Local Artist

by Paul Trembling

  One of the other men from nearby, I had forgotten his name, had an extinguisher and was blasting it through the letterbox, but the orange glow from inside the glass panels seemed unaffected, and I wondered if we would lose the house. “Oh God, please, not the house,” I sobbed, then saw Graham sinking to the ground still half supported by the neighbour, and I prayed, “Not Graham! The house we can lose, but I can’t lose Graham!”

  In the distance there were sirens. We were inside Mrs Steel’s house, so I couldn’t see any lights, but the sirens were getting louder. I wondered if it was an ambulance or a fire engine. I hoped it was both.

  DAY 6: SINISTROUS

  Sometime in the small hours, an A & E doctor looked me over. I had some minor burns on my face and hands, sore eyes and a raw throat from the smoke, but apart from that I was fine. Painkillers, treatment for skin and throat, and an overnight stay for observation.

  Graham, I learned, was in a worse state, with more severe burns on his head. They had him in an isolation ward – severe burns carry a high risk of infection – and under sedation. After I begged long enough, they let me see him through a window. That might have been a mistake. His head was bandaged, there was a drip in his arm, and he was so terribly still.

  They persuaded me, eventually, that he was fine under the circumstances, and that there was no more I could do. Finally I gave in and let them put me to bed in a nearby ward.

  I didn’t really expect to sleep. My face hurt too much, my head was too busy. But the painkillers took the edge off, and my whirling thoughts faded into darkness.

  I woke up to warm sunlight and bustling nurses. My face and hands and throat all hurt, but my head was a lot clearer, and my first thought was of Graham.

  “I’ll ring his ward,” promised the first nurse I managed to grab hold of – literally – clutching at her arm as she paused by my bed. Amazingly, she responded with a smile before detaching herself and carrying on.

  Even more amazingly, she came back to me in thirty minutes or so. “He had a good night, and he’s awake and comfortable. He’ll be seen by a burns specialist later today – that’s Mr Cromarty, he’s very good – and they’ll have someone from Cardiology check him out as well, in view of his history.”

  “I need to see him. Can I, please?”

  “I’m sure that will happen later, but it would be better if you stayed here for now, until the doctor’s seen you. I think that they’ll probably discharge you anyway, but best to be sure, right?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She smiled again and moved on to the next demand, and I did my best to relax.

  It was a frustrating time. I had too much to think about, and not enough information. It was hard not to keep coming back to that terrifying wall of flame that had filled the hallway.

  I didn’t even have my mobile phone with me, to make contact with someone and find out what was going on. Had the house survived? Where was Brodie?

  And, of course, who had done it?

  I had my suspicions on that. But no facts. So I lay in increasing frustration, forcing myself not to keep bothering the nurses and other staff with endless questions that they couldn’t possibly be expected to answer.

  I did consider discharging myself and going to look for some answers in person. But there were practical difficulties in that – such as the fact that the only clothes of my own I had were the dressing gown and nightdress that I had put on after my bath, both of which had been singed and smoke-stained. I was left wearing hospital pyjamas, and I was not going out and about dressed like that. I’d be in the psychiatric ward tonight if I tried it.

  So I was left to fret and worry through a hospital breakfast that I had a surprisingly good appetite for and then on through the morning while I waited for the doctor. But it was David Macrae who came to my rescue, at least as far as my need for information went.

  “Visitor for you,” said a nurse, and he was standing by the bed with a grim expression.

  “Sandra – I can’t begin to say how sorry I am.”

  “Why? Did you do it?”

  “You know what I mean. I put you in harm’s way, getting you to go to see Templeton. I just didn’t expect a reaction like this.”

  That answered one of my questions – or confirmed my suspicions. “Carr?”

  He shrugged, and pulled up a chair. “There was a silver Porsche seen making off from the area, at speed.”

  I managed a smile, though it hurt my face. “You’ve got him then!”

