Smoke Alarm (24 page)

‘It must have felt safer that way.'

‘But the damage was worse in their bedrooms than outside.'

‘They wouldn't have known that. They would have been confused – disorientated.'

By his silence she could tell he was thinking.

‘One more question, Colin. Did any of your personnel actually see Jude Barton climb down the ladder?'

‘Inspector Randall asked me that. I've questioned everyone who was at the Melverley fire. They were all concentrating on the front of the house where the fire was worst. No one saw the boy descend. Only the ladder, hanging there. And then of course, PC Roberts . . .'

‘Mmm. Thank you.'

‘Any time, Coroner.' Even as she ended the call another picture seemed to drop in front of her vision. Neither of the women had tried to get to their windows. Both Christie and Adelaide's rooms were on the first floor, a gravel pathway beneath them. The evidence was that Christie had approached the window before the door. Why hadn't she exited through the window? Had the flames beaten her back? Had she tried to reach her daughter? The fire had been well underway before the fire engines had arrived. The image that now impressed itself into her mind was of Adelaide cowering under her bedclothes, terrified not only by the fire but perhaps by another threat, something outside her door and Christie, breath held, also listening at the door. Maybe not confused and disorientated then – simply terrified.

Alex Randall, in the meantime, was not concentrating on the Melverley fire but on the missing nurse. With the other officers they reviewed all they knew so far. He turned back to the whiteboard.

Credit cards not used, mobile phone switched off; the car had become invisible, her two sons frantic. No friends or family had seen or heard from her for two weeks. Her passport hadn't been used. Ergo she was still in the country either dead or alive, free or a captive. Her house had been burnt down in the same way as Melverley Grange. Randall felt frustrated. It was sitting there. What?

Nigel Barton denied ever having met the nurse and yet . . .

There must be a connection. There must be.

Sergeant Paul Talith was watching him, waiting for a response, some direction. At last Randall looked up and Sergeant Paul Talith spotted a spark in those hazel eyes. Enough to prompt him. ‘Sir?'

Randall looked at him. ‘We have to find the connection between William Barton and Monica Deverill,' he said slowly. ‘And the best way to do this is to speak again to her two sons.' He knew that many of Monica Deverill's friends had been interviewed by local police forces up and down the country. All had drawn a blank. But who knew her best? Her sons.

Talith stood up. In spite of his increasing bulk he hated inactivity. The time was six o'clock. But it felt later. Much later. It was a cold, dingy evening, the weather having lost the spark that had deceived them into believing that spring was on its way. But they all felt the urgency. They needed to press on. Talith volunteered to stay with the inspector who'd said easily and truthfully, ‘I'm in no great hurry to get home. I'm more anxious to get some answers in this wretched case.'

So it was Randall and Talith who stayed. James and Gordon Deverill were located within minutes.

How had the police managed without mobile phones? Randall mused, as he sat and waited for them to arrive. It took
hours
off locating someone, saved
days
of police time,
hundreds
of wasted visits to empty properties, waiting, waiting. But there was a downside to this useful little toy. Pay and Throwaway phones were a lifeline to those who wanted to remain anonymous. He toyed with his pen, wondering whether this last thought was significant.

Straightaway Randall could see both Monica Deverill's sons were really worried about her so he didn't bother asking whether she was still missing but simply assumed it. James made a brave attempt at optimism but it was a transparently, almost pathetically thin one. ‘I suppose no news is good news?' he said faux-cheerfully.

In Randall's more pragmatic outlook no news was exactly that – no news. No ruddy news at all. And as a result there was nothing good about it, he was tempted to growl. But the purpose of this interview was not to depress the brothers further but extract information – even information they might not have realized was relevant. And he knew exactly the tack he would take.

‘Can you think of any connection between your mother and Mr William Barton?'

They looked at one another, puzzled. ‘No.'

‘He was a fire officer in the Shrewsbury force until his retirement about twenty years ago,' Randall prompted.

They still looked at him blankly.

