by Jane Adams
Reality crashed down again and the food she had devoured so eagerly now weighed heavy in her belly. “What are we going to do, Harry?”
“I don’t know, girl. I really don’t. But we’ll get to the cottage, and then we’ll sit down and figure it out.”
“He’s going to kill us both, isn’t he?”
“He’s going to do his damnedest, that’s for sure.”
Chapter 5
The fire service were still damping down the site when DI Toby Clarke arrived. He’d had a late night, grabbed three or four hours sleep and then been woken by the telephone at five o’clock with the news that Harry Prentice’s house had been torched, and the fire chief suspected arson.
He knew what the house had looked like before, being familiar with Harry Prentice and very familiar with Harry Prentice’s boss, and it was hard to believe that a five-bedroom, Georgian-style mansion had stood there only a few hours before. The house was now reduced to a pile of ash and smouldering timber, nothing stood more than a metre high on the entire site.
Two uniformed officers sat in a police car at the entrance to the horseshoe drive. The fire chief was parked up on the other side. Clarke passed the police officers and parked just beyond them. By the time he’d got out, both the uniformed men and the fire chief were heading in his direction.
“So, what happened?”
The fire chief spoke first. “The whole place went up fast, and even from what we can see before we send the investigators in, it’s pretty clear that it was arson. There are three or maybe four points of ignition. Whoever set the fires wanted this place to go up fast, for combustion to be, well, pretty much complete.”
“Anyone inside?”
“Not as far as we can tell. As you can see, the crew are still damping down. It’ll be midday before we can make a proper survey. We’ve spoken to the crime scene manager and we’ll work the scene in tandem.”
Clarke nodded and turned to the two officers. “And you’ve been here since . . . ?”
“The house alarm was set off at twenty past midnight. Security company phoned us. We got the call about twelve thirty. We arrived about twelve forty-five a.m., spotted a couple of cars driving off, which looked as if they’d just come out of the drive, so we started to follow them, and then — boom.”
“Boom?”
“Well, OK, not exactly ‘boom.’ It was like you’d imagine it would look if there had been a boom. Flames everywhere, spotted them in the rear-view, so we turned around and came back. We called in the registration number of one of the cars we were following. By the time we got back, the whole place was ablaze. Went up in no time at all.”
Clarke glanced at the fire chief, who nodded. “You can still smell the petrol,” he pointed out. “Even after the fire. Initial impressions are that someone went in and drenched the place. It took a full two hours to get it under anything like control. At one point, we had three tenders on site.”
“Any luck on the car registration?”
“Vehicle is registered to one Michael Hoban.”
“We all know who he works for. But of course, he’ll have been tucked up in bed, and have no idea at all who was using his car last night.”
One of the uniformed officers was looking at Clarke. “We heard over the radio that Charlie Perrin’s dead. I mean, that’s one hell of a night, now Harry Prentice’s place is torched. What’s going on, boss?”
Clarke had heard the news about Charlie Perrin’s death on his way over but had no more details than uniform did. “You tell me,” he said.
He walked over towards what was left of the house. The gravel of the drive was blackened by soot and debris mixed with water from the hoses, leaving dark puddles that would stain anything and everything it came into contact with. Clarke avoided these as best he could. The fire chief walked with him and pointed out areas where they believed combustion had begun. Kitchen, living room, hallway and, he figured, probably one of the bedrooms upstairs. It was hard to be certain, but there were areas where the burning had been more intense. “Certainly more than one seat of fire,” he said. “It’s going to take a bit of sorting out.”
“What forensics should we be looking for on the arsonists?”
“Nothing that can’t be destroyed by a shower and a trip to the dry cleaners.”
And we don’t have enough for an immediate warrant, Clarke thought. Except for Michael Hoban, whose car had been seen driving away — and who would already have disposed of whatever he might have been wearing and secured himself an unbreakable alibi. Kyle Sykes was far too experienced to leave anything to chance. They could bring Michael Hoban in, if they could find him, but like as not whoever had been involved with setting the fire would be away from home and alibied to the hilt for the night in question. It would be a matter of, “Anyone could have taken the car, Inspector. Perhaps it was stolen.”
