by Joy Ellis
‘We need to trace his family before we can tell you that, sir,’ she said.
Brodie stood up. ‘What my brother is trying to say is if no one claims him, we’ll take care of the funeral. We appreciated the work he did for us, and we’ll miss him.’
‘That’s good to hear, sir. We’ll be in touch very soon.’ Nikki glanced at Joseph and they headed for the door.
Nikki was about to open it when Brodie said, ‘There is one person you might like to talk to, Inspector.’
Nikki turned. ‘Yes?’
‘The curate at St Saviour’s in Helmsley Street. Think his name is Leon something. He helps some of the migrants who are struggling. He runs a food bank and some other church-based stuff. He visited Ronnie when he got poorly last winter, brought him food and things. Try him.’
‘We will,’ Nikki said. ‘Thank you.’
* * *
They were back at the caravan park, which to Joseph looked more like a gypsy encampment. It was hard to believe that Ronnie Tyrrell had lived here, apparently quite content, for seven or eight years. There had to be a story there, but he had a feeling it was going to be difficult to unearth.
John Carson was standing almost exactly where they had left him. He seemed deep in thought. He jumped when they approached.
‘Sorry. I was miles away.’
‘Actually, I think you were right here.’ Joseph smiled. ‘Engrossed in what might have happened.’
‘That’s true. I’ll tell you more when forensics has finished, but I have a pretty clear picture of where the fire started, and possibly how.’
Joseph looked at the smouldering remains and wondered how on earth he could tell anything from such a mess. ‘Go on.’
‘He wasn’t alone. I can see the remains of two glasses, one close to the bed area and one further down, closer to the kitchen. The whisky bottle was most likely almost empty. If it had been full, the intense heat from the fire would have blown it, but it was intact. That indicates he had a visitor, and they polished off a goodly portion of a bottle of scotch — expensive malt, to be precise.’
‘We need to talk to everyone here,’ Nikki said. ‘Someone must have seen if Ronnie had a visitor, especially if he was almost a recluse. A visitor would have been noticed.
‘I think you’ll find that uniform are already on that,’ John said.
‘But he wasn’t a drinker, or so his boss says,’ Nikki mused. ‘So why down half a bottle of scotch?’
‘I suppose it may not have been full to start with.’ John shrugged. ‘Possibly he didn’t drink as a rule, but maybe he and his visitor had something to celebrate. We’ll probably never know for sure.’
‘Unless we catch the arsonist and he tells us,’ Joseph said. He really didn’t want to have to look at more charred bodies. He’d done enough of that on Special Ops. The unforgettable smell of burnt flesh. He hastily pushed the memory away.
John was still staring at the remains. ‘From the burn pattern, working from the least damaged area to the most damaged, the fire originated in the lounge area, just outside the kitchen. That area burned fiercely because of the fuel load there.’
‘Fuel load?’ asked Nikki.
‘Amount of material, furnishings — basically stuff that fed the fire. There was probably a couch, curtains, cushions, books, papers, clothes, and the fire-setter would have used an accelerant of some sort. Examination of the residue will tell us if that’s the case.’ John flexed his shoulders. ‘Your forensics people have been very thorough, and because a life was lost, fire and rescue will send an investigator.’ A small smile played about his lips. ‘My successor.’
‘Is he good?’ asked Nikki.
‘She is very good. One of the only female fire-investigation officers in the country. You’ll have all the answers, DI Galena, but not immediately. It takes time.’
‘I know you said you never assume anything, John, but without holding you to it, what does your professional instinct tell you?’ Joseph wondered if they were thinking along the same lines.
John Carson took a deep breath. ‘Ronnie lets in a visitor. Visitor brings bottle of scotch. Ronnie, unused to heavy drinking, gets tipsy. Visitor suggests he lie down. He gets onto his bed, maybe he even nods off. His visitor has come prepared, goes to the loo or maybe the kitchen on some pretext, and starts his fire. He allows it to get a hold, then escapes, locking the door behind him. Ronnie wakes and rushes to the door, but too late, and he perishes.’
