Smoke Alarm

by Priscilla Masters

  Each time they mentioned something she had her answer ready to challenge them. The conviction for possession? ‘He planted it there.’ Current employment status? ‘Who would employ him without references?’ Depression? ‘His life’s gone down the chute. I know who’s to blame.’ Fiddling expenses? ‘A trumped-up charge. Stuart would never . . .’

  On and on went the catalogue of complaints against Nigel Barton.

  Coleman had to bring it to an end. ‘And Mrs Barton, did you know her at all?’

  It brought a renewed tirade.

  ‘Did I know her? Everyone in the village knew her. Lady Muck, driving around in that flashy car, always expensively dressed, looking like someone out of Hello! magazine.’

  It was interesting to get some reality and perspective on the dead woman. She was no longer a ‘sainted martyr burnt at the stake’ but someone whom other people might dislike.

  Coleman pressed on. ‘And the old man, Mr Barton senior?’

  Felicity Pinfold looked disappointed. Even her vitriol could not spread this far. ‘He never went out of the house,’ she said sourly. ‘I never met him. Only heard about him. From what I’ve heard they hid him away.’ She grimaced. ‘He was probably barking mad.’

  ‘Right. What about Adelaide?’

  Quite out of the blue, Felicity Pinfold’s face softened. ‘She was a lovely kid,’ she said sadly. ‘I can’t get it out of my mind what happened to her. Poor little thing.’

  ‘How did you know her?’

  ‘She was in the local Wildlife Society. Always trying to sell raffle tickets or raise money for some Animals’ Rescue centre. She was a sweet little thing.’

  All this time Stuart Pinfold appeared to have been taking his cue from Mummy. Now he started nodding vehemently. Of all his mother’s statements this was the one he agreed with most.

  ‘And Jude?’

  Mother and son looked at each other. Felicity frowned. ‘He was a dark one,’ she said. ‘I could never quite work him out. He was quiet and deep. You never knew what he was thinking.’

  Her son nodded his agreement.

  Roberts eyed him curiously and inserted a few of his own questions. ‘Where were you last Thursday night?’

  They both stared at him. Felicity spoke first, eyes narrow, suspicion hardening her face. ‘Why?’

  Then the penny dropped and her face cleared. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘Not content with trying to pin the Melverley Grange fire on us you want us to confess to arson on the nurse’s house. Well, I don’t know her. I never met her and we didn’t set fire to her house either. Constable,’ she mocked, ‘if you’re wanting to find someone to pin both fires on then you’ll have to look elsewhere. Understand?’

  Roberts ignored her outburst and turned to the son. ‘Stuart?’ he prompted.

  Stuart grew even paler. In fact, he looked distinctly unwell. He cleared his throat and jerked.

  His mother spoke for him. ‘He didn’t do any of those things,’ she said flatly.

  Again Roberts addressed the son – not the mother. ‘So when did you arrive from Amsterdam?’

  ‘I just got here a couple of days ago.’

  Roberts waited and Pinfold finally supplied the answer. ‘Tuesday afternoon,’ he said grumpily. ‘I wasn’t in the country for either fire.’

  Both Coleman and Talith knew Pinfold had been in the country at least for the Melverley fire and, looking at Stuart’s shifty gaze, they suspected he knew what they knew. But for now they kept their cards close to their chests. They stored the interview away, ready to share with Detective Inspector Randall and the rest of the team at the briefing later on.

  Delia Shaw, meanwhile, was at Nigel Barton’s very smart office and ‘chatting’ to his secretary, Mirabelle, wondering what exactly was the relationship between the boss and the very attractive but hard-faced young woman who seemed as brittle as cinder toffee.

  After some preamble Delia asked the question outright. ‘What exactly was the relationship between you and Mr Barton? Your boss,’ she added.

