Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “I get the picture.”

  “The SIO believes she panicked and tripped; there’s no other explanation for the depression. You can throw your classic blunt instrument into the ring, but the official police report rules out foul play.”

  McLaren’s deep sigh came over the phone.

  “Inside the house,” Jamie continued, knowing there was no answer to McLaren’s implied question or exasperation, “in the kitchen, the slow cooker was on. Cooking,” he added before McLaren could make some snide comment. “A casserole, evidently for the evening meal. Lancashire hot pot.”

  “The implication being that she put the food on to cook that morning and had an ordinary day before the studio fire.”

  “I always knew there was hope for you if you used your brain often enough.”

  “I use it more than some people I could name.”

  “There’s nothing to suggest she was forced into the studio and then the structure set ablaze.”

  “So she’s in the studio, merrily painting or whatever, the evening meal perking along in the slow cooker. If Miles wasn’t lying when he said he was expected for dinner.”

  “I doubt he was lying. The dining room table was set for two. Plates and utensils that implied a substantial meal, like dinner.”

  “Fine. Then Janet has the dinner cooking, she’s painting until dinner or whenever. And she dies in a fire right before Miles comes over.” His voice took on a hard edge. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You’re nearly quoting Janet’s mother,” Jamie said.

  “Intelligent lady, no matter what Harvester thinks.”

  “The police report acknowledges the food in the slow cooker, that her body was found in the debris of her studio.”

  “Did our intelligent detectives learn how the structure started on fire? Learn, not assume.”

  “The fire service investigated and believe it was an accident. It looked as though she’d been burning rubbish or yard waste in the incinerator. They commented on it, Mike—loudly and often, angry that she hadn’t used more common sense in placing the incinerator. It was too close to the studio, and being a windy day and of course everything parched from the drought.”

  McLaren recalled the weather in 2006. Not that he had memorized it intentionally, but because many trees had died on his family land. It had been professed that the country had suffered through the worst drought in one hundred years, so of course he’d recall it. The drought produced a record high temperature in July, with power cuts in areas of Central London. Add to that, the previous winter had been dry. What little precipitation that fell did nothing to replenish the desperately low water table levels. Consequently, vegetation died and severe fire conditions constantly threatened the country.

  “Who called in the fire service?”

  “Her neighbor, Ian O’Connor. He rang her up at half past five. Talked to her for a minute or so.”

  McLaren made a notation on a sheet of paper. “Fine. O’Connor talks to Janet. I suppose it would be too coincidental if he actually saw something near the time of the fire.”

  “No one did. Janet’s house sits apart from her neighbors. It’s at the end of the lane and, in addition to the drive and garage facing the street, has a back entrance, a small lane that twists through the wood. If you’re thinking about murder, which I assume you are, it’s a perfect entrance or exit for the killer, yes. And it was also why the fire may have started earlier than O’Connor finally saw it and phoned it in to the fire service.”

  “And that was…when?”

  Jamie glanced at the report. “It was near sunset. Around half past six. It’s darker in the wood, too, so the flames from the studio were more visible than in bright sunlight.”

  “Could have been burning for a while if the house is as secluded as you say. Lucky for the killer.”

  “But there’s no getting around the fact that her body was found inside the burnt studio. A few feet of wall were standing but for the most part it was a complete loss.”

  “Fire brigade extinguish the blaze?”

  “Rather promptly, I’d say. They got there close to six forty-five and found the studio pretty much demolished.”

  “The wooden structure burnt that quickly?”

  “It had help, Mike. Paints, turpentine, paint thinner, canvas, wooden stretchers… You know. Artist’s painting supplies.”

  “Hell.”

  “O’Connor said he smelled burning but he didn’t think much of it because Janet burnt paper and cardboard and yard waste very regularly in her incinerator. He got worried, though, when he saw so much smoke and then the flames. That part was verified. The fire tender got there fifteen minutes after his call, coming from Matlock.”

  McLaren shook his head. “And when they did their probing about for hot spots in the debris they find Janet’s body.”

  “Yeah. Around 7:15, when things had cooled down a bit.”

  “Ever hear of a better stage for a murder, Jamie? Secluded house, private escape route, handy heat source and your choice of accelerant, plus the victim stumbling and hitting her head against something hard enough to cause unconsciousness?”

  FIVE

  The woman’s barely conscious, Harvester thought as he walked upstairs to his office. Completely potty. Why am I always stuck with seeing the nutter? His footsteps sounded hollow on the hard floor, each tap of shoe heel on linoleum mutely calling her name. He passed a poster reminding police personnel of the policy on harassment and bullying. What a laugh, he thought, glancing again at his watch. I doubt if the Police Federation would hear my grievance on Nora Ennis. She’s been harassing anyone she can find to listen to her barmy story.

