FIRE ON THE FENS a gripping crime thriller filled with stunning twists

by Joy Ellis

  Yvonne looked around. Everything in the room gave the impression of a successful, well-off family that liked to socialise. The decor was expensive, with quality furniture arranged just so, and rich drapes at the windows. She looked down at her sensible shoes, and the thick pile cream carpet, and hoped she hadn’t left any footprints. The framed photos that seemed to decorate every available surface were mostly taken at classy venues, dinner parties or corporate functions. In almost every shot, copious quantities of alcohol were being consumed.

  ‘Constable Collins? I’m Tom Black, how kind of you to take our little fracas so seriously!’

  He pumped Yvonne’s hand enthusiastically.

  ‘Yes, I’m really impressed,’ he added and gestured to the sofa. ‘Please take a seat and tell me how I can help you.’

  Tom Black was around thirty, with a neat, close-clipped beard, black hair and very dark eyes. He put Yvonne in mind of the actor who played Merlin. Oh, what was his name?

  ‘We were told that a group of people were leaving a meeting here, and were heckled and physically jostled by a gang of foul-mouthed youths. Is that right?’

  ‘’Fraid so. No one was actually injured. We were just pushed around a bit and had obscenities yelled at us.’

  ‘I have some photographs here. Perhaps you’d take a look and see if any of the faces seem familiar.’ She handed him the mugshots.

  He looked at them in silence and then drew a long breath. ‘It was dark and, frankly, they all looked the same. Dreary street clothes and hoodies pulled down to shield their faces. Mind you, this one does look a bit like the one who spat at me.’

  Yvonne nodded and stared at the picture. ‘Very likely. He’s fond of that little trick.’

  ‘Nice.’ He grimaced.

  Yvonne offered him a half smile. ‘Actually, this one really is a lost cause. I’ve tried to help him, given him every chance, but nothing works. Basically, he’s a very angry, very unpleasant young man.’

  ‘Sorry, but he’s the only one I would even hazard a guess at identifying.’ Tom Black handed her back the photos. ‘But if you leave me the pictures, I could ask my brother when he returns. He actually got in between one of them and a friend of ours, so maybe he saw his face.’

  ‘That’s fine, I can come back when he’s here. I need these to show someone else.’ She didn’t, but she wasn’t leaving them here. ‘Can I ask you something, sir?’

  This seemed to amuse him. ‘Ask away, Officer.’

  ‘About the meeting. What sort of meeting was it? Only I’m getting conflicting reports and I want to get it right. Is the group religious by nature?’

  ‘Can I get you some tea, officer? Then I’ll explain.’

  With or without hemlock? ‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘Milk no sugar, please.’

  While he was out of the room, Yvonne continued her appraisal, but nothing odd showed itself. She would like to see more of the place. It was very big, and she guessed she had been shown into the part reserved for ‘outsiders,’ like the parlours of old without the dust sheets. On the other hand, Tom Black seemed very personable, polite without being condescending, and he was certainly not trying to hurry her out. I’m probably about to be fed a well-rehearsed spiel about the goings on at the Black House meetings. Or am I just becoming even more of a crusty old cynic?

  He returned with her drink, and she accepted it gratefully. Real tea, no less, served in a cup with a saucer. She herself always made tea in a pot with loose leaf tea, and heartily disliked the weak concoction made by speed-dunking a bag of floor sweepings.

  Tom sat down in a deep armchair opposite her and smiled. ‘Okay, PC Collins. Go for it.’

  Yvonne suddenly felt rather silly. ‘Well, I did hear that your group are satanists.’

  ‘Not exactly, but not too far from that, I suppose. We are Luciferians.’

  ‘Is that a bona fide religion?’

  Tom laughed. ‘I’d say it’s a religion for the irreligious. And no, we’re not devil worshippers. We regard Lucifer as the bringer of light. And you will no doubt be delighted to hear that we’re strict advocates of law and order. We shun violence and all criminal activities.’

  ‘Refreshing to hear.’ Yvonne hoped he wouldn’t think she was being sarcastic. ‘So why do we have such a different idea when we hear talk of Satan?’