  Mirabelle didn’t answer straight away but seemed to be deciding what to say. She lifted her heavy eyelashes to stare straight into WPC Shaw’s, as though she was setting up a line of communication. Then she shrugged her slim shoulders and tossed her head. ‘I think,’ she began, and tried again. ‘Mr Barton . . .’ And again. ‘He was a married man,’ she said, as silkily as a lawyer. ‘He isn’t the sort to play at flirtation when he has a wife.’

  It didn’t seem to occur to her pretty little head that this was a motive for murder. And WPC Shaw didn’t feel the need to remind her. Mirabelle gave another smug little smile and pressed her lips together. But WPC Shaw didn’t let her off the hook that easily. ‘Have you ever gone out together – not in connection with work?’

  It provoked another smug smile. ‘We’ve had lunch together a few times.’

  ‘Alone?’

  A coquettish nod. ‘Purely business.’

  ‘When was the last time you had one of your “purely business” meetings?’

  ‘We met at The Armoury a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘And how do you feel about him?’

  The girl almost drooled. ‘Mr Barton is a very attractive man,’ she said primly. And volunteered no more but turned her gaze back to the computer screen.

  Attractive and wealthy, Delia reflected. Even more so now he’ll be entitled to a cool million pounds compensation for the loss of his family.

  She stood up. The interview was over.

  Friday, 18 March, 10.05 a.m.

  Alex rang Martha’s office at a little after 10 a.m., again to Jericho’s evident disapproval. Martha took the call at once. Palfreyman may as well get used to these – she fished around in her mind for the word, finally snagging it on her line – interludes.

  ‘I’ve got some surprising news for you,’ Randall said. ‘And if it’s all right with you it’d be nice to pop over and tell you face-to-face. OK?’

  ‘Naturally. I’m intrigued.’ She couldn’t hide that she was pleased to hear from him again and wondered what had turned up.

  He appeared at midday. ‘You say you’re intrigued,’ he said. ‘So am I.’

  He folded his lanky frame into the chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him and gave her a very straight look. ‘We have some answers,’ he confessed, ‘but more questions.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There definitely isn’t a body in the house,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a thorough look and she’s not there. Before you ask,’ his face held a tinge of amusement, ‘she’s not buried in the garden. There’s no freshly dug earth there. She is not walled up in the garage which is completely empty, nor is she in the small wooden shed behind the apple tree. And her car has not turned up anywhere. We’ve looked through airport car parks, put out a stop if seen. And nothing.’ He crossed and recrossed his legs. Then grinned. ‘It’s more difficult to hide a car than you’d realize.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said. ‘I got ticketed last week in the town centre. Ten tiny minutes over my time.’

  ‘You should have . . .’ His eyes were warm but his voice tailed away. It wasn’t her way to use her influence to get off a parking ticket. He continued. ‘Her mobile is switched off or dead and goes straight through to answer phone without us getting a hit on it. We’ve had a team of officers ring every single telephone number and contact that Gordon and James gave us. They are naturally frantic.’

  ‘Hospitals? Maybe she was confused, hurt, ill, made her way . . .’ Her voice died away as she interpreted Alex’s slow shake of the head correctly.

  ‘The fire was started deliberately,’ he continued. ‘Accelerants – petrol-soaked rags. According to the forensic fire team the property caught fire so well partly because she’d apparently used some proprietary carpet cleaner, which was highly inflammable, to clean her hall carpet. We can’t know whether our arsonist knew this or whether he just hit lucky. But it worked in his or her favour all right.’

  ‘So wh
ere do you think she is?’

  Alex’s shrug told her all. ‘I think she’s dead,’ he said bluntly. ‘It’s been a week now. She hasn’t been in touch with her sons. There has been no activity on her phone since the night of Monday the seventh when she spoke to James. According to him, she sounded perfectly normal and promised to call in this weekend. Since then nothing.’

  ‘So you think she’s been abducted and murdered.’ Something struck her. ‘Of course, she would have known about the carpet cleaner.’

  Randall looked up. ‘What on earth are you saying? That Monica Deverill set fire to her own house?’