  He opened the door to his office and switched on the overhead office light. The harsh, florescent light coated every item beneath it with a hint of blue. He’d been startled with it the first few days he’d had the office, but had quickly grown used to it. Paper appeared brighter under the light but it gave his brown hair a strange hue. Probably has something to do with its thinness and the light reflecting off my scalp, he thought. The tan, metal file cabinets showed not much difference in color, nor did the dark wooden desks that faced each other. He crossed the floor, eased out of his jacket and hung it over the back of his desk chair, then tossed the notepad onto the wide, wooden windowsill. The pad skidded across the smooth, painted surface and came to rest against a ceramic flowerpot holding a dead jade plant. One of the larger, overhanging branches shook, sending a cascade of brown, shriveled leaves onto the top page. Loosening his tie, he checked his watch against the wall clock, and poured himself a cup of coffee. The beverage had no flavor and he muttered that his partner was as incompetent at coffee making as he was in interviewing suspects.

  Harvester dumped a spoonful of sugar and some milk into the coffee—something he rarely did. Anything to give the black mess some flavor. He wandered to the window, opened it, and looked outside.

  His section of Buxton spread out before him like a picture postcard. Grand, stone houses stretched down Silverlands to the High Street. From his second-storey vantage point he could see the backs of the shops lining the main road. At right angles to this the upper portion of the town hall sat nearly silhouetted in the afternoon sky. Farther down the slope, out of his view, the seamless face of the Crescent would be lolling in early shadows. Tourists and office workers would be hurrying to finish their business before closing time, some going to the opera later that night, or to a pub or restaurant on the High Street, perhaps, or to an event in the garden. Harvester sniffed, suddenly feeling alone and unliked. When was the last time anyone had asked him for a night out?

  He shifted his gaze from the High Street, feeling it healthier for his well-being. Across the road from the police station the football ground retained its blaze of brilliant green color despite the confetting of red and yellow shed leaves around the perimeter. The leaves had taken on their autumnal hues weeks ago and many trees were already bare. A whiff of dry leaves assaulted his nostrils and
for a moment he was ten years old again. Nearly the same age as Emory, he realized. His son grinned at him from where he sat in a pile of debris, rolling in the castoffs and laughing as the dead leaves cracked. Harvester had leaned on his rake, pretending to be irritated at having to redo his work. But his son’s play was infectious and Harvester readily joined Emory in jumping into the pile.

  That had been last autumn, Harvester realized with a shock. His time with Emory was so short, so restricted by the divorce settlement. He had lived—existed, actually—through the ensuing nine lonely years more like a robot than a human being. He hadn’t the makeup either for waking in or going home to an empty house. It was like he was punishing himself. If it continued much longer, he knew he would be as barmy as Nora Ennis.

  Talk of the devil.

  Harvester turned his head slightly to follow Nora’s progress across the car park. Her stooped, small figure seemed tinier viewed from the elevation of his office. Not exactly like an ant crawling over the land, but not exactly like a real person. Nothing extraordinary would have normally attracted his attention or cemented his view on her. Her gait was like that of many older people, slow and slightly unsteady. But Nora’s walk had a directness to it, a determination, as though she had a time limit or an appointment. As she got into her car and started its engine, Harvester sniffed. Not only was the woman a nutter, she also was obsessed by the old case. Maybe she heard her daughter talking to her in her head.

  He picked up the pad of paper and casually leafed through the notes he’d taken during the meeting with the Superintendent. Seconds later he was absorbed in planning the new Road Safety program. He settled into his desk chair, having had enough of Nora Ennis and her hallucinations.

  SIX

  “Does stretch the limitation of believability,” Jamie conceded. “Plus, the postmortem examination revealed the head indentation to be concave, resulting from a round surface.”

  “Leaves out the angle of the door or table, then.”

  “I’m getting that whiff of fish you’re smelling, Mike.” He swallowed a mouthful of tea before continuing. “But there were objects in the studio, according to statements and remnants found in the fire debris, that might have caused the wound.”

  “What, for instance?”

  “The corner of her desk chair as well as the top of a stool had rounded edges. A heavy cast iron sculpture that sat on the corner of her desk was one of those modern, abstract things.”

  “Round or curved, I take it.”

  “The point is, Mike, that she could’ve fallen, hit her head on one of these objects, and been struck unconscious. Not out of the realms of possibility.”

  “I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

  “Should be easy.”

  “So, the neighbor talks to her at half past five. I don’t suppose he can be wrong about the time,” McLaren suggested.

  “His mobile phone record confirms the time.”

  “So we have the phone company as witness. Right. Janet’s alive at 5:30. But she’s dead at 6:45 when the fire brigade and the police arrive. Any more help from the postmortem report?”

  “That’s about as accurate as you’re going to get with time of death. The fire…well, that’s what the postmortem established.”

  “Then we’re focusing on someone who had a seventy-five minute opportunity to kill Janet and torch the studio. Any observant neighbor see a vehicle in front of Janet’s house, or a non-resident walking near her house?”

  “You don’t really want to know.”

  “Everyone was inside, watching the telly, eating dinner. Bloody helpful.”

  “That’s part of the problem. But, as I said, there is another way to get to her.”

  “Through the forest behind her house.”

  Jamie gave McLaren several seconds to think before asking, “Could anything have been secreted in the studio to make it the target of arson, Mike?”