Randall felt like giving up. They weren't being deliberately unhelpful. If there was a connection between Barton senior and the retired nurse they may well not even know it. He was going to have to think this one over.

He tried again. ‘Do the names Yusuf Karoglan, Ben Hatton or Stuart Pinfold mean anything to you?'

They looked uncertain. Not illuminated. Simply uncertain. Gordon Deverill frowned. ‘I'm not sure,' he said, before making an attempt at a joke. ‘They sound a motley crew. Who are they?'

‘Ex-employees of Mr Nigel Barton,' Randall supplied. ‘We wondered if any of the names was familiar to you?'

Both sons shook their heads.

‘Did your mother have anything to do with the Shropshire Wildlife Trust?' He was clutching at straws now.

They looked at each other as though each was thinking the same thought.
This detective's finally flipped it.
And shook their heads. ‘Oh.' It was James who pursued this thread irritably. ‘And this has what exactly to do with my mother's house being subjected to an arson attack and her having gone missing?'

‘The MO of the two fires was the same.'

James kept coming. ‘So, based on this, you're assuming our mother had some connection to the Barton family?'

Slowly Randall nodded.

Gordon's shoulders went up to around his ears as he shrugged. ‘What?' he challenged bluntly.

‘We don't know.' Randall wanted to give another deep, deep sigh but he glanced at Talith who was looking bored, gave an almost imperceptible shrug and resisted. ‘That,' he said, ‘is what we are trying to find out.'

The brothers looked at each other blankly.

A
lex had a quick chat with forensics and another with Dr Mark Sullivan whom he just caught before he left for the evening, but no one seemed to have turned anything up. So he had only one real live lead to pursue – Jude Barton. He had never quite shaken off the feeling that Barton junior was keeping something back. It was something to do with the relationship between Jude and his grandfather. And he was wondering why Martha had asked whether anyone had witnessed the boy's descent of the rope ladder. DI Randall had a healthy respect for the coroner's instincts so when she asked a question he knew the answer might well be significant.

Jude Barton, however, was a minor, still injured and he'd already interviewed him. There was no new evidence to justify interviewing him again and he was well aware that the press and Jude's father might well interpret a further interview as harassment. He needed to tread carefully and he wasn't hopeful. He switched his office light off.

First thing in the morning Alex Randall discussed the matter with his senior officers and the consensus was for him to interview the boy again using a bit more of a shock tactic. And so he summoned father and son in, without relish or optimism.

The bandages were off the boy's hands, leaving only smaller dressings now, but the look of pain and confusion in his eyes still lingered. He looked pale but resolute, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his brows drawn in and his eyes staring ahead blankly. Jude Barton was even more traumatized by the events than he had realized. There was a look of hopelessness about him, a droop of the shoulders that seemed to signify abject failure. Misery.

It was Nigel Barton who opened the conversation, speaking in a quiet and controlled voice. ‘We've decided to return to Melverley just as soon as the Grange has been renovated,' he volunteered and, although his voice was quiet it was firm, repelling any challenge or criticism of the decision. Randall made no comment. This was their choice after all, nothing to do with him. So he simply raised his eyebrows and sympathized. ‘I'm sure it'll be hard for you both – at first,' he said, ‘it being the scene of . . .' There was no need to finish the sentence.

He drew in a deep breath, ready to delve a little deeper, knowing he was about to embark on a risky plan. ‘Jude,' he began, addressing the boy directly, ‘we're working on the premise that it was your grandfather who started the fire, rather than an outsider.' He waited for the boy's response, wondering if this had been such a good idea. A shock tactic had seemed right when he was thinking about it. But it was patently risky, particularly as the boy was so traumatized by events. He had lost three members of his family, after all.

Jude froze, his slightly almond-shaped eyes narrowed making him appear Oriental, inscrutable, unreadable. He seemed to shrink into himself and looked at Randall without blinking. Alex risked a swift glance at Barton senior and noted no response apart from a slightly pugnacious squaring of his shoulders.

