The Burning Man

by Edward Figg

  About the author

  I was born in the coastal town of Dover. After leaving school, I worked in the motor trade for many years. I spent seven years as a special constable in Kent and Cornwall, before moving with my wife and children to Australia in 1969. I spent three years writing for a farming newspaper in Western Australia. After retiring in 2007, we set off to live in France. We later returned and re-settled in Victoria. In 2015, we moved up to the Sunshine Coast in Queensland where my wife now spends her time painting while I enjoy the sunshine and writing.

  The Burning Man

  Edward Figg

  The Burning Man

  Vanguard Press

  VANGUARD KINDLE

  © Copyright 2020

  Edward Figg

  The right of Edward Figg to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN (PAPERBACK) 9781784657 50 5

  Vanguard Press is an imprint of

  Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.

  www.pegasuspublishers.com

  First Published in 2020

  Vanguard Press

  Sheraton House Castle Park

  Cambridge England

  Printed & Bound in Great Britain

  Dedication

  To my dear wife.

  Chapter 1

  Monday 1:30 a.m.

  Martin Kelly stood on the edge of the tree line. From here, on the hill, he had a good view down to the valley floor where the farm lay in darkness. The moon briefly appeared, revealing the mist that had lain across the valley since early evening.

  High in the treetops, a light breeze stirred the branches, sending the last dead leaves of autumn fluttering gently down to settle at his feet. Somewhere in the night came the screech of a barn owl. The moon slipped behind the clouds, plunging everything back into darkness. He threw his cigarette into the leaf litter and ground it out with the toe of his boot, then continued to stare into the night.

  He pulled the woollen scarf tighter around his neck, trying to keep out the cold night air, thinking, Why was it taking so long? It should be well alight by now. Did I set the timer right? From somewhere in the darkness came a sound. A twig snapped. In the still night air, it sounded loud and intrusive. He turned quickly. Breathing slowly, he scanned the dark interior of the wood and waited… Nothing. A fox maybe?

  He turned his attention back to the farm. A speck of light appeared, vanished briefly, then reappeared. It started to grow brighter. The thought of the flames spreading through the barn filled him with satisfaction. After all these years, he’d lost none of his skills. He complimented himself. It was now well ablaze.

  He desperately wanted to stay and watch it burn but knew that was too risky. He remembered what they had drummed into him during those early days in Belfast. They’d said it time and time again. “Always give yourself plenty of room and time to get clear”, they’d told him. “Never stay to watch them die”.

  Once, and once only, did he ignore that rule and stay too long and that was at the Thiepval Barracks — the British army headquarters in Northern Ireland. He remembered it well because it had cost him dearly. He walked straight into the arms of a returning patrol. Five years locked up inside the Maze Prison. Five years of his life gone. Five years of hell. It's not going to happen to me again! He picked up the helmet that lay on the seat of the bike, put it on, then, tightening the straps of his backpack, he straddled the machine. After taking one last satisfying look, he kicked-started the trail bike and rode off up the track, and away into the trees.

  The old lady, who'd been silently watching from the shadows, came out from behind the oak tree and watched him go. Slowly, her heart rate returned to normal. She pushed her unruly mop of grey hair away from her eyes and tucked it securely under her woolly hat. Holding the whiskey bottle tightly up against her body, she unscrewed the top, swallowed the last of it, then tossed the bottle into the bushes.

  She stood shivering in the darkness. The mist was getting thicker and the night colder. She pulled the old threadbare coat tighter across her body, then dragged her beanie down over her ears. Mary Lampton had seen that face before.

  She turned and looked down the slope at the ever-increasing glow. She gazed at it for a few moments before turning back to watch the red tail light disappear into the night. Hidden by the darkness, a cold smile spread slowly across her face. She nodded happily, then turned and hurried off back up the track to the woodcutter’s hut. There were things to be done!

  Chapter 2

  6:15 a.m.

  Detective Chief Inspector Bob Carter drove down the narrow tree-lined lane and stopped in front of the fifty-foot-long tunnel that led into Chalk Lane Manor Farm. He wound down the window and glanced up at the faded Latin inscription carved into the arched stonework — Dominus Custodiat. He knew from his grammar school days what the words meant — “God Protect”. Below it, the inscribed date: 1642.

  At the far end, he could see tall wrought iron gates. One side stood wide open. Behind the gate, leaning with his backside against the wheel arch of his car, was Police Constable Barry Ambrose. The patrol car’s flashing blue strobe lights, reflecting off the damp brickwork of the tunnel’s dark interior, set a ghostly scene. Carter wound up the window and continued along into the underground passage and up to the gate.

  Recognising the DCI’s car, Ambrose straightened up and gave a sort of half-wave, half-salute as Carter drove through the open gate and off up the drive. Ambrose noted the time and put the details in the attendance log, then stepped back and continued propping up the car.

