After the Fire (Maeve Kerrigan)

by Casey, Jane

  ‘I’m trying,’ Louise whispered. ‘It ain’t easy. They’ve got the hump because we’ve been stuck in here all day.’

  ‘Supporting my family in their hour of need.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter to her,’ Nina said venomously. ‘She’d see us on the street sooner than offer to take us in.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Louise looked wounded. ‘I’d never leave you with nowhere to go.’

  Derwent had obviously judged that the family squabbling could go on all day. He raised his voice so he could be heard. ‘Where is Debbie?’

  ‘She’s with Becky,’ Carl said.

  ‘No, she’s not,’ Nina snapped. To us, she said, ‘She wanted to stay with her but she’s not allowed. They let her wait in the hall, by Becky’s room.’

  ‘We’ll go and speak to her in a minute.’

  Nina snorted. ‘She won’t be able to tell you anything. Never pays any attention to what’s going on around her. She’s in a dream half the time.’

  ‘You never know. Sometimes people see things or hear things that don’t seem significant at the time but they’re important for us to know,’ I said. ‘And on that point, did any of you see anything suspicious yesterday? Or hear anything?’

  Carl and Nina shook their heads in unison. Nathan was invisible.

  ‘Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to harm you or anyone in your family?’ Derwent’s tone was matter-of-fact and the question was routine but the effect on Carl Bellew was striking. He went pale and started opening and closing his mouth like a recently landed fish.

  ‘Course not.’ Nina shot a look at her son. ‘There’s no reason, is there, Carl?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head again, this time so violently that his jowls rasped on the collar of his shirt.

  ‘Why are you making out this was something to do with us?’ Rocco leaned forward, his hands balled into massive fists that he braced on his thighs. ‘We’ve done nothing to bother anyone.’

  ‘We have to ask,’ I said smoothly. ‘You’d be surprised. Anyone can get into a fight, can’t they?’

  ‘People don’t fight with us,’ Nina Bellew said.

  ‘Not if they know what’s good for them.’ Rocco said it in a mutter but I heard it, and Nina heard it. She turned and treated her other son to the look she’d given his brother.

  ‘What’s your date of birth, Carl?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘Seven, seven, seventy.’

  ‘The seventh of July, 1970.’ Derwent was writing it down.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘And what do you do for a living?’ I asked.

  ‘Handyman,’ Carl muttered. Louise couldn’t quite keep the look of surprise off her face, I noticed. She bent her head over one of her daughters so I couldn’t see her expression any more.

  ‘You must be doing well,’ Derwent said pleasantly. ‘You bought your flat, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He looked shifty. ‘It was a right-to-buy type of thing. The council was selling so we bought it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and Mum.’

  ‘You’re not on the paperwork, Mrs Bellew,’ Derwent said.

  ‘I gave him some money. So what? It was a family matter.’ She smiled at her son, revealing shining white dentures that were as even and unsettling as the teeth of a ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘He knows better than to try and kick me out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to even try,’ Carl said. Sweat glinted on his upper lip and across his forehead.

  ‘Have you lived there long?’ I asked.

  ‘Only since it was built; 1966, I moved in,’ Nina said. ‘Never lived anywhere else as a married woman. Never wanted to.’

  ‘And you were all right with your son and his wife living with you?’

  ‘Course I was. Family’s family. Anyway, he was always my favourite.’

  ‘Oi!’ Rocco looked genuinely upset. ‘Leave it out, Mum.’

  She cackled. ‘I’m only pulling your leg.’

  Derwent turned to Carl. ‘Where did you keep your tools? In the flat?’

  He looked cagey. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘We’re looking for anything that could have started the fire accidentally. If you had a drill charging or if you had paint or varnish it would help us to know about it.’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘So where do you keep your tools?’ I asked.

  ‘In a lock-up garage behind Barber House.’

  ‘That’s one of the other tower blocks,’ I said to Derwent.

