Smoke Alarm

by Priscilla Masters

  He threw more questions out into the room for the officers to consider. ‘Who was the intended target? The obvious answer is the women. They were the ones who died, after all. But . . .’ He eyed Talith and Roberts, knowing they would mentally wrestle with every problem he threw their way plus a few more, ‘one could question whether they were the intended victims. Fires are an unpredictable method of murder. People do die but sometimes they do not.’ He turned back to the board and studied it for a while without speaking.

  The name Jude seemed to pop out at him. He frowned. This was the boy who had had the foresight to keep a rope ladder in his bedroom, as though anticipating a catastrophe. The boy who managed to escape the inferno alone, with no more than minor injuries and those mainly to his hands sustained, presumably, in the rescue attempt. Suddenly he was very curious about Jude. Leaving the officers to pursue the lines of enquiry he’d suggested, he singled out Gethin Roberts. ‘Can you just run through what happened last Thursday evening?’

  Roberts cleared his throat, wondering whether he was about to get a ticking off or praise. Scanning his superior’s face, he still wasn’t sure. ‘When I got to the house,’ he began, ‘it was obvious that the entire front was going up in flames. They were shooting out of the bedroom windows. The noise was terrific. Glass breaking and this whooshing noise – it was like the fire was alive.’ He decided to risk levity. ‘I can see where the ideas of dragons came from. You’d swear—’

  ‘Carry on,’ Randall said curtly.

  ‘It was hot, too. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be alive in there.’ Nervously he cleared his throat again. ‘But when I went round the back of the house it didn’t look too bad. I just wondered if maybe someone just might have managed to get downstairs so I thought I’d go in. The back door . . .’

  DI Randall interrupted. ‘Was it open or closed?’

  ‘Closed,’ Roberts said.

  ‘Locked or unlocked?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I smashed the glass and shoved it.’ Roberts frowned. ‘It all happened so quickly,’ he said. ‘The boy, Jude, was running towards me. His clothes were on fire. I pulled him out and threw him on to the ground. He was screaming. Then some firemen and the ambulance crew arrived and they took over.’

  ‘How bad was the fire in the kitchen?’

  ‘Right after we’d got out there was an explosion. Gas, I’d expect.’

  Some of Roberts’s colleagues were listening in with incredulity. Roberts paused for a moment. Flora, his girlfriend, had given him a right telling off about risking his life yet again for the job. But she had also made it plain that she was very proud of him too. It didn’t hurt to be the partner of a hero. Roberts was allowing his mind to drift. He would be nominated for a police bravery award. A night out at the Dorchester!

  What Gethin Roberts omitted to say was that when he’d heard the explosion his knees had buckled and he too had sunk to the ground, to be yanked away from the burning house by a couple of burly fire officers who had railed against him for being an ‘idiot’. That was the word they had used and it still stung. And his hearing was still muffled.

  Randall’s hazel eyes rested on the young constable with a degree of perception. So when the young constable looked at him he felt he had been stripped bare and that the inspector knew exactly what had happened that night, both earlier and later.

  Actually, DI Randall thoughts had already moved on from the young constable’s actions that night and were taking on a new thought. He needed to talk some more to Jude Barton. ‘Tell me one more thing,’ he said, ideas forming an incomplete patchwork inside his head.

  ‘Sir?’ Roberts was all attention.

  ‘Did you actually see Jude Barton descending the ladder?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘OK. That’s all – for now.’

  Roberts was dismissed.

  Wednesday, 2 March, 10 a.m.

  Nigel Barton was at his son’s bedside, going over events, and not for the first time.

  ‘Did you hear Addy or your mother screaming?’

  Jude Barton eyed his father. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I don’t know what I heard that night. I don’t know if I’m remembering something real or if I’m just having another bad dream.’ One bandaged hand moved towards his father. ‘And Gramps,’ he said. ‘Why did he do it, Dad? Why did he lock them in? They could probably have got out otherwise.’