  This time it was Martha’s turn to shrug. Then looking straight at Alex Randall, she followed up with, ‘How were her finances?’

  ‘I’ve got a team of officers on the job at the moment, checking her passport, bank statement, mobile phone stuff.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘All the usual. I still think that her fate holds the key to the Melverley fire.’ He paused. ‘Do you want to visit the scene again?’

  ‘I don’t see how I can, Alex,’ Martha said. ‘This isn’t a case for a coroner – yet. It’s a missing person and therefore a case for you.’

  ‘I just thought –’

  ‘If a death is involved I’ll be happy to work with you,’ Martha said, ‘more than. But in the meantime I should concentrate on the inquests for the three members of the Barton family who died.’

  ‘So I’m on my own,’ Alex finished, getting out of the chair. ‘Well, thanks anyway.’

  ‘Keep in touch,’ Martha advised.

  The minute he had gone she felt cross with herself for being such a pedant. Why was she being so linear? Sticking strictly to guidelines had never been a feature of the way she had conducted enquiries before. Besides, she enjoyed Alex Randall’s visits to her office, the way he stretched out those long legs and relaxed. Maybe that was the real reason she felt she should draw up lines, build fences, so she could hide behind them when necessary. But Randall did seem more relaxed these days, happier. She had always suspected that behind the formality of a Detective Inspector Alex Randall was a man with a troubled personal life. Although lately it had seemed as though that was melting away.

  Curious, she thought, then sat forward and put her chin into her cupped hand, staring straight ahead, seeing not her organized room or the view over the town, not the telephone, the files, the books or the computer screen, but Alex Randall’s warm eyes and crooked, sometimes apologetic grin. This was every woman’s nightmare, she decided: early forties, widowed, twin teenagers – and she had a schoolgirl crush.

  She felt her face flush with humility. This was ghastly. She had to work with the man. He was married, for goodness’ sake. Besides, he’d never given her one crumb of a hint that he felt anything for her but as a valued colleague.

  ‘So stop dreaming, Martha Gunn,’ she admonished herself, ‘and wake up – to the real world.’

  THIRTEEN

  She almost forgot about the arson cases over the weekend, which was spent in a frenzy of activity. Sam was playing in a match and Sukey wanted to come along, together with a gaggle of friends. Martha watched the girls pile into the back of the car and knew this was the way it would be in future for his sons and their friends. This glamorous world, the word, ‘footballer’, whispered in the back of the car, accompanied with giggles, told her it all. Yet as she stood, shivering on the touchline, watching the players muddy themselves over a game that was scrappy to say the least, she wondered. What was it about footballers that made them so glamorous? Purely their income? It made headlines, sure. But was that it? So many players didn’t get paid anything like the Premier League boys, her own son included. They did it for the love of the game – or perhaps because they couldn’t think of anything else to do and had pent up energy that needed spending. She smiled as she watched her son slither towards the goal, lift the ball up – and watched it bounce off the bar to the agonized groans of the Stoke City sympathizers and delighted whoops of the opposition. Already she could feel commiserations and platitudes spilling out of her mouth. Sometimes it seemed a tough way to make a living.

  Two hours later she was cooking for the still-giggling girls and Sam and his two mates, who seemed oblivious to the female interest, concentrating instead on a detailed post-mortem of the game. Kick by kick, pass by pass. Martha slid two lasagnes on to the top shelf of the oven and started to make the salad and garlic bread. But, as she watched the beginnings of flirtation on the girls’ part and oblivion to the females’ interest on the boys’ part, she felt that sudden wash of isolation when a parent realizes their offspring are no longer their sons and daughters but about to emerge, butterfly-like, into adulthood and that the parental role would dim and fade until it barely existed except in times of extreme trouble. It wasn’t the same feeling as she had experienced when Martin had died. That had been loneliness, yes, and grief too. No, this was different. Sukey and Sam who had been her focus for so many years, were now inching away from her, drifting down the river of life, while she was left standing on the banks, waving them off with a white handkerchief. Even more strong than the feeling that they were moving downstream was the consciousness that she stood on the bank perfectly alone. No one was at her side. This, then, was true loneliness.

