After the Fire (Maeve Kerrigan)

by Casey, Jane

  ‘I’d have to check. A couple of months, I think.’ She glanced in the direction of the garden and I thought I could understand why she kept the paperwork for the charity outside the house. Hundreds of women meant hundreds of stories that Harriet had absorbed. It was a family home: there were photos on the walls of beautiful, accomplished teenagers. I was willing to bet they didn’t know very much at all about their mother’s charitable work.

  ‘How long do most of them stay?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘Even though it’s free?’

  ‘They don’t want me to support them. They want to stand up for themselves. They want to prove to themselves and everyone else that they can cope without their partners. Besides, most of them don’t want to stay in one place for too long. It’s too dangerous. Most victims of domestic violence are killed by their partners just after they leave them.’ She was shivering. ‘The men are well resourced and angry. They like to exert control on their partners. They don’t like having that control taken away without their agreement. It’s easy to hire a private detective. Sometimes they involve the police, or social services. “My wife has run away with our children and all the cash in the house and I think she’s unstable.” That’s enough to get people making enquiries on your behalf, especially if you don’t have a criminal record because your wife was too ashamed or scared to report you and you live in a detached house so the neighbours don’t hear the screams.’

  ‘Has that ever happened to any of your ladies?’ I asked.

  ‘Once.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Harriet looked at me, her eyes the colour of cognac. ‘He stabbed her. She died in front of their two daughters.’

  ‘When was this?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘Eight years ago. That was when I stopped using flats in nice parts of London and bought up some ex-council properties. It’s easier to hide where there are a lot of people. Especially a place where the residents come and go frequently. No one notices a new tenant.’

  ‘This is the problem we’re having,’ Derwent said. ‘We don’t have anyone who can identify Melissa. She didn’t know anyone in the flats, it seems, and we haven’t been able to find any ID for her on any of the victims.’

  ‘Is Melissa her real name?’ I asked. ‘Melissa Hathaway?’

  Harriet shook her head. ‘No. Melissa, yes. I shouldn’t have said it. I gave her a new name. It’s easier for me to think up something that has no meaning for her. That makes it more difficult for anyone to guess it. She was called Vivienne Hathaway.’

  ‘And Sam?’

  ‘I think that was the new name she gave him. I don’t remember what it was before.’

  ‘Thomas,’ I suggested.

  She shrugged but I had the feeling she remembered extremely well, that she regretted giving us as much as Melissa’s first name by accident, and cooperation was not on the cards from this point on.

  ‘Did you meet her?’ I asked.

  ‘Just once.’

  ‘Do you have a photograph of her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s her real surname?’

  ‘I’m not going to give you that information without her permission.’

  ‘But we can’t get that permission if we can’t find her,’ Derwent said in his very reasonable I’m-near-the-end-of-my-tether voice.

  ‘Do you have contact information for anyone related to her – anyone she trusts? A family member?’ I asked.

  ‘Why?’

  Derwent straightened up, looming over the sofa. ‘Because at the moment her little boy is being looked after by some foster family social services have dug up, if he’s lucky. Or he’s sitting in an office somewhere waiting to find out if he’s still got a mother. The last home he had is gone and he doesn’t know where he’s going to end up. He’s confused and scared and on his own and I’d like to know he’s with someone he trusts.’ His voice had roughened as he spoke. He walked away a little before he added, ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  Harriet was staring down at her hands, looking stubborn. ‘I’m sorry. I find it hard to trust the police. I’ve been let down too many times. It puts people in danger. That’s why I have a rule about not giving out personal information.’

  ‘Even in these circumstances?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t you think Melissa would want to know her son was being looked after? Isn’t that why she came to you instead of one of the refuges you mentioned?’ I spoke softly, hoping I could persuade her where Derwent’s temper had failed. ‘She wants what’s best for her boy, and the best thing is her. If she can’t look after him, who comes next? Not his father.’

  Harriet hugged herself, saying nothing.

  ‘If we can identify Thomas or Sam or whatever his name is by some other means – and we will – you know his father will be likely to get custody. Especially if there’s no record of domestic violence. Especially if Melissa is incapacitated or dead.’

  She dropped her head down on to her chest and shuddered.

  ‘If we have a grandmother or a sister or even a best friend – someone Melissa trusts – we can keep him out of foster care and postpone returning him to his father until the family courts have had a chance to consider the best place for him. So do you have contact details for someone suitable?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly.

  ‘And can you give them to us so we can get in touch with them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ Derwent said under his breath and I incinerated him with a glare. Far too risky to assume Harriet was on our side.

  A rattle of feet on the stairs announced the return of the man who’d let us in, this time knotting a tie. He was wearing a very well-cut suit and looked sleek rather than paunchy. He’d tamed his hair in the shower and his cufflinks gleamed gold as he whipped the silk tie through his fingers.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Fine, Matt.’ Harriet pulled herself together and gave him a smile. ‘I need to help the police with their inquiries but I don’t think I’m actually under arrest.’

  ‘It’s all voluntary,’ Derwent said.