This was the scenario Joseph had envisaged. ‘Ronnie’s caravan was in a quiet secluded spot in the corner, with a hedge forming a barrier along one side. If not many people were around, he could have got out pretty well unnoticed.’
‘Someone saw him though, didn’t they?’ Nikki added. ‘Let’s hope they got a really good look.’ She looked at John. ‘Is this what all those practice attempts were preparing for? Killing Ronnie Tyrrell?’
John Carson ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Too soon for that question, Inspector, but maybe. The thing is, I can tell you how it happened, but as to why, and who did it, that’s far from easy to discover.’ He gave them a tired smile. ‘However, I’m certain that you will find him. I can see from your faces that you know exactly how ruthless this man is. You’ll do everything you can.’
‘You’re right there, John. By the way, it looks like we are going to be picking your brains for as long as it takes to get him, so it’s Nikki and Joseph, okay?’
John smiled. ‘Feels a little odd, after all the years of formality, but that’s great.’
‘There’s little more we can do here, so we’ll let you get on. Will you join us at the station when you’re through?’ Nikki said.
‘I’ll see you there.’ He paused. ‘One thing is bothering me slightly . . . This kind of thing generally happens at night, so why risk doing it in broad daylight?’
‘And would you drink whisky at eleven in the morning? Especially if you’re not a heavy drinker?’ added Nikki.
‘And,’ Joseph said, ‘how did the killer know that Ronnie would be here and not working? Apparently he worked all hours.’
They looked at each other. ‘More questions than answers, it seems,’ John said. ‘I think your part is far more complicated than mine.’
Joseph felt inclined to agree.
CHAPTER FOUR
As soon as he got home, he removed all his clothing and walked naked through his flat to the wet room. For all he knew, he may have stood for hours beneath the scalding shower. He felt numb inside, almost as though he’d been given some drug that quashed all emotion.
He finally turned off the water, stepped from the shower and wrapped himself in two big bath sheets. When his teeth began to chatter, he knew he was going into shock. He hurried down to the kitchen, took a half bottle of brandy from the cupboard and splashed a big measure into a mug.
He sipped the brandy, felt it burn his throat and only then allowed himself to sink to the floor. What had he expected to feel? Elation? Euphoria? Instead, he felt sick. He drew the towels tight around him, and gulped more brandy.
He’d been seen. But so what? He’d done nothing to conceal his presence at Mud Town. Day and night, people came and went through the site. Shift workers with odd hours. New faces appeared and disappeared. Who recalled them? Who cared about them? No one, which was why Tyrrell had loved it so much. One more face among many. So he was surprised by just how many men had run to try and save Tyrrell. He had stood at a distance and watched for a few minutes. One man actually risked his life, wrestling with a heavy gas bottle to free it from the burning caravan before it exploded. How could he do that for someone who must have been almost a stranger to him? Others, in similar circumstances, would run, flee to save their own skins. Why are we so different when it comes to the things that really matter? To life or death. Fight or flight?
He tipped back the last of the brandy and exhaled. Tyrrell was dead. Now he had to move on.
The cold he felt seemed to come from deep inside him. He turne
d the central heating as high as it would go, certain that he’d never be warm again. Then he remembered the fire, and the way the flames burst forth as they found something new to devour. The breathtaking heat that hit you like a physical force and seared right into you. There was something hypnotic and quite beautiful in its greedy progress, yet it frightened him too.
He pulled on fresh clothes, and threw what he’d been wearing into the washing machine. But even as he watched them spin, the acrid stench of smoke lingered on.
An hour later, he was back in the shower, scrubbing himself raw, trying to rid his hair of the cloying smell of burning. It wasn’t meant to be like this. Tears mingled with the water pouring over his face. He must find a way to get over it. He had to finish what he’d started, and there was still a long, long way to go.
* * *
‘Who’s she?’ Nikki nudged Joseph and pointed to the smartly dressed woman talking to Cameron Walker.
‘I think her name’s Laura Archer. She’s taken over from Richard Foley while he’s on leave. She’s the Saltern-le-Fen psychologist. Rumour has it that Richard is taking a post abroad and she’ll be covering the whole division.’
