Smoke Alarm

by Priscilla Masters

‘So how did he get the burns?’

  ‘He says he tried to get to his mother and sister, entering through the back door into the kitchen, but when he opened the door it was full of smoke. Roberts dragged him out.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I can’t decide whether to discipline him or give him an award.’

  Martha nodded. ‘So it appears that the three people on the first floor all died, while Nigel Barton was away. And Jude? How is he?’

  ‘He’ll be OK. Shocked but the hospital have him stabilized on oxygen and a drip and say he’ll be OK. They may transfer him later for surgery on his hands to one of the burns centres, probably Birmingham or Stoke, but for now he stays where he is at the Royal Shrewsbury Hospital. He’s fully conscious, obviously able to give us a statement.’

  Martha nodded. And again waited. Something else was troubling Alex Randall. But DI Randall was a cautious man who tended to check his concerns before he voiced them. She had come to realize that about him in the years they had worked together.

  He drew in a deep breath, as though about to dive off a high board. ‘One of the fire officers managed to gain preliminary access to the building this morning. Apparently, according to him, the doors to the rooms of Mrs Barton and Adelaide appeared to be locked. The body of a woman was found lying near the door of Mrs Barton’s room. We’re assuming this is Mrs Christie Barton. Another body was found, again behind a locked door, underneath the bedclothes. It appears that both died from smoke inhalation. Of course we’ll have to wait for the post-mortem but we can be fairly sure that these are the bodies of Christie and Adelaide.’

  Martha felt a shiver. ‘Why were there locks on the bedroom doors?’

  ‘According to Jude his family were very security conscious. All the internal doors had locks and when the house was empty the rooms were locked in case anyone broke in through a bedroom window.’ He leaned forward. ‘The two main downstairs rooms both had bay windows which did not extend to the first floor. That meant that there were small balconies outside the bedroom windows, though with flames shooting up from below this might not have been a possible escape route.’

  Martha needed a few seconds to digest this information. ‘Just a minute, Alex,’ she said, ‘are you telling me not only that this fire was deliberately started but also that three people were locked in their rooms to prevent their escape?’

  Randall looked miserable. ‘Two. The old man’s body was found on the landing,’ he said heavily, not meeting her eyes.

  Again Martha did not quite digest the information. When she did she looked at him.

  He read her gaze. ‘We don’t know yet.’

  ‘But it’s a murder enquiry.’

  ‘It will be a major police investigation,’ he finished. ‘But . . .’

  ‘But what? Do the family have any enemies?’

  ‘Not that we know of yet.’

  ‘There’s something more that you don’t like to say, Alex, even to me, isn’t there?’

  At last he met her eyes. ‘Six months ago,’ he said slowly, ‘according to June Morrison, there was a fire at the Barton’s house. It apparently started in the old man’s room. He was confused, Martha. He said he’d been cold and set fire to some newspapers to get some warmth. Mrs Barton smelt the smoke and raised the alarm. On that occasion there wasn’t a great deal of damage and the insurance company paid up. But the family were careful not to let him have lighters or matches. It is possible,’ he continued, ‘that he started this fire and possibly accidentally locked the doors. He may have thought he was helping. Who knows? He was very confused.’

  ‘There’s a great deal of difference between a confused old man starting a fire in his bedroom and deliberately igniting petrol and locking your daughter-in-law and granddaughter in their bedrooms to make sure they can’t get out.’

  ‘I know,’ he said shortly. ‘Mrs Morrison also said that on a couple of occasions Mr William Barton was violent towards his daughter-in-law.’

  ‘And yet Nigel Barton not only continues to allow his father to live there but also goes away on a business trip, leaving his father with his wife and two children.’

  ‘Mrs Morrison said William Barton “didn’t mean it”. It was all a “misunderstanding”.’

  ‘Does Mr Barton know yet what’s happened?’

  ‘He was contacted an hour ago. He’s probably on his way back as we speak.’