  He shook his head slowly. “Well, it’s not that easy. We haven’t got the number plate, and there’s no description of the driver. So no actual evidence that it was him. Of course, we’ll be talking to him about it – silver Porsches aren’t exactly commonplace round here – but they’re not unique to him, either. Unless forensics comes up with something, we won’t have enough to charge him. And I have to tread lightly, in view of our little adventure yesterday. That could come back to bite.”

  I controlled a desire to swear. “David – we could have been killed! You can’t just let him get away with it!”

  “As I said, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you in this position.”

  I sat back and stared into the distance. Well, across the ward, anyway. The woman opposite me hadn’t forgotten her mobile when she came in, and she was talking on it now. She had been since before breakfast. I wasn’t sure if it was the same conversation or just another in an endless series.

  “How are you doing, anyway?” he asked after a moment.

  “I’m OK. Well, not OK, but not too bad. Just a little scorched. Graham’s worse – he got a fireball in the face – but what I’m hearing is that he’ll be all right. What actually happened, anyway? All I can remember is that the dog was barking, and next thing the hallway’s in flames.”

  “It seems like a standard letterbox arson. I just talked to the Fire Investigator – that’s like the Fire Service’s CSI – and he’s quite confident of that. Some sort of accelerant was poured in, then a bit of rag or paper pushed in behind it, and lit from the outside. The pattern of marks it leaves is quite distinctive.”

  “And how much damage is there?” I asked, trying to be calm. I loved that house. We’d been there nearly twenty years. The thought of it being gutted was a worse pain than my face.

  “Not too much. The fire was mostly confined to the doormat, which soaked up the accelerant, and the UPVC door itself. I’m afraid you’ll need to replace it, and perhaps some of the floorboards and wall coverings, but the rest is just smoke damage. A terrible mess, for sure, but nothing major.”

  “Really? I mean – it’s a relief to hear that, but I saw the flames coming into the living room – right into Graham’s face, in fact. I thought it must have spread further.”

  “That was just the initial fireball. See, when the accelerant ignited you got a big ball of flame that went up, travelled along the ceiling, then down and round the top of the door. Fortunately it didn’t contact anything volatile, so wasn’t sustained. Of course, that would have been different if your neighbours hadn’t been so quick. Someone saw the flames and dialled 999 almost as soon as it happened, and those lads were on the ball!”

  “And Brodie? Our dog?”

  “I understand that one of your neighbours has him safe. A bit of singed fur, that’s all, though I dare say you’ll want a vet to take a look at him.”

  “Yes, I’ll certainly do that.”

  The woman across from me finally finished her conversation. But only long enough to press a speed-dial button and start another.

  I wondered what make it was. I’d have to get one – the battery life must be phenomenal.

  “Of course, the real question is why would anyone do this?” I mused. “Though if it was Carr, I suppose that answers itself. He was trying to shut me up.”

  “Or just warn you off,” Macrae suggested. “If he’d intended to kill you, he’d have been better off waiting till later, when you were all off to your beds. And the fact that
he used his own car suggests that it was a message. I think he wanted you to know who did it – but he was careful to make sure we couldn’t prove it.”

  “Trying to scare me off,” I said bleakly. I thought of Coren Hall, and the dogs. “And will he do anything else, do you think?”

  “I doubt it. He’s sent his message – and you can be very sure I’ll let him know that we’ll be watching him.” He stood up. “I’m sorry, but I have to be on my way. I’ve a lot happening this morning, as you’ll no doubt understand. But there’s a constable outside who’ll get a statement off you if that’s OK? And once again, I apologize.”

  “No. Don’t.” I met his gaze. “I agreed to go and see Sir Arthur because I wanted answers as much as you did. I could have said no. But I didn’t, and that’s my responsibility.”

  Macrae had a wary look to him. “Sandra, I’d not want you taking on a load of guilt about this.”