‘Ah. I’ve heard that DI Jackman thinks pretty highly of her.’ Nikki pulled a face. ‘But I liked Richard Foley. He never overdramatised. I’ll be sorry if he leaves permanently.’
‘Hey, why not ask her what makes an arsonist tick?’ Joseph said. ‘Might help. I know very little about the subject, and that’s not good.’
‘You’re right.’ Nikki rubbed her hands together. ‘This could be quite a fortuitous meeting.’ She hurried across to where Cam and the psychologist were still in earnest conversation and held out her hand. ‘DI Nikki Galena. And you’re Laura Archer? Your reputation precedes you, Laura.’
Cam rolled his eyes. ‘Watch out, Laura, she wants something. I’ve seen this before.’
‘Rats! Thank you, Acting Superintendent Walker, for blowing my cover. But yes,’ she became serious, ‘I do need your help.’
‘Well, if I can. I’m finished here, so . . . ?’
Nikki noted her clear blue eyes and light brown, perfectly styled hair. Nikki decided she herself needed a makeover. Badly. ‘My office?’
‘Lead on.’ The smile showed even teeth. Skin, clear and smooth. Nikki sighed inwardly. Not fair. Not fair at all.
Joseph joined them in her office. ‘Cat’s bringing in drinks. I hope you drink coffee, Laura?’
‘Anything, thank you. I’ve noticed that there’s not a lot of difference between tea and coffee with these police station vending machines.’
‘Ah, but we’re different. We have a proper coffee machine.’ Joseph smiled.
‘Now you’re talking!’ Laura looked to Nikki. ‘So, what’s the problem you need help with?’
‘We have a fire-setter, an arsonist . . . a pyromaniac? I’m not sure what to call him. He’s killed someone.’
Laura frowned. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But you aren’t talking about a pyromaniac. They’re very rare, and they have a serious mental health issue. It’s an impulse control disorder. They light fires with no obvious motive. It’s a compulsion, like kleptomania. They can’t stop themselves.’
DC Cat Cullen entered, bearing a tray with coffee in three white china cups.
‘We don’t always get such service, but you’re a guest.’ Joseph grinned at Cat, who made a sarcastic bobbing curtsy and backed out of the room.
‘Are you sure you’re police officers?’ Laura looked from Nikki and Joseph to the china cups. ‘Extraordinary.’
‘We inherited the coffee machine and everything that goes with it from someone we cared about.’ Nikki spoke sadly, then roused herself. ‘So, what have we got, Laura? An arsonist?’
‘Tell me exactly what’s happened so far.’
Between them, she and Joseph recounted the incidents, as well as the fire investigator’s fears.
‘From what you tell me, I’d say this is certainly the work of an arsonist. We classify them according to the motives that drive them, which can be excitement, vandalism, revenge, concealment of a crime, profit, terrorism or extremism, or no discernible motive at all, which often means complex mental illness. You need to discover the reason behind this behaviour.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘They’re very complicated people, Inspector. Somewhat like serial killers, they can be organised or disorganised. If you’re unlucky enough to have an organised one, he may be unusually clever. He — for it’s almost always a man — leaves little or no physical or forensic evidence, uses elaborate incendiary devices, adopts a methodical approach to the setting of the fire, often with considerable study beforehand, and is of above average intelligence.’ She paused. ‘And he dislikes people.’
‘And the disorganised one?’ Joseph asked.
‘He’ll use anything that comes to hand — matches, lighter fluid, petrol. He’s likely to be rather chaotic and would probably not even think about whether he’d left fingerprints or footprints. Unlike his organised counterpart, he’s asocial, in other words he’s socially inadequate.’
Nikki frowned. ‘I’m not sure about our man. We’ll need to see what forensics and our fire investigator come up with.’
Laura set down her cup. ‘I’m happy to help. Give me the findings and I’ll try to build you a list of characteristics, a sort of profile, if you like.’
‘That would be a real help, Laura. As soon as we have the reports, we’ll send them over to you. You’re based in Saltern, aren’t you?’
‘I’m here in Greenborough this week, so I’ll call by, but here’s my card. Ring me any time.’