  ‘Satanists have very different beliefs, but even they are misunderstood. All those hammy films from the sixties and seventies didn’t help. Modern satanism is a kind of umbrella term for a variety of different beliefs and practices that are essentially nonconformist.’ He sat back. ‘But I’m sure you don’t really want a lecture on belief systems, do you?’

  ‘I need to know why those youths saw fit to attack you, so, no, I don’t need a masterclass. But I do want to know what I’m dealing with.’

  ‘We are no threat to anyone, Officer. But we don’t want to be intimidated through people’s ignorance.’

  The darkly handsome young man had considerable charisma. Yvonne guessed that a younger woman might well have gone home and dreamt about those eyes.

  ‘It is ignorance that drove those young men to heckle us,’ Tom said quietly. ‘They have a picture created from the fears of dogmatic religion. It’s made of all the diabolical trappings bestowed upon Satan and glorified by heavy metal bands and horror films. We can’t blame them for believing it, but we do condemn their unthinking acceptance of all that rubbish. We believe in respecting those who deserve respect, and we never interfere with people who cause us no problem. Sadly, we are not always shown the same courtesy.’

  Tom Black was very persuasive.

  ‘This house, sir? Is it your family home?’

  Tom nodded. ‘My ancestors made their money when Greenborough was a thriving wool town, and all their descendants have been blessed with good business sense. My grandfather, being somewhat egocentric, changed the name of this house to the Black House.’ He looked at her, and smiled. ‘Sorry, no dark, malevolent connotations. It’s just our family name, like Smith, Brown or Green.’

  That was her next question answered.

  ‘How long have you been a Luciferian, Mr Black?’

  ‘Since I was around nine or ten, although both my brother and I took a long time to fully commit to it.’

  ‘And your parents? Do they still live here?’

  ‘No. They moved to America many years ago. They were avid followers of a man named Anton Szandor LaVey, an American author and occultist. He was the man who wrote The Satanic Bible. That wasn’t for us, so they left us the Black House and moved to the States.’

  ‘Tom?’ Corinne Black poked her head around the door. ‘Paris on the phone for you. Can you come?’

  Tom Black stood up. ‘Duty calls, Officer. But, please come back and speak to Giles. He’ll be here after four.’ The dark eyes glinted mischievously. ‘Although maybe you have all you need now?’

  ‘Touché!’ thought Yvonne. ‘Yes, thank you, but I’ll still pop back later, if that’s alright?’

  He gave her a polite little bow, shook her hand once again, and hurried from the room.

  Yvonne walked back down Ferry Street, thinking over their conversation. She was normally a very good judge of character, but Tom Black confused her. He seemed to her to be sincere, yet there was something about the Black House that bothered her. She couldn’t work out what it was.

  One of those small details. When he extended his arm to shake her hand, his shirt cuff had ridden up a little, exposing a small tattoo just above his wrist. It was a complex design of twisted flames, forming a scarlet, orange and yellow fireball. A symbol of his religion or something else? Maybe she was reading too much into it because they were all on high alert for fire-setters.

  Yvonne nearly stopped, beset by an overwhelming urge to get straight back inside the Black House.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  No fires had swept through any part of Greenborough during the night. Nikki was relieved, but she didn’t believe they’d heard the last
of their arsonist. No one had been able to trace where Ronnie Tyrrell was for those two missing years. She had pinned her hopes on some official job, but they had checked his national insurance number and employment record, and it seemed he must have been working cash in hand.

  She left Cat still trying to dig up something useful on those years, and got the others looking into Ronnie the person. Their best bet had been Leon the curate, and she had frightened him into silence when she mentioned satanists. ‘You have a big gob, Nikki Galena!’ she muttered to herself.

  ‘No one is disputing that, I’ll bet.’ Joseph chuckled from the doorway.

  ‘Shut up, Easter! I’ll tell you when I need help beating myself up.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure. I bring a message from Rory.’

  She looked up hopefully.

  ‘He says the full forensic report will take a while, but he wanted you to know that they’ve confirmed that an accelerant was used in the caravan. Our arsonist appears to have packed a whole handful of Zip firelighters and a couple of lighter fuel-soaked rags down the side of the bench seat, close to the kitchen area, and sprayed lighter fuel around.’

