Torch (4 page)

After walking
round the building a couple of times, she retired to a police car
with a cup of coffee from a doughnut vendor, who’d seen an upturn
in his trade. Through the windscreen, the scene of crime officers
were sifting through the piles of sodden debris that littered the
pavement, an unpleasant but necessary business. At least MacRae had
let them make a start on that. She’d already introduced herself to
the two men involved. They’d worked with Gallagher and seemed to
know the ropes.

Her meeting
with the pathologist had been less satisfactory. Brisk and
professional giving nothing away. She’d eventually mentioned her
work with Dr Sissons. At the name of his Glasgow counterpart, the
doctor raised an eyebrow.

‘So,’ the voice
was old school Edinburgh. Chances were he had never been to Glasgow
in his life. ‘You’ve come through from the west to help us.’

It made her
sound like the cavalry.

‘There may be a
link between the two spates of fire raising.’

‘I take it your
main concern is the fire and not the death of the girl.’

‘Well,’ she
hesitated, knowing what she was about to ask was not strictly
protocol. ‘The two are related.’

He waited while
she chose her words. ‘I was hoping I might sit in on the post
mortem.’

‘Is that
absolutely necessary?’ The man looked as though he had just
discovered a bad smell under his nose.

‘It might
help.’

He stared at
her, then nodded.

‘I have two to
do today, so it won’t be until tomorrow morning. Seven thirty.’

Chrissy wasn’t
telling her anything she didn’t know already. Rhona moved the
mobile to her other ear and reached for the coffee cup she’d stuck
in the door pocket.

‘Okay Chrissy,
but you haven’t met the man. I’m going to insist all samples come
through to you. That way I won’t have Valentino breathing down my
neck. And no. I do not think he’s sexy. If you saw him dipping a
charred sausage in a blob of tomato sauce you wouldn’t think so
either.’

The noises on
the other end of the phone suggested Chrissy did not believe her.
Denial always made matters worse with Chrissy.

‘I’ll have to
go. My caveman’s back. And Chrissy. Don’t buy any more of those
takeaways. I spent half the morning being sick.’

Rhona dropped
the window on MacRae’s second knock.

The voice was
irritated. ‘You ready?’

‘Of
course.’

‘Let’s go
then.’

Rhona wondered
if the anger radiating from his body was specifically directed at
her.

He turned back
as she shut the door of the police car.

‘I suggest you
bring a plastic bag. No one is allowed to pee, spit, shit, cough or
vomit once inside the building.’

Rafters gaped
above Rhona like the broken ribs of a huge whale. Underfoot, the
floor was a spongy mass of sodden debris.

MacRae led the
way, followed by MacFarlane who joined them at the door. The acrid
smell caught at Rhona’s throat. Despite being familiar with fire
scenes, the devastation fire wrought always surprised her. At a
normal murder scene it was the victim that lay mutilated. Here, the
building was the victim.

Along the wall
of what must have been a reception area, a set of shelves stood
upright in defiance, the twisted metal evidence of the strength of
the fire. A filing cabinet stood open beside it, buckled by the
heat.

MacFarlane
spoke first.

‘One of the
firemen said the colour of the flames was wrong.’

‘Whatever was
burning wasn’t what should have been in here?’ Rhona said.

MacFarlane
nodded.

‘The building
was being renovated but the owner was taking a long time about it.
The preservation people were being awkward.’

‘You think it
might be an insurance job?’

They both
looked at MacRae for confirmation.

‘I don’t think
anything. But I sure as hell smell something.’

MacFarlane had
picked his way across the debris to the remains of a doorway on the
left.

‘Take a look at
this, Sev.’

Straight ahead
was a wide staircase. To the left and right, what remained of
archways led into other rooms. MacFarlane was standing in the
remains of the left hand arch. MacRae followed him through. In the
centre of the room was a pile of debris. MacRae knelt beside it and
nodded at Rhona to bring the fire investigation kit.

‘It smells
like...’ MacFarlane began.

‘Don’t bother
MacFarlane. You haven’t the nose for it.’

MacRae filled
the bag and handed it back to Rhona.

