Friday, 11 March, 11.58 p.m.
Another hand, another box of matches. A smile because petrol worked so well. Open the window. Quietly now. Don’t want anyone to wake up, do we? People are sleeping; a car goes by. A dog barks. Further along the street the lights go off. Even the late-night people have gone to bed now. They will sleep right through it.
Strike the match.
And then
Whoosh.
Stand back with satisfaction. Admire the artistry. The problem was always getting the fire started in the first place. More difficult than many supposed. Petrol was OK but volatile and dangerous to use. It could blow up in your face. To burn down a house is not as easy as people think. It takes a certain amount of skill. There can be a brief flash and then . . . nothing but disappointment. And even if the fire ignites properly there are sometimes, even on a freezing night in March, inquisitive people walking around or passing in cars. And everyone has a mobile phone to summon the emergency services, don’t they?
But all it really needed, to the practised hand, was one small match, and significantly less than a gallon of petrol.
The briefing had gone on much later than any of them had expected and DI Randall needed to complete his report before he went. It was after midnight by the time he finally left the station. Good job he didn’t have a wife who would worry at his lateness, he thought, twisting his mouth at the irony of the whole thing – marriage. Or at least his. As he turned out on to the main road through the town a fire engine passed him going at a fair old lick, as his grandmother would have said, lights flashing, siren blasting its presence. He watched it, mesmerized and still. Except to take his hand from the steering wheel and hold it up in mute appeal. Please, not another one? Not another house fire, not more fatalities. As though he was on autopilot the car glided in the wake of the blue light which blinked into the night.
‘You got a feeling of déjà vu?’ Agnew shouted at Carol Jenkins, trying to get heard over the din they were making.
‘I most certainly do,’ she shouted back. ‘Another house fire. I just hope there aren’t a couple of bodies inside this time.’ They reached the blazing house and scrambled out.
Agnew trained his hose through the open window. ‘Different sort of house, though, isn’t it? We got any idea who lives here?’
‘Retired nurse, the caller said,’ Carol shouted back. ‘Early sixties. Bit of an odd woman, by all accounts.’
‘Well, I hope she’s away staying with relatives or something because this is—’ He was interrupted by a crash from inside. ‘Beams,’ he shouted. ‘Stand back.’
That was when the roof finally caved in and the flames shot up in the night sky.
Against his better judgement Alex Randall had pulled up behind the engine, climbed out of the car and now stood, watching the fire, PC Gary Coleman standing at his side. Coleman had been on the beat in the town when the call had come through and he had been summoned to the fire in Sundorne. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he apologized. ‘No heroics this time. I’m not as brave or foolhardy as Roberts.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Alex responded dryly. ‘I suppose we’ll have to wait to gain access to the property?’
‘Yeah – it won’t be safe until tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be off home then.’ He took steps before turning back, eyeing the fire which spat and howled as though in a rage. ‘Is anyone inside that?’
‘We don’t know, sir.’
‘God,’ Randall said. ‘I sincerely hope not.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll stay here a bit, sir, see what’s what, do a bit of digging around the place.’
Alex patted his back. ‘Good lad, Coleman,’ he said. ‘Good lad. Ring me if you have anything interesting to report.’
It was faint praise but it pleased the PC. DI Randall was not one to dole it out.
Saturday, 12 March, 8.30 a.m.
Randall had waited until 8.30 a.m. before ringing Martha. After apologizing for having woken her, (he knew he hadn’t), he came straight to the point, as was his way. ‘Martha, I wonder if I could pop over, just for a few minutes?’
Martha glanced at Sam, already packing up his football strip. There was a practise session today in Stoke at the Britannia Stadium and she was the designated driver. Already her mind was beginning to work around it. Tom Dempsey, Sam’s best friend and fellow player for Stoke City Academy, would be training too. If Dempsey’s father could take the boys to the match she could pick them up – just before going out with Simon. Hey! Sorted. She gave herself a mental pat on the back.
