Smoke Alarm (22 page)

‘I haven't heard anything,' he said, his eyes bright as a robin's. ‘It seems to have gone quiet for a while, doesn't it, Mrs Gunn?'

‘It does.' She paused and then decided. ‘Jericho,' she said, ‘I thought I might have a word with young Jude. Do you have a number to contact him?'

‘That I do,' Jericho said, patently pleased to see her pursuing her own enquiry. ‘I can get him at the hotel they're staying at. They're at the Lord Hill, you know.'

‘Thank you.' She smiled. There was nothing Palfreyman liked better than ‘imparting information', as he pompously put it.

She walked into her office, glad of the coffee, but still aware of a lingering depression which threatened to creep back in unless she kept herself very, very busy.

‘Oh.' Exasperated with herself she smacked her hand to her forehead. She had to click out of this. She sat at her desk, rolling a pen backwards and forwards. It was OK to suddenly decide that you were ready to start a new relationship. But how
did
one go about meeting eligible unmarried men when you were in your forties? It made her smile. She and Miranda, her best and only single friend, could hardly go hitting the discos or tea dances. Her smile broadened. This was getting ever more ridiculous. Speed dating certainly wasn't her style. She sat and stared until the phone rang and Jericho announced that he had Jude Barton on the telephone.

She introduced herself and explained that she would like him to come in with an adult of his choosing to talk to her. He hesitated for a moment before asking if it was OK to bring his Dad. ‘Of course,' she replied calmly. This was what she had anticipated.

He was off the phone for a minute or so, presumably while he discussed it with his father, and finally arranged to come in at three p.m. At last Martha settled back down to work.

Not for long.

At ten thirty she had a pang of conscience and asked Jericho to get DI Randall on the phone. ‘Morning, Martha?' He knew she would have rang about something.

‘I ought to tell you that I've arranged to speak to Jude Barton this afternoon.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes. I thought it might be helpful.' She waited for a comment even braced herself for an acerbic,
to whom?
, but perhaps wisely Alex Randall made no comment at all.

‘Alex,' she said, ‘was anyone watching when Jude descended the rope ladder? It must have been quite a spectacle.'

‘I don't know,' he said, obviously surprised by the question. ‘I can find out.'

‘Yes.'

‘Was there anything else?'

‘I take it you haven't found the missing woman?'

‘No.'

‘Her car?'

‘No.'

‘But how can you hide a car, Alex?' Her mind tracked along car parks and her recent experience of sticky labels which appeared on the windscreen if you overstayed your welcome.

‘Well, it can be done. There are places and there are ways.'

‘Such as?'

‘Hidden in a garage or a building, an isolated spot,' he said thoughtfully.

‘Could have been set on fire, like the houses?'

Alex gave a snort. ‘You must be joking,' he said.

‘But surely it destroys forensic evidence?'

‘It might do that,' Alex said, ‘but it also draws attention to itself. People report burning cars. Fire engines scream in and the police are soon involved.'

‘Oh, I suppose so,' she fell in dubiously. But couldn't resist tacking on, ‘And you still have no activity on her mobile phone?'

‘Nothing. We've gone through virtually all her known family and friends and drawn a blank. There's been good coverage on the national news and . . .'

Martha interrupted. ‘I know about the phone call on the Monday but when was she last actually
seen
?'

‘Not since the previous Saturday afternoon – that would be the fifth of March, according to the information so far. She went shopping with a friend.'

‘The Sunday?'

‘She appears to have spent the day alone. We can't find anyone who saw her.'

‘During the entire week?'

‘That's right.'

‘Not even her sons?'

‘No.'

‘Or her friends?'

‘No.'

‘So she was on her own all week?'

The phrases rang hollow inside Martha's head. When the twins had left home – for university or wherever – that would be her lot.
She was on her own all week.

‘Are you still there, Martha?'

She rallied. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry. I thought you said she was a “Merry Widow”?'

