Firewatching

by Russ Thomas

  When he gets out of the shower his mobile is ringing. He grabs a towel and stumbles, stubbing his smallest toe hard against the shower tray and creating a new pain in his foot, a sharper, tighter version of the one arcing across his forehead. He makes it to the phone just as it rings off. He doesn’t recognize the number.

  Having found no remedy in the bathroom, he turns to the kitchen, brewing up a thick black sludge that might just be classifiable as coffee. He waits for the drink to cool and then downs it in one. He makes it back to the bathroom just in time to vomit the concoction down the pan. He crouches there for a moment, the porcelain cool against his forehead, trying to work out how this has happened. But his cotton-clouded mind struggles to focus on anything. The ringing in his ears refuses to subside.

  Ringing. The mobile again. He wrenches himself off the floor, wipes his mouth, and hurries back to the phone, the blood pumping sluggishly round his limbs as though he’s engaged in heavy exercise. The same number. Why did he not think to ring it back?

  “DS Tyler?” It’s Paul Enfield. Another part of the evening slots into place.

  “Yes, hello.”

  “There’s been another one.”

  Tyler feels his head beating in time to the rhythm of his thumping heart. “Where?”

  This time the fire is in the city itself, not Castledene, but he doesn’t need to ask why Enfield thinks it’s relevant. As soon as he has the address he knows. He decides to walk, unsure if he’s fit to drive. It’s only a few minutes, and he’s hardly likely to get lost since he was there only yesterday. Perhaps he and Oscar even walked home this way last night. Right past the scene of the crime. Assuming they did walk; he can’t remember that either.

  It’s still dark; the morning air, fresh and cool, helps clear away some of the fog in his head.

  When he arrives at the scene, Enfield is waiting for him and holds out a palm for a bone-crushing handshake. An awkwardness between them now. Because there had been the start of something and then Oscar arrived and now they’re . . . what exactly? Regardless, something has changed.

  The building is still surprisingly intact, the only difference from yesterday a couple of smashed windows and a little charring to the bricks above them. The fire is already out.

  “I can’t let you go in,” Enfield tells him. “The structure’s not sound. We’ll need to shore up the properties on either side.”

  Tyler eyes the little brass plaque by the door. Denham, Carter & Carter. No doubt now that the fires are somehow related to the Cartwright case. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Enfield shakes his head.

  He points to the plaque. “Is this why you called me?”

  Enfield looks at the name and shakes his head. “No. I called because there are similarities between this and the other fires. Petrol again, though we’ll have to do tests to make sure it’s the same type. But also, there’s the same sense of control.” He doesn’t sound sure, though. He looks up at the building, still frowning. “There are some differences. The fire didn’t take hold; the epicenter was a rubbish bin soaked in petrol, but he didn’t soak the whole place like he has before.”

  “Perhaps he ran out.”

  “Then there’s the location. We’re a long way from Castledene.” He goes back to his study of the building, and Tyler notices a small vein throbbing on the man’s neck as he concentrates. The vein is bisected by a deep scar, a raised white ridge that begins close to his collarbone and widens as it disappears under his T-shirt. “This feels different. I don’t think the fire was meant to do much damage. It’s more like a message.”

  “But you do think it’s the same arsonist?”

  Enfield thinks about this. “We’ve seen a dramatic increase in the number of incidental fires over the past week, right across the country. It isn’t that unusual for this time of the year, especially given the weather we’ve been having. But the spike this week has been greater than the statistical norm. We can’t work out why.”

  “They can’t all be the work of one man.”

  “No, most of them are far less serious. Fires in rubbish bins, bonfires on wasteland, that sort of thing. Kids’ stuff. We’ll invest some time in going round the schools, and hopefully it will settle down before anyone gets seriously hurt.” He frowns again. “This is different. I suppose it’s more of a feeling than anything. A signature you learn to recognize.” Enfield is more than half-talking to himself. “If this is the work of our guy, though, then he’s broken his pattern. That would indicate to me this place wasn’t just a random choice. That means in all likelihood the others weren’t either.”

