Where There's Smoke (1997)

by Simon Beckett

  The air in there was clearer, and it wasn't until she had closed the door that it occurred to her that the room was directly above the fire. Belatedly, she wondered if the bathroom would be safer. But she balked at the thought of going back out into the smoke.

  Leaving the room dark, she crossed to the window. It was a sash, and years of paint had stuck it together. Every summer since she had been in the flat Kate had meant to repair it, but never had. It slid open easily for six inches and then jammed. She struggled with it for a few seconds and then gave up. A bar of cold air breezed against her midriff. She had forgotten to grab a towel, so she stripped the cover off a cushion and draped that through the gap instead. Resting her head against the cold glass, she looked out. The street was empty, with no sign of the police patrols Collins had promised. The path in front of the front door was lit by a moving, multicoloured light. Flickering patches of blue, red and orange danced on the garden as the flames shone through the stained-glass facets. A faint tinkling came to Kate as, one by one, they shattered, until the harlequin glow was a uniform yellow.

  There was a movement in the shadows. She peered into them and saw Dougal sitting on the garden wall. The cat's eyes gleamed with reflected light as he watched the fire.

  Kate's breath misted the window, and when she wiped it clear Dougal had gone. Dimly, in the distance she heard the wail of a siren.

  Water dropped from the ceiling. A sooty pool of it scummed the floor, covering the cracked ceramic dies. The walls and ceiling were blackened, the woodwork of the doors and door-frames charred and blistered. Miss Willoughby's welcome mat lay where it had been pushed into a corner by the pressure of the hose, a shrunken black square.

  Hanging over everything was the tickling, charcoal reek of dead fire.

  The fire officer straightened. Behind him other uniformed men were coiling the hose and packing it away. Glass crunched under his feet. The bulb in the ceiling had shattered, but enough light came from the stairs to see by.

  "We'll have to wait for the forensic results, but I don't think there's much doubt," he said. He was a stocky, middle-aged man. His hair had been flattened by the yellow helmet he now held under one arm.

  He nodded down at the cat flap at the base of the door. It had melted and congealed like candle-wax, a surreal twin to the one set in the inside door.

  "They poured petrol through the outside flap, then stuck a piece of cloth through and set fire to it."

  He nudged with his foot at a charred fragment that could have been fabric.

  "Whoever did it knew enough not to get their fingers burned by sticking their hand through with a match. You're lucky it was only in the entrance area. There's nothing much in here to burn. Not until it got into one of the flats, anyway. Our friend either didn't know that, or expected it to be contained. Not that that's any excuse. It could still have been nasty if you hadn't got a smoke alarm."

  He looked at the stubs of smoky glass in the top half of the front door and shook his head. "Any idea who might have done it?"

  Kate hugged her bathrobe more tightly around her. The porch was cold from the water dripping from every surface. "He's…uh, the police are already looking for him." Her teeth chattered, from reaction as much as cold.

  The fire officer waited for her to say more, then looked around as a white patrol car pulled up in front of the red engine. "I'll need to make out a report, but I'll leave you to tell them, then."

  He stepped down onto the path. His boots splashed in the grimy puddles.

  "One thing, though. I wouldn't have another cat flap when you have the new door fitted. Whoever it was might make a more serious try next time. All it would take would be a length of pipe and they could pour the petrol straight into your flat."

  He stared at her, to make sure his words had registered, then winked. Puss'll just have to wait until you let him in."

  CHAPTER 18

  Kate's birthday was on a grey, windy day, when all the lights had to be switched on to counter the unrelieved twilight, and the approaching spring seemed like another country. She hadn't given much thought to it before; too much else had been happening to dwell on such irrelevancies. But that morning she woke up with the awareness that another year had been ticked off her life's calendar.

  The post arrived before she left for work. She collected it from the cage covering the letter-box on her way out.

  The new front door had been fitted the day after the fire, a sturdy hardwood slab with a small frosted-glass window.

