Unforgotten (17 page)

He lodged his complaint on the fifth day, acutely aware that he should have taken Mike’s advice and done it sooner. He had been too ready to listen to DC Smith’s assurances that the matter was being taken seriously, that further investigations were in hand, and – the latest excuse – that they were waiting for the fire investigation report. When it finally dawned on him that nothing was happening, he felt a cold anger, as much at his own credulity as at Smith’s inactivity.

He made the call at nine thirty, reckoning it would be the best time to get hold of Smith’s superior, a Detective Inspector Steadman, only to be put through to a duty detective who sounded even younger and less experienced than Smith. Selecting his most authoritative tone, Hugh announced that he wanted to make a serious complaint but wasn’t prepared to go into detail until and unless he could speak to a senior officer. He was asked to hold. After what seemed a long time but was probably less than a minute he found himself talking to a detective sergeant named Reynolds.

‘Nothing personal, Detective Sergeant,’ said Hugh, ‘but I’m not prepared to discuss my complaint with anyone under the level of detective inspector.’

‘Very well, sir. But if I could just log the particulars—’

‘Who’s your superior?’

‘I can assure you that all complaints are taken extremely seriously, Mr Gwynne. But they have to be logged—’

‘Who’s your superior?’ Hugh repeated.

A slight pause, during which Hugh could imagine Reynolds tightening his lips. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Steadman.’

‘Well, it’s him I need to see.’

‘I’m not sure he’s available.’

‘In that case I’ll come in and wait till he
is
available.’

‘I’ll just check.’ The line seemed to go dead, then Reynolds was back saying, ‘Would twelve noon suit you, Mr Gwynne?’

‘To see DI Steadman?’

‘Yes.’

‘Twelve will be fine.’

It was an object lesson, Hugh decided, one he wouldn’t need to be taught again. With these guys you had to push, and push hard. What was it the criminal lawyers said? When the cops weren’t massaging the crime statistics they were out for an easy life, the path of least resistance towards the pension and the villa on the Costa del Sol. Well, he thought, here’s some resistance, and plenty more to come.

‘Dad?’ It was Lou, standing in the doorway.

‘Morning, my love,’ he declared, going to embrace her. ‘Did you sleep all right?’

‘Not too bad.’ She pulled away and scanned his face. ‘Everything okay?’ Something in her expression told him she’d overheard if not the content then the tone of his phone call.

‘Just trying to get the police moving, that’s all.’

‘What is it they’re meant to be doing?’

‘Oh, just formalities, paperwork.’ He hugged her again. ‘Nothing important.’

‘Anything I can do?’

He shook his head.

‘Well . . . don’t let them get to you.’

‘No.’

She gave the ghost of a smile, and he felt a surge of love and gratitude for this miraculous child. Small, slim and fine-boned, with flawless white skin, broad cheekbones, sweeping eyebrows, and a sweetly curved mouth, she seemed to his partial gaze to be possessed of a commanding beauty. When
she had first arrived from the orphanage in China he had secretly wondered if he would ever get accustomed to the alien features, the wide spacing of her eyes, the cruelly winged lids over the inner corners, the jet-black hair which stood up from her head in resolute spikes, but as the years went by he had come to appreciate that her eyes were a perfect almond shape, set just the right distance apart, and that her hair, descending in a heavy curtain, had the lustre of raven’s wings. Serious-minded and hard-working, with a serene intelligence and even temperament, she had never given him and Lizzie a moment’s worry.

‘Did you manage to find some breakfast?’ she asked.

‘Plenty, thanks. Oh . . . apart from the butter.’

It was their first morning in their rented house, which was called Oakhill. Lou had helped choose it, advising against a house on the far side of the village, pointing out that it would be more convenient to be in the next lane to Meadowcroft. The interior of Oakhill was painted an unrelenting white and furnished in what the estate agent proudly described as neutrals. The effect was soulless, like a hotel, an impression exaggerated by the absence of family clutter and the host of flowers from well-wishers which Lou had placed in a variety of vases and jugs around the main rooms. The kitchen was polished steel and pale wood, the fridge a giant double-fronted machine which dispensed two kinds of ice and had compartments and drawers for almost everything. Lou delved into one of them now.

‘Here’s the butter,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave some out, shall I? By the bread.’ She put the kettle on and regarded him solemnly. ‘How’s the cough?’