‘Yes, she had a lot of friends around the town. There's been no shortage of them coming in to give us what they consider to be information. But she also, according to several of them, “liked her own space”.' He continued. ‘She'd had a couple of holidays over the winter and had gone away on her own. She was a very independent woman.'

‘Obviously.'

‘One particular friend, a rather sharp lady called Betty, seemed a little put out by the fact that Monica was so happy with her own company – took it rather as an insult.'

‘Really?'

‘Really.'

Martha thought for a moment then asked, ‘She had lots of friends?'

‘Yes, many of them from her nursing days.'

‘Any boyfriends turned up?' She almost hoped.

‘No. She seems either to have mixed with female friends of roughly the same age, sometimes with her two sons and their families and often went on cruises on her own.'

Again Martha felt that hollow, panicky feeling. Went on cruises on her own? Was that going to be it? She had a vision of herself, fading hair, blanket over legs, reading a paperback on the blustery deck of a cruise ship.

On the other end of the line Alex, too, was silent.

‘Have you any other lines of enquiry?'

‘A few.' He chuckled.

She waited.

‘I'll let you know if they turn anything up.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Well,' he finally said, ‘good luck with young Jude this afternoon.'

‘Thanks.' She put the phone down.

Thank goodness the telephone did not allow him to read her thoughts or see the desperation in her face.

At a little after three Jericho Palfreyman was opening the door to father and son. Martha took stock of them as she moved forwards to greet them.

Nigel Barton still looked shell-shocked. His face was fish-pale and he walked slowly, almost an automaton. He lifted his eyes to meet hers then lowered them but not before she had read a hopelessly tortured grief behind them. He said nothing and his handshake was like his walk, automatic, with no thought or direction behind it. Martha wondered if he had been prescribed some sedation. After muttering a greeting she turned her attention to Jude. He, too, was as white as death, his shoulders bowed like an old man's. His hands were still bandaged; she didn't even try to shake them but simply smiled a greeting at him. Jude didn't even return the smile but stared at her, straight-lipped. There was an expression of pain on his face. She was aware that both father and son were suffering raw grief and wondered how they were managing – not only emotionally but physically. Particularly Jude. Washing, dressing, eating – anything would be difficult with bandages round his hands. His father must be helping.

Nigel Barton was dressed in mourning, sober-suited and black tie. It was almost Victorian to see someone dressed in funereal black. The boy was in jeans, a black T-shirt and a padded jacket. He looked as though he was cold and his skin still had the same sickly green tinge. At her bidding they sat down in unison. Father and son then sat back, eyeing her and waiting for her to take the lead.

She began, as she often did, by offering them both a drink which they refused, continuing to watch her expectantly. ‘Jude,' she said, ‘you must be wondering why I've asked you here?'

The boy shrugged.

‘I want you to tell me about your grandfather. I've heard you two were close?'

The boy nodded with confidence.

‘How would you describe your relationship?'

Jude's brown eyes, so light they were like two fly-flecked pieces of amber, were suddenly wary. He moved his bandaged hands up in front of him as though to remind her to focus on them, so she did as he wanted, focused on them and asked how they were.

‘They're getting better every day,' he said.

‘Are they still painful?'

He grunted. In well-known teenage boy's language this meant, ‘OK.' It meant, ‘I'm coping.' It also meant, ‘Don't go there. Don't intrude.' And finally a savage and decisive, ‘Back off.'

It was time she took the initiative. ‘Jude,' she began, ‘I know that the police have already gone through the events of that terrible night. And I don't want to add to your grief.'

He was watching her with heightened awareness.

‘I simply want to learn a little more about your grandfather. Tell me, what was he like?'

The boy shot a swift look at his father. Searching for approval? Martha wondered and watched curiously. Nigel's eyes met hers with sudden understanding. He must know that even though there had been a second fire there were still some who wondered if a confused old man had lit the fire which had killed his daughter-in-law and granddaughter.

