by Matt Brolly
The first of two bedrooms was directly opposite the kitchen and was being used as an overspill for the bin bags which had been placed on a stained mattress. Matilda tried the bathroom, as Lambert made his way to the larger bedroom. Lambert turned away as he spotted a mound of what appeared to be faeces in the corner.
‘Police,’ he called, once more entering the living room, which in comparison to the rest of the house was well presented. At the far end of the room, a glass door led to a patio area.
Lambert tried the door, sidestepping a two-seater bed settee which faced an old box-shaped television. As Matilda entered, Lambert noticed a wooden school desk which had been hidden by the door Matilda had pulled shut. On top of the desk was a laptop which was switched on. ‘Stop,’ said Lambert, trying to hide the panic in his voice.
‘What is it?’
‘Did you try the light switches in the other room?’
‘Yes, I think it’s been a while since the electricity has been on in this place.’
Lambert beckoned her forward a step. ‘How do you explain that, then?’ he said, pointing to the laptop.
‘Sir, it’s connected to something.’
Lambert tiptoed across the room. The laptop was attached to a small device housed in an aluminium box. He peered closer. Attached to the box was a second wire which led to a second device.
‘Sir,’ said Matilda, who was staring intently at the laptop. ‘Something’s changed on the screen.’
Lambert was tempted to rip the wires from the laptop. One look at Matilda dissuaded him. Was she thinking back to the explosion in Hampstead? ‘Maybe we should call in someone who knows what they are doing?’ she said.
Lambert hesitated. ‘Look at the door,’ he said, pointing to a set of three silver tabs adjoined to the hinge of the door. At that second, the laptop beeped. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
They both retreated from the house, the cold rain a welcome sensation. ‘I want this whole block of houses evacuated immediately,’ shouted Lambert to the confused DS Belton. ‘And get your men away from the house.’
Matilda called base and instructed them to send the fire service and the Bomb Disposal Unit. She seemed to be in control of the situation but Lambert kept close, studying her actions in as unobtrusive a manner as possible.
‘We’ve cleared the row,’ said Belton. ‘What are we looking at?’
‘Possible explosive device. Make sure everyone is the required distance away. No one is to approach the house.’
In the distance, Lambert heard the wail of sirens approaching. He tried to rationalise why the device had been placed at the house whilst regretting not tearing the wires from the laptop when he had the chance. Did the Fireman know they were coming? The set-up with the explosive device was certainly elaborate but why hadn’t it gone off when they were in the house? Surely the point had been to guide them into the house to trigger the device. So why were they sitting safe on the roadside waiting for the bomb disposal squad to arrive?
As if in answer to Lambert’s thoughts, an explosion ripped through the house.
Everyone cowered, Lambert instinctively protecting his eyes. He was taken back to the mansion in Hampstead, the explosions which had permanently disfigured the woman crouched next to him. He’d been further away from the epicentre than he was now. The wave of energy from that blast had felt inconsequential compared to what he’d just experienced. It was as if the space had evaporated before his very eyes. He glanced up to see a hole where the Fireman’s bungalow had once been. Flecks of debris swarmed through the air as if suspended, pieces of the house falling around him as he sheltered beneath his arms. To his right, Matilda mirrored his pose, protecting her head from the impact of falling fragments.
Convinced the last of the debris had fallen, Lambert stood up. A ringing sound permeated his ears, adding to the unreal feeling of the situation. ‘You OK?’ he said to Matilda, his words muffled as if his ears were filled with water.
Matilda got to her feet, a look of defiance on her face. ‘Jesus, there’s nothing left,’ she said, They turned their backs in unison as a second, smaller, detonation rang out, releasing a torrent of flames into the sky.
Despite the brightness of the day, and the sprinkling of rain still falling from the sky, the flames burnt with a startling clarity. It was like a staged bonfire display, Hodge’s bungalow the only building affected.
