by Matt Brolly
‘Something big in the city, one of the German banks.’
‘They’re married?’
‘Four years, though Caroline was married before. Connor Linklater, head teacher at a local comp. She’d only been divorced a year before she remarried.’
‘You’ve done your homework,’ said Lambert.
‘Kind of. Common knowledge in this manor. Linklater and Caroline didn’t have an ideal marriage. We were called in on more than one case for domestic disturbance.’
‘Ever charged?’
‘I’ll check, but from memory he was strongly advised to behave, and it was kept low-key, if you know what I mean.’
Lambert knew only too well. He turned to look at the building. The fire was subsiding. The fire chief walked over to him, removing his helmet. ‘Lambert?’ he asked.
Lambert nodded.
‘Chapman. I understand you’re in charge now?’ he asked, exchanging the briefest of glances with Croft.
Lambert nodded. ‘What can you tell me?’
‘That little girl was lucky, for one. Seconds after we took her out the building, the fire took the whole top floor. I need confirmation, but I would say there was a detonation when we were inside.’
‘A detonation? So not an accident?’
Chapman laughed, lines of grime breaking across his face. ‘Unless these people had a bunker of explosives in their house, then I can’t see this being accidental. I’m sending my teams in now, we should have a better picture for you soon.’
‘Stupid question, but was there any sign of the parents?’
Chapman shook his head. ‘By the time we entered, the downstairs was an inferno. We only went upstairs because we saw a light in the window. We checked the other upstairs rooms but no sign. If they were in there, then they were downstairs.’
‘Will I be working on this?’ asked Croft, as Chapman walked off.
‘You were first on the scene, so as long as your gaffer agrees, you can be part of the team. Can you set up an incident room at your station?’
‘Can do.’
‘I need to get some of my team down here. Not going to be an issue?’
‘No,’ said Croft.
Lambert called the office and spoke to the newest member of the team, Detective Sergeant Joel Bickland. Bickland had joined the team following the Watcher case and Matilda Kennedy’s long-term absence. He was an experienced officer, seconded in from another department of the NCA. Lambert instructed him to get to the scene, and to select two others to work on the case.
‘What we looking at?’ asked Bickland, who had a faded West Country accent.
‘Let’s plan for the worse. The three-year-old was rescued from a bedroom. It’s likely one or both of her parents were at the scene, unless they have a nanny.’
‘Be there in thirty,’ said Bickland, hanging up.
‘Here you go, sir,’ said Croft, handing Lambert a paper beaker filled with oily black liquid.
‘Thank you,’ said Lambert. ‘I think.’ He sipped the drink, surprised by the heat and richness of the coffee.
The flames were extinguished. The aroma reminded Lambert of bonfires from his childhood. Despite the devastation caused to the building, the smell comforted him. After a time, a team of fire officers, led by Chapman, entered the building, each wearing breathing apparatus.
‘What can you tell me about the fire?’ Lambert asked Croft.
‘It was in full swing by the time we arrived,’ said Croft, standing next to him staring at the house. ‘That said, I don’t know…’
‘What is it?’ said Lambert.
‘I’ll be interested to see what the fire investigator comes back with. It sounded to me as if there were at least two or three separate explosions, like Chapman suggested.’
Lambert shook his head, dragging his stare away from the house. ‘Witnesses?’ he asked Croft.
‘We’ve gone door to door and we’re working on a list of comings and goings from the guard desk. Nothing out of the ordinary yet.’
Lambert scrunched up the paper cup and dropped it to the ground, frustrated by the wait. All he had was a destroyed building and a rescued child. If the fire team ruled out arson, which seemed unlikely, then he could leave the case in Croft’s hands.
The fire chief, Chapman, left the property as if he’d been listening to Lambert’s thoughts. He approached, removing his breathing gear. ‘You’ll need to get your crime scene guys in here, and a fire investigator if you have one on your team,’ he said.
‘Bodies?’ asked Lambert.