  Tyler’s eyes move down from Enfield’s neck and along his thick, dark-skinned arm. He can’t help but compare it to Oscar’s pale, wiry frame. What time did Oscar leave? Did he come back this way? “It sounds like you understand him.” He doesn’t mean it to, but it comes out as an accusation nonetheless.

  “So we’re back to doubting each other, then?” Enfield’s dark eyes sparkle. “I had a similar case to this a few years ago. A serial arsonist.” He stretches, works his shoulder with one gigantic hand. “Have you ever seen a serious fire, Adam? Not like the scout hut the other day, I mean a big fire.”

  So it’s Adam now? Tyler says nothing, assumes the question is rhetorical.

  “At first glance it seems random, chaotic, but it isn’t. There’s a pattern. For example, a flame will always travel toward the oxygen feeding it. It happens all the time. The first thing people do in a fire is open the door to get out, and the fire goes straight for them. Like it’s reaching out for them.” Again Enfield tugs at his T-shirt. “The experts, like me, will tell you this is predictable. That’s how we fight fire. It’s governed by the same laws of physics as everything else.” Their eyes lock together; Paul Enfield’s pupils are glossy black coals. “But it’s easy to believe otherwise.” He pulls down the collar of his T-shirt, exposing a mass of white and pink scarring across his shoulder. “Sometimes you get it wrong. Sometimes things don’t happen the way they’re supposed to and all of a sudden the flames are coming for you out of the darkness, and you know, beyond logic and reason, that this fire is alive. That it wants you.” He breathes out heavily. “So yes, you’re right, I do understand him. So do you, if you let yourself think about it. It’s like Bonfire Night when you’re a kid. It’s just that this guy is still staring into the flames, hypnotized. I know exactly what that feels like.”

  “Did you get him?” Tyler wants to say more. He feels an urge to apologize, but he senses it’s too late for that.

  Enfield nods. “Caught in the act. Sooner or later that’s how we always catch them. The compulsion to watch overrides their self-preservation.”

  “I don’t want to wait until then.”

  “We won’t. I have people looking at the crowd.” He nods subtly to the small crowd gathering around them in hushed whispers, in spite of the early hour. “Looking for familiar faces. Anyone that might have been present at the last fire. Or the next one.” He points at a security camera mounted on the wall of the cathedral. “And you never know, maybe this time we’ll get lucky.”

  Tyler nods. “The locations aren’t random. At least, this one isn’t.” He fills Enfield in on Michael Denham and his relationship with Gerald Cartwright.

  Enfield listens in silence and when Tyler’s finished, he says, “Where does that leave us?”

  “Who did the allotment belong to?”

  “It was rented to a Cyril Armitage. I’ve got someone checking, but so far we can’t see any obvious connection.”

  “And the scout hut?”

  “Run by the parish council.”

  “The bus shelter—that would be council owned, too.”

  “You think someone’s got a grudge against the council?”

  Tyler smiles. “They wouldn’t be the first.”

  Enfield laughs, and the tension is broken. “I s
uppose it’s worth looking into.”

  Michael Denham has arrived. He’s arguing with a young fireman and gesturing at the building. Tyler points him out to Enfield, and something about the action must alert Denham to their presence. He sees them, falters slightly, and then straightens. Enfield nods to his colleague, and Denham is waved through the cordon.

  “Detective Sergeant Tyler. I would’ve thought you had more important things to do.”

  Paul Enfield answers for him. “An arson attack isn’t exactly a minor misdemeanor, Mr. Denham.”

  Denham snorts. “Probably just students. Too much to drink.”

  Perhaps it’s the reference to alcohol, but Tyler is suddenly irritated. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Michael, you don’t seem very upset for someone whose office has just gone up in smoke.”