  Martha tapped her fingers on her desk as she thought. ‘Don’t let any of this leak out to the press, Alex. Not yet.’ They were interrupted by Martha’s phone ringing. «Simon» flashed up. She answered it. ‘Hi, Simon. Can I call you back in . . .’ Her eyes met Alex Randall’s. ‘Fifteen minutes. Yes.’

  Randall couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard the girlish, breathy tone in her voice. Who was this Simon? he wondered, before telling himself off. Whoever he was it was none of his business.

  She was giving him a wide smile, almost as though she could read his thoughts and they amused her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, eyes dropping to the mobile phone. ‘Just a friend.’

  Alex shrugged and returned to the topic of their conversation. ‘It’s very difficult to keep secrets here, Martha. Everyone in the village and the town will know someone who is personally involved in the Melverley tragedy – nurses, doctors, fire officers. There’ll be plenty of tittle-tattle buzzing around before long. All we need is for one of the journalists to ask a perceptive question and the tongues will wag even more.’

  ‘But these are merely suspicions. You don’t know anything yet, do you?’

  He shook his head but his face was guarded, his emotions tightly reined in.

  ‘And the boy, Jude?’

  ‘We have an officer with him. He’s in a state of shock. He’s put two and two together and realizes he’s lost his mother, sister and grandfather. He needs his father with him before we can interview him.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She was silent for a moment before pursuing her own thoughts ‘What do you think happened there last night, Alex?’

  He gave a dry laugh. ‘You know me, Martha: I’ll wait until we have full access to the scene and some of the forensics back. And I suppose I should speak to Mr Barton, see what he thinks. It’ll be hard.’

  He stood up but didn’t leave or say goodbye. ‘Martha,’ he said, hesitating awkwardly, ‘I do appreciate being able to come here and talk to you like this. It is helpful, you know.’ He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Thank you.’

  She met his eyes and practically flinched at the pain in them. Her instinct was to ask him what was the matter, to stroke the brown hair streaked with grey, to iron out the creases of unhappiness that scored his face, even to touch his mouth and try to curve it into a smile but she had never crossed this line. So she did none of these things, instead saying briskly, ‘My pleasure, Alex.’ They shook hands formally and Alex Randall left.

  Martha stood for a while, still conscious of the tall detective’s presence. They had been involved in cases over a number of years but she still knew virtually nothing about him and this frustrated her. Was he married? Yes. Happily? No one knew. What was his wife like? Beautiful? Plain? Fat? Thin? Tall? Short? Blonde, red-haired or brunette? Again, no one knew. Children? Yet again, no one knew. Friends, private life, where he lived, what his hobbies were? She had never heard him talk about his wife or any children, or even hint at any hobbies: football, golf, running, cycling, eating out – any of the pursuits that men in their forties generally had. It was all a secret. He was an enigma. All she knew for certain were two things: that sometimes he looked awash with misery and unhappiness. And the second was that he was one of those rare men who are both ugly and attractive at the same time, highly masculine and completely unaware of their sexual attractiveness to the opposite sex.

  She gave a little snort to herself. ‘Oh, get on with the job,’ she muttered, ‘stop daydreaming.’ She made a face at herself. She was no adolescent. Even so, she drew her handbag mirror out of her make-up bag, studied herself in the mirror, slicked some lipstick on
and continued lecturing herself. ‘This is a tragic case.’ And no one could be more aware than she that if their worst fears were realized it would be a horrid headline grabber. She would have her work cut out. There was no time for distraction. Or dreams.

  She picked up her mobile phone and rang Simon back.

  THREE

  Friday, 25 February, 2 p.m.

  It was a little after two p.m. when firemen Colin Agnew and Will Tyler satisfied themselves that the property/crime scene was safe for a specialized incendiary forensic team to enter with two police representatives: Sergeant Paul Talith and the hero of the moment, PC Gethin Roberts. The firemen had given Roberts a hard hat and a stern talking to before patting him on the back and warning him that one day, if he wasn’t more careful, he would be a dead hero. Roberts had simply smirked and pictured Flora’s face when he related the embellished story to her. The headlines in the local papers had particularly pleased him – Hero policeman saves boy’s life from burning house.