Another car pulled into the drive and Clarke’s boss, DCI Henderson, got out and walked over to them. “Messy. How soon before we can get forensics in here?” He directed the question at the fire chief.
“Should be cool enough by midday, but you know how it is at a scene like this. Just putting the fire out destroys a hell of a lot of evidence. My people will work with yours. Your crime scene manager’s already been briefed, and we should have a preliminary report by early evening.”
Henderson walked back towards his car. Clarke followed. Henderson paused before getting in. “I’ve called a full briefing, the whole team, an hour from now. Finish up here and then come in. You heard the news about Charlie Perrin?”
“I heard that he was dead. I don’t know the circumstances.”
“Apparently, he was drunk and playing with a shotgun. He’s in the morgue and the family have fast-tracked the post-mortem. You can do that when you’re as rich as Croesus. Funeral’s arranged for the end of the week, so they’re assuming nothing will turn up at the post-mortem that involves a police investigation.”
“Of course they are. What about the inquest? Can’t we hold the body until then?”
Henderson shrugged and spread his hands in a Why ask me? gesture. “I expect they’ll get an interim certificate after the PM.”
“Interviews?”
“You can have that honour. Of course, it’s all informal, this being an ‘accident.’ Unless something turns up at the post-mortem, which of course it won’t. That’s scheduled for two p.m., by the way.”
“And you want me there?”
“And I want you there.”
“Can I ask how we first got to know about Charlie Perrin?”
“We had a heads up about four o’clock this morning, but the news broke around six. The parents phoned one of their pet media outlets and announced the sad fact of their youngest son having gone to meet his maker. The shotgun that supposedly did for him is licensed, by the way. Supposedly, he dropped it when he was pissed out of his brain, gun went off, bye-bye, Charlie Perrin. He was alone at the time. The family found the body after hearing the gun go off from the other side of the premises.”
“Then how do they know it was an accident?”
“How can we prove it wasn’t? Their legal team will be all over this. They let our officers in to view the scene, didn’t get in the way when the CSI did their job. In fact, they made sure tea and coffee was on hand for everybody. There was even the offer of breakfast. The post-mortem is going to be carried out by Sir Geoffrey Connor, and who’s going to argue with him?”
Clarke was thoughtful. “I thought it was Sykes who had Connor in his pocket, not the Perrins.”
“So did we all. Perhaps the rumours about the families coming together aren’t so exaggerated after all. Watch this space, as they say.”
“I’ve been watching this particular space for too long. It’s been about as interesting as watching paint dry. About as informative, too.”
“Then spare a thought for those of us who’ve been on this a hell of a lot longer,” his boss told him. “Right — to recap, this is how your day will go. You come to t
he briefing, and then you visit the Perrins. Then you swing by and talk to Kyle Sykes, seeing as the owner of this now ex-house was in his employ. See what he doesn’t have to say. That’s not going to take very long, you know that as well as I do, so you should have time for a spot of lunch before the post-mortem.”
Thanks, Clarke thought, as he watched his boss drive away.
Chapter 6
Charlie Perrin’s final journey back to his family had not been the most dignified of affairs. He had been laid out on a blanket in the back of a Volvo estate car, with the seats down, and covered with the pink, floral quilt from Lauren’s bed, just because that had been handy.
Kyle Sykes had never been one to delegate the difficult stuff, and he had gone on ahead, roused the Perrins from their beds at three in the morning and explained the situation before Charlie’s body arrived. It was now nine a.m. and he was still talking. A funeral director had already been called in and arrangements made. The wake would be closed casket, of course, and the story was that Charlie Perrin had met with a bit of an accident. No one, funeral director included, was going to question that. His business was part owned by the Perrins and his family had provided funerary services for theirs for the past three generations.