  At the end of the driveway, Carter parked next to one of the two fire engines and the blue 2009 Jaguar XF that he recognised as belonging to James Broadbent, the forensic pathologist. Carter got out, slammed the door and, pulling up the collar of his raincoat, looked around. The ground mist that had shrouded Kingsport overnight like a thick white blanket had started to lift, but on the nearby wooded hillside it had thickened into a dense fog with only a few of the trees still visible.

  The smell of burnt timber and smoke filled the air. It drifted over Carter, invading his lungs and nostrils. He stood for some minutes, surveying the scene before him. The charred remains of the old once impressive-looking Elizabethan barn were still smouldering in the damp morning light. One of its tall, double wooden doors hung lifeless on one hinge, blackened and charred from where the flames licked at it. Its partner had likewise not escaped the fiery onslaught. That too had suffered. It had fallen inwards. It now lay, a blackened mess, on the floor of the barn. The side wall leaned drunkenly inward, black and ugly. A significant part of the roof had fallen in.

  The light rain that was still falling sent steam rising from the twisted remains of the corrugated iron lean-to that once housed a tractor and a forklift. They were now just two burnt-out shells. Not far from the barn stood three pallets. Stacked on them, all strapped tightly together with steel bands, were logs. Next to the pallets, with the doors wide open, stood an empty sea container. Over on t
he other side of the cobbled yard were four more shipping containers. Carter walked over and peered inside the empty one. It had a faint but familiar smell that one he couldn’t quite place.

  He carried on walking to where Constable Mike Cotton was fastening crime scene tape around the tines of an old rusty hay rake. He acknowledged the PC’s greeting, ducked under the tape, then set off around the outside of the barn, inspecting the damage. He emerged some minutes later from behind one of the fire trucks and went over to where a tired-looking firefighter was talking to Tim Bryant, the crime scene manager.

  ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector,’ said Bryant.

  ‘Morning, Tim. A warm way to start off a chilly autumn morning?’ Carter looked over at the ruined barn. ‘Looks as if you’ve had a busy night?’ Carter didn’t expect a reply. None was needed because the scene before him said it all.

  Carter looked at the high, ivy-covered walls surrounding the courtyard. It was a very private place, well off the beaten track and far from prying eyes. Sitting at the other end of the yard was the farmhouse. It was a large, imposing red brick structure. Although looking tired and in need of some repair, the central part of the structure had stood the test of time well. It stood away from the barn and well out of reach of the fire.

  In the distant past, the farm had once been the home of a wealthy landowner. Carter tried to recall who it was. It was a lord or was it a duke? He couldn’t quite remember. There was a large stable block over on one side which looked as if they had been converted into workshops and storage areas. Just past that was a row of, what Carter guessed, were pigsties.

  The whole place, he estimated, was about five acres.

  Tim Bryant introduced Carter to the chief fire officer. The CFO, whose name was Saunders, shook hands. Hearing an approaching car, they turned and looked.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Carter, ‘This is two of my people, Sergeant Kirby and Detective Constable Lynch.’

  Carter watched as their car came in through gates at the end of the tunnel, then head up the gravelled drive towards them. It came to a halt next to the fire trucks. The pair got out of the car and walked over to where the group stood. After exchanging greetings, the CFO suggested they all walk over to the barn.

  ‘When we arrived, just after three,’ said Saunders, ‘it was well alight. Those front gates at the end of the tunnel were chained. We had to use bolt cutters to get in. Took us a while to get the fire under control. There’s a lot of timber stored in there; stacks of it. That was the seat of it. When we finally managed to get the fire out, we saw him. At first, we thought it was an animal. When we took a closer look, we saw what it was. It was bloody horrible. This wasn’t an accident, Chief Inspector, this was deliberate. A definite case of arson.’

  ‘And murder,’ added Tim Bryant. ‘Your victim was restrained using barbed wire. He wouldn’t have done much moving, that’s for sure! We found the remains of a timer. It was that that had been used to set the fire. It was an old-style alarm clock. The bell has been removed and replaced with a glass tube filled with a chemical — maybe something like sulphuric acid.’

  Bryant set about explaining how it worked. ‘The striker hits the glass tube, breaks it and the acid gets released into a mixture of sodium chlorate and sugar. We do have some of the glass. We’ll need to get it tested in the lab to be sure, but I think it was a chemical along those lines that set it off.’

  ‘So, not the work of some amateur,’ said Marcia Kirby.

  ‘No,’ said Bryant. ‘Definitely not. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. This was a favourite trick used by the IRA back in the ’60s to set off explosives. It gave them plenty of time to get well clear of the area. You can set it to whatever time you want. Ten minutes or ten hours. We found it by one of the burnt wood stacks, close to the body. An accelerant was used — most likely diesel. Chances are, whoever did it took it from those fuel tanks over the other side of the yard. He doused the wood stacks with it. We got a couple of jerry cans from the barn, but I doubt we’ll get any forensics from them. They’re too badly burnt.’

  ‘I hope the poor sod was dead before it all started. It must be horrible to be burnt alive,’ said Kirby.