  ‘Try and stop her from volunteering in a good cause.’ Matt Edmonds leaned over the back of the sofa and kissed the top of his wife’s head. ‘Don’t put yourself through too much, though.’ Without her seeing, he looked at Derwent, then me, and the expression in his eyes was cold. I wouldn’t want to cross him, I decided.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Harriet said, oblivious.

  ‘Do that. I have meetings all morning but Kendall can interrupt me. I’ll be glad of a break.’ He strode out of the room, back up the stairs to the front door. When he slammed it shut the sound reverberated through the entire house.

  ‘I’m sure the neighbours loathe us,’ Harriet said tranquilly. ‘You could set a clock by him. Every day, just the same. The children used to hate it.’

  ‘I assume they’re not here at the moment,’ I said.

  ‘Moved out. One is at university.’ She smiled but her eyes were sad. ‘It all went so quickly.’

  ‘That’s what my mum says.’

  She stood up, tucking her dressing gown around her. ‘Do you want the contact details now?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘And we’ll need you to come with us if you don’t mind,’ Derwent said. ‘I still need to find Melissa as a matter of urgency. You’re the only person I’ve found who could identify her, even tentatively.’

  She nodded. ‘I understand. Can I get changed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She started to walk towards the stairs, her head down.

  ‘Why do you do this?’ The question seemed to surprise Derwent as much as Harriet, who turned, nonplussed, to stare at him. ‘I mean, you have it all, don’t you? Money, nice house, successful kids. It can’t just be to pass the time.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ She pulled back her dressing gown a little and we stared at the long, jagged
silver scar that ran across her chest from the base of her throat. ‘My first husband was a very violent man. I almost didn’t leave in time. I didn’t want to deprive my daughter of all the things she took for granted. I thought I could stand it, for her sake.’

  ‘But you couldn’t.’

  ‘No. I went to a hotel. I took Ruth and I took my jewellery and some money – not much. And he found us.’ She touched the scar lightly. ‘I was lucky. I try to make sure the women I help are even luckier.’

  This time, when she moved towards the stairs, Derwent let her go.

  Chapter 8

  WE WERE LATE arriving at the briefing and Una Burt looked distinctly unimpressed. Derwent walked straight past her to find a seat. The room was full of faces, all turned towards us. I tried not to catch anyone’s eye and settled down in a seat next to Liv.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Burt demanded of Derwent, who was causing maximum chaos by making for a seat at the far end of a row.

  ‘Finding the boy’s mother,’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘And?’

  ‘We found her. Her name’s Melissa Pell, if anyone’s interested.’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘Sort of.’ He eased himself into a seat. ‘Fractured eye socket, smoke inhalation. She was asleep and we weren’t allowed to wake her.’

  We’d found her after touring all of the victims in the hospital. Harriet Edmonds had suffered through it without complaint, gallant and dedicated as she was. I had been expecting – and dreading – a trip to the hospital morgue, where the fatalities were stored, waiting for the pathologist to deal with them. It was a huge relief when Harriet had turned to us and said, ‘That’s her.’

  She had known her straight away, despite the bandages and the bruising to her face. It was hard to tell what Melissa looked like normally but she was slightly built with fine, delicate hands and a profusion of corkscrew-curly fair hair. Once I knew who she was, I could see how her son resembled her in the shape of his face and the colour of his hair.

  ‘But she should recover,’ Una Burt said.

  ‘She should,’ Derwent said. ‘In the meantime, her mother is coming to London to look after the boy.’

  ‘So you can stop worrying about her and concentrate on your actual job.’ Una Burt shuffled her papers, not looking in Derwent’s direction.

  Derwent folded his arms. ‘I rather thought it was part of my actual job to find out how she was injured, in case it was deliberate.’

  ‘She fell. We covered this at the scene.’ Burt shot a glance at the fire investigator, Harper, who checked his notes.

  ‘That’s what we’ve assumed. It’s certainly not unusual to have injuries of that sort in a large fire.’

  ‘Where did they find her?’ I asked.

  ‘In the hallway on the eighth floor,’ Harper said.

  I frowned. ‘Why was she there? She lived on the tenth floor.’

  ‘Someone might have helped her out of the stairwell,’ Harper said. ‘It was full of people as well as smoke. She was in danger of being trampled if she was unconscious.’

  ‘According to the control room’s logs, did anyone say there was a woman in need of assistance on the eighth floor?’ I asked.

  ‘Not according to my notes.’

  ‘Not very helpful to rescue her and then abandon her to her fate.’

  ‘There were a lot of firefighters in the building supervising the evacuation. It would have been reasonable to assume they would come across her, as indeed they did.’

  ‘But—’ I started to object and Una Burt cleared her throat.

  ‘I think we’d all like to hear what Mr Harper has to tell us about the fire, Maeve, rather than concentrating on creating a mystery around one of the victims.’

  I sat back in my seat, my face burning.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Harper began, ‘we’ve been working quite hard on trying to find where the fire originated. Ordinarily I would work from the areas of least damage towards the areas that were most damaged to find the place that the fire burned for longest. Because of the way it spread through the ventilation system, this fire didn’t burn in a consistent way through the building.’