‘Okay.’ Immediately after the fire his cold had mysteriously disappeared, only to return a couple of days later in the form of a wheezy chest and persistent cough.

‘Did you sleep all right?’

‘Sort of.’ The doctor had prescribed something to help him sleep but it wore off after a couple of hours and if he took a
second dose he woke feeling drowsy and confused. Convinced that at least some of his sleeplessness stemmed from the claustrophobic atmosphere at the Koenigs’, he had pressed the estate agent to let them move into Oakhill yesterday, although it was a Sunday and not officially a moving day, but the change had made no difference, he’d still woken at three and spent long restless hours in dull misery punctuated by jolting bouts of intense, almost physical pain.

‘Why don’t you grab some sleep after lunch?’ Lou suggested. ‘They say half an hour’s all you need.’

He said he’d give it a try, though they both knew he wouldn’t get round to it.

‘Or a walk? Exercise is meant to be the best.’

‘Good idea.’ But this too seemed unlikely; the darkness came early nowadays and he had no heart for the country walks he’d taken with Lizzie.

Lou made herself some herbal tea and took it to the breakfast table. ‘So what’s the plan for today, Dad?’

‘A whole lot of calls. And people to see in town.’

‘Don’t forget we’ve got to go clothes shopping sometime.’

Apart from one suit, he was living in borrowed clothes. He said, ‘Tomorrow?’

They had a tacit understanding that it was necessary to keep busy, that this was the best way to get through the day. While Hugh tackled the formalities, Lou had organised the move to Oakhill and the purchase of towels, linen and food. Also, to Hugh’s relief, she had taken on the task of returning the calls from relatives and friends, and shepherding the steady trickle of visitors. While Hugh was touched by the people who called briefly with a few faltering words, he became restless and taciturn with those who stayed too long and talked too much, and relied on Lou to step in and rescue him. Charlie, meanwhile, kept busy in his own way, spending long hours on the computer, listening to New Age music, going religiously to his NA meetings.

When Hugh left for the city he told Lou he was going to see
the police about security at Meadowcroft while it was empty. While this wasn’t the truth, it was close enough for him to persuade himself he wasn’t actually lying.

Hugh’s grievance with the police had provided a welcome focus for his wider anger. He arrived at the police station in combative mood, ready to do battle at the first obstacle. But there was no delay this time, no request to join the sullen malcontents in the waiting room, no suggestion that DI Steadman wasn’t going to be available. Less than a minute after he’d announced himself to the reception officer, a stocky man with a ruined face appeared at the pass-door and introduced himself as DS Reynolds. Hugh followed him down the passage into the same interview room where he had seen Smith.

‘DI Steadman’s on his way?’ Hugh asked immediately.

‘He’ll be along shortly.’

‘I’m not prepared to discuss this without him.’

‘I still have to take some details, Mr Gwynne,’ Reynolds replied pleasantly. ‘DI Steadman will be at least ten minutes. If we could go through a few questions while we’re waiting then I won’t have to trouble you later.’

In his febrile overwrought state Hugh wondered if he was being fed a line, but something about Reynolds, an air of stolid reliability, made him decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Reynolds gestured him to a chair and sat down opposite. Opening his folder, he took out a writing pad and unclipped a pen from his shirt pocket. ‘Now, Mr Gwynne, your complaint is that the incident has not been properly investigated. Is that correct?’

‘My complaint is that my wife’s death has not been properly investigated.’

Reynolds wrote this down, before arranging his features into an expression of sympathy. ‘My condolences on your loss.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And in what way do you consider the investigation to have been inadequate?’ Reynolds asked.

‘Well, that’s what I’ve come to discuss with DI Steadman.’

‘I appreciate that, Mr Gwynne. But this is for the record. If you wouldn’t mind.’

Suppressing a sigh of forbearance Hugh said at machine-gun speed, ‘Firstly, no proper forensic examination has been made of the source of the fire, no search for matches or accelerants or whatever else was used to start it. Secondly, you have made absolutely no enquiries among the neighbours or the village as to whether they saw anything suspicious on the night of the fire. Thirdly, there was a break-in at my house some time ago, then a prowler two nights before the fire, yet you haven’t even begun to look into the possibility that these events might be linked. Fourthly, you’ve made no attempt to list or profile possible suspects.’ He flipped a hand. ‘I could go on, but I imagine that’s enough for starters.’