  The door to Miss Willoughby's flat had also been replaced, at the insistence of the estate agent. Ironically, her own only needed repainting, but the coconut mat in front of the other had acted like a wick, charring the wood deeply.

  She left the junk mail inside and closed the front door, glad to be in fresh air. Several days after the fire, the stink of it still permeated everything. The painters were due at the end of the week, and Kate told herself that things would seem better when the flat smelled of wet paint instead of the oily reek of petrol and smoke. A police car cruised by. Kate wondered if it was coincidence, or evidence of Collins's assurance that they would step up patrols outside her home. The car went past without either of the occupants glancing at her, and she turned her attention to the post.

  There were two birthday cards. One was from an aunt who lived in Dorset, while the other was from a girl she had been to college with, one of the few people she'd given her new address to when she'd moved, and who kept in occasional touch by letter. There was nothing from Lucy. Kate felt a skim of anger masking the hurt. They had never missed each other's birthdays before. She'd felt sure that Lucy would still send her a card, and had already anticipated using it as an excuse to phone her again. Now, though, the snub only made her more resolved not to.

  No one mentioned her birthday at work. Clive had usually remembered in the past, but obviously hadn't this time.

  Kate knew she was feeling sorry for herself, and in danger of wallowing in it. Pathetic cow, she thought, angrily, and went up to her office and shut herself away.

  It was almost lunch-time when Clive buzzed through on the intercom. "There's somebody to see you," he said. His voice sounded odd. "Can you come down?"

  "Who is it?"

  "Er…I think you'd better see for yourself." There was a hesitation. "It isn't anything to worry about, though." He cut the line.

  More irritated than puzzled, Kate went downstairs. She opened the door to the office. A police constable was standing in the centre of the room.

  "It's all right, there's no problem," Clive said, quickly. Kate noticed him flash Caroline a glance, but her attention was on the policeman. He was young and good-looking.

  He stepped towards her. "Kate Powell?"

  Her mouth was dry. "Yes?"

  She was vaguely aware of Clive nodding reassuringly. The policeman opened a notebook. "Is today your birthday?"

  "Uh, yes. Why, what's -"

  "In that case I'll have to charge you with being thirty-four in possession of an eighteen-year-old's body," he said, and tore open his tunic.

  It came apart in a rip of Velcro, revealing a shirt and tie bib over a bare chest. He cast them flamboyantly to the floor with his helmet and ripped open his trousers. Underneath he wore only a black posing pouch, with a police badge pinned on the front. Kate jerked her eyes from it as the young man kicked free of his trousers and began singing. "Happy birthday to Kate, happy birthday to Kate, happy birthday dear Ka-yate, happy birthday to you!"

  He ended with a flourish and grinned. "Now I've got a surprise for you," he said, and Kate took an involuntary step back as he put his hand into his pouch and began to pull something out.

  "No!" she exclaimed, and then he was holding up a stuffed cloth truncheon. He waggled it at her.

  "The sentence is a kiss, or I'll have to hit you with this," he said, but before Kate could answer Clive had stepped forward.

  "I think we'll skip that bit, thanks."

  The stripper gave them
a quick look, then nodded cheerfully. "In that case, have a happy birthday," he told Kate, and bent and kissed her on the lips before she had time to move. Scooping up his clothes, he dressed with practised efficiency and went to the door. He gave her a wink. "I'll let you off this time with a verbal," he said, and went out. There was a silence. The alcohol scent of his aftershave lingered in the office.

  "It, er, it was supposed to be a vicar," Clive said apologetically. He gave Caroline a hard look.

  "They said they could only do a cop-o-gram!" the girl protested. "It was either that or a gorilla!"

  It was their anxious expressions that did it. The pressures that had been building up for days were abruptly lanced, and Kate lolled back against the edge of a desk as laughter swept over her. There was an edge of hysteria to it, but it was no less purging for that. Wiping her eyes, she looked at the other three, whose own laughter was touched with relief. "Let's go for lunch," she said.

