Unforgotten (15 page)
Ellis went to what had once been a pale sofa, the right side burnt down almost to the frame, the remainder badly charred. ‘Just here,’ he said, squatting down to inspect the scene again. ‘Likely between the arm and the cushion, that’s usually the place these things start.’
Hugh said, ‘What do you mean?’
‘The fire started here in this sofa,’ Ellis stated categorically.
Hugh had been expecting an electrical fault, a lamp, a socket, anything but the sofa. ‘How could it do that?’
‘Cigarette. Match. Candle. But most likely a cigarette.’
‘But my wife didn’t smoke.’
Ellis indicated the window above the sofa. ‘The curtains would have been next. You can see the way the fire fanned out at the top there.’ He was pointing towards the devastation that was the ceiling. ‘And then this window here was open, just a few inches but enough to provide a draught, the door was open too, so as the fire spread’ – he pushed his hands up and sideways – ‘it tracked over here towards the door.’ He pointed both hands towards the hall.
‘My wife didn’t smoke,’ Hugh repeated.
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Could have been a candle stood on the surface here,’ Ellis suggested, indicating the top of Lizzie’s badly scorched desk. ‘Which fell over onto the sofa.’
‘She’d never use a candle at her desk,’ Hugh argued fretfully. ‘Why would she use a candle?’
‘These scented candles have got very popular—’
‘But she’d never use anything like that, not at her desk.’
Uneasy at this sudden change of mood, Ellis regarded him warily.
‘She just wouldn’t,’ Hugh repeated firmly.
Ellis moved towards the door. ‘Well, I’d better get on.’ Realising that Hugh wasn’t going to follow, he said, ‘If you could be sure not to touch anything, Mr Gwynne?’
‘I won’t touch anything.’
Alone, Hugh stared at the charred sofa and blackened desk while he went over what Ellis had told him, but the information clogged in his brain, he could make no sense of it. Why would Lizzie have broken the habit of a lifetime to put a lighted candle on her desk? And so dangerously close to the edge? Even assuming she’d found room next to what were now the gnarled remains of her handbag. Cigarettes and matches were equally implausible. He understood that Ellis was trying to fit the available
evidence into the most likely box, but in doing so he was in danger of missing the facts.
Eventually he drifted across the hall into the study, then the dining room, and saw smoke damage. The kitchen seemed untouched. The floor was dry, apples and bananas lay in the bowl, glasses on the draining board, the sun shone through untarnished windows. Only when he touched a surface did he realise everything was covered by a film of grime. A note was wedged under the scales where Lizzie always left money and communications for Mrs Bishop. His heart tightened as he saw her handwriting.
Dear Mrs B, Charlie may be here. If sleeping, best not disturb! I’ll be back before three. L.
He could make no sense of this either. Which day was she referring to? Yesterday? Today? And since when had Charlie been coming home?
Outside, the sun was winter bright, the security men were boarding up the living-room windows, and Mike and Ray were there, standing by the fire-brigade car, talking to Ellis.
Mike came over. ‘How are you doing, old fella?’
‘You should have got some more sleep, Mike.’
‘No, I’m fine! No – couldn’t sleep anyway!’ he lied brazenly, looking crumpled and battered.
‘You’ll be in no state to drive back.’
‘Who said I was driving back? No rush at all.’
‘Your work . . .’
‘That’s what I’ve got a trainee for. And a mobile phone. And I didn’t have much on—’
‘Hugh?’ Ray’s voice interrupted. He was striding towards them, looking spruce and crisp in a suit and tie, only the puffiness round his eyes betraying the lack of sleep. ‘Listen, we need to contact your insurance company as soon as possible. You can’t remember their name by any chance?’
‘Not just at the moment, no.’
‘The documents – are they . . . ?’
‘In the study.’
‘Right.’ Ray swung away, only to turn back with an air of
having overlooked a vital point. ‘Look, you don’t have to worry about a thing, Hugh. Okay?’ He made an emphatic gesture. ‘Not a thing. I’m going to get all this stuff sorted. You just . . . well . . .’ He buttoned his mouth down and said in a tone of suppressed emotion, ‘You just concentrate on the family.’ With a touch to Hugh’s sleeve he strode purposefully away.