‘It was lucky we got out in time,’ said Matilda, as the fire service screeched into view, followed closely by the flashing lights of the bomb disposal unit.
Lambert glanced around him, scrutinising the onlookers with phones in their hands filming the rising flames. He’d had this feeling before, the sense of being watched.
‘I don’t think it was lucky,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lambert spent the afternoon back at Chislehurst station researching Hodge further. He’d left Matilda at the scene liaising with the fire and bomb disposal teams. He’d meant what he’d said to her: in his opinion they hadn’t been lucky, and their miraculous escape was no accident. He waited for the specialist team to confirm, but his best guess was that the metal tape in the door held sensors which had alerted Hodge to their presence. The incendiary device had then been detonated by Hodge remotely when they were safe and in the open.
If this was true – and Lambert conceded it was simply a hypothesis at this point – it meant many things. First, Hodge was watching them; at least to begin with. Secondly, Hodge had spared them but decided to set off the device anyway. For what reason? Lambert considered that Hodge might have wanted to protect his invention from prying eyes. Maybe something in the set up would have given them a lead to the man’s whereabouts, but Lambert doubted he would be so careless. Lambert believed Hodge set off the detonation because he wanted to see the explosion. The fire chief had alluded to the staged nature of the fire at Jardine’s house, and having witnessed the devastation firsthand Lambert understood the terrible beauty to the staged explosions; how someone with Hodge’s predilection would see something artistic in his endeavours.
The most important consideration for Lambert at this juncture was the fact that Hodge had let them escape. If he was the psychopathic killer they suspected, capable of kidnapping two people and replacing them with two corpses, then why hadn’t he killed him and Matilda when he had the chance? It could be a vanity thing, a sign of power, demonstrating he was in control.
It could also mean one more thing: the fire had not been meant for them.
After an hour of struggle, Lambert eventually discovered what he was looking for: a living relative for Hodge.
Gladys Hodge was aged eighty-two and lived in a care home in Dartford, Kent. Lambert called the home and made an appointment to see her. Noting that Bickland wasn’t in the incident room, he summoned the local detective. ‘Croft, we’re off to Dartford,’ he said.
‘Sir,’ said Croft, grabbing her coat off her chair as Lambert headed out of the room.
* * *
‘You drive,’ said Lambert, throwing his keys to Croft. They were on the main road outside the station. The sky was already dark, the crisp air close to freezing point.
‘How long have you been working at Chislehurst?’ asked Lambert, as Croft pulled out into the stationary traffic of the high street.
‘Five years now.’
‘You made DS four years ago?’
‘Sir.’
Lambert nodded but didn’t ask any more questions. He wanted to know if Croft had more ambition beyond her current role but wasn’t going to ask her outright. From what he’d seen of her so far, she was competent and had shown a certain backbone with her determination to remain on the case. He didn’t like knowing so little about someone on his team.
He’d only briefly perused Croft’s file. He could relate to her situation even though his tenure as a detective sergeant had been short lived. He’d been part of the accelerated program and bumped up to Inspector when he’d joined Tillman in his now defunct
Group.
Croft kept her eyes on the road, the traffic thinning. ‘I’m finding it very exhilarating,’ she said, unprompted. ‘This is the most high-profile case I’ve worked on. I only hope we can get a result.’
Lambert nodded, his thoughts returning to the Jardines. He wouldn’t share his thoughts with Croft, or anyone else for that matter, but he was convinced the Jardines were still alive. It was more than a mere hunch. To Lambert, it was a logical conclusion to the situation. If the Fireman, Hodge, had wanted the pair dead, he could have killed them in the fire. Since he’d replaced the bodies with those of Turner and Berry, it was a logical step to presume the pair were still alive. To what end remained to be seen.
At the care home, a harried-looking woman dressed in a floral print dress and heavy cardigan greeted them at the reception. Like most of these places, an aroma hung in the air which to Lambert was reminiscent of school buildings – a mixture of cleaning products and cooked food.
