Where There's Smoke (1997)

by Simon Beckett

  The Inspector's bulk filled the top step when she opened the front door. This time he had a uniformed policewoman with him. "Sorry to bother you again. Miss Powell. Can we come in?"

  Kate led them upstairs into the lounge. They picked their way around the vacuum cleaner and sat down. All three sat on the edge of their seats. Collins told Kate the policewoman's name, but it made no impression. She wouldn't think about why he might have brought a woman officer with him this time.

  The Inspector sat with his meaty hands dangling between his legs. His stomach pushed out towards his knees.

  "There've been some further developments," he said.

  Kate couldn't wait any longer. "Have you found him?"

  There was a minute hesitation. "No. No, not yet. But after you failed to identify the body, we took one of Dr Turner's colleagues to the mortuary. We thought there was a chance he might recognise the dead man as a patient."

  He rubbed his hands slowly together. They made a dry, rasping noise. "He positively identified him as Alex Turner."

  Kate looked at him, blankly. "He can't have."

  Collins locked his hands together, as though to keep from rubbing them any more. "He's known Dr Turner for ten years. He wasn't in any doubt."

  "I don't care how long he'd known him, that wasn't Alex! For God's sake, don't you think I'd have recognised him if it was? You've only got to look at the photograph to see it was nothing like him!"

  The Inspector took the photograph out of his jacket pocket. "Actually, we showed this to Dr Turner's colleague. I'm afraid he didn't recognise the man in it."

  She felt the dark water seeping up around her. "He must have!"

  Collins continued as though she hadn't spoken. "After that we also showed it to Turner's secretary." His eyes were mournful as he looked across at Kate. "She identified him as one of Dr Turner's patients."

  The ice broke. The waters closed over her. "His real name's Timothy Ellis," Collins went on. "He's a schizophrenic. He's been Turner's patient for the past two years. Since the last time they let him loose, apparently."

  As if on cue, the policewoman pulled a large photograph from a file and passed it to Kate. Kate automatically reached out and took it. It was black and white and divided into two halves, one a full-face picture, the other a profile. The man in it was younger, with shorter hair, but still recognisably Alex. "He's twenty- six, and has had a history of arson since he was a kid," Collins was saying. "Which would explain the attempt to set fire to the office. We don't have full access to his psychiatric file yet, but we know he's had a police record as an incendiary since he was ten. He was recommended for psychiatric assessment when he was fourteen, after he set fire to his school. Can't have done much good, though, because a year or so later he set fire to his home. Killed his parents and two older brothers."

  "No!"

  The cry was wrung from her. "No, his parents are alive, they live in Cornwall! He told me!"

  Collins looked almost regretful. "Timothy Ellis's parents and brothers died in the house fire that he started. He's been in various institutions ever since. He came out two years ago, and since then he's been employed part-time in a printer's through a community care programme. The latest psychological reports said he was adapting well." He gave a wry grimace. "They obviously got it wrong."

  There wasn't enough air in the room. "No!"

  "I'm sorry, Miss Powell -"

  "Do you think I don't know him?"

  "You know Timothy Ellis. You never met Alex Turner."

  "I don't believe you!"

  "We checked the telephone number you gave us. It's listed in the phone book under Ellis's name. You can look it up for yourself, if you like. He just told you it was ex-directory because he didn't want to risk you phoning Directory Enquiries and being given the real Alex Turner's number. And the reason he kept you away from where he lived was because his 'studio flat' is actually a grubby, one-room bedsit. You'd have known straight away that no professional man on a decent wage lived there. It's only a ten-minute walk from the printer's where Ellis worked, though, so I suppose it was convenient for him."

  Kate shook her head, denying it. But the policeman's words had triggered a chain reaction of connection that she couldn't stop. The memory of the black stain on his jeans came back to her, terrifyingly clear. Not paint. Ink. Printer's ink. She didn't want to hear any more, but Collins was relentless.