Gus Perrin had been in a wheelchair for the last five years, having suffered with his own accident in the shape of a rival and a handgun. What he had lost in physical capacity, he made up for in both business acumen and rage, and it had taken all Sykes’s ability to keep the lid on the latter.
“We do this subtle,” Kyle Sykes said, not for the first time. “We don’t draw attention. No need for the families to go to war over this. You’ve lost your son — my daughter will pay for that — but there’s nothing to be gained by going off half-cocked. By getting the wrong kind of attention from the wrong kind of people.”
Charlie Perrin’s mother had been distraught and had been packed off upstairs with Charlie’s sister. A doctor had been called to give her a sedative. Both Gus and Kyle had agreed about one thing, this was no place for wailing women. Sykes was surprised therefore when, after a quiet knock on the door, the sister came in, leaving another woman standing uncertainly in the doorway. Carole Perrin was a familiar enough figure, tall and slim like her mother and remaining brother, and dark-haired. She, unlike Sykes’s daughter, had married when and to whom she was told and, if Karl remembered right, she was also some kind of artist, exhibiting here and there, spending her dad’s money to put on shows of weird sculptures.
The other woman was new. He didn’t recognize her at all. Not as tall, slightly built and with short, very neatly styled blonde hair. Kyle preferred long hair but she was, nevertheless, a looker. Her eyes were surprisingly dark, a grey that shaded almost to brown, and there was a wariness to them, which was familiar enough. Most of the women Karl knew carried that same expression in their eyes.
“What?” Gus demanded.
“Just wanted you to know, all the arrangements have been made for the funeral. There’ll have to be a post-mortem, but Dr Brookes is dealing with all that. Sam here came up with a good story about an accident with a shotgun.”
Gus’s eyes narrowed. “He weren’t shot with a friggin’ shotgun.”
Carole exchanged an awkward glace with the other woman. “He will have been by the time the post-mortem takes place,” she said. “It’ll make a mess, but if it’s done right, will cover up the original . . . injuries. Dr Brookes will make sure no one asks too many difficult questions, you know that, and it’s well-known Charlie was a bit careless when he’d had a few. Dr Brookes explained matters to Sir Geoffrey Connor, and he’ll be doing the post-mortem for us, so there’ll be no bother.” She cast a look at Kyle Sykes, acknowledging that this had been his doing.
Gus narrowed his eyes and looked hard at the small blonde still standing in the doorway. She looked away but didn’t move, though Sykes could see she was scared. Eventually, Gus nodded.
Carole took a deep breath and then continued. “I’ve asked Sam to sort out the wake, but we didn’t know where you wanted it to be.”
The blonde woman came hesitantly into the room and handed a sheaf of papers, at arm’s length, to Gus, as though she was anxious not to get within reach. Kyle smirked. She was probably very wise, though if Gus wanted her within reach, that’s where she’d be.
“What’s this?” Gus demanded.
“We’ve drawn up a list, a guest list. Carole wondered if there was anyone you wanted to add. And the last page is arrangements we’ve made so far, and a rough order of service. ” She made this sound like a question, as though he might not know what an order of service was.
Gus looked it over. “Good enough.”
“Any additions?” Carole asked.
“If there are, I’ll tell you. John will tell you,” he said, referring to her surviving brother.
Carole nodded and she and Sam withdrew, closing the door softly behind them.
“Who’s the new girl?”
“Works for our Carole, she reckons she’s busy enough to need a secretary or a PA, or something or other.”
He sounded deeply dismissive and Sykes did not question further.
“I’ll keep the peace,” Gus Perrin said. “Fourteen days I’ll give you. Find that bitch, get rid. You do that and I’ll consider honouring our former arrangement. Consider, mind. Fourteen days, two weeks. Plenty of time in anybody’s book to take care of a kid and an old man.”