  ‘Exactly where John Carson suggested.’ Nikki looked angrily at Joseph. ‘It confirms that we’re looking for a cold-blooded murderer.’

  ‘Something we already knew, but as you say, now it’s official.’

  ‘Okay, back to Mud Town. Someone else must have seen that stranger, or seen his car parked close by. These workers do shifts. If we go at a different time of day we might hit on someone who wasn’t there for our initial visit.’

  ‘Worth a try. I’ll get a car and see you downstairs.’

  The enormity of what the arsonist had done struck her with greater force. The hate, the total lack of compassion that would lead someone to deliberately consign another human being to such a terrible death was impossible to take in. She must talk to Laura Archer again soon. She needed to get inside this killer’s head.

  She walked down the stairs, deep in thought. Maybe it really was a single act of revenge? Had Ronnie Tyrrell, in his short life, done something that had aroused enough bad feeling to warrant his horrible, painful demise? Quiet, kind Ronnie. He had been a sad man too. Denied permission to do the only thing he wanted, bullied by his parents and abandoned by his only sibling, and finally cut off financially, if the curate was correct. They needed to find his parents’ executor in order to clarify that.

  ‘When you’ve finished thinking,’ Joseph stood with the door of a fleet car wide open, ‘your carriage awaits.’

  ‘Sorry. Just trying to get a handle on the arsonist’s motive, and coming up empty.’

  ‘Too soon for that. We need to know an awful lot more about Ronnie Tyrrell first.’

  She climbed in and fastened her safety belt. ‘Then foot down, Lewis Hamilton. Let’s go find someone who spent time with him.’

  * * *

  ‘Try Justina Mekas. Last caravan on the right. She works a night shift, so you might not have spoken to her before.’ Alexis sat on the step of his caravan and pulled off mud-caked boots. ‘I’ve often seen her talking to Ronnie, and I think he might have helped her with her English when she first arrived. She’s Lithuanian.’

  Joseph thanked him and they tramped through the muddy encampment towards Justina’s van. He hated to think what it must be like to live here all year round. It was autumn now, although it seemed as if the seasons had blended into one grey nothing. There should have been orange and scarlet leaves glowing against crisp blue skies. Instead, they hung, damp and decaying, decimated by high winds and constant drizzly rain. He could only imagine the sea of mud in January when they brought the sugar beet harvest in. Then, great self-propelled harvesters lumbered up and down the endless fields, piled the beets into mountains of big ugly roots, and fleets of lorries carted tons of them from the fields. Lanes became impassable and handwritten signs indicating “Mud on Road” sprang up everywhere.

  Nikki knocked on the door and they stood back and waited. Joseph did not expect a welcome. Many Eastern Europeans came from places where the police were not to be trusted, were even feared.

  Evidently they had just woken her. One hand held a thick fleecy dressing gown to her thin body, and the other grasped the door handle, ready to shut it fast.

  Joseph introduced himself and Nikki, and smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s about Ronnie.’

  Her narrow face relaxed. She took a step back and held the door open for them. ‘I’m glad you’ve come.’

  They walked into a blast of warm air. Joseph guessed that Justina felt the cold after a long night shift.

  He looked around. The space was cramped and airless, her things utilitarian, just the basic necessities. Apart from a framed photograph of two young children, there were no ornaments or decorations. Even so, the single berth caravan was neat and clean.

  She pointed to a narrow bench alongside the table. They slid in and sat down.

  ‘I wanted to come to see you after they told me what had happened.’ Justina brushed a long strand of pale blonde hair away from her face. ‘But I don’t like going into police station.’

  ‘No matter, we are here now.’ Nikki looked at Justina with interest. ‘You were Ronnie’s friend?’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. He was kind to me and he helped me, so I suppose we were friends.’

  Joseph realised it would be hard for a woman on her own to trust anyone in this harsh, alien world. He pointed to the photograph. ‘Your children?’

  A quiet pride replaced the apathy on her face. ‘Yes, mine. Home with grandparents.’

  ‘You work for their futures?’ he asked.

  ‘I work to keep them alive.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘But you want to know about Ronnie, not me.’

