Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  ‘Couldn’t be sure about the one in the entrance hall, it was too badly damaged. But the one on the first-floor landing was operating.’

  ‘It had gone off?’

  ‘It was sounding all right when the firemen got into the house. But the battery was almost flat.’

  ‘Why didn’t she hear it?’ Hugh murmured as much to himself as Ellis.

  Ellis shrugged. ‘Often these battery-powered alarms aren’t so loud as mains-powered.’

  ‘But it would have been loud enough to be heard before the battery went flat?’ Hugh made a baffled gesture, inviting ideas, but if Ellis had any more thoughts on the subject he wasn’t forthcoming.

  Struck by new uncertainties, it was a moment before Hugh managed to get his thoughts back into some sort of order. ‘The smoke,’ he said at last. ‘How is it that people don’t wake up? Why don’t they cough or choke?’

  ‘Carbon monoxide makes people sleepy, so if they’re deeply asleep already . . .’ He turned his mouth down.

  ‘That’s what’s meant by toxicity, is it? Carbon monoxide?’

  ‘And a whole range of other gases. Each fire’s different, depending on the amount and type of toxic materials.’

  ‘Is a house very toxic?’

  ‘Can be. Old foam cushions are the worst offenders.’

  Old foam cushions hung in the air like an accusation: the crime of having failed to succumb to the craze for refurbishment.

  Once again Hugh struggled to find his thread. ‘So it’s not unusual for people to sleep through smoke?’

  ‘It’s all too common, unfortunately.’

  ‘Hence the campaign to install smoke alarms. Battery operated or otherwise.’

  Not sure how to take this remark, Ellis let it pass.

  ‘The front door,’ Hugh went on. ‘It was locked? They had to break it down?’ He knew the answer already but he wanted to hear it from Ellis.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any record of whether the mortice lock was engaged?’

  ‘No.’

  Such information had been too much to hope for. Hugh gazed out of the window at a rain-streaked concrete wall across the street. ‘Last question,’ he said pensively. ‘What was my wife wearing when they rescued her from the building?’

  Ellis was uneasy again. ‘Not something we put in our reports.’

  ‘No . . . But you could find out?’

  Ellis hesitated unhappily.

  ‘I’d be very grateful.’

  A last hesitation, then Ellis gave a reluctant nod. ‘But no promises.’

  At a quarter to five Bristow’s was almost deserted, a few shoppers dawdling over their coffee, a lone drinker hunched over a newspaper, the staff polishing tables and stocking the bar in preparation for the onslaught of thirsty office workers, usually well represented by the staff of Dimmock Marsh, located twenty yards down the street.

  Isabel was waiting for Hugh at a corner table. She stood up, her eyes very grave, and said rather formally, ‘I’m so very sorry, Hugh.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She sat down rapidly, as if to get on to business, and passed him a batch of envelopes. ‘Cards from the staff. They don’t expect a reply. And these’ – she reached for a folder – ‘are letters from clients and associates. There’s a lovely letter from Desmond. And another from Sanjay. I don’t know what you want to do about them . . . if you’d like to draft a standard reply which I could send out for you? I’ve kept a note of all the names and addresses.’

  He had no idea what he wanted to do. The protocol of bereavement, the need to make decisions of this sort, was beyond him. ‘Thanks. I’ll probably draft something in the next day or so.’

  ‘People have been asking if there’s a date for the funeral.’

  ‘It’s not decided yet. But . . . well, we’re thinking of a small affair. Just family and close friends. Perhaps you could explain?’

  ‘Would flowers be all right? A joint wreath from everyone?’

  ‘I . . . Yes, of course.’ He could see his hope of a simple, austere funeral with a single wreath of white flowers slipping away.

  Guessing something of this, Isabel said, ‘But let me know nearer the time.’

  ‘Yes.’ Then, unable to hold back any longer, he asked, ‘It’s all set for tomorrow then?’

  ‘Yes. David Slater will be at the house by ten to ten thirty, depending on the traffic. I’ve got his mobile number’ – she handed him a slip of paper – ‘and I’ve given him yours in case he’s delayed.’

