‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you there.’
It was a raw, windy day, the temperature a good three degrees lower than it had been in London. I was wearing an inexpensive, not-very-well-fitting suit that had been sitting in a bag in the boot of my car for some time, as had the brown knitted tie that was around my neck. I’d bought the suit ten years ago when I’d wanted something to wear for work, something that I wouldn’t mind getting torn or sweat-stained. I wore it when I was in court, or interviewing relatives or when I didn’t need to blend in. It was the kind of suit a copper would wear.
I did as John Hammond told me, crossing a footbridge and walking up a slight incline opposite a big green space. Cars and lorries thundered by me on the road to my left but I still got a feeling of relaxation from the streets and shops that I passed. It just wasn’t London. It was different, even though it looked quite similar to parts of the capital, any of the roads leading out of the centre of Hammersmith for instance. Tree-lined but urban. Maybe it was the people. They weren’t bound up so tight. An old lady passed and rather than looking to be in constant fear for her life, she said hello. A teenager pulling on a roll-up nodded to me as he slouched by. I smiled back, a little too late, then turned to see a taxi stopping to let a cyclist turn right against the traffic. I blinked and looked again. No, the cyclist was waving thanks; it really had happened.
I turned onto Woodvale Road and saw that it was a pleasant enclave complete with a deli and a butcher and a cafe up ahead filled with curled wickerwork chairs. I had a thought. Surely, as an expectant father, I should come and live somewhere like this. Where people didn’t seem to actively loathe members of their own species and I could afford a house and a new car and a garden for the kid to play in. Quality of life, it was far greater here, wasn’t it? I saw myself saying hi to my neighbour, asking him if he wanted anything from B&Q. My arms filled with a cold terror. I could never do it. I passed the cafe and saw that the wickerwork chairs – wickerwork for godsake – had pink padded seats. And the deli, it was one of those poncey ones with nice jam, not an Italian with Parma ham and Vin Santo. Where would I buy my roasted artichoke hearts? I couldn’t help wondering: why did all these people, who had one life each, live here? Not in Barcelona or New York, Berlin or Paris? What did they do if they wanted to go to the new, must-see contemporary dance group from Uzbekistan? Or eat in some TV chef’s new restaurant? Wasn’t life hurtling past them like an express train when you’re on the local service? I shook my head. Life did that in London too. You just had the tube to annoy you, the congestion charge to bitch about, house prices to laugh at, and just enough burglaries and muggings to read about or endure that you didn’t notice.
Number 214 Woodvale Road was a semi-detached house of red brick in a row of identical properties. It was two-storey, Thirties, and looked to have three bedrooms. It was a normal house, or rather would be when the builders had finished with it: planks were laid along the drive leading in through the front door, one of which was being used by a builder pushing a barrow load of cement. I could see more men inside. I turned from them to the windows of the top floor, noticing the blackened brickwork around the edges of the sills, like mascara that’s run. The windows themselves were newly installed, a simple design made of UPVC.
‘It was completely gutted,’ a deep, powerful voice behind me said. ‘The upstairs at least. The poor bugger never stood a chance. We tell people about those things, you know? Electric blankets. Cross that with smoking in bed when you’ve had a few like he did and you may as well jump in front of a train. The result’s the same. DC Rucker? Hammond, John Hammond.’
I turned and shook hands with Chester’s assistant chief fire officer and then followed him as he negotiated the planking and general debris to get to the front door of Number 214. John Hammond was a tall man in his late forties, carrying a lot of weight around the middle. He was an ex-fireman I guessed, who didn’t get as much exercise as he used to, though he was still a powerful presence. His face was long and heavy, the skin thick as a Wellington boot, a broken nose flattened onto it like a wad of Plasticine. Ex-rugby man too, I said to myself, as we stood in the hallway of the house.
The walls around us had yet to be plastered and the floor we were standing on was concrete.
‘Don’t need to ask what it’s about.’ Hammond’s voice was loud enough to address a conference. ‘Chester CID got in touch yesterday and I showed them round last night. Connected to the women being killed down in the smoke?’
