After the Fire (29 page)

‘He was violent long before she left. That’s
why
she left.’ Mrs Moore’s failure of logic was beginning to trouble me a lot. I could imagine her arranging to meet Mark Pell. I could imagine her finding a public place where he could see his son – speak to him, even. ‘We have to consider Mark as a suspect in this case, so he needs to stay away from Melissa. But even if he had nothing to do with the fire and the injuries she’s suffered now, he brutalised her for years. You know what Melissa had to endure. He abused her physically and emotionally. He cut her off from her friends and controlled everywhere she went and everything she did. She is terrified of him for a reason.’

‘Thomas misses his father,’ she said quietly. ‘I know that. He loves him very much.’

Deep breath
. ‘I think it’s very caring of you to be concerned about Mark and his relationship with his son but your priority has to be your daughter, her safety, and her child’s welfare.’

Mrs Moore blinked a few times, rapidly, stung by the note of reproof in my voice. ‘You don’t know my daughter. She’s very convincing – of course she is. And charming. But – well, she is a bit of a drama queen.’

‘You think she’s exaggerating,’ I said, trying to sound calm and reasonable and unemotional even though my anger was scorching.

‘I love my daughter dearly but I know what she’s like. I brought her up. Every bruise was a broken bone. Every graze was a life-threatening injury. She never had a headache that wasn’t a brain tumour.’

‘Whether she has a tendency to exaggerate or not, there are medical records of her injuries. There’s evidence. You don’t have to take her word for it.’
Even though you should . .
.

Mrs Moore looked down at the ground and nodded. ‘I shouldn’t think about it. I should just do what Melissa wants me to do.’

‘I think that’s for the best. You know, now that Mark is aware of their whereabouts, the situation is different. He can gain access to Thomas through the family courts. They can make a ruling on custody and visitation rights. The courts may not have a great reputation for taking the side of the father but they do try to do what’s best for the children. Mark can wait a little longer to see his son.’

She nodded again, but she wouldn’t meet my eye.

‘Mrs Moore, please don’t get in touch with Mark Pell. Don’t tell him where you are, or where you’re staying. If he manages to contact you, don’t tell him anything about Thomas, even if a question seems innocuous. You can’t take any chances.’

‘I understand what you’re saying.’ She looked down the empty corridor. ‘We’d better catch up with the others. I don’t want them to leave without me.’

They were waiting by the lift. As soon as we appeared, Thomas pressed the button to call it.

‘Nicely done,’ Derwent said. He glanced at me for a moment, trying to gauge what Mrs Moore had wanted, and I shook my head very slightly.
Later
.

In the lobby, I turned to Mrs Moore. ‘Do you think it would be a good idea for Thomas to go to the bathroom before he gets in the car? In case the traffic is bad?’

‘Oh, yes, he should. Definitely.’

He pouted. ‘I don’t need to.’

‘Don’t be silly, Thomas.’ There was an edge in her voice that I didn’t like: she was tense about something. Warring loyalties. Irreconcilable obligations. I was willing to bet Mark Pell had been in contact with her already. I was tempted to take her phone away. Or – why not? – take Thomas away.

Derwent looked down at Thomas. ‘Go on, mate. Do what you’re told. Better safe than sorry.’

He was still reluctant about it, but he went, holding his grandmother’s hand. I went too, checking the bathroom was empty before they used it, paranoid that Pell would be lurking behind a door. When I came out, I hurried across the lobby to Derwent and he frowned at the look on my face.

‘What is it?’

‘You need to take the rest of the day off.’

‘What? Why?’

‘You need to keep an eye on Thomas. I think Melissa’s mum has been talking to Mark Pell.’

He swore quietly. ‘Why would she do a stupid thing like that?’

‘She likes to think the best of people.’

‘But—’

‘Except her daughter, who’s just a drama queen and probably exaggerating.’

Derwent’s face darkened. ‘For fuck’s sake.’

‘I know. Try not to get annoyed with her. I just don’t think we can trust her not to tell Mark Pell where she is, and where he can find Thomas.’

‘She might have done that already.’

I shook my head. ‘He was hanging around the hospital because he didn’t know where else to go. He wanted to see Thomas, remember? And Melissa, but we know she’s safe upstairs.’