  He had a flip chart on a stand behind him and now he turned to it. There was a rectangular shape on the page, roughly drawn, divided into sections. ‘This is a floorplan I drew of the tenth floor and obviously it’s just for reference, not to scale. We can say fairly certainly that the fire began on this floor and jumped to the eleventh floor. The ninth floor was smoke-damaged but none of the flats here were involved in the fire directly. So looking at the tenth floor, this is the outside staircase which you came up.’ He pointed at a zigzag line, then moved on to the box he’d drawn next to it. ‘This is flat 101, 102, and so on. The damage is concentrated in the flats here, at this end of the corridor, and on the north side of the building.’

  ‘Could it have started in one of the flats?’ Una Burt asked. ‘Or in the corridor?’

  ‘It’s possible that it was in one of the flats,’ Harper said. ‘We need to talk to the residents to find out what they were doing before the fire broke out. It was early evening so people were cooking meals. I found the remains of an iron and an ironing board in the kitchen of flat 101. We joke about leaving the iron on but it’s easily done and it can ignite fabric if it’s left in contact with it for too long. Hair straighteners are another regular culprit – very hot, very easy to leave switched on and if they’re lying on a bed or a carpeted surface you’re almost guaranteed a fire. But certain things about this fire make me suspicious that we might be dealing with arson, not an accidental blaze.’

  Everyone in the room sat up a little in their chairs, consciously or unconsciously, paying closer attention.

  Harper pointed at a small box on the floor plan, near the outside staircase. ‘This was once a store cupboard. It was completely destroyed in the fire. The back wall of it had burned through to the flat behind it, which was flat 101. Bear in mind that the fire may have originated inside the flat so we can’t assume the store cupboard burned first. However, looking at the burn patterns on what’s left in the cupboard, it seems likely that the fire moved from south to north, not the other way. The majority of the damage is on the south side of the objects. Fire consumes what it needs to and moves on, so where you have a half-charred object you can assume the burning started on the more damaged side. But as I say, the destruction was quite comprehensive in this area.’

  ‘Who had access to the store cupboard?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘The cleaners and maintenance staff on the estate. According to the management it was kept locked, but there was nothing of particular value in it so I don’t think the lock would have kept out a determined thief. We’ll sift through the wreckage to try to find it. We should be able to work out if the lock was still engaged when the fire destroyed the door, or if it was damaged before the fire began, or if it was left open.’

  ‘What was in the store cupboard?’ Burt asked.

  ‘Floor cleaner, rags, pressurised containers, a floorpolishing machine and an industrial vacuum cleaner – that sort of thing. A lot of it was highly flammable. But it was properly stored, according to the management, and I’ve had a look at other store cupboards lower down in the same building and found nothing that made me think anyone was careless.’

  ‘Nothing that could spontaneously combust?’ Chris Pettifer asked.

  ‘In my opinion, no. There are certain oils that can combust in the right circumstances, such as linseed oil, and we’ll test the residue of the fire for the chemical compounds associated with it, but I’ve checked and there was no reason to store linseed oil in this cupboard. The management said they had no use for it and I didn’t find any in any of the other cupboards, all of which were stocked similarly.’

  ‘So if it didn’t start accidentally or spontaneously it’s got to be arson,’ Una Burt said.

  Harper nodded. ‘Which would fit with the speed of the fire’s development and the heat it generate
d immediately. I can’t tell you what accelerant might have been used until we’ve conducted tests on the chemical residues, but in my experience a fire of this sort will have begun with some sort of accelerant and a naked flame. Whoever set it did a good job of finding a fuel source for the fire. I don’t think they could have anticipated how successful the fire was going to be. It shouldn’t have gone into the ventilation system, and no one could have predicted that it would, but it obviously did.’

  ‘So who are we looking for?’ Derwent asked. ‘Someone who gets a kick out of setting fires?’

  Harper gave him a grim smile. ‘That’s the classic arsonist that people imagine – the kid watching the fire crews, cheering at the size and intensity of the flames. No remorse, no conscience, no concept of how dangerous their actions might be – just in it for the thrill. But that’s only one kind of arsonist. People set fires for a lot of different reasons. Sometimes it’s for profit, for an insurance claim or to wipe out your competitor’s business. Sometimes it’s to hide a crime. It’s a good way of destroying forensic evidence that could otherwise be collected.’

  I’d been involved with an investigation into a serial killer who burned his victims’ bodies after he’d killed them. I knew all about how destructive fire could be. It still made me shiver.

  Harper went on, ‘But then you have the fire setters who do it as a way of coping with trauma in their life – it expresses something that they aren’t able to put into words. You’ll get a run of fires over a short period and then the arsonist recovers, if you like, or whatever has been stressing them passes, and so they don’t have that need to set fires any more. Or you have the delinquent fire setters who are usually kids, a bit bored, playing around with matches. They’re the kids who don’t have good impulse control, who don’t think about the consequences of their actions. The police come across them when they have to arrest them for doing stupid, dangerous things for the fun of it. Or you have the kids who set a fire as a cry for help, hoping that they’ll get noticed. They’re often socially isolated, bullied, or coping with sexual or physical abuse at home.’