  She wandered into her study. No messages on her phone. She pressed the button and the voice confirmed this with a touch of spite. You have no messages. No messages. Absolutely no messages it might have added. She felt a sudden urge to confide in her mother and spent the next twenty minutes in deep conversation.

  Laura Rees, Martha’s mother, was Irish and now in her late sixties, a quirky, funny, unpredictable woman who was ‘all heart’. She listened to her daughter’s outpourings without comment then said drily, ‘Well, now you’ve come round to your senses let’s just hope you haven’t left it too late.’

  The result was that Martha felt even more down that evening, sitting in, hearing Sam and Sukey’s lively and excited conversations with their friends, bursts of music as doors opened and closed. The giggles of the girls and the gruff voices of the boys. She felt excluded. Old and alone with her mother’s words ringing in her ears. She gave a deep sigh and then was ashamed of herself. It was not like her to be self-pitying and it was not how she wanted to be. ‘You’ve just been too busy with the twins and your work,’ her mother’s voice continued scolding her. Martha made a face and was tempted even to stick her tongue out.

  So now what? Having indulged herself quite shamelessly she squared her shoulders and sat up, a burst of energy propelling her into action as now she plotted and planned.

  She couldn’t Internet date. She just couldn’t go through with all that. She’d heard of a website called Ivory Towers, was even tempted to go online and check it out. But five minutes later she was still sitting with her chin in her hands, staring into space. Love wasn’t like that, she reasoned. It was special and personal. One could meet hundreds of men the right age, background, even ones who shared the same identical pursuits, intellect and interest. But it took that magic spark to fall in love. And without love there was no point, was there?

  She answered her own question. No, mouthing the word. Emphatically the answer was no. Then, with a gasp of irritation at herself, she went and fetched a novel. It might be escapism but for now she had no better ideas.

  Sunday, 20 March, 9 a.m.

  Sunday started a little better. There was breakfast to be made for the exhausted ‘sleepovers’ before ferrying them home. Somehow the tradition of keeping Sunday as a family day had persisted amongst the twins and their friends. Then there was the dog to walk, through a muggy, damp, cold day, which seemed to tell you that the sun would probably not shine for a few months yet. There was lunch to cook, a traditional roast, of course. There were school clothes to be ironed before a classic serial on the television.

  But even through all the normal busy jobs, the empty feeling would not leave her.

  Monday, 21 March, 8.45 a.m.

  She was g
lad to return to work on the Monday morning, aware that March was slipping away. The bulbs were peering out of the soil and any moment now the trees would start to turn green. She locked her car and stood, looking up at the office building, a large Victorian property to the south of the town. She’d worked here for fourteen years now, handled death after death, ‘happy releases’, tragedy, murders, accidents, suicides and natural death. She’d spent time considering them all and explaining them, as best she could, to relatives who were sometimes angry, sometimes grief-struck and occasionally relieved – though they invariably tried to hide that one. There were mysteries and misadventures. A few had remained puzzles. Would this be one of those? Would there ever be a satisfactory explanation to these two cases of arson which had resulted in three deaths and, so far, one disappearance? Would there be more arson attacks? Had something terrible and destructive been unleashed? Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction.

  She approached the door, still reflecting. No one could call death in a burning home misadventure and certainly not a ‘happy release’. And the missing nurse? Would she ever turn up? Would she remain forever a mystery or would there be a banal explanation?

  Why the fire then, Martha reasoned, so carefully laid, so quickly destructive? Why the fire which had drawn attention to her, suggested a connection between two families when there might have appeared none? Someone wanted to draw attention to the link between the two families, even if it was little more than a silken line, fine as a spider’s web. And now Martha sat perfectly still, convinced that she was tiptoeing around a pool, deep and dark but not bottomless. In her mind she was leaning in towards it, peering down into waters that had no reflection. Yet.