“Your Nora Ennis has been regular as clockwork, Mike, inquiring of various officers at Buxton, Ashbourne and Matlock police stations, wanting to know the status of the case.”
“And told, in various ways, to leave them alone.”
“That’s about it. She’s not missed a year, talking to inspectors, detectives and a chief inspector or two, when she can grab one. The last three times she’s unfortunately wound up talking to Harvester.”
“Poor woman. She should go to a different police station next time.”
“She’s gone to you, Mike,” Jamie reminded him, then went on. “Janet Ennis died from smoke inhalation.”
“Yeah, Nora told me. Damn.”
“Yes. Nasty way to go.”
“Horrific. I feel for Nora having to live with that memory. I assume the house wasn’t damaged. The incinerator probably set back toward the rear of the property. Do you know where it was?” McLaren’s eagerness came through in his voice.
“No. Well, not specifically. At the rear of the back garden, but, evidently, near enough to the little studio so it figured into the cause of the fire. By the way, her body was found in the debris of her studio. It was a small, detached, wooden building at the rear of the property. A sort of artist’s studio. The assumption—”
“Sounds like Harvester had charge of the case. Assumption. What police officer assumes anything in an investigation?”
“The assumption,” Jamie reiterated, “was that the fire began accidentally, spreading from rubbish she was burning in the incinerator, that it had been too near to the studio, and that the wind fanned the flames or burning rubbish onto the structure and it caught.”
“She couldn’t smell it? Well, I guess not, if she was burning rubbish. Probably thought it was part of that fire.”
“Does sound bizarre, doesn’t it? Especially from the viewpoint of hindsight.”
“So she walks into her studio and sits there, leaving the debris in the incinerator unattended and doesn’t try to escape? Even Harvester, or whoever the SIO was at the time, would know that’s implausible.” In irritation he ran his fingers through his blond hair. “If she smelled the wooden structure on fire, surely she could get out. It wouldn’t have erupted in flame all at once.”
“Are you going to let me tell you or do you want to keep interrupting?”
“I’m waiting to be told but you aren’t saying much.”
“The assumption,” Jamie said again, “was that she tripped in her hurry to escape, maybe fell into her table and bumped her head, and lay there unconscious.”
“What does the postmortem report say? Is there evidence to support this? Even the SIO would want some medical statement to point a finger at that conclusion.”
“Postmortem examination revealed a curved indentation of the soft brain tissue, consistent with something hitting the side of her head and producing an injury severe enough to cause her to lose consciousness.”
“Gets better all the time, this.”
“There are a lot of things in an artist’s studio to hurt yourself on, Mike. Think about your own house, too. Besides the edge of a table, there are pieces of artwork, lamps, a small desk…”
“I get the picture.”
“The SIO believes she panicked and tripped. There’s no other explanation for the depression.”
“Believes…”
“You can throw your classic blunt instrument into the ring, but the official police report rules out foul play. Inside the house, in the kitchen, the slow cooker was on. Cooking,” he added before McLaren could make some snide comment. “A casserole, evidently for the evening meal. Lancashire hot pot, if you want details.”
“The implication being that she put the food on to cook that morning and had an ordinary day before the studio fire.”
“I always knew there was hope for you if you used your brain often enough.”
“I use it more than some people I could name.”
“There’s nothing to suggest she was forced into the studio and then the structure set ablaze.”
“So she’s in the studio, merrily painting or whatever, the evening meal perking along in the slow cooker. If Myles wasn’t lying when he said he was expected for dinner—”
“I doubt he was. The dining room table was set for two. Plates and utensils that implied a substantial meal, like dinner.”
“Fine. Then Janet has the dinner cooking, she’s painting until dinner or whenever. And she dies in a fire right before Myles comes over.” His voice took on a hard edge. “I don’t believe it.”
“You’re nearly quoting Janet’s mother, Mike.”
“Intelligent lady, no matter what Harvester thinks.”
“The police report acknowledges the food in the slow cooker, that her body was found in the debris of her studio.”
“Did our intelligent detectives learn how the structure started on fire? Learn, not assume.”
“The fire service investigated and believe it was an accident. They agree it looked as though she’d been burning rubbish or yard waste in the incinerator. They commented on it, Mike—loudly and often, angry that she hadn’t used more common sense in placing the incinerator. It was too close to the studio, and being a windy day and of course everything parched from the drought—”
McLaren recalled the weather that long-ago summer. Not that he had memorized it, but because many trees had died on his family land. It had been professed that the country had suffered through the worst drought in one hundred years, so of course he’d recall it. The drought produced a record high temperature in July, with power cuts in areas of Central London. Add to that, the previous winter had been dry. What little precipitation that fell did nothing to replenish the desperately low water table levels. Consequently, vegetation died and severe fire conditions constantly threatened the country.
“Who called in the fire service?”
“Her bass player, Ian O’Connor. He played in her trio.”
“He was over there too? What…for dinner along with Myles Tyson?”
“He wasn’t invited for dinner. He’s also her neighbor.”
“Chummy arrangement.”
Jamie sighed. “Ian rang her up at half past five. He talked to her for a minute or so.”
