Night of Fire: (DI Angus Henderson Book 6)

by Iain Cameron

  ‘So, at first pass, it doesn’t look like either an accident or suicide. It could be murder if you find any evidence of an attack. The mystery hinges on the P-M.’

  ‘You’ve just about summed it up.’

  ‘Thanks Grafton,’ Henderson said as he stood, thankful the pathologist would be doing the post-mortem and not him. ‘See you later.’

  Henderson looked around, keen to move away from the scene and find someone who could add some information to the scant amount of knowledge he’d unearthed so far. Close to a row of tables, a uniformed cop sat talking to a distraught-looking young man, shakily holding a mug of what looked like tea. Henderson nudged Walters and they both walked over.

  ‘Morning sir,’ PC Dave Peters said. ‘This is Kevin McLaren, the gentlemen who found the body.’

  ‘Thanks constable. We’ll take it from here.’

  Henderson sat beside McLaren. Walters wandered off in search of a chair.

  ‘Hello Kevin. I’m Detective Inspector Angus Henderson, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Do you live local?’

  ‘Brighton.’

  ‘I guess you’ve heard of the Lewes Bonfire Night Celebrations?’

  Henderson nodded. ‘I’ve been to see it a couple of times.’ Walters returned with a chair and placed it facing their witness.

  ‘In which case you’ll know there are six bonfire societies in the town. One of the six, the Weald Bonfire Society, uses this warehouse to build the effigy that we burn on the bonfire, store fireworks and outfits, plan the procession and the bonfire; it’s our nerve centre, really.’

  ‘I see. What’s your role?’

  ‘Me? I’m one of the helpers. I’m a self-employed computer programmer and every year around this time I take a few days off work and come down here. A few of us do the same.’

  ‘Is this the reason why you came in here early this morning and opened up?’

  McLaren nodded. He looked down at the mug and with an element of surprise on his face, as if remembering its presence, took a drink. Henderson liked his tea black; to him McLaren’s brew looked sickly and smelled unpleasant, but for shock victims, and anyone finding a burnt-out body fell smack-bang into this category, milky sweetened tea hit the spot.

  Kevin McLaren looked heavy in build, mid-twenties with light brown hair, combed to one side. It looked a conventional cut and nothing like the buzz cuts, size zero arches and hawks favoured by many young men of a similar age around Brighton. He at least tried to keep up with the trend for facial hair as the makings of a moustache and a few days’ growth could be seen, but with the lad having such fair skin Henderson didn’t think it would amount to much.

  ‘What did you do when you first saw the body?’

  McLaren had obviously shut the charred heap near the door out of his mind, as mention of it again made his hands start shaking, the surface of the tea rippling like the trailer for a trashy earthquake film.

  ‘I…I had to take a closer look as I didn’t know for sure what it was; an animal or a pile of rags or something else. When I did and saw it was…human, I ran over to the corner over there,’ he said nodding to the left, ‘and threw up my guts. I then called 999.’

  ‘Do you know who it is?’

  ‘How the hell could I? It’s nothing but a…it’s a black mess.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t phrase that right. What I mean is, do you know of anyone who might have come here this morning before you?’

  McLaren shook his head. ‘Whenever I take a day off and do this, I’m always in here first.’

  ‘What about last night?’ Walters said. ‘Were you here?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Were you last to leave or do you know who was last to leave?’

  ‘I wasn’t the last one out as I usually don’t stay long when I know I’m doing a full session the next day. Who was last to leave last night?’ McLaren’s face twisted in concentration as if he had been asked a difficult question.

  ‘I dunno, Steve? No, maybe David. Oh, I remember now, Marc said he would come along later, probably after we’d all gone.’

  ‘Marc who?’ Walters asked.

  ‘Marc Emerson.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  McLaren’s face crumpled when he realised he might be talking about the charred corpse near the door.

  ‘My best friend,’ he said, tears dripping freely into his lap.