  “Guilt?” I suddenly thought of the conversation I’d been having with Graham just before the fire. “No. I’m done with feeling guilty about the wrong things. This was down to Carr.”

  He smiled. “Well, that’s yet to be proved. But that’s the way to think. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Things moved a bit faster then. The constable took my statement, and then the doctor came round and agreed that I could be discharged, though I was to see my GP within the week. I made a phone call from the nurses’ station – fortunately, Yvonne’s number was one of the few I had actually memorized.

  “I’ve been phoning all day!” she remonstrated. “Ever since I heard! I was just about to come to the hospital anyway, now we’ve got the library sorted.”

  “I didn’t have my mobile with me,” I explained. “Thanks for dealing with the library. I need a favour though: I’m stuck here with nothing but hospital jim-jams to cover my embarrassment. Could you pop over with some clothes and give me a lift home?”

  “No problem. I’ll be about twenty minutes.”

  “No, don’t rush. I’ve got to go and see Graham. Give me an hour.”

  Then I went along to Graham’s ward, where I was pleased to see him now awake and sitting up in bed. He gave me a wave through the glass door.

  “You can go in,” confirmed the nurse on duty. “Actually, your timing’s perfect. He’s just back from Cardiology, and there’re no issues in that regard.”

  “Thanks. That’s great!” I said from my heart.

  “And there’s more,” she continued. “The burns specialist has had a look, and things aren’t as bad as we’d feared. He probably won’t need skin grafts, and the damage to his nose and throat is minimal. He’ll be in here for a while, but it’s all looking positive.”

  I grabbed her hand and squeezed, momentarily choked with relief. Of course, I’d known he was going to be OK. But I had been more worried than I’d realized.

  She smiled, a burst of brightness on a tired face that made me realize why she was in the job: for those moments when she could give good news like that. “Go on in. But don’t let him talk too much; he needs to rest. Especially his throat.” She gave me a meaningful look. “And so do you, actually.”

  I nodded and went in. Leaned over the bed and gave him a very gentle hug.

  “Hi, you,” I said.

  “Hi, yourself,” he croaked back. The damage to his throat might have been minimal, but he sounded awful. “I think next time we should go out for dinner. Don’t you?”

  I laughed, and he started to, but then broke into coughing. I handed him a glass of water and helped him take a few sips, after which he leaned back into his pillows.

  “I’ll talk, you just nod or shake, OK?”

  He nodded.

  “Right. Well, DI Macrae has just been to see me. It was arson – someone poured something through our letterbox and set it alight. There’s some damage, but mostly to the door and the mat. And to you, of course. Nothing that can’t be fixed. Brodie’s OK, and so am I, thanks.”

  “That would have been my first question,” he whispered. “Because you don’t look it.” He started coughing again, and I gave him some more water.

  “What did I tell you? Stop talking!” He opened his mouth and I raised a hand. “Shush!”

  He subsided with a petulant look on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

  “Better. Now, I’ve been discharged, Yvonne’s giving me a lift home, so I’ll be back later with some things for you. I’m afraid you’re going to be in here a bit longer. Which is fine, because it means I can get the house sorted out without you getting in the way.”

  He mimed horror, followed by indignation. I smiled and continued.

  “You will be wondering who might have done this and why.” He nodded vigorously. “Well, Macrae told me that there was a Porsche seen nearby which might belong to Jonathan Carr.”

  Graham tried to raise an eyebrow. Hard to see, under the bandages, but I correctly interpreted the twitch of an eye followed by the wince of pain.

  “Yes, that’s right. Secretary of the art club. And as for why…” I took a deep breath. “There was something I was going to tell you about. Before we were interrupted.”

  I gave him a thumbnail sketch of recent events. My visit to the farmhouse, and then to Sir Arthur’s place with Macrae. I told him of my growing certainty that there was a link between the two murders, and that Carr was somehow connected with them.

  “The attack on our house was a warning. It was telling me to keep my nose out. So that’s why it’s happened. That’s why you are here now.”

