‘I very much doubt it,’ Martha said.
‘Did you have anything much planned this weekend?’
She was shocked at the question. She and the detective had never, ever explored their private lives. Their relationship had always been strictly business. She eyed him cautiously before answering. ‘Apart from the usual ferrying Sam back from his football match, Sukey’s ironing, catching up on domestic stuff and taking Bobby for a lovely long walk, you mean? Do any of those count as special?’
He regarded her without blinking, his head tilted to one side. Still asking the question, then.
‘Well, yes, actually,’ she said, ‘I do have something special planned. On Saturday I have a date.’
‘What?’ It obviously wasn’t what he had been expecting. He began to bluster, to cover up his confusion, then said, ‘Well, I suppose it’s natural. You’ve been widowed for so long.’
She nodded her agreement.
Randall moistened his lips. ‘So who’s the lucky guy?’
‘He was married to a very dear friend.’ She knew she should be more honest with him. ‘To be honest, Alex, it’s more of a friendship than a romantic attachment. We both miss our partners. We’re friends but I don’t think it’ll ever progress beyond that stage.’
‘Why not?’
She searched his face and realized this was genuine curiosity. The very private detective was overcoming his natural reticence about private matters to interrogate her. She answered with blunt honesty. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Was Martin such a hard act to follow?’
‘I don’t even know that, Alex,’ she said frankly. ‘It’s more that the spark is missing.’
Randall grinned at her so she knew he had moved away from the serious questions and was teasing her now. ‘Maybe that’s just an age thing?’
‘Maybe,’ she agreed. ‘Maybe, but you know, Alex, it would be strange to embark on a relationship without it.’ And now he had tiptoed into her private life she felt justified asking him the same question. ‘And you? What do you have planned for the weekend?’
Instantly the shutters came down. He looked away and muttered something about it being the usual weekend. ‘I wondered,’ he followed up tentatively, ‘if you’d care to visit the house in Sundorne? See if you come up with anything.’
It was the invitation she had both wanted and dreaded. The images of a twisted, blackened corpse would imprint on her mind again, as they had after her visit to Melverley Grange, but she was unable to resist the chance to inspect what might well be a crime scene. She looked at him. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
Randall must have sensed something of her concern. ‘After we’ve removed the body, if and when we find it.’
‘If you think it will help understand what happened,’ she said. ‘There’s no point me getting squeamish in my job. More coffee, Alex?’
Randall stood up. ‘No. I should be going. It’s going to be a busy day. Well, thanks for the chat,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘You’re going there now?’
He nodded.
For Martha the day passed as planned. At five thirty she was outside the football ground, waiting for Sam and Tom. As they burst into the car, full of football chat and laughing about a few of the day’s mishaps she stowed their bags away in the boot, thankful that the ground had good shower facilities.
That night she was meeting up with Simon Pendlebury – again. Simon was the widower of one of her very best friends in the world, Evelyn, who had died from ovarian cancer – the silent killer, as the medical profession called it – eighteen months ago. Simon and her husband, Martin, had been friends at university and had remained so until Martin’s death from cancer more than ten years ago. Simon had come from a very average background; his father had abandoned the family when he had been a child and his mother had struggled to bring Simon and his sister up, barely managing when he had gained a place in university. The Simon of today was not recognizable as the product of that upbringing. It was as though he had been polished, like a gemstone, over the years and now appeared very suave, very wealthy and very handsome. He had even shed his once-pronounced accent from a rough area in Stoke on Trent. Over six feet tall with very dark hair, penetrating eyes and a perceptive, confident manner. Elegant.
Simon lived in the lap of luxury in a period manor house with an efficient German housekeeper to attend to his every need. He also had two opinionated and selfish daughters with characters as brittle and sharp as shards of glass. Between them they had seen off a couple of their father’s unsuitable girlfriends, labelling them ‘gold-diggers’. Martha could see none of Evie’s gentleness in either of them. Maybe they took after their father.