And Sukey was going shopping to Telford with her best friends, Feodore, Rumilla and Sally. The gang of five were now four, thanks to Emma’s parents having split up and moved away, much to everyone’s disgust.
‘OK, Alex,’ she returned. ‘I’ll just have to do a spot of organizing. Come round in half an hour.’
A couple of phone calls, a bit of bargaining – an extra ten pounds in Sukey’s purse for the fare to and from Telford and a promise to pick Sam and Tom up dead on five thirty from Stoke Under Eighteen’s and she still had time for a quick make-up check, slip out of her jeans into a skirt and sweater and make a firm promise to Bobby, her Welsh Border collie, that his walk round the woods was not cancelled, merely deferred. He tilted his head on one side. If ever a dog could look disbelieving this was it.
Tom’s father was round fifteen minutes later, a wiry, ruggedly handsome man who had once been a professional footballer himself. She thanked him and told him she’d deliver his son back after the training session. Sam had finally confessed to her months ago that he wasn’t really happy living away from home even if it was with the hallowed Liverpool Academy but he still wanted to pursue his dream of being a professional footballer.
‘See, Mum,’ he’d said, without being at all abashed, ‘to be absolutely honest,’ (Sam always did this, emphasizing his words when he wanted something so very badly), ‘I have already sort of worked it out. Stoke have a brilliant academy. I rang them up and they’re keen on me. Better than that I could live at home with you and Suks and easily manage to go to school here and get to all the training sessions. Even better than all that Tom Dempsey is already there and absolutely loves it. He says it’s great. Great atmosphere, good training, a really nice manager.’ His toffee-coloured eyes had locked on to hers with mute but compelling appeal. ‘It’s where I want to be, Mum. Here. Home, with you and Suks.’
Her heart had given a tiny little flutter of happiness that this teenage boy who had a gift for absolute honesty as well as football touchingly wanted to be at home with his mother and sister. Maybe she hadn’t done such a bad job, after all?
‘I don’t know what to say, Sam.’
Sam grinned at her. ‘Not a lot to say, is there, Mum? Just yes’ll do.’
‘I’ll need to speak to them and . . .’
The look Sam had given her was a mixture of tolerance, a tinge of humour and more than a hint of pity. He knew she was beat; she knew it too. But from somewhere he had acquired the maturity not to rub it in.
She’d added weakly, ‘But does Stoke have the same kudos as Liverpool?’
And he had his answer ready. ‘They’re an up-and-coming team, Mum, with a smashing stadium. Have you seen the Britannia?’
She had. Who could miss it driving in to Stoke along the D road? It stood, proud and pretty as a birthday cake, reminding her more of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim in New York than any football stadium she had ever noticed. She gave in then.
So here Sam was, resident again at The White House, with his twin sister and his mother, back in his own bedroom, which reflected his love of ‘the beautiful game’, pals all around him, settled at school and happier than she had ever known him. He almost seemed to burst, like the bulbs in spring, with joy, noise and colour and the truth was that she loved having him around. The house was different with a male. It smelt different, sounded different, looked different. Was different.
The White House had its beating heart
back. Oh, yes, she loved having her son home again. She must do something to celebrate. Maybe paint the pretentiously named house a different colour and change its name to The Blue House, or The Yellow House. Certainly not The Black House.
Sukey, on the other hand, as her twin brother emerged as this joyous, happy teenager, was much more moody these days, perhaps a victim of her hormones. Martha had to acknowledge it: growing up was proving a real battle to her daughter. She suspected that Sukey missed Agnetha who had been their Swedish au pair for six years but had now returned home. Sukey was to go out to Sweden in the summer to attend Agnetha’s wedding as a bridesmaid but over the years that they had been together the two had formed a close friendship which had been disrupted when Agnetha had left. Sukey was missing her buddy. Martha missed her too. Agnetha Halvorsen had been friendly and reliable. They had all been fond of her.
But life moves on. And so must her daughter.