‘Glenda Parsons, duty manager,’ said the woman, offering a limp handshake first to Croft, then Lambert.
Croft made the introductions, Lambert choosing to remain silent as he studied the interior of the home: the thick pile carpets which led from the hallway to a communal living area, the comfortable armchairs occupied by people in various states of old age. Some of the residents were alert, reading or watching the old style television screen off to one corner. Others were asleep, or permanently comatose.
‘I must say, I was surprised you wanted to see Gladys. She doesn’t get many visitors,’ said Parsons.
‘Would you have a list of who has visited her in the last year, Mrs Parsons?’ asked Croft, not wasting any time.
‘I’ll check, but I’m pretty sure there will be no results. I’m not sure she has any living relatives. A son maybe, I’ll have to check. As this is a government facility, there are no families to chase for payment. I can’t remember anyone visiting Gladys before, I’m afraid.’
‘May we see her?’ asked Croft.
‘Of course, follow me.’
No doubt it was a familiar refrain in such places, but Lambert couldn’t help but wonder if this was all there was to look forward to. It was difficult not to become despondent as they made their way to Gladys’s room, past small cubicles where the half-dead endured their last days unloved and abandoned. A tight smile formed on his lips as he considered there would be no one to visit him when he reached this stage. No children to make the occasional guilt-ridden visit, no one to watch his humiliating decline. His own parents had died when Lambert was in his early thirties, and at times like this it almost seemed a blessing.
The Duty Manager stopped outside one of the rooms and knocked. ‘Gladys, you have some visitors,’ she said, opening the door.
A resolute woman was sitting on a bedside chair, staring at them with a look of unconcealed distaste. ‘Visitors?’ said the woman, as if the word was alien to her.
‘Mrs Hodge, my name is Gemma Croft. Detective Sergeant Gemma Croft. This is my colleague, Detective Chief Inspector Michael Lambert.’ Croft approached the woman with short slow steps.
‘Police?’ said the woman, with the same uncertain voice.
The duty manager barged past Croft, and opened a small window to the rear of the room. ‘They just want to ask you some questions, Gladys, isn’t that nice,’ she said, as if talking to a child.
Gladys placed the paperback she’d been reading on the bed. Lambert noticed the image of a woman with windswept hair in the arms of a bare-chested Lothario. ‘Thank you, Mrs Parsons,’ said Lambert, to the duty manager.
Parsons blinked, confused, before moving towards the door. ‘OK, let me know if you need anything.’
‘Well, sit then,’ said Gladys, once Parsons had left. ‘It will be nice to speak to someone who doesn’t think I’m incapable.’
Lambert took in the bareness of the room as he sat, the mini bookcase perched on a desk the only sign of any personal possessions in the uncluttered room. He couldn’t see any family photos and feared they’d approached the wrong woman.
‘So, I guess you’re here to speak to me about the marijuana,’ said Gladys, stone-faced.
Lambert watched in amusement as Croft’s mouth hung open.
‘I’m kidding,’ said Gladys, maintaining the same unreadable expression. ‘What do you want?’
Croft leant back in her chair, seemingly relieved.
‘We’re here to speak to you about your son, Mrs Hodge,’ said Lambert.
‘You’re the boss one?’ said Gladys.
‘I’m the more senior officer, yes,’ said Lambert.
‘Handsome one, aren’t you?’
Lambert shrugged. ‘That’s neither here nor there. Tell me about your son.’
Gladys gazed at Lambert. Her face was an incredible map of lines and intersections, her dry skin decorated with scabs and scar tissue. ‘Trevor,’ she said.
‘Trevor,’ said Lambert.
Gladys sighed, and Lambert sensed a world of meaning in it. A sense of disappointment and regret. ‘What’s he done now?’ she said.
‘When did you last see your son?’ asked Lambert.
Gladys shook her head. ‘Time is not the same nowadays. I don’t really function in this world any more. I live there,’ she said, pointing to the small library of books. ‘They bring me fresh ones each week, the only good thing about this place.’