  Nigel Barton regarded his son. Then opened his mouth. ‘We don’t know that it was gramps who did that, do we?’

  The boy sat very still.

  ‘You didn’t actually see him lock the doors, did you?’

  Jude pressed his lips together.

  His father was silent too for a minute or two, then, ‘Jude?’

  ‘Yes, Dad?’

  ‘I want you to promise—’

  Nigel Barton’s mobile phone interrupted. Nigel cursed then answered. ‘Barton,’ he said curtly.

  ‘I need to speak to you.’ Even Jude could make out the words and pick up on the anger.

  Nigel answered tersely. ‘I’m at the hospital, with my son.’

  The same female voice came back again. ‘I said I need to speak to you.’

  Jude watched his father’s lips tighten and anger burn in his eyes.

  ‘The Armoury,’ he finally said. ‘Three o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘Don’t be late.’

  Nigel Barton ended the call and put his phone back in the breast pocket of his suit. He offered his son no explanation and Jude did not enquire. When his father finally did look at him he realized he was not angry with him anymore. He was frightened now and worried.

  Nigel Barton leaned over the bed. ‘I have to know. Did you hear them?’ He didn’t need to finish the sentence or elaborate.

  His son shook his head. ‘It was noisy, Dad, really noisy.’

  His father hugged him then in a rare display of affection. ‘Why, oh why on earth did you go back in?’

  ‘I thought I could let them out,’ Jude muttered.

  His father hugged him even tighter. ‘Thank God you’re all right,’ he said. ‘I could have lost you as well.’

  When it was time to go his father patted him on the shoulder. ‘Everything’s going to be all right, Jude,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I don’t want you to worry.’

  But instead of being reassured Jude’s eyes filled with alarm and panic. His bandaged hand moved towards his father.

  Nigel walked towards the door. ‘Be brave, son, be brave. I have to go to the police station now and make yet another statement. But I don’t want you to worry. It isn’t your fault. You understand that?’

  Jude eyed his father uneasily.

  ‘It isn’t your fault,’ Nigel repeated. The words were emphasized with great deliberation. Jude stared as the door closed behind his father.

  Wednesday, 2 March, 12 p.m.

  ‘Thank you for coming in so promptly.’ Alex Randall rose to greet Nigel Barton. ‘Again, I’d like to say that I’m sorry for your loss, sir.’

  Barton still looked haggard, as one would expect of a man who had had such a tragedy. But there was more. Randall caught the distinct whiff of concern. This man grieved for the recent past but he was also apprehensive for the future. This was a very worried man. He took stock. Nigel Barton was around five foot nine, slim, in a rumpled suit which he had patently worn for the last few days. He looked pale and shocked. There were dark rings around his eyes. He looked up and stared straight into Randall’s face. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly.

  By the time the bereaved man had sat down Randall had formed his opinion of him. The DI looked at all people in the same way and tried to find one word in the English language to size them up. Nigel Barton was . . . frightened. Martha Gunn was . . . warm. His wife was . . . but here one word was not enough. He needed two.

  He turned his attention back to Barton. He was of average height. Neat, short grey hair, neither thin nor fat. His features were small and regular, his teeth unremarkab
le. Nigel Barton would never stand out in a crowd because he was neat and average and yet Randall sensed there was some aspect of his character which was neither neat nor average. But Barton kept this facet of his personality deeply hidden. DI Randall would need to use every ounce of his talents to unearth this irregularity. Again, he said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss. It’s an . . .’ Words failed him. Appalling tragedy seemed inadequate.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Barton said formally. ‘But I know you haven’t asked me to come down here to offer prolonged, though doubtless sincere condolences.’

  Randall met his eyes but had no clue whether this was mockery, cynicism, the aftermath of shock or politeness. He continued: ‘At the moment our investigations waver between this being a random arson attack which your household was unlucky to have sustained or . . .’ He let the sentence hang in the air.

  ‘A random arson attack hardly explains why my wife and daughter were locked into their rooms so they were unable to escape the fire,’ Barton said, a look of pure torture twisting his face.