Nikki thanked her. Feeling distinctly envious, she watched Laura leave her office. She glanced at Joseph, wondering what he saw. Joseph, however, was staring intently at the notes he’d made.
‘The motive could be revenge, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘I mean, he doesn’t fit most of the other categories. Think of those practice fires. This was planned, wasn’t it? An intentional murder?’
Laura forgotten, Nikki nodded vigorously. ‘Absolutely. But why Ronnie? We need to know more about his past. Let’s speak to Cat, see if she’s come up with anything.’
Outside in the office, Cat Cullen was squinting at her monitor screen and muttering.
‘Doesn’t look very hopeful, Cat,’ Nikki said. ‘Ronnie Tyrrell?
‘Ronnie bloody-never-set-a-foot-wrong Tyrrell. Yes, ma’am.’
‘Ah. But anything else? Personal life?’
‘Didn’t have one. Local boy. Average pupil, left school, went to work on the land, disappeared for two years, came back, went to the Fairweathers and stayed there until he fried, er, died. End of life-story.’
‘Family?’
‘Moved down to the West Country, but Ronnie didn’t go with them. I found an address but it’s way out of date. The people who live there now had never heard of the Tyrrells and had no idea how we could contact them.’
Something from this very ordinary life struck Nikki. ‘Disappeared for two years? What’s that all about?’
‘Beats me, but I’ll stick with it.’ Cat glanced to the empty desk facing her own. ‘Ben should be back in shortly. I’ll get him to help me try and trace the parents, if that’s okay, ma’am?’
DC Ben Radley — Cat’s boyfriend of the past eighteen months — was a bloodhound when it came to tracking people. ‘That’s fine, Cat. We need to tell this man’s parents. They have a right to know what happened to their son, even if they were estranged. And I don’t want them reading about it in the papers or seeing it on the news.’
Cat nodded. ‘We’ll find them, ma’am.’
Nikki looked at Joseph. ‘And we should go and see that curate, the one Brodie Fairweather mentioned. Where did he say St Saviours was?’
‘Helmsley Street, west end of town.’
‘Let’s go pay him a call.’
* * *
Joseph held open the big oak door. As she went in, Nikki whispered, ‘What does curate mean?’
‘As far as I recall, he’s a sort of assistant to the vicar. I think “curate” means being responsible for the cure or care of the souls in his parish.’
‘So are they ordained?’
‘Yes, but they always have an assisting role.’
Nikki looked around the big church, a little overawed by its sheer size. She had driven past it many times, but had never really noticed it, let alone been inside. It wasn’t ornately decorated, but the soaring arches and the carved wooden screens were magnificent.
A well-built young man with wavy, corn-blond hair strode towards them. Nikki thought he looked more like a boxer than a cleric.
‘I was told to expect you. I’m Leon Martin.’ He ushered them into a small vestry to one side of the chancel, and pulled some plastic chairs from a stack in the corner. ‘How can I help?’
Nikki sat down. ‘I understand you knew Ronnie Tyrrell?’
The curate frowned. ‘Knew?’
‘He was killed earlier today. We believe he was murdered,’ Joseph said simply.
Leon Martin closed his eyes and murmured a few words under his breath. ‘Dead? Murdered? Not Ronnie, can’t be. He’s such a . . . a quiet man. And he owns next to nothing, certainly nothing worth stealing. Who would want to kill him?’
There was a long silence while Nikki and Joseph gave the curate time to assimilate what they had just told him. Nikki asked, ‘We understand that Ronnie disappeared for two years when he was younger. Can you shed any light on what that was about?’
Leon brushed his fringe from his face. It was a tired gesture. ‘It was a family thing. He had a sister, a really bright girl. She went to university and everything, and Ronnie’s father wanted him to do the same. But Ronnie just wasn’t academic. All he wanted to do was work on the land, and they fell out. In the end it got so bad he just took off.’ Leon frowned. ‘As far as I remember, the parents moved to the Exeter area, to be nearer the daughter, and Ronnie distanced himself from them. I don’t know exactly where he went, but I know the whole time he was away, he worked in agriculture.’
‘So, no deep, dark secrets, just a family disagreement,’ Joseph murmured.