  “The insurance will cover it. The damage seems largely superficial.”

  “Someone out there seems to have a grudge against you.”

  “I’m sure there’s plenty, Detective, but if you think I’m handing you a list of my clients, satisfied or otherwise, you’re very much mistaken. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to make some phone calls.” He uses his briefcase to cut a path between them. They watch him for a moment, standing alone in front of his building, talking loudly into his mobile.

  “Maybe this isn’t connected to the others,” Enfield says.

  Michael Denham’s eyes dart quickly in their direction and then away again.

  “No,” Tyler says, “there was nothing random about this.” He turns back to the fire officer, holds out his hand. “Thanks for including me.”

  Enfield takes his hand but makes no attempt to shake it. “You okay?” he asks.

  Tyler winces at being found out. “I’ll be fine. Just a few too many last night, that’s all.” But he never gets hangovers like this. How much did he drink?

  “Be careful,” Enfield says. “This arsonist, he thinks he knows what he’s doing, but this is getting out of hand. He’s obsessive, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a sexual element to this as well. If you find out something, please, talk to me. I can help.” Enfield stares at him for a moment as though to cement his point, then he lets go of Tyler’s hand and walks away.

  Tyler heads back to his flat, the thin purple light of dawn mushrooming over the city. He doesn’t even get halfway before his mobile rings.

  * * *

  —

  Summer has fled. It’s cold in the garden, where Lily sits on the wall of a flower bed, the bricks scratching at her legs; she’s still wearing the floral-print dress that she wore the day before. It is still the day before, the dawn only just beginning to break through the apple tree. A breeze sweeps through the house front to back, blowing away the ash and the smoke and the smell. Cleaning away Edna. On it are carried the various strangers that seem drawn to this disaster: men in white plastic suits that look like spacemen; young girls not much older than Oscar, sporting uniforms that are supposed to make them look respectable; bleary-eyed, unshaven men who fail to hide the fact they’ve been wakened from pleasant dreams in order to share her tragedy. Flies to a corpse, isn’t that the expression?

  The role of the young Indian girl seems to be to offer comfort and tea. But the comfort consists of meaningless words spoken in whispers, and the tea has grown tepid in Lily’s hands. The girl does her best, but what is there to be said on occasions such as these? To her, what is Edna but another old woman gone the way of old things? At least she’s quietly spoken, though. Unlike some of the others who shout and tear their way through the cottage. One of the men in white suits, a tall, loud, thin man with a space-age silver suitcase, stubs out his cigarette on the patio and shouts, “In here, is it?” apparently under the impression he’s here to shift a piano. Even after he has gone the cigarette butt remains, giving off wisps of pungent smoke. Lily shivers.

  Dawn arrives in earnest, and the morning light begins to force the garden shadows into retreat. The birds begin chirping their morning chorus. The world has decided to continue. Her-Next-Door puts her head over the fence to see what all the fuss is about. She’s still wearing her nightgown, her hair in curlers. Lily straightens and tries to assume a face for visitors, but the woman withdraws again quickly.

  She’ll have to get used to that, she realizes, contaminated as she now is. They’ll avoid her in the street just like they did after Gerald . . . disappeared. At least then she had Edna, though; this time she’s on her own. She wants to close the cottage doors, stop the house from bleeding Edna out.

  One of the men from the ambulance comes up to her and says, “We’re going to move her now.”

  Lily gets up. Do they need her permission?

  “Is there somewhere else you might like to go?” he asks. It isn’t the first time they’ve tried to make her leave, but where do they think she has to go? Then she realizes: Edna’s bulky mass is too great for manhandling through the house. They need to bring her out the back door and take her down the path. She thanks him for his concern, but she’ll stay.

  As it happens, he needn’t have worried; there’s nothing of Edna left in this lump of spent flesh wrapped in plastic. Lily remains standing, as is proper, and watches them pass out through the back door, round the corner of the house, and down the path. Edna’s final exit.