Reynolds’ notes were suspiciously short.

‘How does this work?’ Hugh demanded. ‘Do you read this stuff back to me?’

‘I can do, yes.’

‘Well, since this is an official complaint I assume you want to get it right.’ If this implied a threat of more action to come, then that was fine with Hugh.

‘I’ll read it through to you at the end, no problem,’ Reynolds said in tone of reassurance. ‘If we could just go over a couple of points?’ Sliding some papers out of his folder, he began to leaf through them.

Guessing they were Smith’s notes, Hugh said pointedly, ‘Your man kept telling me investigations were in hand but he could never say exactly what was being done.’

Reynolds read a little further. ‘Saturday . . .’ He went back a page. ‘No,
Friday
, DC Smith asked the fire investigators to review the evidence.’

‘Yes? And what did they say?’

‘Basically they’ve confirmed their original findings. As in there being no indication of arson.’

‘But they haven’t been back to the house. They haven’t sifted through the debris.’

‘They’re satisfied that there was no indication of arson,’ Reynolds repeated, studying the report again.

‘But if they’re not looking for arson, they’re not going to find it, are they? An arsonist doesn’t need to soak the entire place in petrol to burn it down. All he needs is a match, some newspaper, something to set light to a sofa. If they’ve got their minds set on it being an accident, then they’re going to miss the evidence.’ Something about Reynolds’ slow nod gave Hugh the feeling he was being humoured. He said sharply, ‘But there’s no point in this without Steadman.’

Reynolds picked up his pad. ‘Shall we go through your complaint for accuracy then?’

Hugh asked him to correct some of the wording. Reynolds had just crossed out
failure to undertake house-to-house enquiries
and begun to write
failure to undertake reasonable local enquiries
when the door opened and Steadman came in. He was a trim sleek man with dark, gelled hair and pale eyes. It might have been the effect of the gel, but the blackness of his hair contrasted so strongly with his skin that it looked dyed. He shook hands briskly and, sitting down, fixed Hugh with an unwavering gaze.

‘I regret that you’ve found it necessary to make a complaint, Mr Gwynne, but I hope we’ll be able to answer some if not all of your concerns.’ As Steadman was saying this, he swung an open palm towards Reynolds, who placed the details of the complaint in his hand. Steadman glanced down the page then returned his pale gaze to Hugh’s face. ‘On the matter of the fire investigation, I appreciate that you must have a number of unanswered questions, but the fire investigators can only offer an informed opinion on the source and possible causes of a fire. In this case, all they can say with confidence is that the fire started in—’ He turned his head a fraction towards Reynolds.

‘In the lounge,’ murmured Reynolds. ‘In a sofa.’

‘In a sofa. And that it appeared to have started accidentally. Beyond that – the exact circumstances of how the item caught light – these are things they can’t determine with certainty.’

‘I’m well aware of the limits they operate under, Detective Inspector, but they haven’t even carried out a proper search,’ Hugh argued in a reasonable tone. ‘They haven’t even combed through the debris for evidence.’

‘I’m not sure I follow, Mr Gwynne. What sort of evidence would they be looking for?’

‘Well, traces of the materials that were used to start the fire. Evidence that it was started deliberately.’

‘The fire investigators are highly skilled, Mr Gwynne. Arson is almost the first thing they look for. And they found no indication of anything untoward.’

‘There was no sign of accelerants,’ Reynolds confirmed.

‘But you don’t have to use petrol to start a fire,’ Hugh pointed out. ‘It could have been started with anything – matches, newspapers, rags, you name it.’

Steadman’s stare narrowed, as if he was gauging the best way to deal with this line of argument. ‘I think I’m right in saying that matches and newspapers would burn in their entirety, Mr Gwynne. They would leave no trace.’

‘But how can the investigators be sure there’s no trace if they don’t even look?’ Hugh said, letting his exasperation show. ‘And they
haven’t
looked. They haven’t been back since the fire. That’s five days ago, and the house clearers are meant to be clearing the house . . .’ He drew a steadying breath. ‘The point is, Detective Inspector, my wife didn’t smoke, she didn’t use candles, she didn’t light matches at random, and she certainly wasn’t in the habit of dropping naked flames down the side of the sofa. It’s absolutely inconceivable that the fire could have begun in the sofa while she was in the house. Begun accidentally, I mean.’