McLaren made a notation on a sheet of paper. “Fine. O’Connor talks to Janet. I suppose it would be too coincidental if he actually saw something near the time of the fire.”
“No one did. Janet’s house sits apart from her neighbors. It’s at the end of the lane and, in addition to the drive and garage facing the street, has a back entrance…a small lane that twists through the wood. If you’re thinking about murder, which I assume you are, it’s a perfect entrance or exit for the killer, yes. And it was also why the fire may have started earlier than O’Connor finally saw it and phoned it in to the fire service.”
“And that was…when?”
“It was near sunset. Around half past six. It’s darker in the wood, too, so the flames from the studio were more visible than in bright sunlight.”
“It could have been burning for a while if the house is as secluded as you say. Lucky for the killer.”
“But there’s no getting around the fact, Mike, that her body was found inside the burnt studio. A few feet of wall were standing but for the most part it was a complete loss.”
“Fire brigade extinguish the blaze?”
“Rather promptly, I’d say. They got there close to six forty-five and found the studio pretty much demolished.”
McLaren nodded, imagining the aftermath of the event. He’d seen a number of charred structures to feel the tragedy along with Nora. “The wooden structure burnt that quickly?”
“It had help, Mike. Paints, turpentine, paint thinner, canvas, wooden stretchers… You know. Artist’s painting supplies.”
“Hell.”
“O’Connor said he smelled burning but he didn’t think much of it because Janet burnt paper and cardboard and yard waste regularly in her incinerator
. He got worried, though, when he saw so much smoke and then the flames. That part was verified. The fire tender got there fifteen minutes after his call, coming from Matlock.”
McLaren shook his head. “And when they did their probing about for hot spots in the debris they find Janet’s body.”
“Yeah. Around seven-fifteen, when things had cooled down a bit.”
“Ever hear of a better stage for a murder, Jamie? Secluded house, private escape route, handy heat source and your choice of accelerant…plus the victim stumbling and hitting her head against something hard enough to cause unconsciousness?”
Chapter Five
The woman’s barely conscious, Harvester thought as he walked upstairs to his office. Potty with a capital P. Why am I always stuck with seeing the nutter? His breathing sounded hollow on the hard floor, each rasp from his throat calling her name. He passed a poster reminding police personnel of the policy on harassment and bullying. What a laugh, he thought, glancing again at his watch. I doubt if the Police Federation would hear my grievance on Nora Ennis. She’s been harassing anyone she can find to listen to her barmy story.
He opened the door to his office and switched on the overhead office light. The harsh, florescent light coated every item beneath it with a hint of blue. He’d been startled with it the first few days he’d had the office, but had quickly grown used to it. Paper appeared brighter under the light but it gave his brown hair a strange hue. Probably has something to do with its thinness and the light reflecting off my scalp. The tan, metal file cabinets showed not much difference in color, nor did the dark wooden desks that faced each other. He crossed the floor, eased out of his jacket and hung it over the back of his desk chair, then tossed the notepad onto the wooden windowsill. The pad skidded across the painted surface and came to rest against a flowerpot holding a dead jade plant. One of the larger, overhanging branches shook, sending a cascade of brown, shriveled leaves onto the top page. Loosening his tie, he checked his watch against the wall clock, and poured himself a cup of coffee. The beverage had no flavor and he muttered that his partner was as incompetent at coffee making as he was in interviewing suspects.
Harvester dumped a spoonful of sugar and some milk into the coffee—something he rarely did. Anything to give the black mess some flavor. He wandered to the window, opened it, and looked outside.
His section of Buxton spread out before him like a picture post card. Grand, stone houses stretched down Silverlands to the High Street. From his second-storey vantage point he could see the backs of the shops lining the main road. At right angles to this the upper portion of the town hall sat nearly silhouetted in the afternoon sky. Farther down the slope, out of his view, the seamless face of the Crescent would be lolling in early shadows. Tourists and office workers would be hurrying to finish their business before closing time, some going to the opera later that night, or to a pub or restaurant on the High Street, perhaps, or to an event in the garden. Harvester sniffed, suddenly feeling alone and unliked. When was the last time anyone had asked him for a night out?
He shifted his gaze from the High Street, feeling it healthier for his wellbeing. Across the road from the police station the football ground retained its blaze of brilliant green color despite the confetti-ing of red and yellow shed leaves around the perimeter. The leaves had taken on their autumnal hues weeks ago and many trees were already bare. A whiff of dry leaves assaulted his nostrils and for a moment, he recalled his son, Emory, grinning at him from where he sat in a pile of debris. He rolled in the castoffs and laughed as the dead leaves cracked. Harvester had leaned on his rake, pretending to be irritated at having to redo his work. But his son’s play was infectious and Harvester joined Emory in jumping into the pile…
That had been last autumn, Harvester realized with a shock. His time with Emory was so short, so restricted by the divorce settlement. He had lived—existed, actually—through the ensuing nine lonely years more like a robot than a human being. He hadn’t the makeup either for waking in or going home to an empty house. It was like he was punishing himself. If it continued much longer, he knew he would be as barmy as Nora Ennis.