  ‘That’s lucky, isn’t it? You won’t have lost anything.’ Derwent’s tone was deceptively light.

  ‘Yeah. Of course.’ Carl glanced at his mother, looking for help, and got only withering scorn. ‘Is there any chance we can get back into the flat?’

  ‘No. It’s too dangerous,’ Derwent said firmly.

  ‘There’s something I’ve got to get.’

  ‘If it was in the flat, it’s gone.’ Derwent shook his head. ‘Smoke damage, fire damage, water damage. Whatever it is, it’s had it, mate.’

  ‘No, I understand that. But it’s of sentimental value, you know.’

  ‘There really wasn’t anything left,’ I said, thinking of the scorched chandelier hanging over the wreckage in the living room. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘There was a safe. In my room.’ Nina Bellew blinked very rapidly. ‘Behind the bed. Not big. Thirteen inches by ten by ten.’ She sketched out the size with her free hand. The other was still clinging to her handbag. ‘The safe was supposed to be fireproof. There are things in it that I should have.’

  ‘I can ask the fire crews and scene of crime officers to look out for it,’ I said.

  ‘They can’t touch it. It’s mine.’

  ‘Mrs Bellew, they’ll be clearing out the contents of your flat. If they come across anything that can be salvaged, including the safe, it will be returned to you.’

  ‘They’ll nick it now they know it’s valuable. But it’s not money or jewellery. Nothing like that.’ She blinked again, and I realised it was a sign she was agitated. ‘It’s personal. Sentimental value, like what Carl said.’

  ‘I promise you, they won’t steal anything,’ I said. ‘They’d get fired immediately if they were caught. It wouldn’t be worth it.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ Nina croaked.

  ‘It’s what I know.’

  ‘I’ll tell them to look out for it. Whatever they recover, you’re welcome to inspect it. If they find it and the contents have been destroyed, you’ll be able to reassure yourself that the safe was fire-damaged, not emptied.’

  ‘Listen, missy, I know they can make it look as if it was burned and everything was destroyed. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘When were you born, Mrs Bellew?’ Derwent asked, his pen poised over his notebook.

  She looked horrified. ‘That’s not something I tell my nearest and dearest, young man.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not near or dear. I’m a police officer and I’m asking for your date of birth.’

  ‘Fifteenth of February.’ Her normal rasp was muted to a mumble.

  ‘Year?’

  ‘’46.’

  ‘1946,’ Derwent said clearly. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bellew. And what was your maiden name?’

  ‘Hayes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Piss off,’ she muttered.

  ‘What was that, Mrs Bellew?’

  ‘Nothing. Here, haven’t you asked us enough questions? We’re very upset, you know. We’ve lost our home and our belongings and my little granddaughter is very ill. Can’t you leave us in peace?’

  ‘Almost done,’ Derwent said with a sympathetic smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I need an address for you in case we need to contact you again.’

  ‘They’ll be living with me,’ Rocco said, and the two girls sat bolt upright, stricken.

  ‘What – all of them?’ Louise laughed. ‘Where are we going to put them?’

  ‘
We’ll manage, all right?’ To Derwent, he said, ‘It’s 24 Eastfield Lane.’

  ‘And a telephone number for each of you.’ Derwent passed his notebook around, turned to a fresh page so they couldn’t see what he’d written down about them. Nina didn’t even glance at it.

  ‘Ain’t got a phone. Don’t like mobiles. The radiation cooks your brain.’

  ‘You can get hold of Mum through me,’ Carl said. ‘She won’t be far from me.’

  ‘Or me.’ Rocco scowled at his brother. ‘We’ll be right beside her.’

  ‘Aren’t I lucky.’ Nina Bellew winked at Derwent and it was impossible to tell if she meant what she was saying, or if we were supposed to understand the exact opposite.

  Chapter 10

  ‘I HAVE QUESTIONS.’