‘So you think he’ll go back to Mrs Moore?’

‘That’s what I’d do. If he can get the boy, he can get Melissa to come back to him. She’d never leave him with his father, even if it cost her dearly.’

Derwent nodded. ‘He’d make a good hostage.’

‘If you’re in the flat you can keep an eye on him. Melissa will be out tomorrow. She can take over from you then.’

‘All right.’ He was watching the bathroom door, knowing that they would come out any minute. ‘You’ll have to cover for me with Burt. She’d never agree to me minding the boy instead of investigating Armstrong’s death.’

‘What should I tell her?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, irritable as ever. ‘Tell her I had a headache. Pretend I was with you. Does it matter? Lie.’

Easier said than done. ‘Don’t drop me in it,’ I warned him. ‘I’ll tell you what I tell her, and you have to back me up. She’ll punish both of us if she finds out I lied for you.’

He nodded. ‘What are you going to do with the rest of the day?’

‘See if I can find out anything more about Mark Pell and where he was on Thursday afternoon. I want to know what car he’s driving too so you can keep an eye out for it near your place.’

‘Good girl.’ He straightened up. ‘They’re coming back.’

‘Okay.’

‘Let’s get going,’ Derwent said with a wide grin, guiding Mrs Moore and Thomas towards the car park.

Mrs Moore twisted so she could see me. ‘Aren’t you coming too?’

‘I need to make some further inquiries here,’ I said, and I meant it; I’d completely forgotten about Mrs Hearn until I saw Young Kevin sitting in the corner of the lobby staring unseeingly at a poster for flu vaccinations. ‘DI Derwent will look after you.’

‘Oh.’ She gave him an uncertain look. He planted a hand in the small of her back and pushed her in the right direction, and I appreciated it as a technique when it wasn’t me he was pushing around. It might not have been respectful, but it was certainly effective.

I went back towards the lifts and pressed the button. The lift came quickly and I stepped inside, but stopped when I heard a hoarse voice calling.

‘Hold the lift. Wait a second.’

I complied, holding the doors open so Debbie Bellew could slip through them. I could smell cigarette smoke on her clothes, her breath. I couldn’t blame her for needing a break, if the nurse was to be believed. She was drawn, her eyes sunk in her head, and she didn’t look at me.

‘Mrs Bellew.’

She jumped a mile. ‘What – who?’

‘I’m Maeve Kerrigan. I’m a police officer. I spoke to you before.’

‘Oh.’ She looked thoroughly confused. ‘What do you want?’

I remembered what the nurse had said about Debbie being on Valium and decided it wasn’t the right time or place to ask her about Carl. ‘Just saying hello. How’s Becky?’

She shook her head and I couldn’t tell what she meant. The lift juddered to a stop on the second floor and a woman with a walking frame faltered on. When the doors closed, Debbie looked at me.

‘What do you want?’ The same question as before. I tried to look unthreatening.

‘Nothing. I’m just checking on one of the other victims of the fire. Mrs Hearn.’ I would walk down from Intensive Care, I’d decided, rather than leaving Debbie Bellow on her own in the lift.

A shrug: no recognition of the name.

‘She’s an elderly lady – she lived on your floor. Flat 104.’

‘I never noticed her,’ Debbie said dully.

‘She noticed you.’ Debbie stared at me and I felt I had to explain. ‘She had a security camera over her door. She watched everyone coming and going.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘But she’s had a stroke.’

‘Oh.’

‘So I wanted to check on her.’

It was absolutely clear to me that Mrs Hearn’s health and well-being meant nothing to Debbie Bellew, and why should she care? She was wholly absorbed in her own private hell. Not for the first time, I contemplated the reality of my job: by the time I turned up, it was too late to put things right. Catching the person or people responsible for Becky’s injuries wouldn’t help Becky, or her mother. Essentially, everything I did was irrelevant.

We reached the sixth floor and Debbie stepped out of the lift like a sleepwalker, walking away from me without so much as a goodbye.

I WAS WAITING
for the police officer who’d dealt with Melissa Pell’s domestic violence complaint to call me when Chris Pettifer and Mal Upton arrived in the office, looking thoroughly fed up. I waved at them. ‘Fun trip?’

‘Waste of time,’ Pettifer growled, walking past me.