  "Alex Turner is dead. Miss Powell. You saw his body at the mortuary this morning, and it seems increasingly likely that Timothy Ellis killed him. We know now it was Ellis who Dr Turner was staying behind late to see. He told his secretary about it, and although he didn't say why, I think we can assume that it had something to do with the fax you sent. We've also spoken to Ellis's boss at the printers. He's told us that there was a phone call for Ellis yesterday afternoon, and that after it he seemed moody and upset. I think that call was from Dr Turner, telling Ellis he wanted to see him. Now one of them is dead and the other is missing, and we need to find out what happened between them, and why. And I believe you can help us with that."

  She was suffocating. "You think this is my fault?"

  "No, I don't think that at all. But Ellis seems to have gone to great pains to make you think he was Alex Turner, and what happened yesterday seems to have been sparked off by your fax. To understand why, we have to know more about your relationship with Timothy Ellis."

  Kate shivered. She folded her arms around herself. A signal must have passed between Collins and the policewoman, because now she stood up.

  "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked. Kate shook her head. "I can make one. It's no trouble."

  "I don't want a bloody cup of tea!" The policewoman's face hardened. She sat down again.

  Collins let out a heavy sigh. "Look, Miss Powell, I know this isn't easy, but I'd like you to bear in mind that, while we're sitting here with you, Alex Turner's lying on a mortuary slab, and his widow is having to come to terms with the fact that the baby she's carrying will be born without a father because he had his head stoved in by a man he was trying to help. So, while you have my sympathy, my main priority is locating Timothy Ellis before he destroys any more lives. I'm sure you can appreciate that."

  He spoke in a tone of patient weariness, but Kate felt her face flush as if she had been rebuked. "His wife's pregnant?"

  "Eight months," Collins said. "That's why I didn't ask her to identify the body."

  The last of Kate's resistance leaked away. "I didn't know."

  "No reason why you should have. I didn't see any point in telling you yesterday. But I thought it might help put things in perspective now."

  She nodded, chastised. "I'm sorry."

  "No need to apologise," Collins said. "But I think it's time you told us a little bit more about the fax. And what its significance was to Ellis."

  There was a last reluctance, a protest that these strangers should be the first to be told. Then it had gone. "I'd just found out I was pregnant."

  The words fell into the room's silence. Collins turned to the policewoman. "I think perhaps we could do with that tea now."

  * * *

  "So. What are you going to do?"

  Lucy sat with her legs drawn under her on the sofa, leaning back on Jack. The children were in bed, and the three of them sat in the darkened lounge, close to the fire. It spat and growled behind the mesh guard. Kate stared at the flames, stretching yellow arms up the chimney, and thought of lies and arson. "I don't know."

  A bottle of whisky stood between them. Kate held a tumbler of it in both hands. She hadn't drunk from it yet.

  "Are they sure, though?" Lucy asked. "I mean, it seems so…so…" She threw up her hands, speechless.

  "They say there's no doubt."

  "But how can they be certain he killed him? The psychologist, I mean. For all they know, it could have been, I don't know, a burglar, or something. It's not forced to have been Alex."

  "Ellis," Kate said, not taking her eyes from the flames
. "His name's Timothy Ellis."

  Lucy didn't say anything to that. Jack sat, grim-faced, looking at his lap.

  "No wonder he looked so young," Lucy went on, after a while. "Twenty-six! I mean, it's the cheek of it that gets me!"

  "I don't think 'cheek' comes into it," Jack commented.

  "No, I know, but…Well, he just seemed so nice. Although, now you look back, you can see that some things weren't right, can't you? I always thought he was a bit shy to be a psychologist. And, when you think about it, it was pretty odd that he never let you see where he lived."

  Kate wanted to shout at her to shut up.

  "At least he didn't get any money out of you," Lucy went on, oblivious. "I bet he was pig sick that he couldn't cash your cheques. Makes you wonder how he could afford all those trips to Birmingham and everything, though, doesn't it? I mean, he wouldn't get much working part-time in a printer's, would he?"

  That seemed irrelevant now. Kate had to rouse herself to answer. "The police found a cardboard sign for Birmingham in his bedsit. They think he must have hitched."

