Little Triggers (8 page)

The crop-haired fireman jerked his thumb towards Larkin. “This one says his mate lives up there.”

The younger fireman looked towards Larkin and shook his head. “Sorry, mate. If he’s there I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”

“Yeah,” Larkin said.

“We’ll have to calm it down a bit with the hoses before we can get a proper look in there. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Larkin said again.

The three of them turned to gaze at the house. The blaze seemed to have been caught in time; it wasn’t doing much damage to the houses on either side. As they watched, there was an almighty crack, like vicious thunder, and the roof of the house, its timbers devoured by fire, collapsed.

The firemen at the front of the house instinctively scurried out of the way. Even Larkin took a couple of steps back. The crowd oohed and ahhed as if they were watching a fireworks display. The hoses kept up a constant stream. After a while they were the only noise. Everyone else was staring in silence.

The younger fireman was the first one to speak. “We’re sorry, mate.” He looked genuinely upset.

“Yeah,” Larkin said for the third time. He glanced over to the ambulance which was closing up its doors, getting ready to take the mother and child to hospital. The crop-headed fireman spoke.

“You’d better hang around, son. I reckon the police’ll want a word with you.”

“Yeah,” said Larkin. He was starting to irritate even himself with his newly-discovered monosyllabic tendencies. “Tell you what, I’ll just make a quick phone call.”

And with that he turned towards the cordon, skipped underneath it and jostled his way through the dispersing crowd which, after seeing the roof fall in, had decided that anything else would be an anti-climax. Then he made it back to his badly parked Golf. The TV crew were rushing forward for an interview with the firefighters as Larkin turned the ignition over, reversed, and was off. He wouldn’t stay and talk to the police. He had a feeling he’d said too much already.

The journalists stood huddled together in the main office of The News Agents. They were muted, downcast, shuffling from foot to foot. They already knew why they had been summoned.

Bolland swept in. For once, thought Larkin, he really did resemble Michael Portillo; not the smug, arrogant-bastard, leader-in-waiting demeanour, but the constipated look he’d worn when he lost his seat at the election. Bolland took up his customary position in front of the group, and addressed them in unusually halting tones.

“Now … erm … All right, everyone. All right …” Bolland gave a half-hearted knock on the nearest desk to quiet the non-existent noise. Larkin looked around. Knifeblades of sunlight penetrated the vertical blinds fronting the windows, but failed to pierce the mood of the silent group.

Everyone in the office had heard about Houchen, either from the TV or from Larkin. And everybody’s response had been the same; initial disbelief, then excitement that one of their own was actually making the news, then a kind of numbness as they realised that someone they knew – irrespective of whether they liked him or not – had died an horrific death.

After leaving the blaze, Larkin had phoned Bolland, filling him in on what had happened. Once Bolland had recovered from the shock (which hadn’t taken long) he had suggested that Larkin might want to write a first-hand account and sell it to
The Journal
, before their own reporters produced second-hand eyewitness accounts. Larkin had put forward a token argument on ethical grounds but Bolland smoothly countered with, “I’m sure it’s what Ian would have wanted,” finally adding, without a trace of irony, “If the positions had been reversed, it’s what he would have done.”

Larkin had given in and written it. He had treated it as an opportunity to get the events straight in his head, make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Of course, he didn’t tell the whole story: the answerphone messages he kept to himself.

Now Bolland had his staff’s full attention. Joyce’s eyes were red-rimmed and her face puffy from crying; without doubting the sincerity of her grief, Larkin reckoned there was something of the professional wailer about her. He could imagine her crying on cue when coffins appeared and brides floated down aisles; he didn’t know what that said about her life. Carrie Brewer, on the other hand, occasionally darted glances of a sort in Larkin’s direction which made him think she would happily set fire to a building with a friend of hers in it if it meant she ended up with an eyewitness story.

Bolland had finished relating the facts of Houchen’s death; he was now gearing up to deliver a eulogy that would give full rein to his effusive vocabulary. Larkin tuned out, his mind replaying the inevitable visit he had received earlier that morning.

He had just faxed his piece to
The Journal
and crashed out on the bed when the doorbell rang. He ignored it and turned over. It rang again. And again. The insistency gave him a fair idea of who it was. He got up, shrugged himself into his dressing gown and went down to answer it.