  He nodded and looked down. Not his business.

  ‘Were you out when the incident happened, Justina?’ asked Nikki.

  ‘I had to work long shift. What do you say? Back to back. I never got home until late that evening. They told me then.’

  Joseph knew not to rush her, but he was curious to know why she said she’d wanted to see them.

  ‘Had Ronnie seemed worried at all of late? Nervous? Or different in any way?’ Nikki was asking.

  ‘No. Ronnie was just Ronnie. He wasn’t different.’

  Joseph leant forward. ‘Justina, we’ve been told that when he was young, he ran away for two years. We believe he couldn’t cope with the pressure his father put on him to go to university. Did he ever tell you where he went?’

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘His father was unkind man. You do not force your children to do things they are not happy with. He should have been pleased that his son had a passion, no matter what it was.’

  So, thought Joseph, she does know about Ronnie’s past. Maybe she knows more than Leon the curate. ‘I heard his father left him with nothing when he died.’

  Justina’s face hardened to granite. Joseph suspected she’d been fonder of Ronnie than she was prepared to admit. ‘He told you that?’ he asked.

  She nodded sadly. ‘The sister — the cow — she took it all.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have contested the will?’ asked Nikki.

  ‘He said that he would not . . . how do you say it? Not give her the . . . the pleasure?’

  ‘The satisfaction,’ Joseph said.

  She nodded. ‘That’s right. That’s what he said.’

  ‘I suppose he resented the sister after that,’ said Nikki thoughtfully.

  ‘Not really.’ She gave a hint of a smile. ‘Not easy for a man like Ronnie. He wasn’t like me. I am suspicious of everyone. I give you my respect after a long time only, but Ronnie only saw good. It would have been difficult for Ronnie to hate his sister for long.’ She paused. ‘It takes a lot of energy to hate someone. You have to give a big part of your life to dark thoughts. Ronnie didn’t do that. All he said was that he hoped the money did her no good at all. And that was it.’

  In the stuffy caravan, a silence fell
. Then Nikki asked, ‘Where did he go when he ran away?’

  The hint of a smile widened. ‘He never went anywhere,’ Justina said. ‘Ronnie thought it was very funny. He had another of your sayings. Hiding, but right under your nose?’

  ‘Hiding in plain sight?’

  She nodded. ‘Plain sight, that’s right. His father used to have small boat moored on the river quite close to their home. There was a jetty and a little boathouse. The boat had gone, but boathouse still there. Ronnie lived there.’

  ‘But how did he live? How did he support himself?’ Nikki asked.

  ‘The farmer who owned the land around the Tyrrells’s home had a lot of land in the area, and he had had big argument with the father many years before. He gave Ronnie work, and he taught him a lot. Ronnie only moved on when farmer sick and die.’ Her English faltered.

  ‘So he was right here all the time?’ Nikki asked.

  Justina’s grin was wide and open now. She beamed at them. ‘Right here.’

  But it doesn’t solve our problem, thought Joseph. ‘And he never mentioned anything during that time that might have been traumatic? Upsetting?’

  ‘He said it was best time of his life, so no, nothing bad happened.’ The sadness returned. ‘He was a good man, and I miss him. Please find who did that to him, and lock him up.’

  ‘We’d like nothing better, I assure you.’ Nikki nodded seriously.

  End of story. But it was no story at all. Joseph glanced at Nikki and saw from her puzzled expression that she was thinking the same. Was Ronnie’s killer a psychopath? Was it just a random murder with no motive at all?

  They thanked Justina and walked slowly back to the car.

  ‘A madman?’ Nikki whispered almost to herself. ‘I’m inclined to think not. There’s something we’re not seeing, isn’t there? Something we, and probably a lot of other people, don’t know about.’

  ‘But how do we find it?’ Joseph said.

  ‘Like we always do. We dig deeper, and keep on digging.’

  * * *

  John Carson pored over the notes he’d made the night before. He felt uncomfortable about this particular fire-setter, and he wasn’t quite sure why. He’d headed up, and solved, hundreds of fire investigations. Each one was different — the conditions, circumstances and motives. Different methods, different targets and very different outcomes.