And that was what rankled most, Kyle Sykes understood. Rankled with both of them. Charlie Perrin had been taken out by a kid half his age. Charlie Perrin, who had beaten one man to death with his bare fists. One that Sykes knew about, anyway. He’d disposed of at least half a dozen others but had finally met his match. Shot with his own gun by a teenage girl.
Chapter 7
A strange scene unfolded as Clarke drove through the very modest five-bar gate and onto the farm that had been Gus Perrin’s home for the last eighteen years. Perrin was a man who believed in keeping everybody close. He’d had three children — two now — and when the eldest two had married, they had moved into their own accommodation, but that accommodation had still been on the Perrin farm. The locals still referred to it that way, despite the fact that little in terms of agriculture had happened since Perrin took over the forty acres. It was perfect for the Perrins, Clarke reflected. The big house, and a whole load of tied cottages and barn conversions. It was almost like a village from which the Perrin business empire was run, the legitimate and not so legitimate. If the rumours were correct and the Perrins and the Sykes were prepared to become one big happy family, then, Clarke thought, it was about time somebody reported them to the monopolies commission.
A man in a sharp suit stood talking to a uniformed officer in front of the main house, a mellow old brick and weathered stone construction that Clarke knew had featured in at least two interiors and one country life magazine. It settled into the landscape, looking sleepy, contented and self-satisfied. A building that knew its place and was obviously well-loved and well-maintained. The two men, one from his side, one from theirs, were sharing a joke and what looked like a large flask of coffee. Very cosy, Clarke thought. But then the Perrins were known for cosying up to all and sundry, even uniformed constables. Local school needs a new roof? Gus Perrin’s your man. The vicar is running a garden fete? The Perrins will provide security and organize the car parking. Big on community was Gus Perrin, his actions engendered by the policy that Clarke’s boss summed up as “Don’t shit where you live.”
Clarke was willing to bet that within a ten-mile or so radius of the farm, no one would have a bad word to say about the Perrin family. Get further out and it would be a different story.
He pulled up in front of the house and the tall man in the Perrin uniform of smart, dark suit and white shirt bent down to speak to him through the window. “Follow the drive round the side of the house and you’ll see your lot outside Charlie’s bungalow. Refreshments have been set up in the storeroom next door.
You need anything, you just shout, OK?”
It was, Clarke thought as he followed the drive around the house as per instructions, an almost surreal experience. The man might have directed him to a family picnic or some kind of seasonal celebration. The illusion was ruined only by the fact that Clarke recognized him and knew that he had been imprisoned for three counts of GBH and had not been imprisoned for many more.
The bungalow had obviously once been a farm building of some sort but had been converted, as had every other available space on the farm, into quite luxurious accommodation. The crime scene manager, Paul Collins, spotted his car as he pulled up and came over. Clarke got out and stretched. No car ever felt like it had enough leg room. At six foot three, he was a head taller than Collins — though not quite as broad. Collins was built like a rugby prop forward.
“So, what have we got?”
“I’ve allowed the body to be moved, your DCI sanctioned that earlier this morning. We got everything we could from it, and frankly it was in the way, you’ll see what I mean when we get in there. It’s not an easy scene to work and is going to take us time. But on the face of it . . .”
“On the face of it, he got pissed, dropped a shotgun and it went off.”
“It happens,” Paul Collins said. “All I can say is that the angle of shot would appear to be consistent with the victim standing and dropping the firearm. The blood and brain matter on the wall would also appear consistent with that story. I suppose what I’m saying is, prove it didn’t happen that way.”
Clarke nodded and followed the crime scene manager into the chalet bungalow. The front door opened into a large living room. Off that, he could see a kitchen and a flight of stairs. Collins led him through the living room and into a second room set out with the dining table and four uncomfortable-looking high-backed chairs, then into a small room at the back. This room was separated from the rest of the property by a heavy door, and the tiny window, high up in the wall, was barred. Clarke whistled. “Most people in the hunting, shooting, fishing set have a gun cupboard, not an entire bloody room.”