‘Two. Must have got caught inside. They were in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around one another. They’ve fused together. Horrific.’
‘Can you confirm arson?’
Chapman nodded. ‘We’ve found two incendiary devices on the first floor. This was fire was set deliberately by someone who knew what they were doing.’
Chapter Four
Fire officers secured the interior of the house like prison guards. Lambert stood at the entrance of what once was the living room, as the Scene of Crime Officers inspected the room. Dressed in his own white SOCO uniform, a mask strapped across his face, he surveyed the ruins of the house. Chapman had told him the upper floors – where the child was rescued – were off bounds and unsafe. The SOCOs worked as if oblivious to the literal danger only metres above their heads.
A layer of soot clung to the walls and the floors. In the hallway, wallpaper had blistered and fallen from the walls. The air was laced with smoke. Even with his protective suit and mask, Lambert felt its intrusion. It clung to the exposed flesh on his face, and seeped through his pores. The murkiness of the fumes shrunk the interior. The walls felt squeezed together, unstable and threatening. The SOCOs battled for space in the living room, as the pathologist examined the two melted humans, fused not only to one another but also to the remains of the sofa.
‘We found another incendiary device upstairs, undetonated,’ said Chapman, tapping Lambert on the shoulder.
Lambert nodded to the front door, following Chapman into the coldness of the December morning. He ripped the mask from his face, welcoming the blast of cold air onto his skin. ‘So that’s three undetonated? Bit of overkill?’
Chapman removed his helmet, exposing a completely hairless skull which looked polished to a shine. ‘You could say that. The house would have still gone up without them. We need to take them in but from what I’ve seen they were on timers. That would account for the reports of separate detonations.’
Croft returned with Bickland, the female detective dwarfed by her companion. Lambert updated them on Chapman’s feedback.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Bickland, in his West Country slur.
‘Looks like he wanted to make sure the whole house was destroyed. Maybe something was worth destroying but our arsonist friend wasn’t sure where it was located,’ said Croft.
Chapman rubbed his skull, decorating it with a line of soot. ‘Maybe. Personally, I think he was showing off. Why else would he have detonated them at different times? You ever heard of John Orr?’
‘Orr?’ said Lambert.
‘Bit of an arsonist’s hero. Ex-fire chief, like me,’ he said, with a mirthless chuckle. ‘I was only reminded of him because of the nature of the devices. Orr liked to start fires with incendiaries on timers. He used to wrap matches in paper, and secure them with a rubber band. He would then light a cigarette and when it burnt down it would set off the matches. The undetonated device we found upstairs has a similar set up, but is missing the cigarette. This guy has used an electrical device to spark the matches instead, but has forgot to set the timer on this one.’
‘You think it was some sort of copycat?’ said Lambert.
‘That’s your job, but if it wasn’t a copycat it was certainly a tip of the cap – a tribute.’
‘A tribute?’ said Bickland, face contorted in disgust. ‘He murdered two parents and almost killed that little child.’
Chapman glared at the detective serg
eant. ‘Something you’re going to find out: these people don’t care about anything but the flames,’ he said, placing his helmet back on and heading towards the house.
Bickland spat on the ground. ‘Sounds as if he almost admires him.’
‘Charming,’ said Croft, looking away.
A breeze had picked up and the stifled confines of the crumbling house no longer seemed so unappealing to Lambert. He folded his arms, jogging on the spot. A thought lingered just out of reach. It had been bothering him ever since Croft told him about the little girl being rescued. ‘You two set up an incident room and notify Jardine’s ex-husband before the press contact him. Suggest he makes an appearance at the station as soon as possible. Remember that nothing is confirmed yet,’ said Lambert, pulling his mask back on and following Chapman inside.