  ‘If that’s all you want me for, Chief Inspector, I’d best be getting back to my men,’ said Saunders.

  ‘Just one question before you go, Mr Saunders,’ said Kirby. ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant. I can’t help you there. We’re just told there’s a fire and where to go. You’ll have to get onto the control centre for that one.’

  He walked away, shouting to the crew of one of the engines to carry on damping down. He called out to the second crew to roll up their hoses and return to the station.

  ‘Well, you won’t be getting much in the way forensics from your corpse to get a formal identification, that’s for sure,’ said Bryant. ‘If there was anything on the body, it’s been well and truly destroyed by the fire and the water. Fingerprinting may not be a viable option. Doc reckons he’ll extract DNA from a tooth or bone marrow. I’ve sent some of my lads over to the farmhouse to gather up some DNA samples for crossmatching. When he came back, he said that it looked as if someone has been through the house searching for something.

  ‘They’ve made a right mess of it,’ he said. He stopped talking for a moment to look over Carter's shoulder at Broadbent, who was rapidly advancing towards them from the barn.

  ‘Morning, Doc,’ said Carter. James Broadbent was a tall, distinguished grey-haired man in his late sixties. A few wispy grey hairs poked out from under the hood of his paper crime suit. Carter guessed that under it, he’d be dressed in his old hound’s tooth hacking jacket with the leather patches on the elbows. It was the one he always wore. It was his badge of office. They waited as the forensic pathologist lent up against the fire truck and peeled off his charcoal-smeared disposable suit.

  ‘Morning, Chief Inspector. It’s a bit warm in there.’ He acknowledged the others with a nod of the head. ‘Sergeant Kirby. DC Lynch. Nice to see you both again.’ He pulled a handkerchief from out of his jacket pocket and proceeded to mop the sweat from his brow.

  Tim Bryant handed him a bottle of water. He took a long swig. ‘Thanks, Tim.’ Broadbent looked at the three detectives. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much at this stage. All I can confirm is, is that it is a male, and that was bordering on doubtful, and needless to say, he’s dead. I’m afraid he won’t be donating any of his organs, that’s for sure. He’s burnt beyond recognition. As to what’s killed him — that, if you will excuse the pun, is the burning question.’ He waited for a laugh but got none.

  He flicked his thick bushy eyebrows and said, ‘You’ll see for yourself when you go in there.’ He looked back over to the barn for a few seconds. ‘Poor bugger. He reminds me of my ex-wife’s Sunday roast. Very well done! Mind you, she used to make good pork crackling. Do you like crackling, Chief Inspector?’

  Not answering the question Carter said, ‘When can you start on him?’

  ‘I’ve already got a suicide booked in for this morning. Carbon monoxide poisoning. No doubt you already know about it. He ran a hose from the exhaust pipe and stuck it through the car window. Twenty-eight, married with three young kids. Tragic.’

  Carter had already been told by Detective Inspector Ted Baxter. As the senior officer on call, Baxter had been called out to the home on Sunday morning. The wife and children, who had been staying over at her mother's the night before, had found him when they got home. A note was found beside him on the seat.

  ‘No promises, but I’ll try to get on to your man this afternoon. This one’s going to be a long one. Don’t expect instant results. It’ll be a case of don’t call me, I’ll call you.’ He sauntered off towards his car and, as an afterthought, yelled back, ‘Have a nice day.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to get on with it then,’ said Bryant. ‘I’d best get back to work and make sure we have all this stuff bagged up. I’ll catch up with you all later.’ He turned and walked
away.

  Lynch waited until Broadbent was well out of earshot before saying, ‘When it comes to his fellow human beings, Broadbent seems to have very few feelings. Where’s his compassion? I ask you, Sunday roast indeed.’ He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Believe you me, Dave, he does have feelings, and he’s a bloody good pathologist. There’re no secrets the dead can keep from him. Besides, he’s like us. If we don’t have a sense of humour with some of the things we see and have to deal with, you will end up going crazy.’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s just that, well… He should have a bit of… well, a bit more respect.’

  ‘Come on, Dave. Have you never joked about a case you’ve been on?’ said Kirby ‘I know I have. We’ve all done it.’

  ‘Okay,’ Carter said, addressing the two. ‘Let’s get suited up and go see what we’ve got.’

  As they walked through the black ash-filled puddles that lay all over the barn floor, the smell started to invade their nostrils. At the far end of the barn, two firemen were taking apart and hosing down a stack of timber planking that was still smouldering. As they ducked under the crime scene tape and got closer to the burnt figure, the overwhelming odour forced its way in through their face masks. It was dense, wet, vile, almost shockingly sweet, like the vomit of a drunk. The crime scene photographer, who had been photographing the body, picked up his equipment box and, without saying a word, hurried off.

  The charred figure, sitting on a steel framed chair, reminded Carter of a boxer. It was a typical pugilistic pose found in fire victims such as this. The knees were drawn up to the chest, the head down. This, he knew, was caused by the shrinkage of body tissue and muscles due to dehydration by the heat.