  They went to an Italian restaurant that wasn't too far from the office. Clive ordered a bottle of wine, most of which Caroline and Josefina drank. He raised his eyebrows when Kate asked for mineral water but said nothing. After they'd eaten and had coffee, he surprised her by telling the two girls to go back to the office alone. "We'll be along in a while," he said.

  They watched them through the window, leaning on each other and laughing as they disappeared from view.

  Clive shook his head. "Somehow I can't see them getting much work done this afternoon." His smile faded. He slowly stirred his coffee.

  "Sorry if it was a shock, walking in and seeing a policeman. I should have known better than to leave it to Caroline to sort out."

  Kate smiled. "Whose idea was it?"

  "Hers and Josefina's. I went along with it, though. We thought it might cheer you up."

  She looked down at her glass. "It's been that obvious, then?"

  "I could tell something was wrong, let's put it that way. You've not been the same since the police came to see you." Clive paused. "Do you want to talk about it yet?"

  Kate found she did. She glanced around. No waiters were within earshot. "I'm pregnant."

  Clive didn't seem surprised. "I did wonder." He nodded at her mineral water. "No wine or coffee. And you've started drinking herbal tea at work. Well, congratulations. Or is that the wrong thing to say?"

  Kate tried to smile. "I'm not sure myself, to be honest." She felt her eyes filling up. She wiped them with the napkin. "Shit. Sorry."

  "No need to be. If I hadn't wanted to know, I wouldn't have asked. So what's happened?"

  She hadn't intended to tell him everything. But now that she didn't have Lucy to talk to, the need to unload on somebody was too great. He listened in silence until she'd finished, then sat back and gave a low whistle.

  "Well, I was expecting boyfriend problems, but not quite like this."

  "Original, isn't it? And before you say it, if anyone else tells me I've been stupid, I'm going to scream."

  He shrugged. "I don't think you've been stupid. You've been bloody unlucky, but that's all."

  "You don't think it's my fault, then? That I've brought it on myself?"

  "Christ, Kate, how is it your fault? All you've done was try to be careful. I don't see how anyone can blame you for that."

  "Didn't get me very far, though, did it?"

  "No, but how could you expect something like this?"

  Kate had told herself that countless times, but a masochistic voice still whispered that she deserved it. "So you think I'm doing the right thing, keeping the baby?"

  "If that's what you want, yes." He leaned towards her. "Look, it's your life. You get one crack at it, so do what you want. If you felt you wanted an abortion…" He spread his hands. "Fine. Your choice. But if you want to keep it, then that's your choice too. It doesn't matter what anybody else thinks."

  Kate spoke lightly, watching her hands crumble a piece of bread stick onto her plate. "Perhaps I should have listened to Lucy, after all. She said I should have asked you to be the donor."

  Clive didn't answer. When she looked up he was gazing out of the window, an unreadable expression on his face.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you," she said.

  "You haven't. I'm flattered." He seemed to choose his next words carefully. "I don't think I'd have been a good choice, though."

  "Why?" Kate hesitated. "Because you're black?"

  "Actually, I was thinking more because I'm gay." He turned back to her with a half-smile. "Wouldn't be fair to dump too many prejudices on the poor little devil, would it? A father who was black and homosexual? Try explaining that on Open Day."

  Kate could see he was waiting for her response. She shook her head. "Have I been really dense, or is this something you keep quiet about?"

  "I don't keep quiet about it. I just don't make a point of telling people, that's all. Like I say, my life, my business." A wariness crept into his manner. "Does it make any difference?"

  "What do you think?"

  He grinned. "So," he went on, in a brisker tone, "what are the police doing about this character?"

  Clive's revelation had made Kate temporarily forget her problems. Now the weight of them settled on her again. "I don't know. They say they're keeping an eye on my flat and the agency, but all that amounts to is a patrol car going past every now and again. Other than that…" She let the sentence go unfinished.