‘Why don’t you come and grab some breakfast,’ Mike said, ‘then we can make a plan.’
But Hugh missed what Mike said after that, as a thought came to him that was so sickening and so horribly obvious he couldn’t think why it hadn’t struck him before.
‘Hugh?’
‘Sorry . . . You said . . .’
‘Just that we might make a list of people to call.’
‘Yes . . . Lou . . . Lizzie’s family . . .’
‘I was saying, Charlie thinks he knows the name of the people his grandmother’s staying with, and he’s—’
‘I need to talk to the police,’ Hugh cut in.
Mike’s expression froze. ‘Okay . . .’
‘Will you drive me there?’
‘Well . . . yes, of course. When did you want to go?’
‘Now. Right away.’
Mike eyed him anxiously. ‘What about some breakfast first? You need to get some food inside you, Hugh. It’s going to be a long day.’
But the idea was racketing around Hugh’s head, it had to be told as soon as possible. And he wasn’t in the least hungry.
In the course of his legal career Hugh had come to this police station in the eastern suburbs of Bristol perhaps half a dozen times, usually to bail out clients for drink-driving, once for an assault. But this was the first time he had been made to sit in the waiting room with the punters, who today consisted of two slumped youths, a heavily made-up girl with glaring eyes, and
an older woman whose body spilled out over the sides of the chair. All had the sullen air of regulars. Every so often Mike sauntered up to the desk to make his number with the reception officer, only to get the same message, that nothing could be done until someone became available. What were they doing to make themselves so unavailable? Hugh wondered. Filling out forms in longhand in defiance of the computer age, manipulating the crime figures to meet irksome government targets, hanging on the phone for information that never came; anything, he supposed, to put off an interview with a grief-stricken man wanting to talk about the death of his wife, an event which, though tragic, wasn’t going to justify their time or trouble. As the minutes went by, Hugh imagined describing the episode to Lizzie: the absurdity of the wait, the ludicrous inefficiency of the system. But when he tried to conjure up her image he had no hold on her. She was a shadow, an absence, her existence in his memory as a talking, laughing, argumentative being had melted away. He couldn’t picture her reaction, couldn’t hear her voice, and he missed the idea of her terribly.
When someone finally became available it was a detective constable called Smith, a pallid, paunchy, twenty-something man with bad teeth and a bland expression which sharpened a little when Mike introduced himself as Hugh’s legal advisor, an expedient to get Mike into the interview room, which was hot and airless, the surfaces of the chairs and tables tacky from sweat and lies and sweet drinks.
As soon as they sat down Smith went through a standard speech of condolence before expressing concern that family liaison hadn’t yet been in touch with Hugh. He could only apologise, he was sure they must be trying to contact him and his family at this very moment. He stressed how experienced they were in these matters, how sensitive to families’ needs, how they would be able to deal with all the problems and queries arising from the unfortunate incident.
When Hugh said he hadn’t come about that, he’d come about the fire itself, a dullness came over Smith’s features, and
Hugh knew what he was thinking, that he had more important things to do than be tied down for hours listening to a bereaved man’s outpourings of survivor guilt, to be forced to hear the tale of the decorators with blow-torches leaving timbers to smoulder, or the dodgy electrical contractors, or whoever else might be to blame for the accident. Even when Hugh went through the tale of the break-in and the lurking hoodie and the fact that Lizzie didn’t smoke, Smith made no attempt to take notes but adopted the pose of the dutiful CID man, sitting back in his chair, head slightly to one side, eyes narrowed, one hand resting against his chin.
When Hugh had finished, Smith was silent for a time. Finally he said, ‘So you’re saying these events could be connected?’
‘That’s what I’m saying, yes.’
‘In what way?’
Hugh couldn’t make out whether he was being slow, or rather clever. ‘The hoodie might have forced his way into the house and harassed my wife, even restrained her in some way, and then started the fire.’
‘Deliberately, you mean?’