‘We’re pretty certain.’
‘That’s what they told me. You London fellas needed to come and look for yourselves, then? Didn’t trust our lot?’
‘I just thought it was worth checking out.’
‘Don’t blame you, it’s your job not theirs. I never let anyone else investigate anything for me. Anyway, you got any questions before we start or do you just want to go up?’
‘One,’ I said. ‘Why’s it been so long? Six years before the place was done up?’
‘The daughter,’ Hammond said. ‘She only just sold it. The house wasn’t written off after the blaze, it didn’t need demolishing. I wrote the report. The girl’s uncle was in charge of it until she came of age and he said to just leave it. We made sure it wasn’t going to fall down and then got it boarded up. Neighbours weren’t happy but there was nothing they could do. Shrewd move as it turns out with property prices shooting up the way they have. Not like in your neck of the woods but they’re still rising. She’d have made a killing on it.’
I trailed after the fire officer through the downstairs rooms, a plumber at work connecting water pipes in the stripped kitchen. There was no sense of atmosphere in the place, nothing to give away what it had looked like when the Olivers had lived there. Upstairs was the same. Apart from the scorched brickwork round the windows there was nothing to show what had happened there. Nothing to show what had gone on in the days, months and years before the blaze. As we stood in the empty, echoing master bedroom, Hammond showed me where the bed had been and told me what had happened. What he thought had happened.
‘The guy was on his own,’ he boomed. ‘His wife was dead, you know that?’
I nodded.
‘Colleagues said he was pretty down, had been for a while. Anyway, his body was too charred for the forensic bods to tell much but we found a bottle of whisky by the bed, the remains of one. There were beer cans downstairs, eight if I remember right. Empty. It was a Saturday night, January, and we think he just had a binge and fell asleep, the blanket on high and a fag in his hand. Neighbours called three nines but by the time the engines got here it was all over.’
‘And you’re certain about the electric blanket and the cigarette?’
Hammond shrugged. ‘The fire definitely started from the bed. We found the remains of the blanket, and while we can’t say if it was faulty because of the condition it was in, it was an old one. You’ve got to go with what you’ve got when you’re trying to figure these things out.’
‘Of course. But was he conscious at all during the fire? Where was the body found?’
‘In the bed, what was left of it.’
‘Isn’t that a little odd? Wouldn’t he have at least tried to get out, once he realized his bed was on fire?’
‘If he realized. In answer to your question I don’t think he regained consciousness. He was out cold from drink don’t forget but, anyway, there’s the smoke. Mattresses, blankets, they can smoulder for a long time before they go up.’
‘I see. So, no suggestion of foul play then?’
‘None that we could find, though I can’t rule it out. You very seldom can with fire, it’s a weapon anyone can come by. Someone could have put something in his whisky to help him sleep, could have left the cigarette burning when he was sparked out. It’s possible. No one saw anyone leaving the house, though, so what can you do?’
I nodded. ‘Suicide?’
The fire officer smiled. ‘That’s what buying an electric blanket is.’ I smile
d back. ‘It could have been but I doubt it. It’s not exactly a foolproof method. The possibility of severe pain puts most people off it. There’s easier ways.’
‘And the daughter, where was she?’
‘At her uncle’s, thank God. He was taking her off walking or something early next day so she’d stayed over with him. She was lucky.’
‘Or she was clever,’ I said. ‘Clever enough to set this up so that no one ever found out.’
‘The daughter?’ John Hammond stood tall and put his hands on his hips. He was amazed. Chester CID had obviously kept him in the dark. ‘But she was only, what, fifteen at the time? Why on God’s earth would his daughter have wanted to do something like that?’
* * *
The fire officer and I chatted away a little while longer. When he asked if I had any more questions I said just one: how do I get to Stevenson Fisher High School? John Hammond told me and I thanked him for his time. I walked up Woodvale Road until I came to a crossroads, where I took the left fork. After five minutes I came to the edge of a small park. The modern, boxshaped mass that was Stevenson Fisher loomed up on the other side of it.