‘Have they
checked the windows?’

‘All the ground
floor ones were blown out with the blast,’ MacFarlane told him.
‘Gas and electricity have been off for the past year, so it wasn’t
a gas explosion.’ He looked about. ‘It’ll be difficult to prove a
break in.’

A line of
scorch marks was visible on the bare floorboards. Rhona followed it
back to the archway.

‘Don’t wander
about.’ MacRae’s voice followed her. ‘Not until we’re sure it’s
safe.’

‘The fire ran
this way.’ The scorch marks led to the foot of the staircase. Rhona
wondered why she had missed them on her way in, but then her eyes
had been on the ceiling, or what was left of it. ‘I think someone
piled bits of old shop fittings where you are now and splashed
petrol about, then dripped it through here and up the stairs and
back to the front door. When he lit it, the fire ran back into the
side room.’

‘Christ
MacFarlane, tell her!’ The voice had reached exasperation.

Rhona noted
MacFarlane’s concerned face before she started up the stairs, but
she wanted to be sure. The first and second steps were burned
through but the third and fourth showed the signs she was looking
for.

‘He’s right,’
MacFarlane tried.

‘The petrol had
already vaporised, that’s what caused the explosion,’ she looked
back at them pleased.

‘Shit!’ MacRae
was coming towards her but she was too engrossed in her explanation
to care.

‘The chemical
reaction absorbed the majority of oxygen in the atmosphere so the
fire...’

‘Watch
out!’

MacRae pulled
her down the stairs and into the relative shelter of the archway as
a section of ceiling gave way.

Rhona would
have apologised if he’d given her the chance but as soon as the
noise of the falling debris stopped MacRae headed for the entrance.
MacFarlane shot her a look that suggested it would be better to
keep her mouth shut and followed MacRae outside, where he was
already dishing out orders. ‘We need a scaffolding gantry before we
put a full team in. No one, I repeat no one is to go back in there
until we’re sure of the ceiling. And MacFarlane, this is an old
building. I bet most of the joists survived the fire. I’d like a
proper look at them once the debris is cleared.’

MacFarlane
moved off towards the police tent, throwing Rhona an encouraging
look as he left.

‘So what do we
do now?’ she asked MacRae.

‘I wait until
they make it safe.’

Rhona ignored
the singular pronoun.

‘How long will
that take?’

His voice was
clipped. ‘Twenty four hours maybe more.’

She held up the
sample bag. ‘I’ll send this to the lab. Get them to check for an
agent.’

‘Suit
yourself.’ He turned away.

‘You think it
was petrol?’

‘I know it
was.’

‘You can’t be
sure until it’s tested.’

‘Look
lady...’

‘My name’s
Rhona.’

‘You play
around with your chemical reactions all you like. That fire didn’t
just happen. Someone made it happen and that someone made it big
and powerful enough to blow a young girl halfway across Princes
Street.’

The Big Issue
seller from Waverley was hovering on the edge of their
conversation. An Alsatian stood alert beside him, looking like a
police dog awaiting a command. On their right, MacFarlane emerged
from the operations tent a mobile held to his face.

‘MacFarlane!’

In broad
daylight, MacFarlane looked worse than Rhona felt and she realised
he had probably been up all night.

‘Who’s the
guy?’ MacRae motioned behind him.

‘Where?’ The
DI’s tiredness was turning to stupidity.

‘With the
dog.’

‘Oh him. Name’s
Jaz. He knew the victim. That’s her dog. He ran off with it, then
changed his mind and came back. He offered to identify the body for
us, while we try and find her family.’

MacRae turned.
‘Come here, son.’

The guy
hesitated.

‘Does the dog
like chips?’

‘Salt and
sauce?’

MacRae opened
the Saab door. He grabbed a chip poke from the passenger seat and
emptied its contents on the road.

The dog looked
up at the boy.

‘Go on
Emps.’

They watched as
the dog devoured the chips, licking up the sauce like a pro.

‘DI MacFarlane
here says you knew the girl.’