  Lucy greeted the information with a wondering shake of her head. "Well, to say he's supposed to be mentally ill, he'd got it all worked out, I'll give him that." She looked at Kate again. "What are you going to do, though?"

  "Lucy, for God's sake, I don't know. I can't even think straight at the moment. I just feel…" The effort of putting it into words defeated her.

  "I know, but you're going to have to decide sooner or later," Lucy persisted. "About the baby, I mean."

  "Lucy…" Jack said, warningly.

  "Well, she is."

  "Decide what about the baby?" Kate asked.

  Lucy looked at her. "If you're going to keep it or not."

  The crackling of the fire seemed to grow very loud, blending with the rush of blood in Kate's ears. The room tilted, as if not even the floor were stable any more. She put her glass on the coffee table and gripped the chair arms, feeling a greasy slide of nausea. Lucy and Jack's voices went on around her.

  "For Christ's sake, Lucy!"

  "Well, she's got to face up to it!"

  "Give her a bloody chance! She's had enough shocks for one day!"

  Jack was crouching in front of her, raising the whisky to her lips. She could smell it, and the wave of nausea rose. Then it passed. She pushed away the glass without drinking. Jack set it on the coffee table and went back to his seat. "You okay?"

  Kate nodded. She wasn't, though. She felt weak, as though she was convalescing from an illness.

  "Look, why don't you go and see a doctor tomorrow?" Lucy asked.

  "I don't want tranquillisers."

  "I don't mean that. I just think you need to talk to someone. Get some expert advice."

  "About what?"

  Kate saw Jack give Lucy an incredulous look. Lucy ignored it.

  "You know what about. I'm sorry, Kate, but I think you've got to accept that abortion's a serious consideration now."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, leave it alone, Lucy!" Jack snapped.

  "No, I won't! I'm as pro-life, or whatever, as anybody, but there have to be exceptions! And, let's face it, being made pregnant by a deranged murderer has got to be one of them!"

  Kate felt buffeted by the words. Lucy pressed on. "You've got to face facts, Kate. I liked him too, I admit, but the man's a lunatic. Apart from anything else, he got you pregnant under false pretences. They do emergency terminations for rape victims, and I don't see that this is much different. But the longer you leave it, the worse it'll be. The sooner you -"

  "Please, Lucy." Kate shut her eyes. "Just…don't. Please.1"

  "I know but -"

  "Leave it, Lucy. Jack spoke firmly, putting a restraining hand on his wife's shoulder. Lucy hesitated, then sat back.

  "Okay." She threw up her arms with a sigh. "Okay."

  Behind the mesh screen, the coal fire blazed, indifferently. Hands clenched, Kate stared into the depth of the flames.

  The message light was flashing on her answerphone when she arrived home. She stood in front of it, looking down at the insistent pulse, then quickly reached out and stabbed the play button. Only a bristle of static came out of the speaker.

  She thought she could make out faint breathing before the final clatter of disconnection, but she wasn't sure.

  There was one other message, a sales pitch from a double-glazing company, then the machine rewound with a whir. As it clicked into readiness, Kate went into the bathroom, stripped off and showered. It was her third of the day. She stood under the flow of hot water until the tank emptied and it began to run cool. Climbing out, she saw there wasn't a clean towel and padded into her bedroom. As she pulled one out of the drawers, something else flipped into view. She looked at it, blankly, before there was a dip of recognition.

  The child's mitten was shockingly red against the white towels. The sight of it stabbed at her. Kate had forgotten about it, and its sudden appearance now seemed deliberately mocking. Snatching it up, she took it into the kitchen and threw it into the bin.

  CHAPTER 15

  The red-haired librarian remembered Kate. His windburned cheeks seemed to redden even more when he saw her. She would have been flattered at another time, but now it barely registered. "It was several months ago," she said. "You helped me with something called -"

  "Don't tell me…" He snapped his fingers. "A PsychLIT search, wasn't it?"

  "You said that I could have photocopies of the actual articles. Can I still do that?"

  He nodded, pleased to be helpful. "There's a fee, but provided we've got the journals they appeared in on file, no problem."