  THREE

  To Henderson’s relief, they confirmed the fire victim’s name shortly after the DI left the Cliffe Industrial Estate. Detectives had made a flurry of phone calls to track down other members of the Weald Bonfire Society, Marc Emerson’s home address, his mother’s, and that of his employer.

  The photographer at the murder scene had taken a close-up picture of a distinctive ring worn by the victim. When shown to Francis Quinlan, the MD of Quinlan Fine Foods, where Emerson worked as a salesman, he recognised it immediately as Marc wore it all the time. Any lingering doubts evaporated like steam through an open kitchen window when they confirmed the BMW sitting outside the Weald Society warehouse also belonged to him.

  Marc Emerson and his mother lived a few streets apart in Lewes, and after calling round at the victim’s house and finding no one at home, officers went to see his mother. They said she took the news ‘stoically,’ and now Henderson wanted to see her to gather information about the dead man, and to update her on the developments from yesterday. They knew now her son had been murdered.

  The post-mortem that morning at Brighton & Hove Mortuary confirmed a suspicion harboured by the pathologist. Traces of petrol were found on the victim’s remains. There was no reason for Marc to be handling petrol, the warehouse didn’t contain any and his car ran on diesel.

  If Marc had accidentally set himself on fire, Henderson would expect to see evidence of his attempts at putting the fire out, such as moving away from the petrol source, discarding flaming garments and rolling on the ground. In such a situation, the DI would expect to see partial or serious burns, singed hair and damaged clothes, but not death.

  If Marc had deliberately set himself on fire, the SOCOs would surely have discovered a container nearby. If made from plastic and engulfed by flames, traces of the material would still remain and would have been discovered by the pathologist. No, Marc Emerson didn’t accidentally set himself on fire and nor did he do it deliberately; someone murdered him.

  Henderson’s boss, Chief Inspector Lisa Edwards grumped and groaned when he told her about this new development, as the violent house robberies were already causing her major grief. The Argus seemed to be on a crusade to make every instance of their villainy front-page news. He didn’t need to point out to his boss the difference in seriousness of the offences, but promised there wouldn’t be any let-up in the pursuit of the robbers. DS Gerry Hobbs would be put in charge of the robbery investigation while Henderson would investigate the murder.

  Marc Emerson’s mother had divorced Marc’s biological father five years before, remarried, and was now known as Mrs Pickering. She was a chubby woman with dark brown hair in need of a wash, a freckled complexion and a slightly crooked nose. She smoked and, based on current evidence, did it regularly. However, the series of cigarettes she puffed in an almost continuous chain might also have had something to do with losing her only son.

  The officers who came to the house last night also told him that Mr Pickering was not at home when they called round to deliver the bad news, and it required calls to several local hostelries before he could be located. Jeff Pickering returned to the house and made a token job of consoling his wife, and seemed more troubled about missing a drinking session with his mates than his step-son’s untimely demise.

  It was Henderson’s turn to offer Marc Emerson’s mother some bad news, but much to his surprise, Gillian Pickering didn’t go to pieces on hearing the word ‘murder’. Tears welled in her eyes; he and Walters sat quietly for a minute to let he
r recover. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, lit a cigarette and turned to face them.

  ‘He was clever at school, my Marc, and I couldn’t have been more proud of him when he went to university. His dad was too, but it didn’t stretch to paying the fees when the bastard fucked off with the woman across the road, did it?’

  ‘How did Marc get into sales?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘He did the milk round thingy at university and everybody said he was a natural. He liked working at Quinlan’s and they treated him well. Old man Quinlan is now on his third wife, would you believe. I can’t see what they see in him myself. He’s a fat, old Irish geezer with wandering hands and a dirty mind, but then he does drive a fancy motor and owns a six-bedroom mansion in Hurstpierpoint,’ she said with a laugh.

  ‘Did Marc get on well with everyone there?’