  She is gone.

  All at once, everything is quiet. Lily is alone.

  “Good God!” A loud voice at the end of the path. Mrs. Thorogood appears, narrowly avoiding being flattened by Edna’s departing corpse. She walks briskly along the path to Lily full of sorry-for-your-losses and you-poor-things. She sits and folds her arms around Lily’s shoulders, holding her closely. They sit together in silence, and Mrs. Thorogood takes her hand.

  Who’s this, then? Edna asks. The vicar’s wife? That’s a little gauche, even for you, isn’t it? She settles on the wall to Lily’s right, sighing as the weight comes off her bad leg; death, it seems, has done little for Edna’s health.

  So that’s how it is? One out, one in, eh?

  Lily looks at her and Edna stares back, one milky, jellied eye set within a ruined face.

  * * *

  —

  Tyler looks down at the carpet where Edna Burnside fell. In his hand he clutches a plastic evidence bag. According to Rabbani, Elliot reckons it was a stroke. But considering the cancer that ravaged her body, the actual cause of death could be any number of things. All of which might be considered natural causes. He and his team saw nothing at the site to indicate anything different. Nevertheless. Head thrust into the fireplace, it’s hardly a natural end. He looks down at the evidence bag. And then there’s that.

  Tyler moves through the cottage. The inside is much as he expected it to be. It’s an old property and has seen none but the most basic home improvements in the last fifty years. The small kitchen is tidy, but not very clean. The tiny bathroom smells of mold and rust. The dining room and living room are mirror images of each other, except for the table and four chairs in one and the sooty outline of a body in the other. He moves up a steep staircase to the two bedrooms, one to front, one to back. The front bedroom is pristine, the small double bed neatly prepared for visitors who never come. The back bedroom has two beds separated by a small gap. He assigns each of them to the two women by the assortment of items on the bedside tables. A book of poetry, a Times crossword, a box of pills on Edna’s; a copy of Pride and Prejudice, the spine unbroken, on Lily’s. He could go on; rifling through drawers, checking the bureau for documents, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Besides which there’s the plastic bag he is holding. He doesn’t want to put it down, and he is certain there is nothing here of more importance. He’ll leave the mopping up to Rabbani.

  Back downstairs he glances again at the fireplace. Natural causes.

  “Bloody hell,” says Doggett. He’s standing in the conservatory doorway staring at the floor. “Burn
side by name . . .”

  “Don’t, Jim. Please, just don’t.”

  Doggett swallows his words. “What does Elliot think?”

  “Says it’s natural causes.”

  Doggett lets out a huff of air. “Yeah, and no doubt he’s busy teeing off as we speak, so forgive me if I don’t take his bloody word for it. That man will say anything to get back to the fairway quicker. Where’s your mate Fireman Sam, then? Shouldn’t we get his people on this?”

  He tells Doggett about Michael Denham’s little office problem.

  Doggett listens carefully, then nods. “That changes things then. All right, I’m convinced. What’s it all about?”

  “We need to talk to Lily Bainbridge.”

  Doggett shakes his head. “Let’s wait until we get confirmation about the second body in the vicarage.” Doggett stops at his choice of words. “Bloody hell, we’re living out an Agatha Christie novel here. My point is, if it is Cynthia Cartwright we’ve found, then we know Burnside lied to us.”

  “We already know she lied. She told us Lily was dead.” But when he thinks about it, he realizes she didn’t. She’s no longer in a position to help anyone, she’d said. “Implied it, at least.”

  “Yes, and aren’t you two a prize pair for believing her? Anyway, we’re not going to get anything out of her now, are we?”

  “Maybe that was the point. What if Burnside was killed to stop her talking to us? We need to speak to Lily Bainbridge now.”

  Doggett frowns, considering this.

  “And then there’s this.” Tyler holds out the evidence bag. Doggett leans forward to examine it while Tyler tells him where the evidence was found.