  He led her to an unused monitor screen. She gave him Alex Turner's name again, and he accessed the CD-ROM records. "Which was it you wanted?" the librarian asked.

  "All of them, please."

  The librarian ran a print-out and asked Kate to wait. She sat at a table near the computer consoles. Around her, students and one or two older individuals stared at screens with degrees of absorption. It seemed a long time before the librarian returned. He had a sheaf of photocopies with him. "Take you a while to wade through this lot," he said, cheerfully. "One or two were in obscure American journals that we don't stock, but we'd got most of them on file."

  Kate waited until he had gone before flicking through the photocopied articles. She'd asked for all of them, but there was one in particular she wanted to see. It was halfway down the pile.

  "PROMETHEUS' CHILDREN: CASE STUDIES OF PYROMANIA."

  This had been the last record she had looked at when she had checked out Alex Turner's credentials. She had only glanced at it before giving up, but the title had obviously lodged. At least, the fact that it was about pyromania had. She didn't know what, if anything, it would tell her. But pyromania was an obsession with fire. And Inspector Collins had called Timothy Ellis an incendiary.

  She began to read. The first section came under the heading "Classification".

  It is stating the obvious to say that different people raise fires for different reasons. Financial reward, political gesture, revenge, and vandalism are all motives for fire-setting. Numerous systems of classification have been put forward in an attempt to categorise the different types of arsonists, all of which are subject to a degree of overlap. But for the sake of this study the two broad group headings suggested by Faulk will be used:

  Group I: Fire serves as a means to an end.

  Group II: Fire itself is the phenomenon of interest.

  Examples such as arson for insurance claims or to cover evidence of another crime fall into Group I. For the most part, pathological fire-setting, or pyromania, falls into Group II. Pyromania (an older term is incendiarism) is an impulse-control disorder characterised by a recurrent failure to resist impulses to set fires, and a fascination with watching them burn.

  The fire-setting is typically undertaken without any obvious monetary, revenge, or political motivation, and is frequently accompanied by increased tension before starting
the fire, and intense pleasure or release during and afterwards. In extreme cases this gratification may take the form of sexual excitement (pyrolagnia, or erotic pyromania).

  According to Greek mythology, Prometheus stole fire from the gods using a hollow stick. Freud and Jung said this could equate to both the male and female organ, and indicated a degree of identity/gender confusion which they thought characteristic of fire raisers.

  Subsequent studies seem to bear out this observation, showing that most pathological arsonists are young adult males, many of whom have serious social and sexual relationship problems (a trend which also applies to arsonists in general). Pathological fire setters frequently suffer from considerable psychosocial disadvantages as a result of personal inadequacies (actual or perceived) and adverse social conditions. Studies have noted that nearly all children who raise fires experienced inadequate relationships with their parents, and there is evidence that a high proportion have some form of minor physical abnormality, such as obesity or harelip.

  Pyromania may be thought of as an addiction wherein the short-term "benefits" (i.e., excitement, gratification) take precedence over the negative long term consequences.

  There were four case studies, simply referred to as A, B, C, and D. Kate began to read the first closely, but skipped to the end when it was obviously unfamiliar. The second she also skimmed. When she reached the third, she found what she had been looking for.

  C is a twenty-five-year-old white male, of above average intelligence and from a middle-class background. The family group was dysfunctional, with frequent violent arguments between the parents that would often extend to verbal and physical attacks on C and his two brothers, followed by periods of neglect when the parents entered a reconciliation stage. As the youngest and therefore lowest in the family hierarchy, C was often subjected to sibling bullying. When C was five years old he had his fingers put into a lighted gas fire by one brother. This would bear out Jackson's observation (1994) that some arsonists have been victims of fire themselves at some point. Although it is not possible to say that this experience was the direct cause of C's later obsession with fire, the trauma subsequently left him with a speech impediment in the form of a severe stutter, which exacerbated his sense of personal inadequacy and contributed further to his growing isolation from family and peer group. It should be noted that neither of his two brothers exhibited any corresponding dysfunction, although the elder may have had a latent inclination towards kleptomania, indicated by an arrest for shoplifting shortly before his death.