  ‘So do I,’ Derwent said. I followed him down the hospital corridor, struggling slightly to keep up with him. A polished floor and heels did not go together, but I liked wearing heels. I was tall anyway. I never minded being taller still, especially at work. There were men who had decided against causing me trouble, purely because I could look them in the eye.

  One of them was walking a stride ahead of me.

  ‘Why did you ask Mrs Bellew for her date of birth?’ I asked.

  ‘I want to run her through the box.’ He meant the PNC database.

  ‘Do you think she has a record?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. And her sons definitely do.’ Derwent sidestepped a young nurse, then turned to watch her walk away. He gave a soundless whistle. ‘I love hospitals.’

  ‘You’re a cliché.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Who doesn’t fancy nurses? Young and pretty, eager to please, nice little uniform …’

  ‘She was wearing scrubs, which are not exactly designed to be titillating.’

  ‘Titillating,’ Derwent repeated, grinning. ‘Titillating.’

  I ignored him. ‘Just because she’s a nurse that doesn’t mean you can leer at her.’

  ‘You’re jealous.’

  ‘I hardly think so.’

  There was a police officer on duty outside the intensive care unit where Becky Bellew was being treated. We showed our credentials to her and Derwent checked that nothing had happened since she’d been on duty.

  ‘No journalists hanging around? No one strange asking questions?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’ She sounded definite.

  ‘Bored yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’ She was probably in her early twenties but she was the sort of person who seemed to have been born middle-aged, from her sensible haircut to her no-nonsense manner.

  ‘Keep up the good work,’ Derwent said, and held open the door so I could pass through. I waited until he’d closed it again.

  ‘What are you, the Queen? “Keep up the good work”?’

  He looked defensive. ‘What was I supposed to say to her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Apparently there’s nothing in your repertoire that isn’t flirting or patronising.’

  His expression darkened. ‘There’s intimidating.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re really scary.’

  ‘I can be.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ I said sweetly. ‘You can be anything you want to be if you just believe in yourself.’

  ‘There was a time you were afraid of me,’ Derwent complained.

  ‘I got over that.’

  ‘Don’t tell me.’ That slow grin spread across his face. ‘You’ve been imagining me naked.’

  ‘I don’t have to imagine that. I’ve seen it.’ In the most unromantic circumstances possible, naturally.

  The grin widened. ‘Of course you have.’

  ‘But don’t worry about that.’

  He frowned. ‘Why would I worry?’

  ‘You were cold and hurt. I’m sure it wasn’t your most impressive showing. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘Kerrigan.’

  ‘Sir.’

  He sucked in his cheeks, trying not to laugh, then settled for shaking his head. ‘Back to work.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I headed to the nurses’ station so I could ask where Debbie Bellew might be. An Irish nurse who reminded me of my mother gave us directions.

  ‘You’ll find her in the corridor outside her daughter’s room. Poor lady. She’s very upset. She hasn’t slept. She won’t eat anything and I only just got her to take a little drink of tea a while ago.’

  ‘How’s her daughter doing?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘Ah, you know. We can’t say for sure yet. All we can do is wait.’

  Debbie was sitting with her head in her hands, her hair falling down on either side of her face so I couldn’t tell if she was sleeping or crying or just thinking.

  ‘Mrs Bellew?’

  Her head snapped up, anxiety corrugating her brow. ‘What is it? Is it Becky?’

  ‘We’re police officers, Mrs Bellew. We’re investigating what happened at Murchison House yesterday.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked past us, as if she was expecting to see someone else. She looked uncertain, and also – strangely, in the circumstances – guilty. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘We’d like to ask you some questions about yesterday evening,’ Derwent said. ‘Firstly, you weren’t in the flat at the time the fire broke out. What time did you leave?’

  ‘Oh …’ She blinked up at us. ‘I don’t know. After five, I suppose.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘I was buying cake for Nina. My mother-in-law,’ she clarified. ‘She sent me down to the shop. I was only gone twenty minutes. Half an hour at most.’

  ‘Sent you,’ I repeated.