I was early for my meeting, having expected the tour of the Olivers’ house to take longer than it had. I spent the time sitting on a bench in the park, chatting to another old lady, who offered me some of her bread so that I could feed the pigeons too. As I did so I thought about what John Hammond had told me and wondered – could it really have been an accident? If it had been, then maybe that explained the force of the girl’s venom, directed now towards me. She’d been denied revenge once, she wanted to make it count this time. It was possible but I doubted it. She’d either tampered with the electric blanket and got lucky or set the blaze herself. On a dark night in January she’d probably have been able to get out the back way without anyone seeing her. What hit me was the timescale. The fire had happened a long time after I’d found her for her father. Carolyn Oliver had had to endure another year and a half’s abuse before she’d managed to pluck up enough courage to end it. I couldn’t help being hit by sympathy for her. Sympathy. For this person who had done what she had to Ally.
It was exactly five minutes to three when I pushed open a pair of heavy double doors and was assailed by a smell which, while made up of many different elements, from canteen food to floor polish, said only one thing to me: school. It brought Jen Ballard to me and I remembered another time I’d sat next to her. At the Charter Day Dinner. She’d looked suddenly beautiful and I’d wanted to ask her to dance later but was too embarrassed: she wasn’t one of the cool girls the cool guys danced with. I shook my head and let the doors swing closed. Before I’d taken more than two steps I was stopped by a blonde fifteen-year-old wearing a grey skirt and a burgundy sweatshirt with a Stevenson Fisher badge over her left breast. What’s the other one called? I might have asked her, twenty years ago. Even though the sweatshirt was quite shapeless the girl still managed to make it look slutty, a fresh coating of lipgloss sealing the effect.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her hands behind her back.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But shouldn’t you be in a lesson?’
The rest of the hall was deathly quiet.
‘Got thrown out,’ the girl said, ‘for being a naughty girl. This is what we get, have to mind the doors. Who are you? New teacher?’
It was better than being thought one of the parents. ‘No,’ I laughed.
‘It’s just the suit. It looks like a teacher’s. But you’re not?’
‘I’m here to see the deputy head. Mr Fanshawe.’
‘What a shame. I wouldn’t have minded having you. You could have smacked me any time.’
‘And no doubt you’d have deserved it. But Mr Fanshawe’s office – fancy showing me the way?’
‘If you like. What you seeing Fanny for? You been a naughty boy too?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘though I’m thinking about it. This way is it?’
I followed the girl down a corridor to the left, trying not to smile every time she looked back over her shoulder and grinned at me. We turned a few corners, the lemon yellow walls lined with the results of a painting competition. The girl stopped at a door and knocked and we were greeted by a harassed, bobbing man in a crumpled beige jacket and green trousers. He motioned me into the room.
‘Thank you, Natasha. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘I’m sure. Next time try to be as attentive to Mr Cruikshank, then you won’t have to stand in the hall all afternoon.’
‘If Mr Cruikshank looked like him I would be.’
‘Thank you, Natasha,’ the deputy head said again. He shut the door of his small office and turned to me. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘No problem. Being flirted with by attractive schoolgirls doesn’t hurt the ego any.’
‘I remember. It’s when they stop that it hurts, something all male teachers have to come to terms with sooner or later. Some years ago for me. Now the likes of Natasha Girton just get on my nerves. Me on hers too, no doubt. But anyway, sit down. Tea?’
‘Would be great. Thank you, Mr Fanshawe.’
‘Sam,’ the teacher said. ‘Call me Sam.’
Unlike John Hammond, Sam Fanshawe wasn’t a big man. He was a little over five-seven, with wavy unkempt hair that was receding and should probably have been cut a lot shorter by now. Sam had a disparate, jabbing energy that seemed to move in six directions at once as he looked for the kettle, turned for the teapot, then fumbled with a milk carton. He seemed like a nice guy, though, something I could tell before I’d even met him. The girl in the hall had called him Fanny but she’d sounded like she tolerated the deputy head. From Natasha it probably meant a lot. Sam Fanshawe’s next question, however, was not one I wanted to be asked.