She and Simon had fallen into the habit of dining together once a week or so. Once or twice Martha had cooked for him and a few more times they had gone out for dinner. On a couple of occasions he had invited her back to his house and his housekeeper had provided dinner. It should have been a romance but it simply wasn’t and Martha wasn’t sure why not. He was good looking, the proverbial tall, dark, handsome and rich. Intelligent with a wicked sense of humour.
But, as she’d said to Alex, the spark wasn’t there, neither for her nor, she suspected, for him. Maybe it was because she had been such a good friend of his wife, perhaps, or because she had witnessed his falling hopelessly in love with Christabel, a girl easily young enough to be his daughter. Or maybe it was Simon’s two daughters themselves, spoilt, rich, selfish. Armenia and Jocasta Pendlebury were capable of finishing off any budding romance their father might have and saw any intruding female as a money-grabber, to be disposed of quickly. Martha had never quite worked out how gentle, sweet-natured Evie had produced two such monstrous daughters. Had it been their father spoiling them or the exclusive schools they had been packed off to? Whatever the explanation Martha was sure that Evie would have been very disappointed in them.
In fact, she wasn’t particularly looking forward to this evening even though they were booked into Drapers’ Hall, one of her favourite eating-places in the town.
They had arranged to meet at Drapers’ at seven thirty. Martha had chosen a simple black dress with silver straps, black very high-heeled shoes and had tried to style her own hair (big mistake)!
But as she faced Simon Pendlebury across the table she wondered why she felt so little for him? He was rich, intelligent, handsome, funny and always beautifully dressed. So what was it that made her want to keep him at arm’s length when she was perfectly aware that he wanted a relationship?
Could she really blame Jocasta and Armenia?
Or was it something slightly more troubling? Was it the mystery of where his money had come from and that she and Martin had always suspected he was not quite kosher that made her mistrust him and doubt his motives?
Was it the stupid affair he had had with Christabel?
Possibly a bit of all these plus more.
She didn’t trust him and had an instinct that he was basically dishonest, the sort of man who would climb over other men’s heads to get out of the swamp. Underneath the charm there was something cold, something cruel about this apparently perfect man. If she could not find and love his flaws she could never love him. It is a person’s imperfections that make them unique, vulnerable and ultimately lovable. She would never feel safe in his arms as she had in Martin’s and those observations explained why.
He was commenting on her appearance. ‘You look well.’ He reached across the table for her hand. ‘But distracted tonight. What is it, Martha?’ His very dark eyes seemed to bore into hers so she looked away. She didn’t want him to read her revulsion. She started. Revulsion? Had she really used that word?
She drew her hand away anyway.
It was almost nine o’clock before the police, forensic team, firemen (and woman) and the police surgeon congregated at the scene. Another smoking house, another wrecked home. But this time they had a surprise. An omission.
Delyth Fontaine was remon
strating with the unlucky PC Gary Coleman. ‘Well, I can’t certify death without a body.’ She was a blunt-spoken woman who never minced her words. ‘It’s Saturday night, Coleman. You might have waited at least until you were sure.’
Although he was used to Dr Fontaine’s ways Coleman felt bound to defend himself. ‘Well, it seemed the most sensible thing to do – have you here, ready. Then we could get on with hunting through and finding the source of the fire.’
‘I’m going home,’ she said. ‘Call me on my mobile if you want me. I’ve a couple of sheep ready to lamb. It’s a bit early in the season and I don’t want to lose them to the cold, if you don’t mind.’
Delyth’s walk was more of a waddle but her exit was still dignified. Coleman stared after her feeling a little foolish. Then he turned to the watching firemen. ‘Come on, you,’ he said, ‘it isn’t a free show, you know.’
TEN
Monday, 14 March, 9 a.m.