  ‘I didn’t mind.’ Debbie pulled her sleeves down over her hands, a gesture that I’d have expected from a teenager more than from a grown woman. ‘I never mind going out to the shops.’

  ‘Even though the lift was broken,’ Derwent said with a smile.

  ‘Keeps me fit.’

  ‘Did you see anyone suspicious on your way to the shops?’ I asked. She shook her head.

  ‘What about anyone you didn’t know?’

  ‘There was a man.’ Debbie sounded vague. ‘I can’t remember much about him. He was on the stairs and he walked past me.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Younger than me? Older than me?’ Derwent was really trying not to sound impatient but it edged his voice and Debbie shrank a little.

  ‘Maybe the same? I don’t know.’

  ‘Build?’

  ‘Normal.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Normal.’ She flapped her hands, agitated. ‘I didn’t know he was important.’

  ‘He might not be.’ I gave Derwent a warning look. To Debbie, I said, ‘What about his face? Could you describe him?’

  ‘He was white.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Derwent demanded.

  ‘I couldn’t see him very well. He had a hat on.’

  ‘Hair colour?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Eye colour? Glasses?’

  ‘I just saw the hat.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Debbie started to sob. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Was it a baseball cap?’ I asked. ‘With a peak? Or a hat with a brim?’

  ‘Baseball cap.’ She gave a couple of sniffs. ‘Red.’

  ‘Any logos on it? Or other colours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about his clothes?’

  ‘Jeans, I think, and a dark jacket.’ She ran her finger down the centre of her torso. ‘It had a zip.’

  ‘Shoes?’

  ‘Trainers?’ It was a guess and we all knew it.

  ‘That’s very helpful,’ Derwent said. ‘If you think of anything else about him, do tell us.’ He handed her a card. ‘Call that number any time. Day or night.’

  It was my telephone number on the card he’d given her, I saw.

  ‘I won’t remember anything e
lse,’ Debbie said. ‘I barely saw him.’

  ‘If you do, you know where to find us,’ Derwent said easily. ‘How’s your daughter?’

  ‘Not good.’ She sounded bleak.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ For once, Derwent was completely sincere. ‘Would you like me to get someone to keep you company here? Your husband—’

  ‘No!’ It was pure instinct. I saw her try to get herself under control. ‘No. Thank you. He’s got Nathan to look after.’

  I thought of the stunned boy curled up on his chair, being roundly ignored by his family.

  ‘Were you scared of anyone outside the family?’ I asked.

  ‘Not outside.’ It was an unguarded comment and she caught it just too late, putting a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Mrs Bellew, if you feel unsafe—’

  ‘No. No, it was a joke.’ She tried to smile. ‘Just a joke.’

  I’d come back to it, I thought. Some time when she was less upset, less wary. I’d help her, if I could.

  ‘Do they think it was deliberate?’ she asked. ‘The fire?’

  ‘They don’t know yet,’ Derwent said. ‘That’s why we’re trying to work out if there was a reason for it to be arson.’

  Her face was grey, like dirty ice. ‘But it could have been an accident.’

  ‘It’s possible. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just can’t remember.’ She squeezed her hands together in her lap. ‘I keep trying, but I can’t.’

  ‘Remember what?’ I asked.

  ‘I was ironing, before I left.’ She put a hand to her head, distraught. ‘And I don’t remember. I don’t remember turning the iron off.’

  ‘They found an iron,’ Derwent said. ‘The investigator said. They’ll be able to tell if that was where the fire started.’

  ‘They can work it out?’ She looked even more worried. ‘But if everything’s burned …’

  ‘They’re used to studying fires. They can find out a lot more than you or I could.’ Derwent smiled. ‘But you really shouldn’t worry about it.’

  ‘My daughter is lying in that room suffering and it could be because of me. I can’t help worrying.’

  I felt very sorry for her. ‘I can ask the investigator, if you like. I’ll let you know what he says.’

  ‘I’d just like to know.’ Debbie’s eyes were full of tears.

  ‘I understand.’