‘Karen didn’t
really know anybody. She liked to be alone, except for Emperor. I
spoke to her now and again. Offered her food. She never took it.
She wouldn’t beg either. She played the penny whistle for money.
Rose Street mainly,’ he paused. ‘She was good.’

Rhona bent and
rubbed the dog’s ears.

‘Had Karen been
sleeping round behind the boarding?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.
She could have been.’ He looked straight at Rhona. ‘You think
somebody started that fire deliberately, don’t you?’

Rhona glanced
at MacRae but he said nothing.

‘We don’t know
that yet.’

‘That’s
murder.’ The boy’s voice was angry and the dog’s head came up, neck
hair bristling.

‘Have you seen
anyone hanging about the building?’ Rhona tried.

He shook his
head.

‘We’ll be back
tomorrow. If you think of something you could speak to us
then.’

The boy nodded
and walked away, the dog at his heels.

MacRae was
climbing back into the car. She asked where he was going. It was
like a red rag to a bull.

‘You’re
beginning to sound like my ex-wife. Correction, my estranged wife.
And for your information, I’m going to the scene of the last fire.
The one that gave Gallagher a heart attack and landed me with
you.’

Rhona kept her
voice calm. He was not going to get her as rattled as he was. ‘I’d
like to come.’

‘Suit
yourself.’

The dog’s chips
weren’t the only fast food in the car. Rhona swept the remains of
three other fish suppers onto the floor before getting in. The
stereo was blasting out an old Marvin Gaye number. MacRae reached
across and turned it up even louder.

Rhona kept her
eyes on the road. Once you got used to the level, the music was
alright. All those songs that sink into your brain so that years
later you find yourself mouthing words you never knew you knew.

MacRae’s face
was as tired as MacFarlane’s. Or else he had a hangover. Probably
chronic. He also drove like a maniac, she decided.

Ten minutes
later they reached a burned out office block.

‘When did this
happen?’

‘Thursday last
week.’ He waved at the approaching security guard, who nodded and
unlocked the entrance chain. MacRae held the temporary door to one
side and Rhona stepped in. She was in a large domed entrance hall.
Ahead of her, a broad stairway spiralled upwards to a further two
floors.

‘It used to be
an elegant town house, then an office block. Some computer
consultancy firm had the first floor. An investment company had the
top and the ground was an advertising company.’

‘It must have
been beautiful. That staircase, especially.’

Despite the
damage the hall retained an elegance, the marble flooring blackened
but intact.

‘Can we use the
stairs?’

‘Not if you
want to live.’

Behind the
staircase a ladder had been erected through to the upper level. He
motioned her to go first.

‘Better you
land on me, than me on you.’

Rhona wasn’t
convinced that was the reason for the chivalry.

When she was
halfway up he followed. She waited for him at the top. This time
she wasn’t going to wander.

He pointed at a
pile of debris to the left of the door. ‘He started it where we
came up, burning a hole through the ceiling, then spread the
accelerant out the door and down your nice staircase.’

‘An insurance
job?’

‘The insurance
company doesn’t think so. The building was in the process of being
sold for a good price. There was planning permission to convert it
into flats.

‘Vandals?’

‘Not likely in
this area.’

MacRae went
back down the ladder first then watched her descent with interest.
Wearing a skirt had been a bad choice, Rhona thought.

They walked
back to the car.

‘Any chance we
could give the music a miss this time?’

The grin took
her by surprise. MacRae looked completely different when he
smiled.

‘That bad?’

‘That loud,’
she smiled back.

He switched off
the stereo and started the car. This time the pace was slower.

‘What does
MacFarlane think about the fires?’

‘MacFarlane
thinks we have a nutter on our hands.’

‘And you?’

The smile had
gone. ‘I don’t know why the places were torched but I’d risk my
neck and say they were torched by the same person or persons. The
jobs are professional. Same level of organisation and
sophistication.’

‘Do you have
any idea who it might be?’

He reached
across her and for a moment she thought he was going to turn on the
stereo again. Instead he opened the glove compartment, brought out
a letter and tossed it in her lap.

‘This arrived
this morning, delivered by hand to my flat.’