‘You don’t mind if I take down your warrant number, do you? I wouldn’t ask but the head insisted. She’s a bit of a fussbudget I’m afraid, though I would say that, wouldn’t I? She got the job, not me.’
Sam Fanshawe was laughing, embarrassed by his request, but he stopped when he saw the expression on my face. I told him that I wasn’t a policeman and before he could get me out of the door I told him who I actually was. Not going into too many details I told him what connection I had to Carolyn Oliver, a former pupil at Stevenson Fisher, and to her father who had been a teacher there. Sam Fanshawe was silent as I went through it, blanching when I told him of the discoveries I’d made. He remained silent for a minute or so after I’d finished.
‘He was a friend of mine,’ he said eventually, his eyes hazy.
‘Brian Oliver?’
Fanshawe nodded, closing his eyes for a second. ‘Hannah was too. His wife. She taught English here. He was economics. They were both friends. Such a damn shame. And now their daughter, she’s doing this? Carolyn? Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Positive. She told me for one thing.’
‘And it’s because you found her for Brian? She blames you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She was pregnant.’ I hesitated. I hadn’t told Sam Fanshawe about his friend’s abuse of his daughter. ‘She lost the baby on her return and was told she couldn’t conceive again. She blamed her father and me, as well as developing a hatred of pregnant women. Pathological, I guess you could say. It’s possible that her first murder occurred while she was actually right here in Chester. That of her father. She might well have been responsible for the fire that killed him. I doubt we’ll ever know for sure.’
‘Wouldn’t the police have discovered that at the time?’
‘Perhaps, but perhaps not. There wasn’t much evidence and I believe that Carolyn is a very resourceful woman. Did you teach her?’
‘Yes,’ Fanshawe admitted. His eyes were cast upwards, his head moving slightly from side to side. Trying to remember if there had been any signs. I thought he was going to say something more but the words tailed off before he could utter them.
‘What was she like?’ I prompted him.
Again Fanshawe shook his head and then he shrugged. ‘She was a quiet girl,’ he said eventually. ‘Quiet, withdrawn. She might have been resourceful like you say but if she was I never saw any sign of it. Sorry, but that’s the best I can come up with. I wish I could say more. It’s background on her that you want, isn’t it? So that you can find her?’
‘That’s right. Anything you tell me might be useful. And about her parents.’
‘Of course. Well, as I say, Carolyn was quiet. Diligent, got her work in on time. I teach science when I can find the time. Carolyn was one of those invisible students. The sort teachers pray for and then get bored with. The bright ones and the bad ones make the hours go more quickly, you see. We tend to let girls like Carolyn drift along, I’m afraid. We shouldn’t but we do. They get Cs and Bs and then you find yourself sitting in front of their mums and dads at parents’ evening, trying to remember who the hell you’re talking about. If it weren’t for the fact that she was the daughter of friends, I’d probably be sitting here now telling you I’ve no recollection of the girl. Although, no, I probably would have remembered after what happened.’
‘You mean the fire? That killed her father?’
‘The fire, yes. But not just that. Before. The fire didn’t surprise me, though you telling me it could have been the girl’s doing is a shock. No. Before then. I mean Carolyn had always been a shy thing but then, well, she just disappeared into her shell.’
Sam Fanshawe stopped speaking, suddenly realizing that he had a cup of tea in his hand. He put it down with an irritated jerk to his left and then looked away from me. His eyes were damp and his breath was coming in short bursts. I thought he must have known about the abuse Carolyn suffered, or at least suspected, and that he was being assailed by waves of backdated guilt. I wanted to ask him but I knew I was on dodgy ground; he could tell me to leave in a second. He looked at me, and smiled and I realized that, no, he hadn’t been thinking about his friend’s treatment of his daughter. He waited while footsteps disappeared down the corridor outside.
It Was You Page 23