‘I know.’

He stopped. ‘How?’

‘You went to interview Mark Pell, didn’t you? But he was in London. We saw him at the hospital.’

‘Are you sure it was him?’ Mal asked. ‘Maybe it was someone who looked like him.’

‘I checked his ID.’ I told them what had happened, and that Derwent had warned him to stay away from the hospital, Melissa and his son.

‘Is there any chance he was telling the truth about getting the days confused?’ Mal asked. Sweet-natured himself, despite his time in the police he hadn’t yet acquired the cynicism about human nature that the rest of us carried around like a shield. ‘It is Saturday,’ Mal persisted. ‘Maybe he thought we were coming to see him on Monday instead of today.’

Pettifer snorted. ‘No chance.’ He threw himself into his chair and nudged his computer mouse. The screen lit up and he stared at it for a second, then groaned. ‘Oh
shit
.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Mal came to look over his shoulder and started laughing straight away.

‘What is it?’ I was trying to see.

‘I left myself logged in on the system. Some absolute bastard has changed the operating language on my computer.’

I rolled back from my desk, feeling my mood lift. ‘To what?’

‘I don’t even know. What’s the one with the little circles over the letters?’

‘Norwegian?’

‘Maybe. What am I supposed to do now?’

Mal was trying, not very successfully, to hide his amusement. ‘Change it back?’

‘I don’t know how to do that when the screen’s in English.’ Pettifer shook his head, livid. ‘When I find the prick who did this, I’m going to tear him limb from limb.’

‘It could have been worse. They could have sent out an email from your account to everyone on the team.’ I nipped back to the safety of my desk, hiding behind my monitor, waiting for the penny to drop.

Mal had got as far as opening his emails. He gave a delighted snort. ‘Bloody hell, Chris. You could have told me.’

‘What? What is it?’ Pettifer thundered across the room and read the message out loud. ‘“Dear all, I will be embarking on gender reassignment surgery in the new year. From now on I would like to be addressed as Lisa.” I do not believe this
bullshit
.’

‘I know the team are going to be one hundred per cent behind you, Lisa,’ I said. ‘This really doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Mal protested. ‘Hours in the car today and not a word.’

‘Stop laughing and tell me who did this.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, and shrank as Pettifer glared at me. ‘I really don’t know. The email was sent this morning and I wasn’t in the office.’

‘Who was?’

‘I can’t tell you that either. I wasn’t here,’ I reminded him. But Derwent had been, and it was absolutely in line with his sense of humour. I didn’t think I’d mention that. ‘You should probably check to see who else was copied in.’ Such as the Met’s Commissioner, the most senior police officer in the entire force.

Pettifer’s howl of outrage was probably audible in every London borough.

My phone rang and I snatched it up, relieved for a number of reasons to have an excuse to bow out of the conversation that was about to take place.

‘Maeve Kerrigan.’

‘This is Karen Samuels. You wanted to talk to me about Melissa Pell.’ She sounded middle-aged and slightly hesitant.

I pulled myself together, Pettifer’s tribulations forgotten. ‘Thanks for getting back to me. You responded to a domestic at Mark and Melissa Pell’s residence last year, is that right?’

‘Yes. I spoke to your colleagues about this already.’ The first hint of a defensive note in her voice.

‘I know. I just wanted to check a couple of things.’ I had the report in front of me, the many pages of questions that we had to ask in cases of domestic violence.

Has the current incident resulted in injury?

Are you very frightened?

What are you afraid of? Is it further injury or violence?

Is the abuse happening more often?

When it happens, is the abuse getting worse?

Has____ever attempted to strangle, choke, suffocate or drown you?

Does he do or say things of a sexual nature that make you feel bad or that physically hurt you or someone else?

Melissa’s answers were back and forth: yes, she was injured. Yes, she was afraid. No, the abuse wasn’t happening more often. No, he had never strangled her. The picture I got was of someone who was being controlled, manipulated, terrorised, but within limits. And that frightened me more than anything else. Mark Pell was that very rare thing: an offender who knew when to stop. He didn’t get carried away. He didn’t get caught up in his own excitement. He didn’t lose his temper.

He simply taught his wife to fear him. And he taught her that no one would believe her when she told them she needed help.