  Graham had listened carefully. Now he squeezed my arm and shook his head. “Not your fault. His.”

  I squeezed back. “Actually, that’s what I thought. You were right, what you said about guilt. I’ve had a bit of time to think about that, but I knew you were right as soon as I heard it. I held on to that guilt for too long. I’m not planning to add any more.”

  He smiled. “Good. What… now?” He breathed the words.

  “Oh, I’ll get the house sorted, find someone to come and fix the door, then get back with your stuff and see about getting you better.”

  He shook his head.

  “No?”

  Graham looked at me steadily then shook his head. He indicated the water, and I helped him to have a long drink.

  “Do you know why I fell in love with you?” he said. There was a nasty rasp in his voice, but I could tell he wasn’t going to shut up this time.

  “You said you had a thing for blondes?”

  He grinned and nodded. “That as well. But I fell in love with a girl who wouldn’t give up. You cared about that unknown boy. You did everything you possibly could to get justice for him. To get his name.”

  He paused, but then carried on. “When you had to give up, it left something incomplete in you. Now you’ve got a chance to sort it. Go and do what you have to do, Sandy. Be the girl I love.”

  “You mean that? Of course you do. But…”

  He leaned forward, staring intently at me. “Thirty years of unfinished business, Sandy. Thirty years I’ve prayed for a resolution for you. Just be careful.”

  He leaned back, coughing again. I helped him to some more water, but then he waved me away and leaned back into the pillows, eyes closed.

  “Go on,” he muttered. “Leave me to the nurses. Especially the blonde one.”

  A nurse came in as he was speaking. Not blonde, but quite pretty. “I’m sorry, but I think you should let him rest for a bit now,” she said. She was trying her best to sound firm, but was a bit too young and unsure of herself, so it came out a little hesitant.

  “It’s OK. I’m going now,” I assured her. Leaning over, I gave Graham a kiss on the cheek. “See you later, love. Be gentle with the nurses.”

  Yvonne arrived shortly afterwards bringing with her – apart from the traditional bunch of grapes – a tracksuit, some T-shirts, socks, underwear, and a pair of trainers. All brand new. “Did a bit of shopping on the way over. Don’t make a fuss, it’s all cheap stuff.”
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  Pink and lime green – with electric blue trainers – wouldn’t have been my choice of colours, but it was a big improvement over hospital pyjamas. We left the grapes with Graham – now sleeping again – and headed for home.

  There was a CSI van parked outside. I recognized Alison Kepple sitting in the driver’s seat, writing.

  “Hi!” I knocked on the window and she glanced up at me. “Did you get anything?”

  She wound her window down, shaking her head as she did so. “Just photographs. There isn’t usually much forensic evidence to recover from scenes like this. The offender didn’t have to touch anything except the outside of the letterbox, which is a poor surface for prints anyway, and if he or she was wearing gloves…” She shrugged. “I’m glad you got out safely. And your dog as well, I understand from the neighbours. That’s really good. I had an arson once where the dog was trapped inside and…”

  “Yes, OK, thanks, but I don’t need to know that.” It wasn’t just the job, I decided – she really was insensitive. “Is it all right for me to go in and get things cleaned up?”

  She gave me a puzzled look, as if unsure why I had interrupted her. “Yes, of course, I’m all finished.”

  Yvonne insisted on coming in. She was uncharacteristically silent as we entered through the kitchen door and were met by a stomach-churning smell of smoke and ashes.

  There were black stains on the ceiling of the living room above the door, preparing us for what was to come. In the hallway, the entire ceiling was soot-stained, and the marks continued up the stairs. Ugly lumps of melted plastic hung down where the light fittings and smoke alarms had been, looking like diseased stalactites, while the door itself was black and distorted.

  “Looks like you’ll need a new one,” Yvonne said eventually. “Frame as well.”

  “No, really? I thought I could just wipe it over with a damp cloth.”