Martha expected a call to come in at any time about the house fire, either that the police had found a body or that they’d made contact with the missing woman. Had her job not been so absorbing the day might have passed slowly but it didn’t. She immersed herself in her tasks and left her office at five. On the way home she bought the Shropshire Star, expecting to see something more than she already knew but the newspaper headlines were muted, merely mentioning the fire in Sundorne without making much of it. There was no word of the nurse or whether she was dead or alive, the only reference being that the house which had been gutted by the fire belonged to a retired nurse named Monica Deverill, who was in her sixties. Martha assumed that the police would make no public comment until they had made certain of the woman’s fate. She scrutinized the headlines, trying to read the meaning behind the words and noted that no connection was made between the fire in Shrewsbury and the Melverley arson. The modus operandi was not disclosed in either case and she strongly suspected that this detail was being deliberately withheld. She had heard nothing from either DI Randall or Mark Sullivan, the pathologist, so deduced there was no body to make the coroner informed of and no post-mortem in the offing which, again, would have involved her. She was intrigued and, naturally, itching to find out how the investigation was progressing. But it wasn’t her role to ring either of them. She had no option but to wait for Alex Randall’s call.
Tuesday, 15 March, 12.09 p.m.
Without making an appointment or even ringing to say he was on his way, Alex Randall arrived unexpectedly at her office a little after midday. Jericho rang through, patently resenting the unannounced intrusion. ‘Ma’am,’ he said a little testily, ‘I have DI Randall here. He wonders if he might have a word with you.’
The emphasis on the word might told Martha everything, that Jericho hoped she would relay the message back (via him) that she was far, far too busy to spend time with the detective. But the truth was that Martha was glad of the interruption. And curious, too, so she asked Jericho to send him straight in. Randall greeted her with a wide grin which provoked her comment, ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself, Alex. Does that mean you’re getting somewhere?’
He faced her for a minute, looking friendly, but at the same time not overly anxious to respond to her question. His comment, though, was interesting. ‘Not really, Martha,’ he said, his face breaking into a grin, ‘I just knew that you’d want an update and I thought I might share a couple of thoughts.’
‘That’s nice of you.’
His next comment was even more neutral. He looked at the window and the view outside. ‘The nights are beginning to get lighter and brighter.’
She, too, glanced across at the window, wondering why this preamble. ‘Yes, they are, aren’t they? Almost feels like the beginning of spring. It’s a lovely time of year, isn’t it, the end of the winter in sight?’ As he didn’t answer she added, ‘Did you come here merely to comment on the weather?’
He smiled back at her, in no great hurry, obviously, and she continued. ‘So how are the investigations going?’
‘Slow.’ He didn’t look too bothered by the lack of progress.
‘And the house in Sundorne?’ she prompted. ‘Have you found Mrs Deverill?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s no sign of her in the house although we can’t be absolutely sure until we’ve combed right through the wreckage.’ He stopped, frowning. ‘She could still be in there.’
She caught the doubt in his voice. ‘But you don’t think so?’
‘I’m holding back my judgement.’ He took pity on her then. ‘Let’s just say that if she walked into the police station in Monkmoor saying she’d been on a last-minute cruise and had forgotten to tell her sons I wouldn’t be hugely surprised. She sounds an independent woman who’s quite feisty, used to living life her own way.’
She nodded. ‘So you think she’s still alive.’ It was a statement not a question.
Randall nodded, then tacked on, ‘But, you know, Martha . . .’
‘Do sit down, Alex, you’re making me nervous.’ She was no dwarf but he topped her by a good few inches and his naturally restless nature made it difficult for him to stand completely still. Something around Alex Randall was always moving, his feet, his hands, his head, his arms, his legs.
He dropped down into the chair. ‘Melverley is not a big village,’ he began slowly and very obliquely.
She couldn’t see even where this was leading but when Alex enlarged on the point it hit her like a bomb.
‘Although it was late and very cold on the night of the fire at the Grange,’ he continued, ‘minus four degrees, it was dry.’
Martha waited, still wondering where on earth this was going.
‘Quite a few people were walking their dogs.’
The silence was thick as Randall waited for her to connect.
‘No one saw anything,’ he continued. ‘Not a car or a strange person. You understand, Martha?’ Randall’s eyes burned into hers.