The other thing that Sukey was finding difficult was the ambition she had recently formed to become ‘an actress’. And Martha rather suspected that at least some of the moodiness and tantrums were because she thought these went with an actress’s temperament. Martha wasn’t absolutely convinced that at least some of the moods weren’t simple affectation. Sukey Gunn was practising anger and pride, grief and arrogance and flashing tempers.
However, on that Saturday morning when she explained to her daughter why their plans were changing unpredictably, there was no hint of the prima donna. Sukey simply grinned and planted a kiss on her mother’s cheek as she left to join her pals. Then, at the doorway, she gave Martha a backwards cheeky grin and winked at her. ‘Have fun with your detective then, Mum.’
Martha reprimanded her. ‘He is not my detective, young lady. He is, in fact, as you well know, a work colleague – also a married man and don’t you forget it. This is purely a professional visit. Understand?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Sukey managed in a voice laden with scepticism. The actress was, after all, emerging. ‘And that’s why he’s coming round here to the house on a Saturday morning? What’s so urgent, Mum, that it can’t wait till Monday? Bye, then.’ She just managed to get the words out before whisking through the door in sprayed-on jeans and a lovely fur gilet that Martha had bought her for Christmas.
Randall turned up forty minutes later and she knew the moment she saw his face that something was very wrong. His first words confirmed her suspicion, even as he climbed out of his car and approached her. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid, Martha.’
‘Come in, Alex. Have a coffee and tell me what’s going on.’
He stood for a moment, looking up at the façade of The White House, maybe thinking along the same lines that she had recently before following her inside to the kitchen. Without speaking he waited while she boiled the kettle and spooned the coffee into two mugs. They sat down at the kitchen table and Martha waited for him to speak.
‘There’s been another house fire.’ His face was grim.
Even before her heart sunk she might have guessed it. ‘Where?’
‘In Sundorne.’
‘Not Melverley, then?’
‘No,’ he said carefully, ‘not in Melverley.’
‘But you’re connecting the two fires?’
He nodded. ‘Same MO,’ he said, ‘according to the firemen who attended both scenes. It was started deliberately, again the front window was broken, accelerants used and someone is missing.’
‘Who?’
‘A retired nurse in her early sixties, named Monica Deverill.’
‘Go on.’
‘She lived alone – widowed some years ago.’
She waited.
‘In good health.’ He blinked and repeated, ‘currently missing.’
‘Oh, no?’
‘We should have access to the house later today. The roof caved in not long after the firemen got there. It wouldn’t have been safe to try any heroics last night.’
Martha felt a shudder of apprehension, trying to make sense of this latest grim news. ‘Well, you can’t blame William Barton this time, Alex.’
‘No.’
‘So are you thinking we have a serial arsonist here?’
He didn’t answer but she caught a look of apprehension on his face that was surely mirrored in her own.
‘Mrs Deverill has two sons,’ Alex Randall continued, with-out answering her question. ‘Both live locally. One in Wem, the other in Church Stretton.’ He paused. ‘And three grand-children.’
Martha rubbed the centre of her forehead. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Of course we’ll have to wait—’
‘For access to the building and the forensic fire investigator.’ He gave a wry look. ‘He’s having a busy time. We can’t be sure yet that she was inside but—’
‘But you are connecting the two fires.’
He nodded, his face grim.
‘Then you know my next question, Alex. Is there any connection between the two families?’
‘Hey,’ he protested, a smile softening his craggy features. ‘It’s early days yet, Martha.’
Again, she waited for his response.
‘Not that we know so far.’
‘This retired nurse – did she have any enemies or was this a random attack?’
Alex’s face creased with a grin. He was well used to Martha Gunn’s ways. She might be coroner of Shrewsbury, mid and north Shropshire but he knew that she wasn’t above a little sleuthing herself. A new perspective of ‘helping the police with their enquiries’. He suppressed a smile. ‘Again, too soon to say, Martha.’