  “That’s what I was wondering. Why would someone torch it?”

  “Was she blackmailing someone and had the evidence in there? You know, like maybe she was thinking it wasn’t as obvious a place, her studio. She keeps the photograph or tape recording or whatever there ’cause most anyone would think she’d secrete it in her house.”

  “I suppose our brilliant SIO—who was it, anyway?”

  “Edwards. Bill Edwards. Know him?”

  “Yeah. Efficient Eddie. So Edwards didn’t have a theory, I take it.”

  “Actually, he did. No, don’t groan. It makes sense.”

  “To someone in Bedlam, perhaps.”

  “But it throws out your arson theory.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “As I mentioned, her small incinerator for yard waste is close to the shed. The incinerator was one of those things made from chicken wire. O’Connor, the neighbor, says Janet used to burn a lot of paper in it.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Well, Edwards figures that with the extremely dry conditions of the grass and other vegetation, due to the drought, if a gust of wind came up as is usual before an approaching rain storm, well, the shed could have caught fire accidentally. Pieces of paper or embers blowing over to the building, if she had the incinerator too close, would catch the studio on fire.”

  “Was there an approaching rain storm?”

  “Nothing to write home about. The weather service report confirmed that it rained briefly for about a half hour later that evening, but it obviously didn’t break the drought.”

  “Yes. It all does sound logical, doesn’t it? And convenient if someone wanted to make it look like an accident.”

  “But why?”

  “All will be revealed in good order, Jamie. I need a copy of Edwards’ report. Plus reports by the H.O Forensic chemist. Oh, and the fire service report.”

  “Were you this greedy as a child around Christmastime?”

  “You able to lay your hands on any photos of the crime scene or house or yard without getting caught?”

  “Got ’em right here.”

  “I’ll also need a copy of the plan drawn up by the police artist. I need to know what I’m looking at.”

  “You want me to email all this to your mobile or computer? Where are you, anyway?”

  “About to go to Janet’s house to look around. Don’t worry,” he said as Jamie protested. “I have the blessing of the owners. Email all that to my email address. I can get them on my laptop. I want a larger image than the phone will afford.”

  “You’re getting old, mate.”

  “No. I want to see the details. Thanks.”

  McLaren next rang up Cheryl Kerrigan, the Home Office Pathologist. Though not strictly orthodox procedure, he hoped she would tell him about the postmortem examination. As the phone rang, he said a prayer that she had been the pathologist on the case.

  Her greeting on hearing his voice was close to making his day. He smiled and asked if she could do him a favor.

  “They’re adding up, you know,” she said, the good humor behind her words.

  “You’re obviously keeping score.”

  “I have to. I know you won’t. What do you want?”

  “It’s not exactly kosher.”

  “If I guess wrong you don’t owe me a steak dinner. A PM report.”

  “I won’t ask what restaurant you’d like to go to.”

  “Do you know the date or the victim’s name?”

  He told her, then said, “You performed that post mortem examination, I hope.”

  “Meaning you won’t feel so guilty about me losing my job if I get caught giving you this information.”

  “That’s as good a reply as any.”

  As he waited for her to look up the report he imagined her office. He’d been in it many times on various cases and had always wondered how she managed to work in such a sterile environment. White and shiny chrome weren’t his first choice of a color scheme conducive to thinking. But he’d take that and like it if he had a choice between that and sharing a comfy
office with Harvester. He had just about figured out how to brick Harvester into the office corner when Cheryl returned with the report. Her voice fragmented Harvester and the fantasy office.

  “You’ve got more luck than anyone I’ve ever seen, Michael McLaren. Yes, I recall the incident now. A thirty-two year old female found in the debris of a burnt out artist’s studio. What do you want to know…mechanism of death? I suppose you know the police and firefighters labeled it an accident, for lack of conclusive evidence otherwise.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re evidently working for someone who wants the case looked at again.”

  “Another good guess.”

  “I can’t afford to guess. It’s too risky. All right, let’s see.” She scanned the report, pausing to read parts of it aloud. “She suffered a depression to the right side of her head, just above the ear. The wound was consistent with a rounded object about the size of a tennis ball. The firefighters found her lying on her left side, wound-side-up, which is normal if someone suffered a forceful blow like that, forceful enough to knock them down. People usually fall so that the wound is not touching the floor.”

  “No suspicions there, in other words.”

  “No. The leucocytes—white blood cells—of a burned, living person travel to the site of the injury. They produce an inflammation—hyperemia—and blistering that is quite usual. Under lab tests, we look for a positive protein reaction. However, if a deceased person is burned, the burns normally are hard and yellow. There is little, if any, blistering, and liquid that might be present will not give the protein effect.”

  “So, you found—”

  “She died from smoke inhalation, as is standard with someone unconscious in a fire.”

  “Tough.”

  “Yes. She had a concentration of CO in her blood, which also underscores she died in the fire.”

  “Carbon monoxide.”

  “The opposite being that a body devoid of CO should raise red flags in the postmortem exam.”