As expected, it was the police: two of them. The older one, who looked to be in his early forties, spoke first.

“Mr Larkin?” The man brandished his warrant card. “We’re— ”

“The Sweeney, and you haven’t had any dinner?” Larkin interjected.

The older man’s lips briefly flicked into a pained expression that could have passed for a smile. “Detective Inspector Umpleby. This is Detective Sergeant Grice.” The younger one bobbed his head. “May we come in?” he said, not waiting to be invited.

They all moved into the front room and sat down as Larkin sized his two guests up. Umpleby wore a black and white checked jacket, crisp shirt and tie and razor-creased black trousers, with thinning hair cut short and combed back and a neatly-clipped moustache sitting on his top lip. He reminded Larkin of a retired professional
footballer, poured into his Sunday best and begging to be a pundit for Sky TV. A slight paunch was beginning to make its presence felt just above his belt. Just like a striker turned commentator, it looked like his glory days were behind him. And he carried the air of never having made it to the Premier League.

Grice was younger, rigged out in a smart three-button charcoal grey suit, black polo shirt, highly polished black boots. Hair cropped close to his skull. He resembled a pampered Rottweiler, or perhaps a failed Darwinian experiment into species regression: intelligent enough not to go looking for trouble, neanderthal enough to be in the thick if something kicked off.

The two policemen stared at Larkin, unsmiling, waiting for him to betray something. Anything. Larkin, knowing an interrogation technique when he saw one, stared right back.

Eventually Umpleby sniffed and looked round the room. “Nice place you’ve got here. Scandal and sensationalism must pay well.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Larkin quickly replied. “Not my style.”

“No,” said Grice, “we know what your style is. We know all about you.”

“My reputation precedes me, then.” Larkin held Grice’s look, allowed himself a small grin. He didn’t know these two or what their game was, but he wouldn’t rise to the occasion. “But never mind – it’s always a pleasure to be visited by the boys in blue. Tea, gentlemen?”

Umpleby and Grice were clearly taken aback, but managed to nod. Larkin excused himself politely and went into the kitchen.
One nil to the home team
, he thought.

Considering he was one man living alone, and all he’d done the night before was tip out an Indian takeaway onto a plate and open a four-pack of lager, the kitchen looked like a Russian nuclear reactor gone into meltdown. Globs of bright orange goo coated the sink and other surfaces; unnaturally radiant flakes of uneaten pilau rice and crimson stripes of keema nan added additional decoration. The air smelled of sour hops. He ignored it, boiled the kettle, filled the tea pot, put three mugs, milk and sugar on a tray, and returned to the front room.

“Out of biscuits, I’m afraid,” he said as he entered. The policemen didn’t seem to know whether to take him seriously or not. Good, thought Larkin: that’s what I wanted. He sat down.

Grice spoke first. “I presume you know why we’re here, Mr Larkin?”

“A new community policing initiative?”

Umpleby’s expression grew murderous, but his voice remained calm. “Ian Houchen, a colleague of yours, is dead. We’ve informed Mrs Houchen of her ex-husband’s demise – always a painful task. She couldn’t be of any help. We understand you were at the scene of the incident. Is there anything you can tell us?”

“I suggest you read my
Journal
article. Milk and sugar?”

They grunted affirmatively; Larkin handed them their mugs.

Umpleby took up the conversational duties while Grice gave his tea a suspicious stare, as if it had been poisoned. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen your article yet,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to …?”

“OK,” said Larkin. “I got a call from Houchen. He asked me to go over to his place. I went. When I got there it was on fire. The fire brigade reckoned he was dead. That’s it.”

Umpleby nodded. “And this call you received. How did he sound?”

“Well — ” Larkin began.

“Did he seem distressed? Anxious? Was it a social call or was it work?”

“I …” Larkin hesitated.
He sounded terrified. In fear for his life.
He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself. These two hadn’t done anything to earn his trust. Their confrontational, accusatory attitude had forfeited them their right to be told anything. “He just – called. Asked what I was doing. Asked me to come over. That was it.”

“And you spoke to him personally?”

Larkin swallowed, eyes downcast. “Yes.”