Talk of the devil…
Harvester turned his head to follow Nora’s progress across the car park. Her stooped, small figure seemed tinier viewed from the elevation of his office. Not exactly like an ant crawling over the land, but not exactly like a real person. Nothing extraordinary would have attracted his attention or cemented his view on her. Her gait was like that of many older people, slow and slightly unsteady. But Nora’s walk had a directness to it, a determination, as though she had a time limit or an appointment. As she got into her car and started its engine, Harvester sniffed. Not only was the woman a nutter, she also was obsessed by the old case. Maybe she heard her daughter talking to her in her head.
He picked up the pad of paper and leafed through the notes he’d taken during the meeting with the Superintendent. Seconds later he was absorbed in the police federation assignment. He settled into his desk chair, having had enough of Nora Ennis and her hallucinations.
Chapter Six
“Does stretch the limitation of believability,” Jamie conceded. “Plus, the postmortem examination revealed the head indentation to be concave, resulting from a round surface.”
“Leaves out the edge of the door or table, then.”
“I’m getting that whiff of fish you’re smelling, Mike.” He swallowed a mouthful of tea before continuing. “But there were objects in the studio, according to statements and remnants found in the fire debris, that might have caused the wound.”
“What, for instance?”
“The edge of her desk chair as well as the top of a stool had rounded edges. A heavy cast iron sculpture that sat on the corner of her desk was one of those modern, abstract things.”
“Round or curved, I take it.”
“The point is, Mike, that she could’ve fallen, hit her head on one of these objects, and been struck unconscious. Not out of the realms of possibility.”
“I’m trying to keep an open mind.”
“Should be easy.”
“So, the bass-playing neighbor talks to her at half past five. I don’t suppose he can be wrong about the time,” McLaren suggested.
“His mobile phone record confirms the time.”
“So we have the phone company as witness. Right. Janet’s alive at five-thirty. But she’s dead at six forty-five when the fire brigade and the police arrive. Any more help from the postmortem report?”
“That’s about as accurate as you’re going to get with time of death. The fire…well, that’s what the postmortem established.”
“Then we’re focusing on someone who had a seventy-five minute opportunity to kill Janet and torch the studio. Any observant neighbor see a vehicle in front of Janet’s house, or a non-resident walking near her house?”
“You don’t really want to know.”
“Everyone was inside, watching the telly, eating dinner. Bloody helpful.”
“That’s part of the problem. But, as I said, there is another way to get to her.”
“Through the forest behind her house.” He could imagine how dark the wood might be at night. The cluster of trees, dense and obliterating much of the moonlight, might be a criminal’s best friend.
“Could anything have been secreted in the studio to make it the target of arson, Mike?”
“That’s what I was wondering. Why would someone torch it?”
“Was she blackmailing someone and had the evidence in there? You know, like maybe she was thinking it wasn’t as obvious a place, her studio. She keeps the photograph or tape recording or whatever there ’cause most anyone would think she’d secrete it in her house.”
“I suppose our brilliant SIO—who was it, anyway?”
“Edwards. Bill Edwards. Know him?”
“Yeah. Efficient Eddie. So Edwards didn’t have a theory, I take it.”
“Actually, he did. No, don’t groan, Mike. It makes sense.”
“To someone in Bedlam, perhaps.”
“But it throws out your arson theory.”
“I’m all ears.”
“As I mentioned, her small incinerator for yard waste is close to the shed. The incinerator was one of those things made from chicken wire. O’Connor, the neighbor, says Janet used to burn a lot of paper in it.”
“Fascinating.”
“Well, Edwards figures that with the extremely dry conditions of the grass and other vegetation, due to the drought, if a gust of wind came up as is usual before an approaching rain storm, well, the shed could have caught fire accidentally. Pieces of paper or embers blowing over to the building, if she had the incinerator too close, would catch the studio on fire.”
McLaren paused, picturing the scene in his mind. It was vivid enough, with the acrid smoke odor and the wind fanning the leaves, pushing them across the lawn. Perhaps there had been curtains at the studio windows, waving from the breeze. Embers and bits of partially burnt paper tumbled over the ground, their life blown away from the gusts. He rubbed his forehead and sketched a few curled leaves on the open page of his notepad. “Was there an approaching rain storm?”
“Nothing to write home about. The weather service report confirmed that it rained for about a half hour later that evening, but it obviously didn’t break the drought.”
“Yes. It all does sound logical, doesn’t it? And convenient if someone wanted to make it look like an accident.”
“But why?”
“All will be revealed in good order, Jamie. I need a copy of Edwards’ report. Plus reports by the H.O. Forensic chemist. Oh, and the fire service report.”
“Were you this greedy as a child around Christmas time?”
“You able to lay your hands on any photos of the crime scene or house or yard without getting caught?”
“Got ’em right here.”
“I’ll also need a copy of the plan drawn up by the police artist, Jamie. I need to know what I’m looking at.”
“You want me to email all this to your mobile or computer? Where are you, anyway?”
Shadow in the Smoke Page 4