  ‘Course he did, my Marc gets on with anybody. Mind you, he could be a bit of a charmer, takes after his mother he does. He dated a couple of women in the office. I told him not to as he had to work beside them, but he said he only needed to go into the office when he wanted summat, the rest of the time he was out in the car, talking to customers. One bird, I think she worked in the Accounts department or summat, wouldn’t leave him alone after he split with her. She kept sending him texts and coming round to his house at all hours; the stupid cow.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Christine summat, I think.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Henderson said. ‘We’ll get her name from Quinlan.’

  ‘Did you see your son often, Mrs Pickering?’ Walters asked.

  ‘He lived here in this house until about six months ago. He’s an easy going bloke my Marc, but he couldn’t get along with Jeff, my new man. They went at it like a pair of alley cats whenever the two of them got together.’

  ‘What did they argue about?’

  ‘He didn’t think Jeff treated me right, you know? It happens a lot in new marriages according to my friend Lena, and she should know with four kids all from different fathers. Collects them like cigarette cards, as my old mother used to say. In the end, Marc decided to buy his own place and move out. Best for everybody, I think.’

  Henderson could see the look of pride on her face, her son defending her honour against the newcomer, not realising or caring if it drove Marc away.

  ‘Did Marc’s relationship with your new husband–’

  ‘Jeff.’

  ‘Did Marc’s relationship with Jeff improve after he moved out?’ Walters said.

  Pickering looked to the ceiling but Henderson doubted she could see much of it for the cloud of cigarette smoke hovering over her head.

  ‘Not really; just the same I suppose. He doesn’t come around here much anymore. Why would he, just to get grief? I pop around to his house about once a week.’

  ‘You said he could be a bit of a charmer, Mrs Pickering,’ Henderson said. ‘Do any other girlfriends stand out?’

  ‘How do you mean, ‘stand out’ like?’

  ‘You know, did any of them cause problems or harass him like the girl at Quinlan’s, Christine did?’

  ‘Not that I can remember. Most of them behaved as good as gold.’

  ‘Did Marc ever marry?’

  ‘Yeah, divorced about two years ago. She’s called Juliet. Nice girl.’

  ‘Do you still have her contact details?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. Wait and I’ll take a look.’ She rose from the chair and left the room.

  ‘She talks about Marc as if he’s still around,’ Walters said to Henderson in a hushed voice.

  ‘News like this takes time to sink in. Everybody’s different. I don’t know about you, but I can see two suspects here.’

  ‘I’m thinking Christine in Accounts is one. Who’s the other?’

  ‘The father in-law, Jeff Pickering. I don’t like the sound of him. If Marc was so easy going, why were they always arguing?’

  ‘Good point.’

  Mrs Pickering came back into the room and handed the DI a piece of paper and a photograph. ‘That’s a picture of Juliet, and her address.’ She resumed her position in the chair. ‘Nice girl.’

  Juliet had straight brown hair parted in the centre. The glasses made her look serious, but aside from them she was extremely good-looking with bright blue eyes and pearly white teeth. Perhaps she wore glasses to create a studious aura, inviting people to take her seriously and not be distracted by what lay underneath.

  ‘Thank you,’ Henderson said as he tucked the paper and photograph in his jacket pocket. ‘Can I ask, what was Marc’s involvement with the Weald Bonfire Society?’

  ‘It was his dad’s fault; his real dad, I mean. He’d been a member for years and one day decided to bring Marc along. Of course he was fascinated by fire, lighted torches and explosives. Show me a boy who isn’t.’

  ‘What did he do there?’

  ‘Most of them do a bit of everything, but Marc’s big interest is fireworks. He tried to make the fireworks display, you know the one they let off at the bonfire after the procession, more professional. He wanted to tie it in more with the story behind the effigy.’

  ‘This is when they take the effigy they’ve been carrying through the town and burn it on the bonfire?’

  ‘That’s right. It can be a politician responsible for introducing an unpopular policy or a footballer who’s been screwing his wife’s best friend; anything really.’