Grice leaned forward. “And he seemed all right, did he?”

“Fine. Had a bottle. Malt. Wondered if I fancied sharing it.” Larkin kept his eyes down.

“And this was something you often did? A matey get-together?” Umpleby again: suspicion in his voice.

“Sometimes,” said Larkin. He felt his mouth go dry; he cleared his throat.

“And he wasn’t … worried about anything? Nervous, like?” As Grice spoke, Umpleby turned to him: a coded message flashed from his eyes. Grice immediately fell silent. Larkin pretended not to notice, but it had the effect of a mild electric jolt. Suddenly, for some reason he didn’t yet understand, lying felt like the right thing to do with these two.

“As I said, he seemed fine. Why? D’you think he killed himself, or something?”

“It’s early days yet, Mr Larkin,” said Umpleby, looking pointedly in Grice’s direction, “but from what we can piece together so far, it seems as if the fire did indeed start in Mr Houchen’s flat. Antiquated gas supply. Maybe that whisky you mentioned made him clumsy with lighting it. That’s only a theory, of course, but it seems the most logical at the moment.”

“Right.”

They fell silent again. A question popped into Larkin’s head; he decided not to ask it. Instead he slowly sipped his tea, trying to look relaxed.

“So there’s nothing more you can tell us, Mr Larkin?” asked Umpleby.

“Nothing that’s not in the article,” he replied.

“Well, in that case …” Umpleby stood up, followed by Grice. He handed his mug back to Larkin – Grice’s tea sat on the floor, untouched. “Thanks for the hospitality. We’ll see ourselves out.”

“Any time,” said Larkin.

Grice sidled past him on his way to the door. As he went he curled his lip at Larkin. It could have been anything, a sneer, a smile or an Elvis Presley impersonation. Larkin gave a solemn wink in return.

As he reached the door, Umpleby paused and turned. “Mr Larkin?” There was a glint in his eye as he spoke. “Perhaps our remarks about your chosen profession were tactless. So if you think there’s something we should know, something perhaps omitted from your article — ” He produced a business card. “You know where to find us.”

The door shut and Larkin stood alone in the hall. Something was going on, their manner told him that, but he didn’t have a clue as to what it was. He was just glad he’d trusted his instincts and kept quiet.

He looked at his watch. It wasn’t worth going to bed. With a sigh he padded back to the kitchen, to microwave the remains of his discarded supper for breakfast.

Bolland was wrapping up his eulogy. Prior to this morning, the office staff had believed Houchen to be just another overweight,
sweaty photographer: Bolland’s words left them wondering how they could have failed to notice the true Houchen; the crusading ambassador for truth and justice, blessed with a Gandhi-like wisdom. Larkin shook his head in disbelief.

The meeting broke up. Slowly, people drifted back to their workstations. Bolland surveyed the office, accepted that applause would not be forthcoming, and motioned Larkin into his office.

“Twice in two days I’ve been in here, Dave,” said Larkin, attempting to perch on the chrome and leather construction. “Tongues will wag.”

“Tongues can do what they bloody well want.”

“Like that, is it?”

“Yes it is,” said Bolland, leaning forward. “I’ve had the police round here, asking questions.”

“So have I,” said Larkin.

“Then catch me up on the investigation, Stephen.”

“Pardon?” said Larkin. Either Bolland had been picking up hip but obscure slang from American cop shows, or he was fighting a losing grammatical battle.

“Just tell me what’s been going on,” he demanded irritably. “Was Houchen into something he shouldn’t have been?”

“I know as much as you, Dave,” said Larkin, comfortably, finding it easier to lie to Bolland than to the police.

“What did you tell the police?”

“That he seemed perfectly normal. That he asked me round to his place to share a bottle of malt. They reckon he was pissed and playing with the gas fire.”

Bolland nodded twice in succession, the corners of his mouth pulled down. “And what d’you think, Stephen?”

“I think Houchen must have been sharing his flat with Eskimos to want the fire on in the middle of July.”

“Did you mention that to them?”

“No.”

Bolland frowned. “Why not?”

“Why d’you think? If they reckon he wanted the fire on in this weather then they’re either thicker than they look – which would be hard – or they’re lying.”