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“The whole thing’s odd, but we definitely need to track down the owner of the establishment at the time,” Callum says. “We need to find out more about where the basement was located, and what its points of access were.” His mouth sets in a firm line. “There’s always the possibility this was a deliberate hate crime.”

That sobering point leaves us all with a lot to think about as we work.

For another hour, we continue combing through the many documents in our file boxes. At last, Liz finally tracks down the final report that closed the case.

“Well, we have a full name for the owner. Reginald ‘Reggie’ Grant.” She frowns. “It says here that the fire was blamed on faulty wiring. The chief investigator signed off on it.”

She hands the document to Callum, who scans it quickly, his brow furrowing. “That doesn’t make sense. Everything that we’ve seen so far indicates that the renovations were up to code for the era, and the level of work done certainly would have involved electrical work.”

Even stranger still, we can’t find anything corroborating the electrical fire explanation in any of the boxes.

“There’s something fishy about this,” Liz says, worrying her bottom lip.

Callum nods. “I don’t believe this is just a matter of poor recordkeeping. Everything points to a rushed investigation where evidence that contradicted the decided-upon narrative, if found, may have been swept under the rug.”

I dart my gaze between them. “Goodness gracious! Are we talking about some kind of internal corruption or dereliction of duty?”

“Sad to say, but at the time, because some of the victims were gay—or perceived to be, given the basement’s history—the officials weren’t too concerned about due diligence,” Callum says, his voice full of disgust.

Liz sighs. “I hate to admit it, but that’s very possible. But there’s also another angle to consider. We’re talking about the ’70s here. Unfortunately, it was a period fraught with systemic corruption in the London police force, which eventually led to some criminal racketeering investigations.”

“And the Met worked hand in hand with the Fire Brigade, especially on cases that involved any casualties,” Callum adds, a contemplative note in his voice.

“Exactly,” Liz agrees. “We have a lot more checks and balances today, especially with the digital fingerprint we leave on everything we do. But back in the days of typewriters and paper, it was a lot easier for someone to potentially lose, conceal, or even fabricate evidence if they were so inclined.”

“Especially if someone was greasing their palm,” Callum grits out, his face a dark thundercloud.

“But was the Fire Brigade similarly questionable?” I ask.

Liz thinks about that for a moment. “Hmm. No, not that I’m aware of, but that’s not to say there weren’t issues. They just never became as high profile if there were.”

“Well, slap my ass and call me Sally. I was not expecting this turn of events,” I say with a whistle. “So if somebody covered things up, does that mean this arson incident may have been no accident?”

“It’s looking more likely,” Liz replies, her eyes troubled. “There are only so many reasons one would try to close a case on such flimsy evidence.”

Callum is scribbling in his little notepad and taking pictures of some documents with his phone. “Some of these people could still be alive,” he mentions.

Liz crosses her arms. “I already know what you’re thinking. But you know very well that you can’t just stroll up to these people and start interrogating them about something that happened decades ago.”

Callum gives her what I’m guessing is his best attempt at an innocent look, but it’s woefully inept.

Bless him. He tried, the silly man.

“There’s no harm in chatting with them in an unofficial capacity,” he says coaxingly.

Liz points a finger at him. “Do not do anything that’s going to get you or me in hot water.”

“What if we find something that warrants reopening the investigation?” he counters.

Watching them verbally spar back and forth is honestly quite entertaining. I pull a praline out of my pocket and munch on it while I watch, ready to offer them both one when they get done with their battle of wills.

Liz’s nostrils flare. “You’re walking a dangerous tightrope here, Cal. You’re not a DI anymore.”

Oh dear.

His wounded look at her words produces a sharp pain in my chest, and I move closer to clutch his arm and lend my support.

Liz winces, instantly contrite. “I’m not saying this to be cruel. But you can’t approach this the way you used to for the Met, and you can’t claim affiliation with us anymore. Hell, you don’t even have a private investigator’s license, do you?”