  ‘Did he get on well with everyone at Weald?’ Walters asked.

  ‘I think he did,’ she said, lighting up yet another cigarette. ‘I’ve met a few of them over the years, some are good fun and others bloody bores, I can tell you. All they want to talk about is Bonfire Night.’

  ‘How about other friends not from work or Weald?’ Walters asked.

  She thought for a moment as she continued billowing smoke at the yellowed ceiling.

  ‘He’s got a few close friends like Kevin McLaren, but I suppose the closest is, or was, Guy Barton.’

  ‘We’ve met Kevin but not Guy Barton.’

  ‘Guy Barton and his dad are cut from the same lump of wood: a couple of wheeler-dealers. The old man operated a market stall in Croydon before he opened a proper shop here in Lewes, but it closed when he retired. Guy and his dad will do anything to turn in a few quid. Of course, Guy and Marc fell out big time.’

  ‘What did they argue about?’

  ‘I can’t really remember the details, but I do remember it came to blows.’

  The detectives asked a couple more questions and a few minutes later, decided to call a halt. Walking down the steps outside the semi-detached house, Henderson gulped in lungfuls of fresh Lewes air, refreshing tainted body cells and improving the smell in his nostrils. Walters the ex-smoker didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘She didn’t look very cut up about losing her son,’ Walters said as they headed towards the car.

  ‘She’s had a day to get her head around it.’

  ‘Yeah, but she didn’t know yesterday that he’d been murdered.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but maybe once she realised he was dead, she’d come to terms with losing him, or maybe it happened when she chose her husband’s happiness over that of her son.’

  ‘I think it turned out to be a fairly productive meeting, we’ve got three suspects.’

  ‘I can only see two. There’s a motive for Christine from Quinlan, and for Marc Emerson’s step-father, Jeff Pickering, but I didn’t hear enough to implicate his former friend, Guy Barton. We need to dig deeper.’

  FOUR

  Henderson walked into the Detectives’ Room on the second floor of Malling House. He headed towards the area in the corner allocated to the team he put together for the investigation into Marc Emerson’s murder. The team consisted of six detectives, all of whom were now sitting in front of him, and double this number of uniformed officers, currently engaged in carrying out door-to-door enquiries around the Cliffe Industrial Estate and undertaking many of the initial discussions with Marc Em
erson’s friends and associates.

  Late Wednesday afternoon, the tops of desks strewn with papers, bins overflowing with plastic coffee cups and everyone itching to get home to crack open a bottle of beer or wine. If they didn’t know it already, they were now working on a murder investigation and the tasks Henderson wanted them to do now would put the kibosh on leisure time and weekends for the foreseeable.

  ‘On Monday night,’ Henderson said, his finger tapping the victim’s picture on the board, ‘someone poured petrol over Marc Emerson and set him alight. The pathologist couldn’t say for definite, due to the poor condition of the body, but he couldn’t find any bruises or evidence to suggest he’d been drunk or high on drugs, but he’s convinced the killer must have incapacitated him in some way first. Neither he nor I can see how someone could sneak up behind a victim and kill them by spraying them with petrol.’

  ‘They might have used a stun-gun or some type of pepper spray,’ DC Sally Graham said.

  ‘You can buy these agricultural stun guns and some of them are strong enough to down a cow,’ DS Harry Wallop, their resident country expert said.

  There followed an animated discussion about stun-guns, anti-rape sprays, pepper sprays, CS gas and a whole range of equipment, much of which could be sourced from the police arsenal. Henderson soon brought it to a halt.

  ‘The point I want you all to take is this killing has all the hallmarks of a deliberate act, our perpetrator must have come equipped with both items. However, I do think it’s a bloody peculiar way to kill anyone.’

  ‘Might be the killer improvised,’ Sally Graham said, ‘and picked up some material he or she found near the crime scene. There must have been plenty of combustible stuff lying around the warehouse.’

  ‘There is, but crucially no petrol,’ Henderson said.