  ‘And he’s the best?’

  ‘Well, he’s registered with two of the top forensic advisory services, and when I double-checked with their senior staff they all said he was highly respected. And when I Googled him, he came up straight away. He’s written several papers on fire investigation and appeared as an expert witness in some high-profile legal cases. I found the names of some other consultants on the Web, but Slater seemed to be the most experienced. And of course he was available.’

  ‘You told him a bit about the job?’

  ‘As much as I could.’

  ‘He sounded confident?’

  ‘He was a bit concerned about how long it’d been since the fire. And he wanted to know if the roof had been damaged and whether any rain had got in.’

  ‘He thought the delay might be a problem?’

  ‘He didn’t actually say so. He just asked how long it had been.’

  ‘Anything else that worried him?’

  ‘Whether the site had been kept secure. I said I thought it had. And whether there were limits on the budget. I said there weren’t. I hope that was okay.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘He’s bringing a team, he said. And they might need to be there for several hours.’

  ‘Good.’ Hugh added impulsively, ‘How about a glass of something?’

  ‘No, thanks. A bit early for me.’

  ‘For me too, but what the hell.’ He had been advised by the doctor that after a bereavement it was best not to drink for at least two weeks. Five days struck him as a fair compromise. He decided on a Scotch for rapid effect and wasn’t disappointed. As the warmth curled around his stomach he felt his anxiety, if not fading exactly, then pleasantly blunted.

  ‘You must put your time down to me, Isabel,’ he said. ‘Don’t want Ray on your back for failing to keep an accurate time sheet.’

  She waved this aside. ‘Before I forget – Raymond’s been trying to get hold of you. Something about the house insurance.’

  Hugh couldn’t think what it could be. ‘I thought I was dealing with that. Did he say if it was urgent?’

  ‘You know how it is with Raymond.’

  He knew. When Ray wanted an answer to something it was always urgent, no matter how trivial the question.

  ‘I’ll call him later. But tell me about the Deacon case, Isabel, and what happened with Tom.’

  Isabel blinked rapidly, as if she had been preparing for what was always going to be a difficult moment. ‘I had to make a couple of decisions that I need to square with you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘The first was about our little difficulty with Tom, about him coming clean or us having to resign. Well, I wasn’t sure what to do. In the end I decided I wasn’t in a position to take action without proper authority. Authority from you, I mean. So I did nothing. I didn’t say anything to Tom. I didn’t tell him I knew about the problem, I didn’t ask him for a decision or anything like that. I just ignored it. It was only afterwards that I wondered if I should have referred it to one of the other partners.’

  ‘Christ, no. That would really have blown it. No, you did the right thing, Isabel. And Tom didn’t mention anything, I suppose?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was probably relieved that I wasn’t there to put him on the spot.’

  ‘That’s the other thing,’ Isabel said. ‘On Thursday morning when Raymond called and told me about the fire, I wasn’t sure what to do. Whether to tell everyone. Everyone in the
team, I mean. But then – well, I realised . . .’

  Hugh breathed, ‘Tom.’

  She nodded vehemently. ‘He was already in a state when he arrived at court. Nervous. Shaking and sweating. I thought if I went and told him he’d just freak out, which wasn’t going to help anyone. And then I thought it wouldn’t help to tell Desmond either, not just then, not when he was about to start Tom’s re-examination. So I just told everyone you had a family emergency. Then when court rose for the day, Tom rushed away before I had the chance to tell him. And he didn’t turn up at all on Friday. I tried his mobile all through Friday and the weekend, and today as well, messages and texts, but he hasn’t answered, so I still don’t know if he’s heard.’

  How strange, Hugh thought, that he should have missed the obvious, that in his shock and confusion, in the closing of his mind to everything but the impossible task of coming to terms with Lizzie’s death, it hadn’t struck him until this moment that he and Tom now shared an extraordinary and terrible bond, that their greatest common experience was not after all to be the law case but the loss of a loved one to fire. The thought gave him no comfort; rather, it touched him with a nameless anxiety.