She did understand now and was silent. So was Randall.
She broke the silence. ‘William? But he can’t have . . .’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Nigel?’
But Randall wouldn’t commit. ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ he promised. ‘If there’s any news I’ll call in again.’ Again his face creased into a grin. ‘That is if I can get past your watchdog.’ He glanced in the direction of the door. Martha smiled, knowing too that Jericho would be right outside it, trying to glean anything about the case that he could. If she wanted to be cynical she might say that she suspected that Jericho Palfreyman’s ‘insider knowledge’ got him free drinks at his local pub!
Alex left and Martha began to work out a plan of action. Coroners frequently have the luxury of being able to make a difference. She had used inquests before to make a point, anti-smoking, the hidden dangers of alcohol, a warning about neglected illness, soothing relatives of a suicide, a plea against knife crime and revenge. She had tackled greed and selfishness, grief and anger. And she had the feeling that this case would be no different. She started making notes on the Barton family tragedy.
Smoke alarms, she wrote first, before ringing up the fire station and urging them to put out an advertising campaign. She spoke to Will Tyler, the station chief, who listened very carefully to her words. He too knew that tragedy was a good time to focus the public’s awareness on safety issues.
But when she had put the phone down her thoughts were not on these wider points but centred on the dual mysteries of the missing nurse and the Melverley Grange tragedy. She rolled her pen between her fingers and wondered. Were they connected? Who would want to destroy first almost an entire family and then an elderly retired nurse with no apparent connection?
Something nibbled away at the back of her mind, like a mouse gnawing through skirting board, noisy, regular, insistent. Something to do with the nurse and the locked doors in Melverley Grange. But for the moment it was eluding her. Martha’s face changed so she looked shrewd and thoughtful, her features pointed, her lips thin.
The nurse
? Missing? So far.
On holiday? Perhaps.
Or were her charred remains still buried underneath the rubble of her one-time home, waiting to be discovered by the forensic fire team?
Was it chance that first Melverley Grange and then the modest home in Sundorne had been burnt? Were the properties not selected but random? It was, she knew, the big question. The answer would lead them to . . . what?
Alex Randall’s thoughts were running almost parallel to hers as he faced his investigating force. ‘Right.’ He indicated the board. ‘This is a free for all.’ He smiled. ‘Or a brainstorm, if you prefer to call it that.’
There was a ripple of amusement round the room. All the gathered officers were familiar with DI Randall’s dislike of jargon.
He continued. ‘We can all throw in ideas for who might have done it, either the fire out at Melverley or here in the town. Think why; think how; think who.’ He appealed around the room then turned back to the board. ‘Let’s start with the fire at Melverley Grange and ask the pertinent questions. Why lock the women in their rooms but not Jude? Was it coincidence that Nigel Barton was away? What about the old man? What part did he play? And is it possible that the fire in Sundorne was a copycat arson attack? Should we be considering the two fires as one incident, the second fire perhaps a consequence of the first? Or two? OK.’ He looked around the room. ‘Here goes.’
With some trepidation Gethin Roberts started the ball rolling with a wavering raising of his hand, looking around nervously at his colleagues. ‘I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Mr Barton was away on business,’ he ventured.
‘OK, Roberts, what’s your thinking? Why not?’ And as the young constable still looked nervous, typically Randall tried to encourage him. ‘Try and take us through it, Roberts,’ he prompted gently.
‘Too much coincidence, too much money involved.’ He went red. ‘The life insurance, I mean.’
Randall felt bound to point out, ‘But Barton’s finances were in good shape. He didn’t need the money. Besides, he really was away on the Wednesday and Thursday nights. We’ve spoken to the business associates and confirmed his meetings. At the time when the fire started he was seen at the hotel bar in York. We’ve seen the timed and dated CCTV pictures of the hotel foyer. That means, Roberts, that if he was, as you suspect, behind the fire, he would have needed to hire someone to set the fire going for him – which would put him in a very vulnerable position and open to blackmail.’
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