  On his way to the station that morning PC Roberts had puffed his chest out and strutted past the newspaper hoarding, hoping and praying that someone would recognize and congratulate him.

  No one had.

  A crew had spent most of the morning propping up beams and putting in Acro jacks to support fragile timbers. As the major damage had been to the front of the house they had entered through the back door, the door through which Gethin Roberts had made his heroic gesture, earning himself the headline. He probably had saved Jude’s life.

  They trooped in through the kitchen, passing blackened walls, wall and floor units almost completely destroyed. The cooker was twisted metal. Other appliances could only be guessed at. A kettle? A microwave? Gas had exploded parts of the kitchen wall and scorched the cupboards. As a kitchen it was now practically unrecognizable. The flooring had melted into crests and troughs of plastic; the windows were cracked and blackened, the curtains charred rags which blew and teased in the morning breeze. The burnt furnishings plus the water from the firemen’s hoses had left the house full of sooty pools, the materials soggy and heavy. Plastics had melted, electrical wires waving like sea snakes, the scene lit through windowpanes dirtily stained in vague patterns, like church windows only in monochrome, the only colour being soot black. The cold night had frosted some of the surfaces as though to relieve the depressing lack of colour. It was a little like the Snow Queen’s Palace in Narnia – slightly surreal. Except that instead of the sparkling purity of snow all was overlaid by the unmistakable and sinister smell of smoke. As they stood in the kitchen and the photographer recorded the scene, Paul Talith was just beginning to piece together the events of last night. This, then, was where Jude Barton had been dragged out of the burning wreck by Gethin, and so escaped the fate of three members of his family.

  Colin Agnew butted in. ‘We think the door into the kitchen from the hall must have been open which is why it caught the damage so badly.’

  Talith and Roberts simply gazed around them. Even without the death toll it was a scene of utter destruction.

  They moved through the hall then, the team of specialists recording the scene, and stood in the doorway of the lounge, looking straight up through the joists into the bedroom. The breeze through the window caused the devastated curtains to flap narrow tendrils in the breeze as though the scraps of charred material themselves threw up their hands in horror. Talith continued looking around, slowly and very carefully. Now the initial revulsion was wearing off he was recording the scene to his memory. The sofa was still recognizable; the fabric was flame retardant but the metal frame had twisted and distorted, like Dali’s melted watches. One of the forensic team sniffed suspiciously. Over the scent of the burning there lingered the unmistakable whiff of petrol. The team set to work, collecting samples, marking spots, taking photographs, video recording and making notes and measurements. The soot had covered the upper surfaces only, so when Colin Agnew moved a cushion on the sofa underneath the colour was still bright. A pretty orangey red but soggy now, heavy with saturated water. He replaced it. The fire hoses had splashed gallons and gallons of water into the place. Everywhere was drenched. And as the fire had streaked upwards the ceiling, too, had been damaged. Fire moves quickly, so beams and furniture had slipped from the first floor and now hung, drunkenly suspended, the risk of them falling blocking the officers’ progress, though the health and safety team had secured them with ropes.

  In every other downstairs room they were greeted by the same sight. Fire does not destroy as completely as it distorts so they were still able, in general, to identify everyday objects which made the scene even more horrible. Gethin Roberts stared, appalled by the sight. Perhaps the collection of wires and melted tubes had once been a television; maybe the shelves had held books rather than sheaves of charred and sodden paper? He thought about the modest home he shared with Flora and reflected how much there is in a house to burn or, to use the phrase they kept trotting out, ‘combustible material’. Everything plastic, everything paper, everything wood and plenty besides.

  They sloshed back into the lounge, a little spooked now because they knew they had to climb the stairs. They also knew, from the preliminary reports, what still lay up there. The staircase was charred but had been pronounced safe by the health and safety team as long as they ascended in single file. So they climbed, picking their way along the skeleton of beams and rafters black and exposed like ribs on a body, and paddling through soggy carpet that reminded Roberts, who was the most fanciful, of a paddy field. In parts the floor had collapsed so they had to take extra care. Halfway along the landing they came across the first body, his clothes partly fire-damaged. The two firemen stared down grimly. It was a timely reminder of the purpose of their job: to save life and preserve property.