It was probably a reaction to leaving the clear freshness of the air outside, but the smoke seemed thicker than before. The fire team guarding the stairs were blurred images, the details of their faces smudged out by the thickness of the fumes. Lambert was reminded of a scuba diving course he’d taken many years ago on holiday with his estranged wife, Sophie. The unreality beneath the surface was akin to the smoke-filled world he waded through now. Even the SOCOs and fire teams were quiet, echoing the quiet of the deep waters.
Lambert stood once again at the crumbling entrance of the living room. The pathologist was packing up. Lambert stared at the image of the merged couple, imagining what their final moments had been like, the desperate struggle against the heat, the terrible realisation that they would be burned alive. It was then he realised what had been bothering him.
Although Lambert no longer had a child, in his mind he would always be a father. He would never call himself a particularly brave man, but one thing was certain. If his daughter had been in danger, he would have done anything to protect her. He couldn’t imagine sitting on a sofa, waiting for flames to devour him when there was the slightest chance that his daughter could have been saved. He would have walked through fire to have saved Chloe, and he hadn’t met many parents who wouldn’t do the same for their children.
The pathologist packed up her case and walked over to Lambert. ‘We haven’t been introduced – Lindsey Harrington.’
‘DCI Lambert. What can you tell me?’
Harrington pulled off her SOCO hood, revealing a short, trendy haircut which in the smoke-filled dimness made her look younger. ‘I think they had the hots for each other,’ she said, deadpan. She held Lambert’s gaze, not smiling, waiting for an acknowledgement.
‘That’s the best you’ve got?’ said Lambert, returning the stare.
Harrington remained stony-faced for a few seconds before breaking into a smile. ‘Tough crowd. I need some air. Follow me out?’
A crowd had gathered outside the property, cordoned off by police tape. ‘Going to be a big one,’ said Lambert to the young pathologist, who had just lit up a cigarette. She offered him one, which he declined.
‘Might be bigger than you think,’ said Harrington. She dragged hard on the cigarette, a number of fine lines appearing at the corner of the eyes.
‘Do I want to hear this?’
Harrington shrugged. ‘Probably best. Might help with your investigations.’ She smiled again, holding his gaze for an uncomfortable period.
‘Let me guess,’ said Lambert, thinking again about the bodies on the sofa. ‘They were dead before the fire started.’
Harrington flicked her cigarette to the ground, maintaining eye contact. ‘Who told you?’ she said, still deadpan.
Lambert was enjoying the woman’s dry sense of humour, the way she tried to test him with her hard stares, but wondered if it became wearisome after a while. ‘A guess,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘If it was me, I would have run through the flames. Couldn’t have been any worse than waiting for them to take hold.’
Harrington lit another cigarette, exhaling the smoke in Lambert’s direction, staring at him as she considered this particular wisdom. ‘I guess you’re right. Not much of a choice though. Can you tell me how they died, Derren?’
‘Derren?’ said Lambert.
‘You know, Derren Brown, that crazy mind reader. Ah…’ said Harrington, realising Lambert had been teasing her.
Lambert started laughing, pleased to have got one over on her. ‘My powers do not extend that far,’ he said.
‘Blunt trauma to the back of the head, both victims,’ said Harrington, failing to suppress her smile. ‘We’ll know more later obviously – there was a lot of damaged tissue, as you can imagine – but I’d say each skull took five or six big hits. Hammer, if I had to guess.’
‘Time of death?’
‘I need to get back to you on that.’
Lambert tried to picture the scene. Did the arsonist catch the pair unawares, breaking in and striking them on the skull before they could react? It would have required great speed. ‘I’ll be interested to know if the blows to the head were consistent,’ he said.
‘Same weapon, you mean?’
‘Perhaps, or same force. Could you measure for that?’
‘Possible. You’re thinking there may have been more than one perp?’
‘”Perp”? You watch too much TV, Harrington.’
‘I like to think I’m on CSI Miami. Helps me get through the cold months.’
‘What are the chances of you rushing through the post-mortem, Miami?’
Harrington flicked the second cigarette to the floor. ‘Should be careful, I could start a fire,’ she said.