‘I don't think Grandpa would have set a fire,' Jude muttered finally, staring at the floor, his shoulders bowed. ‘He was a fireman.'

Alex tried not to react to this titbit of information. But he knew it slotted in neatly – somewhere. ‘But he did set a fire six months ago, didn't he?'

‘That was different.'

Nigel Barton interrupted. ‘And how exactly do you explain the
second
fire?' he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Are you suggesting that my father returned from the grave to victimize some nurse?'

‘I'll get to that,' Randall said, trusting that at some point he really would. He returned his attention to the boy. ‘Jude,' he said, ‘we were wondering about those stories your grandfather used to tell you.'

The boy looked directly at him then, a frank question in his gaze.

‘We know he had some dementia,' Alex continued gingerly, giving Nigel Barton a very swift glance to check he was not crossing the invisible line. ‘The way we're thinking is that he wasn't really responsible at all for what he did, not any more. He must have attended so many fires as a younger man. And perhaps it was these memories that preyed on his mind and persuaded him to act as he did.'

Barton senior finally chipped in. ‘You're putting all the blame on my father,' he asked brokenly, his face twisted, ‘saying that he was responsible for what happened to Addy and Christie?'

‘We might never be able to prove anything,' Randall said, uncertain whether he was being challenged or agreed with. He knew right after Barton's next challenge.

‘Did you find petrol splashes on his clothes?'

Alex was forced to admit that no, they had not.

‘Burns on his hands?'

‘There was a lighter in his pocket,' Randall said tightly. ‘And he was in the hallway.'

Barton looked angry now. ‘I'm sorry, Inspector, I think you're using my father as a fall guy because you really haven't got a clue how the fire happened or who started it or why. You need someone to blame and he can't speak up for himself. He's dead,' he burst out. ‘He can't defend himself. Thinking about it more carefully, particularly since the fire in the nurse's house, I can't believe he did it for a moment. My father wasn't really like that. In his job he knew exactly what fire did to property and to people. He was careful.'

Randall played the card he'd kept up his sleeve. ‘And the fire he set six months ago?'

It silenced Barton for only a minute. And then he found Randall's weak spot. ‘What about the missing nurse?' he taunted. ‘You told me that the two fires were started in a similar fashion. You cannot allege that my father torched her house too. He – was – already – dead.' Barton emphasized the words as though to a naughty two-year-old and Alex was forced to agree. But he had one further card up his sleeve.

‘It could have been a copycat arson attack,' he said.

It took Barton aback. But he soon rallied. ‘So where
is
she, this missing nurse?'

The taunting continued. Randall drew in a deep breath, which gave Nigel Barton further opportunity to mock him.

‘You mean you haven't found her yet? According to the papers she wasn't in the house, was she?'

Randall simply waited.

‘And you haven't managed to track her down, have you? Talk about incompetent,' Barton sneered. ‘I ask you.' He turned to his son then. ‘Come on, Jude,' he said. ‘Let's go.'

The boy shot Randall a swift, unhappy, almost desperate look as they left. But for the life of him Randall could not fathom its meaning. He sat for a while, pondering. Something about the relationship between father and son seemed askew, but he wasn't sure what it signified. They were close, for sure. So close that he couldn't quite place a wife and daughter between them, picture the family dynamics. Or a father/grandfather, for that matter. The father/son relationship struck him as exclusive, very private and not altogether healthy. Or was this closeness something that had developed
since
the terrible fire? Only they were left. Sole survivors. He puzzled over this for a while but nothing quite slotted into place. A minute later he slapped his hand on his desk in frustration and gave up. But irritatingly, instead of moving on to other things, his brain tracked towards . . . Almost without conscious thought he found the phone in his hand and the number already ringing.

Jericho Palfreyman's gruff voice responded with frank hostility. ‘I'm very sorry, Inspector,' he said politely but obstructively, ‘the coroner is very busy right now. I'm sure she won't want to be disturbed. She's talking to the family of a road traffic incident.'