  ‘And still they don’t change the batteries on their smoke alarms,’ Agnew muttered to no one in particular but everyone in general. Talith pulled out his mobile phone and requested the presence of the police surgeon. It was pretty obvious there were no survivors here but death still had to be pronounced by a qualified doctor and permission granted by the coroner before a body could be moved. Gethin Roberts, too, glanced down briefly at the shrunken frame and the grey hair. ‘Mr Barton senior, I presume,’ he said, trying to keep the squeak out of his voice. It sounded so juvenile, panicky. Talith was more detached, able to observe the condition of the body without emotion. Ironically William Barton hadn’t suffered such severe burns as his grandson. At a guess, Talith thought, smoke inhalation was probably what had killed him. His hair wasn’t even singed, only his clothes. He lay, curled up in a foetal position, one arm extended, his mouth open, his skin tone grey, his eyes almost closed but not quite.

  ‘Poor old guy,’ Colin Agnew said sympathetically. ‘Nasty way to die.’

  ‘Yeah.’ They were all agreed on that one.

  Agnew, too, was trying to piece events together. ‘I wonder why he was up here, what he was trying to do?’ He glanced around at the charred doors and wondered which was the old man’s bedroom and which were the two females.

  They left William in the same position and turned their attention to the two doors in front of them, towards the front of the house, left and right. And now they could see where Fire Officer Ben Hardwick’s axe had hacked open the doors of the front bedrooms. Ben was trained in gaining access to serious and hazardous fire scenes and it had been he who had made the initial reports back to the station. Police and fire personnel would now have to work closely to piece together events. These two front rooms had borne the brunt of the damage being directly over the seat of the fire and, according to Hardwick, this was where the bodies of the two women had been found. His job had been thorough, securing the scene without disturbing forensic evidence.

  They entered the first room. Christie Barton was lying on her side just inside the door, wearing a black nylon nightdress which had partially melted on her legs. Her hands were balled into fists. It looked as though she had been beating against the door
until she had been overcome by the smoke. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, her lips a dusky blue-grey. All of them stared down. Although they had been expecting this, the sight of her still shocked them. But Talith’s mind was busy. He was registering everything so he would be able to report back to Detective Inspector Alex Randall, his superior and the senior officer investigating the fire and the resultant deaths of the three members of the Barton family. Talith could see Christie Barton’s handprints on the paintwork, flat as she had slapped on the door, trying to escape or gain attention. But the door had remained locked, the key dropped to the floor. Access had finally been gained, too late, by Hardwick’s axe. Now they were in the room with her all four of them felt the sheer hopelessness of her plight. The minute a room fills with smoke the victim becomes disorientated, uncertain where windows, doors and pieces of furniture are, unable to get their bearings however familiar the room. Ask any fireman. If she had been able to get out and reach the back of the house she might have stood a chance had she not been overcome first by the smoke like her father-in-law. Talith eyed the key and wondered. There was a bolt high up on the inside of the door that had been slid open.

  They all looked around, their emotions remarkably similar though their observations were different. The room was very badly affected. The source of the fire had been directly beneath the bed and the flames had leapt upwards. It stood in the centre of the room, its headboard against the right hand wall, a pile of burned fabric now punctured by the unmistakable spiralling springs of a mattress. It helped the police and firemen to anchor the geography of the room. Either side of the bed stood a chest of drawers, the paint burned and blistered but still intact and recognizable as pieces of furniture. A wardrobe stood along the wall to their left, teetering on the weakened floorboards. Hardwick had secured it. The window was ahead, cracked, blackened – and closed. There was no electricity in the house. It had had to be switched off because of all the water. The day was dull and chilly so spotlights had been rigged up using a generator. It made the damaged bedroom look like a stage set, their actions a scene from a macabre play. Roberts and Talith stared uneasily at each other.