  ‘You must have formed your own idea of what happened?’

  Barton stared back. ‘I believe that’s your job,’ he said tightly.

  ‘Well, it is, but we’re always happy to accept any help from the victims and their families.’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Randall appraised him. Nigel Barton was no fool. He must have some ideas. He challenged his eyes. But, perhaps wisely, said nothing more. He knew that whatever Barton’s theories might be he was not going to make this easy for the police. Perhaps he was concerned he might point the finger of accusation in the wrong direction. Randall cleared his throat noisily. ‘You understand there are some set questions I need to ask.’

  Barton nodded.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind if I record this interview?’

  After the briefest of pauses Barton nodded again. Randall switched the machine on.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might bear you a grudge?’

  ‘I’ve already answered this in part to your sergeant,’ Barton said curtly. ‘I had a Turkish fellow working for me until fairly recently. I discovered he was setting up a rival business and networking my clients. I fired him on the spot.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Yusuf Karoglan. He’s from Marmaris, I understand.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘He has a business in Chester. I don’t know how well it’s doing.’ His lips tightened. ‘It doesn’t seem to be having any impact on my business so I assume not particularly well.’

  Randall nodded. ‘And?’

  ‘Ben Hatton. Ben was a really good worker. Nice guy. I had thought of taking him on as a partner but business got slack and I had to let him go. He was very bitter about it. Tried to blackmail me.’

  Randall’s ears pricked up.

  Barton looked uncomfortable. ‘I have a certain way of organizing my products,’ he said testily. ‘It’s not patented but it works. Hatton threatened to leak the secret. Even said he’d take the patent out himself. He couldn’t have done that but business isn’t so good I could afford to use up money fighting something through the courts.’ He stopped and Randall looked at him enquiringly. ‘There is something else,’ Barton said. ‘Hatton was married to a girl called Julie. Beautiful thing. He was absolutely obsessed with her. But she was a very high-maintenance lady. Liked expensive clothes. Big diamonds, flashy cars. Plenty of beauty treatments, long-haul holidays, five-star hotels.’ He gave Randall an amused look. ‘You get the picture. When Hatton lost his job he lost her too and I have heard he turned to drink. I have also heard that he blames me for everything.’

  Randall regarded the man. There was not the faintest hint of guilt or regret. ‘Is he right to?’

  Barton leaned forward. ‘Sorry?’ Even in that one word there was a threat.

  ‘Is he right to blame you?’

  Barton settled back in his chair. ‘I thought that was what you said. No, he was not right to blame me.’ He tried his hand at a touch of humour. ‘As they said in The Godfather, it’s not a personal thing. I couldn’t afford to keep him on. He was going to cost me. I couldn’t trust him.’

  ‘And has he found another job?’

  Barton shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is there anyone else?’

  Barton’s face looked vaguely distasteful. ‘A little pipsqueak called Pinfold whom I caught fiddling expenses. Said he was staying in hotels and really sleeping on friends’ floors, buying all the drinks and even, I suspect, snorting a bit of coke. A despicable character.’

  ‘Despicable enough to torch your house?’

  Although they had been working towards this very question it pulled Barton up short. He opened his mouth, gaped, tried to speak. Then inserted his finger round his collar as though it was choking him. Then he frowned. ‘No,’ he protested. ‘No. At least, I don’t think so. He’s bad, but he’s not that bad.’ His face froze. ‘But . . .’ he said and his voice trailed away.

  Mentally Randall marked the word. Barton was beginning to think. ‘Anyone else?’

  His face grim, Barton shook his head again.

  And Randall continued: ‘Do you have contact details for the three business associates?’

  ‘I do – they may be out of date since Hatton’s marriage broke up. Karoglan you’ll be able to track via the Internet. He advertises quite robustly. As for Pinfold, last I heard he was living with his mother who has a cottage here in the village. Made life quite embarrassing for me, I can tell you. Without giving away all the boy’s secrets I couldn’t tell her why I’d sacked him which made her very resentful. I haven’t seen him around lately though.’