‘Well, yes. Oh, not with petrol or anything obvious like that, but with matches, papers stuffed down the side of the sofa, that sort of thing. An act of vandalism, if you like. Or out-and-out arson.’
Now that Smith was having to think up questions his eyes kept tracking diagonally down to the edge of the table, and it occurred to Hugh that he was totally out of his depth.
‘The break-in,’ Smith said, ‘what makes you think it could be linked to this hooded youth?’
‘Well, it seems strange to live in a place for fifteen years without any crime, and then to have a break-in and a hooded youth in your garden within the space of a couple of weeks. And then, two nights after the hoodie, to have your house burnt down with—’ But he couldn’t say it, couldn’t say
with
my wife inside
. So stark, so matter of fact. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence by anybody’s standards.’
‘Do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against you?’
‘Nope.’
‘What is your line of business exactly?’
‘I’m a solicitor.’
Smith’s expression didn’t change, though like most cops he probably looked on lawyers as the enemy. ‘A disgruntled client, perhaps?’
‘I do boring stuff, Detective Constable. Conveyancing, wills, probate . . . And none of my clients is remotely young or hooded.’ Aware that Smith was only doing his slow, lumbering duty, Hugh added, ‘That I remember, anyway.’
Smith seemed to come to a decision. Sitting forward, he said, ‘Right, I’ll need to get all this down, so while I get set up, how about I organise a cup of tea?’
‘Why the hell didn’t he take notes first time round?’ Hugh murmured after Smith had left the room.
‘Modern crime investigation,’ said Mike.
The tea was strong but fresh. Smith was left-handed and wrote in the tortured way some left-handers adopt, his arm curved over the top of the paper, his wrist bent inwards, the pen held at a slant. He wrote slowly, frowning over his script.
‘The break-in was reported, was it?’
‘Yes, but nobody came.’
‘And what was stolen?’
‘Fifty pounds and some costume jewellery of very little value.’
Smith looked up. ‘Nothing else?’
‘Nothing else.’
‘And a window was used to gain access?’
‘It was broken, yes.’
‘Any other damage?’
‘No.’
Another pause in a long succession of pauses while Smith wrote laboriously.
‘And no one – neighbours, passers-by, tradespeople – saw anything suspicious?’
Hugh felt like saying,
Well, if you guys had bothered to turn up you might just have found out
. ‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’
After another five minutes they got on to the hoodie, and Hugh went through his account for the second time, how he spotted the youth in the darkness, stopped the car, got out to confront him, set off in pursuit, and was forced to give up the chase.
‘How would you describe him in terms of height, weight, age, ethnic group?’
‘About five ten or eleven, slim build, young, teens or twenties. White, I think, but I can’t be sure.’
‘Could you describe his face?’
‘I never got a proper look at him, no.’
‘So you wouldn’t be able to recognise him again?’
‘No.’
Another lengthy pause, during which the futility of the exercise was brought home to Hugh. His statement would be logged, there would be the semblance of an investigation, until after a suitable interval the case would be dropped for lack of evidence. The detectives would be polite, regretful, they would offer their condolences once again for his ‘loss’ – how he was growing to dislike that word – then they would pass him over to a family liaison officer, doubtless female and softly spoken with a diploma in the art of counselling or some other caring and sharing life-skill. Then nothing. With this realisation came a sense of hopelessness and mild panic. By the time Smith reached the events of the previous day Hugh was longing to escape the hot airless room. Yes, he had spoken to his wife in the evening at about seven twenty. What did he mean
in the evening
? he thought despairingly; it was yesterday, just yesterday. Yes, she was alone and not expecting anyone. No, they never knowingly left the front or back door unlocked. No,
there wasn’t a separate panic button as such, but you could press 999 into the keypad by the front door to set off the alarm. And no, the alarm wasn’t connected to a security firm.
Pondering his next question at some length Smith gnawed one side of his lower lip, revealing grey misshapen teeth, and suddenly Hugh felt the blood beat high in his head, he gave an involuntary shiver, and the next instant he was on his feet, sending the chair juddering back over the lino, announcing in a muted voice that he had to go.