  Clive frowned down at his empty coffee cup. "Perhaps you should keep away from your flat until this all blows over," he said, slowly. "All right, he probably won't do anything else, but I think you should still consider it. You're welcome to stay at my place. There's a sofa bed going empty."

  Kate had already thought about retreating to the safety of a hotel, putting a buffer of anonymity between her and an incendiary madness. But she had dismissed the temptation. She wasn't going to run away.

  She reached across the table and squeezed Clive’s hand. "I appreciate the offer, but it's okay. I'll be all right." She stood up. "Come on. We'd better get back."

  They had security bars fitted on all the downstairs windows at the agency. A burglar alarm was installed, and Kate had the letter-box sealed and replaced with an American-style mailbox. She also bought one of these for her flat, since the mesh cage on the new door provided only token protection at best. The filing cabinets were lined with fire-proof foam sheets, and what records they had on computer were copied and the discs kept at Clive’s flat. Extra fire extinguishers were bought—powder-filled ones, this time, because they were more effective against petrol fires than water—and Kate took one home with her, as well.

  Short of installing a sprinkler system at the office, which they couldn't afford, they had done as much as they could, she felt. The fact of doing something other than passively sitting back and waiting, made her feel better. Even so, Kate found herself tensing for the sight of charred window-frames and scorched bricks whenever she approached the agency.

  Each time there wasn't, her relief was accompanied with a growing hope that the fire at her flat could be an end, not a beginning. For the first time, she began to feel, if not actual optimism, at least that one day life might return to normal.

  The feeling was reinforced when she went to the office one morning and saw that demolition work had begun on the burned-out warehouse. She would be glad to see it go, she thought, as the wrecking ball crumpled another section of wall and blackened timbers into a pile of dust and rubble.

  She reached the agency's street, relaxing a little when there were no fire engines parked in the road. As she searched in her bag for the keys she noted distractedly that the bill posters had been active again. The abundance of boarded up buildings provided a canvas for bands, clubs and political fringe groups to advertise. The constantly changing display was so much a part of the scenery that Kate rarely noticed it, and when she pulled out the keys and looked up, her first thought was that she had stopped in front of the wrong building. Then she looked again, and shock drained the use fr
om her limbs.

  The posters completely covered the ground floor, not just of the agency but also the buildings on either side. They were pasted on haphazardly, overlapping each other and crookedly running over windows and doors. Every one was the same, so that the entire terrace front was a jumbled collage of a single repeated image.

  Kate stared at it. Suddenly, she twisted away, clutching at a street lamp as she doubled up and vomited. She heard footsteps running towards her, and recognised Clive’s voice.

  "Kate? Kate, are you all right?"

  She didn't answer. She clung to the lamp post until the spasm of retching had passed. Clive hovered beside her. She heard him say, "Oh Christ."

  Shakily, she straightened. Clive's face was shocked as he turned to her. "Don't," he said, but she needed to see again.

  She looked past him. The posters were A3 size and full colour. They showed a naked woman, squatting with her legs spread wide. The woman was fat, with what looked like cigarette burns on breasts that spilled loosely over her stomach, and bruises on her flabby upper thighs. Her crotch was hairless, and she was pulling apart her labia to reveal the livid wetness of her vagina. Below it, a penis was buried in her anus. Topping the obese body was Kate's own face. Her head had been grafted on in place of the woman's, clumsily but no less effective for that. She was laughing and happy, grotesquely indifferent to both the sodomy and the message blazoned in bold red letters across the poster's base. KATE POWELL IS A MURDERING WHORE.

  Kate turned away and was sick again.

  CHAPTER 19

  Collins's face gave no indication of his thoughts as he studied the poster. It had ragged edges from where it had been torn from the wall, but most of it was intact. From the street came the wet hiss of the steam cleaner as it blasted the front of the terrace. Even with the windows closed, the office was humid with the smell of damp paper.