  ‘Right. I understand.’ Alex began to square up his papers then picked up the subject again. ‘If you had to bet which of these three men would be most likely to torch your house – and make a mistake because you weren’t even at home – which would you think most likely?’

  Barton’s face froze as he thought before answering. Then he said, ‘I can’t believe any of these three would do such a terrible thing but oddly enough there are different reasons for all three. Karoglan is hot-headed and cruel. If he had set the fire it’s possible he might have locked my wife and daughter in their rooms and taken malicious delight in doing so.

  ‘Hatton was obsessed with Julie. In some ways it made him unbalanced. She was very, very beautiful. There was something feline about her. Big green eyes. She had a wonderful figure, lovely teeth, shiny hair.’ He looked across at Alex. ‘She was really gorgeous. A head-turner. When he lost her he became extremely bitter and angry. If he blamed me for the loss of the love of his life – well, who could know what he’d do?’

  ‘And Pinfold?’

  ‘He was just a wanker,’ Barton said disparagingly. ‘And when he was high on coke he would have done anything. His mother spoiled him rotten. And it’s not just him. His mother was so protective of him even she might have wanted to wreak revenge.’ He looked at Randall. ‘It’s a terrible thought that I might somehow have indirectly caused the deaths of three members of my family.’

  Randall wanted to point out the anomaly in the statement but instead he pressed on. ‘As far as you know do any of these four people have a criminal record?’

  Barton shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know,’ he said then gave a weak smile. ‘I expect you can check it all via your police computers.’

  Randall nodded and cleared his throat before continuing. ‘I understand that your daughter had a boyfriend of whom you disapproved?’

  Barton pursed his lips. ‘My daughter was fifteen years old,’ he said brokenly. ‘She was an intelligent girl with a potentially very bright future. She’d talked about going in for Law. She was certainly capable of it. Sean Trotter hadn’t a patch on her intellect. He was a sporty boy without a brain. All brawn.’

  Alex demurred. ‘Surely that’s a bit of a cliché?’

  Barton blinked. ‘In this case no. He was a thick boy with superficial good looks and p
lenty of muscle. He didn’t have a brain.’

  ‘I see. And where does he live?’

  ‘In the village somewhere.’

  Randall waited.

  ‘They were in the same school.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Randall paused, knowing his next question would be sensitive.

  ‘I understand your father set fire to his bedroom last year some time.’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Did your father smoke?’

  ‘He smoked a pipe. After last year’s incident we tried to stop him smoking in his bedroom but we’d catch the occasional waft of tobacco smoke drifting across the landing.’

  ‘We found a cigarette lighter in his dressing-gown pocket.’

  Barton dropped his face into his hands and gave a loud sigh.

  ‘One more question, Mr Barton.’

  Barton looked up warily, his eyes fixing on the detective as he waited.

  ‘Your wife, daughter and father. Were their lives insured?’

  Barton went slightly pale, recovered himself and spoke steadily. ‘They were, as a matter of fact.’

  Alex waited.

  ‘My wife’s life was insured for half a million,’ Barton began. ‘My daughter . . .’ Raw emotion crossed his face. ‘My daughter and my father also had life insurance for a quarter of a million each if their deaths were not due to natural causes.’ His eyes challenged Randall’s. ‘Naturally sickness was particularly excluded in the case of my father.’

  ‘I see.’ Alex let out a slow, thoughtful breath.

  Wednesday, 2 March, 2.30 p.m.

  Two hours later he was relating the result of the interview to Martha, in detail, knowing she would be frustrated that she hadn’t met Nigel Barton yet and anxious to hear Randall’s opinion. ‘So what did you make of him?’

  Randall didn’t answer her straight away but frowned into the distance. ‘Difficult to judge after such extreme trauma,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he can really comprehend what’s happened. I think he was too stunned to form any opinion of who set the fire.’