‘But I take it you’ve already spoken to her next of kin, the two sons?’
He nodded. ‘They haven’t seen her for a few days or spoken to her. That’s not unusual, apparently. Since her retirement she’s helped in the hospital shop. She also leads a very active social life and has been going on a number of cruises a year with various friends.’
‘So she could be away?’
‘If she is she hadn’t told her family, which she normally would do, but she does have a wide circle of friends from her nursing days and sometimes pops over to visit them. Let’s hope so. We’re ringing round them now.’
‘Have you tried her mobile?’
‘It’s not even ringing. Straight through to the answering service.’
‘Boyfriends? Jilted lover?’
Randall laughed. ‘She was in her early sixties, Martha.’
She decided to tease him a little. ‘Come on, Alex, you think women hang up their hormones when they touch fifty? Goodness – I’d better get my skates on. That gives me less than ten years.’
She immediately regretted her levity. Alex Randall’s flush rose slowly but unmistakably and very colourfully up his neck, reaching his chin before sliding up his cheeks and suffusing his forehead. He looked around the room in utter, sheer embarrassment with a touch of panic.
‘I’m sorry, Alex,’ she apologized. ‘I was just teasing.’
It did little to relieve his confusion. ‘Well, then.’ Randall cleared his throat noisily. ‘We don’t know of any boyfriend or partner and neither do her sons, but it’s early days yet.’
‘And her computer will have been destroyed in the fire,’ Martha mused, ‘along with her emails. Car?’
‘It isn’t on the drive. There is a garage but when I last spoke they hadn’t gained access.’
‘Well, Alex, either Mrs Deverill is in there, dead, or she is alive somewhere else. If the fire was started deliberately, as you say, and she was inside, it will be another case of manslaughter. And again, like the Melverley fire, either a personal or a random attack. But I have to say Melverley is a small village some miles out of Shrewsbury. Sundorne, by way of contrast, is right on the edge of the town. The two sites don’t appear to have much in common. If this retired nurse was deliberately targeted was it by the same arsonist who torched Melverley Grange? Why these two dissimilar properties? Pure chance? Or is there a reason why these two places, these particular people wer
e selected? Is there any connection between the two families? Is there perhaps something in Mrs Deverill’s past which will lead you to your arsonist? Is this the work of one arsonist or is it a gang? Or could this possibly be a copycat fire?’
‘Phew. That’s a lot to think about.’
‘What’s in your mind?’
‘That we didn’t release any details of the modus operandi of the fire at Melverley Grange.’
‘Could this be coincidence then? In such a small area? Is it possible the nurse’s house was selected purely at random? Maybe. And if it was a random selection – well – we’re all at risk.’ She threw out her hands, relieved to see that Alex Randall’s face had returned to its normal colour and expression. ‘I’ve not come across any deaths in connection with arson over the last few years.’
‘Luckily no one died in the recent arson attacks by those kids. They really are the only ones.’
‘They got a custodial sentence? I thought the idea was to keep first offenders out?’
‘They’d been cautioned before. They destroyed some school buildings. They’d stopped for a while – a matter of ten months or so – and then one night they did four houses along the row. In one of them there was a deaf old lady. Luckily for her she could just about pick up the smoke alarm and she’d had special flashing lights fitted by a deaf charity so she woke up. Otherwise she’d be dead. The other householders have been very much inconvenienced; they haven’t been able to live in their own homes for over a year. The courts took a dim view of the whole thing, decided to make an example of them and sent them down.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Whether it’ll teach them a lesson, who knows? Some of these youngsters can be surprisingly thick at learning lessons.’
Martha nodded. ‘Quite,’ she said, ‘but it wasn’t them either.’ She smiled. ‘Not unless Stoke Heath has suddenly become extremely lax in its security arrangements.’ It was a ‘safe’ joke which Alex could join in. ‘Absolutely not.’ He grinned. ‘Or unless Stoke Heath has a secret passage into Sundorne.’
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