Lambert couldn’t tell if she was purposefully sidestepping the question. ‘Has he ever visited you here, Gladys?’
‘He came when they first sent me here. Once more since then. What’s he set fire to now?’
‘What can you tell us about his fires, Gladys?’ asked Croft.
Gladys’s resolve faded in a split second. A single tear fell from her right eye and made its slow journey down the dry wasteland of her wrinkled face. ‘He had a baby sister.’
Lambert caught Croft’s eye. He couldn’t recall any mention of a sister in Hodge’s file and from the look of it neither could Croft.
‘What happened to her, Gladys?’ asked Croft, who had softened her tone without sounding patronising.
The resolute look returned to her face as she dragged her hand across her eye in one quick movement. It was clear the woman had her wits about her and Lambert thought there should be a better place for her than here. ‘She was stillborn. Trevor was eight at the time. He’d been desperate to have a baby sister.’
Lambert’s body tensed as he sucked in his breath and tried not to think about Chloe.
Hodge looked away, lost in what must have been a horrendous memory. When she returned her gaze to Lambert it was unreadable. ‘That was when the fires started,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your loss, Gladys,’ said Croft. ‘Why do you think it started then?’
Gladys contorted her face, a sprinkling of further lines decorating her face. ‘You have to be careful what you tell children. Or what they get to hear,’ she said.
It was only then Lambert understood where Gladys’s strength came from. It was the tone of her voice, measured, calm, and authoritative. If he wasn’t sitting face to face with Gladys he would have said the voice belonged to a confident person in their fifties. Not some frail old lady, whittling away her last few days in a box-shaped, prison-like room, the lure of the next romantic doorstopper the only thing to look forward to.
‘What did he hear?’ asked Lambert, trying to mirror Croft’s soft tone.
‘I think it was his dad. Not sure he meant anything by it. He was a docile man, my Leonard, not the brightest.’
Lambert already had an idea of what Gladys was about to tell him, and wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.
‘Trevor asked him what would happen to his little sister, and Leonard, bless him, told him.’
Lambert shut his eyes, blood thumping behind his eyelids. ‘What exactly did he tell him, Gladys?’
Gladys’ eyes widened. ‘That her little body would be burnt,’ she said.
Chapter Twenty-Six
They sat in silence, Gladys Hodge staring at Lambert and Croft in turn, as if daring them to say something. From the research Lambert had gathered on arsonists, and his chats with Chapman and the fire expert, Finch, he knew what Gladys had said could have been enough to trigger something in the Fireman. It wasn’t the words alone which would have prompted his behaviour: it was the combination of his sister’s death and the spark of his imagination responding to his father’s words. It would take someone with more psychological insight than him to decipher what Hodge had been trying to achieve by setting the fires. Could he see it as a way to somehow honour her, or in his delusion did he somehow believe he could resurrect her?
‘It was about a year later that we first caught him,’ said Gladys, ignoring the stunned silence at what she’d just said. ‘He stole a bin from one of our neighbours. One of those metal ones. He filled it with paper and fallen wood. When we found him, he was sitting directly in front of it, staring into the flames like he was hypnotised, close enough to burn. His dad grabbed him away. He screamed when Leonard put out the fire.’
She shook her head. ‘My God, he idolised his father. I think if Leonard had been there for him, then he would never have…’
‘The other fires?’ asked Lambert.
‘Yes. I imagine you know about his arrests, his foolishness. It was too much for me at the time. I tried, but he would never listen.’
‘What happened to Leonard, Gladys? I mean Mr Hodge?’ asked Croft.
Gladys turned to the DS with a look which would have cowed a weaker officer. ‘He was never the same after we lost our little girl. He tried, bless him, but something snapped within him, seeing our little baby like that. He wasn’t a strong man, you see. One day he got lost in the darkness for a final time and never returned.’