  Into the long silence Isabel dropped a soft, ‘Hugh?’

  Hugh emerged from his thoughts with an effort. ‘Yes, it was the right thing, Isabel. Yes . . . So, tell me about Tom’s evidence. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Well, he was amazing.’ Isabel shook her head in wonder. ‘After all that sweating and shaking I thought he’d fall to pieces, but once he got into the witness box he was calm as could be. No, not calm – focused. He kept his answers short and simple, like Desmond had told him. But he was really moving as well. So sad and sort of dignified. You felt he was telling it from the heart. It really got to you. And it wasn’t just me that thought so,’ she added, as if her own judgement had been a bit suspect. ‘Desmond did too. And Sanjay. Anyway, Desmond took him through everything, all of Price’s evidence, how he’d never known Price that well, how Price used to tag along, how Tom never had mental problems as a result of his army service, only worries about his marriage and the strain of being away so much. And how he felt he was doing health-wise, whether his hopes for the future had changed at all. When it came to the cross-examination I thought he might lose it – Bavistock launched in with some fairly aggressive questions – but he stayed totally cool. If anything he just got more and more – well, dignified. The judge seemed impressed. He made a big thing of thanking Tom anyway. Said he hoped it hadn’t been too much of a strain, that kind of thing. So . . .’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘It looks like he went and pulled it off.’

  Hugh breathed, ‘Good old Tom.’

  ‘But he’ll still have to face the music, won’t he? I mean, the whole thing’s still going to come out?’

  Hugh drained the last of his whisky. ‘Who knows? The way his luck’s going at the moment he’ll probably get away with it.’

  Driving out of the city, Hugh left the line of slow-moving traffic to stop at a supermarket and buy some wine for dinner. The choice of reds was limited; there were only two that looked vaguely promising. He was reading the label of a Chilean Shiraz, looking for he knew not what information, when Ray called.

  ‘Hugh? Where are you?’

  ‘Shopping.’

  ‘You’re still in town?’

  ‘On my way home.’

  ‘Oh. But I saw your car here. I thought you’d drop in.’

  ‘I had to get back,’ said Hugh, who couldn’t think of anything worse than dropping into the office.

  ‘But everything’s okay, is it? I was a bit worried at not having heard from you.’

  ‘I’ve been tied up. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Oh no – no problem at all. No, it’s just the house insurance people. They want a bit more information. And then I thought we might try the coroner’s office first thing in the morning to see if there was any progress on the death certificate.’

  For a moment Hugh thought his memory must be playing tricks. Though much of the first two days had passed in a blur, he had a distinct recollection of a conversation with Ray on what must have been Friday morning. They were sitting in the Koenigs’ den, drinking coffee, Ray defaulting on a year’s hard-won abstinence to chain smoke, while they went through a list of calls and paperwork. There had been no sudden decision on Hugh’s part to reclaim the arrangements, just a gradual realisation that he didn’t want his life to be taken over by other people, however well meaning. He had interrupted Ray politely, thanked him for everything he was doing, and said he thought he would take on the arrangements himself. He remembered the phrases he’d used, even the tone, grateful but resolute. But perhaps Ray, still exhausted from the previous day, hadn’t taken it in. Or, in a fit of paternalism, had decided to ignore it.

  ‘Very good of you,’ Hugh said now, ‘but I’m already in contact with the coroner’s office. And the insurance people – I’m fine to deal with all that now, Ray. So—’

  ‘But I’m more than happy to do it, Hugh. God, it’s the least I can do! You don’t want all the hassle and red tape. Like the stupid house clearance people. I’ve just discovered they’ve gone and mixed up the dates. They seem to think they’re not coming till next month. Well, you don’t want to be—’

  ‘I cancelled them, Ray. I cancelled them this morning.’

  A pause. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Postponed them, rather. It would’ve been too soon. We need more time to sort out our personal stuff.’

  ‘I see. But—’

  ‘Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done, Ray. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. But I need to do this stuff myself, if only to keep my mind off things.’

  ‘Oh . . . well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  There was a taut silence. ‘Okay. No problem. I’ll get the papers round to you first thing in the morning.’