Mike craned forward to examine a road sign. ‘Is it right here?’
Hugh, who had been gazing unseeing at the road, looked across and confirmed that it was.
‘Now, listen,’ said Mike as he negotiated the roundabout, ‘if you want someone to give the cops a bloody great kick up the arse, then just say the word. I’m your man.’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘If Smith is half as useless as he looks I suggest leaving it two or three days then making an official complaint about the way the case is being handled. That’ll get the investigation up to detective sergeant level at the very least, maybe even detective inspector. I’ll be more than happy to do the stirring if you want me to. Nothing I like better.’
Hugh said, ‘You must get back, Mike. You’ve done more than enough.’
‘Happy to stay.’
‘Ray can handle any official stuff. And I’ll do the rest myself.’
Mike glanced across at him. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure.’ And it was the only thing Hugh was sure about just then. Well meaning though people were, he didn’t want to be taken charge of, presented with decisions, treated as temporarily mentally impaired. He wanted to be with Lou and Charlie, sorting things out in their own way at their own speed. He longed for Lou to get back; he wished she was on her way.
He had texted her last night and he remembered Charlie saying he had texted her too, but she hadn’t answered and he supposed she was out of range or had turned her phone off to save power. What would he say to her when they finally spoke? How would he find the right words? At some point in the night he’d thought of telling her a white lie, that Mum was ill and she should take a plane home just in case, but he had rejected this straight away. She deserved the truth, though the thought of inflicting such pain at such a distance and with a long flight ahead of her filled him with anguish.
He checked his mobile again but there were no messages. He went to the missed call register but there was nothing there either, only a list of Charlie’s numerous attempts to reach him last night. It would have been easy to torture himself for having failed to hear those calls, for having taken some of Isabel’s Night Nurse on top of red wine, for having left his phone under a heap of clothes, but of course the delay had changed nothing, it was all over by then, Lizzie was dead. Far worse was the thought that he’d missed a call from Lizzie herself, a last cry for help as the smoke closed in around her, but there was nothing on the register, just as there had been nothing when he’d checked on the long car journey from London. But no amount of logic could entirely banish his fear that a missed call would materialise belatedly out of the ether. So strong was his craving for reassurance that he found himself scrolling through the list again and again.
‘Nothing from Lou?’ Mike asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Charlie may well have tracked her down by now.’
‘If she’s not in the wilds without a signal. Even then she doesn’t always turn her phone on.’
‘But the friend she’s travelling with – Chrissie, is it? Charlie was going to try and get her number.’
Hugh frowned. ‘He didn’t tell me that.’
Mike opened his mouth to say something only to think
better of it. ‘He was going to contact her family. They live somewhere near Bath, he thought.’
‘I could have told him exactly where they live. It’s outside Frome. But I’m not sure Chrissie’s any better at staying in touch.’
‘Worth a try, though.’
Of course it was worth a try, but Hugh fretted all the same in case Charlie should speak to Lou before he did and get it wrong, though quite what he meant by wrong he couldn’t have said.
Glancing across, Mike said, ‘Charlie’s pretty amazing at all this technical stuff. What I call technical stuff anyway. Finding addresses and phone numbers off the Internet. That sort of thing. ’
‘Yes. Yes, he is.’
Another pause, then Mike said, ‘He did well to track you down to Belsize Park.’
‘Yes.’
‘He got hold of Raymond, and Raymond got hold of your PA.’ Another pause as they turned into the lane to Meadowcroft and the Koenigs’ house, then Mike said delicately, ‘He’s a good lad, Charlie. But . . . well, if you don’t mind me saying . . . I think he’s struggling a bit. He’s doing his best of course, with all this computer stuff. But I think he needs to talk things through with you. Hell, I’m saying this all wrong. What I mean is—’
But an exclamation from Hugh caused Mike to break off and follow his gaze up the lane. A tangle of colours had appeared at the entrance to Meadowcroft. As they drew nearer, Hugh made out flowers, some propped against the gateposts, others tied to the gate itself: bouquets in cellophane, bouquets with no wrapping, posies, single stems of red or white roses; perhaps a dozen offerings in all. They came to a stop and Hugh got out. He stood in front of the flowers before bending down to read the messages. People he’d heard of, others he hadn’t.