Lambert raised his eyebrows.
‘I like you, Lambert,’ said Harrington, lighting her third cigarette, her tone playful, almost mocking. She took a long drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing red. She stared at him again, tilting her head like some Sixties fictional detective. ‘So I’ll make it my number one priority.’
Chapter Five
After signing off with the rest of the SOCOs, Lambert headed towards his car. The majority of the crowd had dispersed, leaving just lingering journalists and a couple of passers-by. Lambert recognised one of the remaining faces, but did his best to ignore it. It was Mia Helmer, a senior editor at a national broadsheet. Lambert had come close to arresting her during the Watcher case. As he reached his car, Helmer shuffled away from the pack of reporters and made a beeline towards him.
Lambert ignored her, clicking the car open. He was about to get in when she called out to him. ‘DCI Lambert,’ she said, almost under her breath, lest she attract the attention of the other reporters.
He sighed, resting his arms on the freezing metal of his car’s rooftop. ‘Mia Helmer,’ he said, as she approached. ‘I didn’t realise you ever left that gigantic desk of yours,’ he said, recalling the glass monstrosity which filled her office.
‘It is a tad unusual, but then these are unusual circumstances. Why else would you be here?’ Helmer was a slight woman, in her late twenties. Heavily made up, her hair was dragged back into a bun stretching the lineless skin of her face.
‘You’ve not found a replacement for Eustace, then?’ Eustace Sackville had been the newspaper’s head crime reporter until his wife was murdered by the Watcher.
‘No one I’d trust with something like this.’
‘Like this?’
‘Come on, Lambert. Your press office aren’t confirming anything, but we know bodies were found in there. We know it wasn’t an accident, either. A senior policewoman and a leading figure in investment banking, burnt to a crisp in their home? Their child being rescued at the last minute? Suspected arson? This could be the story of the year.’
‘Slow down, Mia, you’re getting way ahead of yourself there,’ said Lambert.
‘So you’re denying Caroline Jardine has just burnt to death in her house?’ Helmer stared at him in a similar way to the pathologist, Harrington. Where Harrington’s eyes had been full of mischief, Helmer’s were cold and lifeless.
‘I’m not giving you anything, Mia. Even if I had anything to declare, you�
�d be the last to know.’
‘You’re confirming arson, though?’
‘Goodbye, Mia,’ said Lambert, climbing into his car and shutting the door.
* * *
He was surprised to find Chief Superintendent Tillman waiting for him at Chislehurst station. ‘Thought you’d signed off?’ he said to his superior.
‘Do we have positive ID yet?’ said Tillman, ignoring him. Tillman had changed his clothes since he’d left the scene that morning. The navy pinstripe suit accentuated his considerable size. He played at the tie which was pulled tight against his throat, and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
‘Working on it. The fire did some damage.’ Lambert pointed to an empty conference room. ‘Something you should know, sir.’
Inside, Lambert relayed the information about the attack on the victims prior to the fire.
Tillman sat down, groaning as he fell into the seat. ‘I’m not sure if that’s worse or better. Better for them, I suppose,’ said Tillman. ‘He must have known we’d find the bodies. As for that little girl…’
‘Possibly he didn’t know she was there. Although probably he knew and didn’t care.’
Tillman shook his head, loosening his tie. ‘Where are we on the post-mortems?’
‘The pathologist, Harrington, is going to make it her number one priority, whatever that means,’ said Lambert.
‘So what now?’
‘We have Jardine’s ex-husband, Connor Linklater, paying us a visit.’
‘When?’
‘Within the hour, I hope.’
Tillman paused, shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I need you back at HQ for two pm. You have an appointment.’
‘You going to give me any more details?’
‘Caroline Jardine’s boss will be there. And his boss, and some others.’
‘Best suit?’ said Lambert. With Caroline Jardine being a fellow officer, it was obvious the hierarchy would get involved.