Jude Barton put his head on one side and appraised her but didn't answer the question.

She needed to prompt him. ‘I know you were very fond of the old man.'

He nodded. But still wary. And she was aware of Barton senior's eyes on her.

She was going to have to be very subtle about this. She checked her tone, made it conversational, softened her features and smiled. ‘What did you particularly like about him?'

Jude grinned and relaxed. ‘His stories,' he said enthusiastically.

‘What did he tell you stories about?'

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘Things he'd done in his life. He was in the war, you know, a Desert Rat, fighting out there in Africa with Montgomery and stuff. Against Rommel. He drove a tank right across the desert.'

‘Really?' She was seeing the real Jude Barton at last. And behind him, his grandfather.

‘He was a hero.'

Martha was surprised. The boy was naïve. He lacked cynicism and insight. How many grandfathers span these stories, embellished them, polished them up like medals on a soldier's chest, purely to impress their grandchildren and enforce the image that once they had been young, fit and heroic? Not always ancient, confused and frail. Martha thought quickly. By her calculations William Barton would have been just fourteen years old when the Second World War had broken out. Only twenty when peace had been declared. She'd be very surprised if he had met either Rommel or Montgomery. And though the image of driving a tank right across the desert was a powerful one it sounded more like a story than the truth. She sneaked a glance at Nigel. He was looking equally surprised and sceptical. But all that had mattered to the old man was not the truth but that his grandson had believed his stories. Now Martha had unearthed this angle of the relationship between grandfather and grandson she needed to find a way back to her own agenda. ‘Would
you
like to be a soldier?' she fumbled.

Jude shook his head. ‘I wouldn't be brave enough. Not like him. I'd like to think I would be but . . .'

He looked suddenly upset, as though he had remembered something. His father must have picked up on this too and warned her off with a growl in his throat. Martha gave him a quick, sideways glance.

She ignored this animal caution at her peril. So she changed tack. ‘You know there's been another house fire in Shrewsbury?'

Jude nodded and shot a swift glance at his father to check.

She could skip around the truth. ‘The house belonged to a widow named Monica Deverill.'

Jude looked even more wary. Had he had whiskers they would have twitched, like a cat's.

‘She was a retired mental nurse.'

Barton senior shifted in his chair.

Martha looked innocently at both of them. ‘Do you know her?'

This time it was Barton senior who answered. ‘We don't know any mental nurses
.'
He made them sound like vermin. And low-class vermin at that.

Martha smiled and addressed her next question to Barton senior. She inched a little closer. ‘The way the fire was set was identical to the fire at your house, Mr Barton, at which your wife, father and daughter died.'

He looked up, startled but – in Martha's opinion – not quite startled enough.

She played another card. ‘Do you think it's coincidence?'

The response was a heavy silence.

She tried another card. ‘The night before the fire at her house Mrs Deverill rang the police incident desk and said she knew something about the fire at your home.' She didn't ask them the direct question which could have followed, instead simply looking at them both expectantly.

Barton shrugged. ‘I can't think what that might have been.'

‘No?'

Father and son both looked blank.

‘Can you think of anything else that might have a bearing on the fire at your home?' She watched without great hope but the question, to her surprise, bore fruit.

The impasse was broken, quite suddenly, by Barton senior, who gave away the first nugget of information.

‘It's ironic,' he said, ‘that my father should die in a house fire.'

‘Ironic?' It was an odd choice of word. ‘Why so?'

‘Because he was a fireman.'

Martha stared at him and Nigel Barton looked pleased with himself at having gained the higher ground. ‘I thought coroners were in possession of
all
the facts pertaining to a case.'

It was she now who was thoughtful and silent, needing to chew and chew before she could digest. But she also knew she should divert from this piece of information and pursue another line of enquiry. Tactfully. She turned to Jude. ‘Your father tells me that your grandfather had Alzheimer's,' she said, resisting the temptation to insult the boy by explaining what Alzheimer's was.