  Ringing off, Hugh felt a passing guilt at denying Ray his chance to contribute, perhaps even to grieve. Ray had always adored Lizzie in a boyish, hopeless way, an admiration that relied on mystery and unavailability.

  Lou was chopping vegetables when he got back to Oakhill. She came forward to give him a kiss. ‘Hi, Dad. How was your meeting?’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ He lifted the carrier bag onto the side and began to unload the shopping. ‘I’m sorry I was so long. Everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Charlie around?’

  ‘He’s just got back from Joel’s.’

  ‘You’ve been on your own?’

  She shrugged. ‘It was okay.’

  But he sensed she had been lonely and therefore more unhappy than she need have been, and looping an arm round her he kissed her hair. He watched as she started on the vegetables again. She chopped like a practised chef, keeping the tip of the knife on the board, working the blade so fast over the carrot that the slices fell in a gentle cascade.

  After a while she looked up questioningly. ‘Hey,’ she said.

  ‘Mmm?’

  She put down her knife and waited for him to speak.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Lou. I don’t know . . .’

  Still she waited.

  ‘I keep thinking it’s all a bad dream,’ he said. ‘Keep thinking I’ll wake up and Mum’ll still be here.’

  She gave a minute nod.

  ‘And when I’m not thinking that, I—’ But he broke off, not wanting to burden her.

  ‘Yes?’ she prompted softly.

  He shook his head. What could he tell her? That he still blamed himself for having stayed in London, that he felt sure none of this would have happened if he hadn’t left her mother alone, that he felt driven to find out what happened, that he feared he never would. ‘I just miss her so much, that’s all.’

  Lou’s eyes welled. ‘Yeah.’

  They stood in silence for a moment, then Hugh went in search of a corkscrew, finally locating one in the dining room.

  ‘You won’t forget ab
out Charlie?’ Lou said when he came back.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The hymns and readings?’ she reminded him.

  ‘Oh . . . Yeah. Sure.’

  ‘And any computer jobs you need him to do?’

  Hugh tried the Shiraz. It tasted a bit sharp, even metallic, but like so many of these cheaper wines it would probably improve on further acquaintance. He took another gulp or two to find out. ‘I’ll go and talk to him now.’

  ‘Supper’s in half an hour.’

  ‘Right.’ As Hugh drained the glass and topped it up he caught Lou’s glance. ‘The doc told me not to drink for a while,’ he said. ‘But I can’t take the tablets, Lou. I can’t take the chemical fog.’

  ‘You do it your way,’ she said. ‘Don’t listen to anyone else.’

  ‘Even when it’s a doctor?’

  ‘Especially when it’s a doctor.’

  It had been a joke of theirs ever since she’d decided to apply for medical school, but the smile he won from her now was fleeting, troubled, and he couldn’t rid himself of the suspicion that something he had said or done was adding to her unhappiness.

  The throb of amplified music guided him unerringly to Charlie’s new domain. Arriving at the open door he saw that Charlie had wasted no time in imposing his style on the room. The bed was unmade, clothes lay strewn over the floor, the booming music emanated from a hi-fi system wired to four speakers ranged around the room, while at a rectangular table under the window Charlie was sitting in front of two computers, tapping frenetically on a keyboard.

  ‘Charlie?’

  Charlie jerked round and reaching for the volume control turned the music off. ‘Hi.’

  Hugh tried not to notice the cigarette burning in a saucer beside the keyboard. Lizzie, who’d tolerated Charlie’s smoking because it was the lesser of the available temptations, had drawn a firm line at smoking indoors. But, much as Hugh supported the idea of a ban, this wasn’t the time to take Charlie to task. It was only tobacco, and Charlie was someone who needed a prop.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he said.

  His eyes back on the computer screen Charlie gave a grunt. ‘I dunno . . . I thought I’d got it. I thought the disk was okay, I mean it is okay, like it’s not badly corrupted, you know? Just a small section, not much at all. But the data’s got shifted somehow. And I can’t work out how . . . where . . . it’s gone . . .’