Simple messages, loving messages, thoughtful messages. The familiar well-used phrases caught Hugh unawares in a rush of feeling, he read them through a sudden mist.
A fine lady . . . sadly missed . . . rest in peace
. Standing up he rubbed the wetness from his cheeks with the knuckle of one finger and stared at the flowers until the mist had passed.
His phone bleeped as he got back into the car but it was a moment before he managed to pull it out of his pocket and read the message.
Mike glanced across and said, ‘What is it?’
‘Charlie’s found Lou. He’s spoken to her.’
Mike squeezed his arm. ‘Thank God. Who knows, she might be able to get a flight out tonight. What a relief.’
But any relief Hugh might have felt was outweighed by the thought of Lou’s distress. Desperate to give her what comfort he could, he called her number only to get a long silence followed by a series of beeps. He imagined her weeping and felt a pang of utter helplessness. Following hard on his sense of impotence came a flicker of frustration at not having been able to tell her the full story, to soften the blow by reassuring her that Mum hadn’t suffered, that she’d had no idea what was happening.
In the strange new world into which Hugh had passed, the sight of so many cars in the Koenigs’ drive seemed unremarkable. There must have been six or seven. None was a police car, unless it was unmarked. But then the CID were hardly likely to allocate scarce resources to a home visit when they had Detective Constable Smith on the case, working out how to sign the matter off as soon as decently possible.
Hugh phoned Charlie and asked him to meet him outside. As Mike went into the house Charlie emerged, squinting into the thin sun, shoulders hunched against the cold. He was in his usual outfit of shapeless T-shirt and baggy low-slung jeans so long in the leg that the bottoms were dirty and frayed where they had caught under the heels of his trainers.
‘How was Lou?’ Hugh asked. ‘How did she take it?’
Charlie thrust his hands into his pockets and shook his head a little as if he found it too difficult to talk about.
‘She wasn’t alone, was she? She had Chrissie with her?’
‘Yeah, Chrissie was there. Yeah . . .’
‘Thank God for that. Thank God. But all the same . . . all the same . . . Poor Lou. Poor sweetheart. Where is she? Is she miles from anywhere?’
‘She’s in Calcutta.’
‘That’s something at least. She’ll be able to get a flight. But I need to tell her to use the emergency credit card,’ Hugh added fretfully as he battled another rush of helplessness. ‘To get the first flight no matter how much it costs. But how did you break the news, Charlie? What did you tell her?’
Charlie frowned at his feet. ‘I just . . . said . . . there’d been a fire.’
‘Yes?’ Hugh urged him on.
Charlie lifted his shoulders still higher. ‘And that Mum was overcome by smoke . . .’ His voice was fading. ‘And the firemen got her out . . . and tried to – to . . .’ He couldn’t find the word.
‘Revive her?’
Charlie gave a faint nod. ‘Yeah.’
‘Did you say she was asleep when the fire started? That she knew nothing about it?’
Charlie’s downcast gaze shifted a little to one side, his mouth tightened.
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, Charlie – you did fine.
Fine.
’ Hugh reached out and gripped his arm. ‘But I couldn’t bear it if Lou thought Mum suffered when she didn’t.’ He pulled out his phone and chased through the options looking for the redial function. ‘Because she didn’t, I know she didn’t.’ In his haste he found himself in a menu he didn’t recognise. ‘She’s left her phone on, has she? She hasn’t switched it off? Because I couldn’t get through just now. I got some stupid beeps. Poor Lou, she must be—’
‘Her phone’s not working,’ Charlie said. ‘You need to call Chrissie.’
‘What?’
Charlie drew his phone out of his pocket and handed it across. ‘Just press the green button twice.’
‘Chrissie?’
‘Yeah.’
Hugh pressed the button twice and put the phone to his ear. When the number began to ring he turned to signal his relief to Charlie but he was already walking away.
