation here. You can't go tramping all over the evidence."

"Oh, because you're being so very careful with it!" I retorted, feeling my cheeks get hot with embarrassment. 

Michaels turns to yell over his shoulder at one of his men. "Benson! Get over here!"

A burly red-headed officer weighing at least two hundred pounds lumbers into our midst. "Walk this woman off the premises!" barks Michaels, pointing at me as if I'm a zoo animal. "And if you see her again, I want her arrested for trespassing!" 

I throw a glance at Adams, give her a civil nod and allow myself to be escorted off the premises.

This will not be the end of my investigation, I promise myself that.