Minds That Hate (18 page)

They stared at the picture. It was of a vixen suckling her cubs. ‘She must have been proud of it.’ Becky thought for a moment. ‘But why are there three copies?’

They stared at her in silence.

She turned to Nash. ‘There’s an identical photograph in two of the bedrooms. Different sizes, but the same subject.’

‘I didn’t notice,’ Nash confessed.

‘The ones upstairs are spare prints. After she won the prize she had this enlarged and framed. She said she’d done it just for me. That I had to keep it, always.’ Vickers turned away so the others couldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

‘I see.’ Becky stepped forward and examined the photo closely. ‘The frame’s a bit heavy for the subject matter, don’t you think? Let’s take a closer look.’

They lifted the picture from the wall, carried it through to the kitchen and laid it face down on the table. ‘Pass me a sharp knife, would you?’ Becky slid her fingers round the back of the frame. ‘I’m going to loosen the tape,’ she told Vickers. ‘I promise not to damage the picture.’

Her actions were quick and neat. Within minutes she lifted the back-plate clear. ‘Bingo!’

They crowded round. Inside was a second plate. Neatly fixed to it with photo mounts was a collection of smaller photos. Each was inscribed with a date, a time and a location. The
couple in the shots, admittedly much younger, were instantly recognizable to everyone except Vickers. ‘That’s Gemma, but who’s that?’ Vickers pointed to the man.

‘No idea,’ Nash said quickly, his glance warning the others.

Vickers continued to stare at the photos. ‘What’s so special about these? Apart from the fact that they prove Gemma was having it off with someone? Why did Stacey bother to take them and why hide them so carefully?’

‘We’ll borrow these. In the meantime,
Viv, take Gary back to the station whilst we secure the house.’

When
Viv had left with Vickers, Clara said, ‘That’s Carlton Rathmell. Why deny you knew him?’

‘If Vickers found out
who it was, I dread to think what he’d do. But I know why Stacey hid these. Rathmell entered politics on the back of his wife’s money. He was a fledgling MP in those days, certainly unable to withstand the scandal of a juicy divorce. Mrs Rathmell’s family are staunch Catholics. If this –’ Nash flicked a hand over the photos ‘– had come to light, his funding would have dried up overnight.’

‘That was then. What about now?’

‘The situation’s not a lot different. Rathmell’s just begun this new political initiative. Split right away from mainstream politics. If anything, he’s more vulnerable now than he was then. And in consequence even more reliant on his wife’s money. These photos were dynamite then. They’re more like Semtex now. And their existence, coupled with the ones Tucker shot, provide a very strong motive for murder. Or murders.’

‘You think
Rathmell killed Stacey? And Tucker?’ Clara asked.

‘I don’t know. Not for sure,’ Nash admitted. ‘But I’m convinced one of the people in these photos committed both murders.’

Becky stared at Nash in horror. ‘You can’t believe Gemma Fletcher murdered her own daughter? Just because she’d found out about this affair?’

‘You haven’t met her,’ Nash replied grimly. ‘If her affair with
Rathmell has lasted all this time, that shows a passion I wouldn’t have suspected Gemma was capable of. I honestly believe Gemma Fletcher would have gone to any lengths to protect Rathmell. Still would to this day. A small matter like the murder of a journalist would be something she’d not think twice about. Nor do I believe she’d flinch from disposing of her own daughter if she felt threatened. Gary told me Stacey was the result of Gemma’s one-night stand. In her file the birth certificate reads “father unknown”. I’m not sure there was ever such a thing as a normal maternal relationship between Gemma and Stacey.’

‘You reckon it was
Gemma, rather than Rathmell?’ Becky persisted.

‘On balance, I think
Rathmell’s favourite. In my opinion he’s a cold, calculating, evil bastard. He’s prepared to use any means to get what he wants. Look at this political campaign he’s launched; a lethal mixture of xenophobia and racism. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the racially motivated attacks have taken place just as Rathmell’s starting this “new political initiative”. He’s charismatic, gives the impression of latent power, and that attracts those weak enough to believe in him. They mistake ruthlessness for strength. You take a man like that, put him in a relationship with a woman like Gemma Fletcher, give him chance to wield some authority, and the mixture is like an unexploded bomb. The violence we’ve seen could only be the prelude to far worse, unless we nip it in the bud. As for poor Stacey, I’m afraid that coming between those two, she didn’t stand a chance. I certainly wasn’t going to give Vickers any hint as to who might be responsible.’

Nash didn’t have any difficulty getting to sleep; the events of the day ensured that. At one point, he half stirred at the sound of a distant siren. A while later he heard it again, closer this time. Then closer still. After some confusion he realized it was his mobile. ‘Nash.’

Seconds later he was wide awake. His contribution to the conversation was mostly monosyllabic. ‘What? Where?
When?’

He switched the light on and pressed a number on his phone. ‘Clara, we’ve got a problem.’

Nash surveyed the scene from a safe distance. Two fire engines had been deployed. Their hoses were trained on the source of the blaze. It was part of a terrace comprising shop units, with flats above. Nash was struck by the familiarity, but it was a few seconds before he placed it. This parade of shops was identical to the one on the other end of the estate, where the Hassan family had narrowly escaped death. Here and there were small groups of residents forced from their homes by the blaze, the danger, the insistent firemen or just plain curiosity. Those living closest to the fire were clad in a variety of nightwear hardly suitable for outdoors in Britain. Fortunately it was a warm night. The heat from the fire helped. Doug Curran approached. ‘Evening, or should I say morning, Mike. Another bad one, I’m afraid.’

‘Any casualties?’

‘Not that we’re aware of. We got everyone out of the flats. The shops were all closed, even the off
licence. We managed to get into all the other units bar that one.’ He pointed to the shop that was burning fiercest. He pushed his helmet back wearily. His face was stained with sooty black residue, down which rivulets of sweat formed clean trails.

‘Was it deliberate?’

‘Definitely. Some form of accelerant; probably petrol.’

‘What was the shop?’

‘It wasn’t a shop. Not anymore. It was Councillor Appleyard’s constituency office.’

‘Really?
That’s interesting. Anybody contacted him yet?’

‘One of my chaps was phoning his home when you arrived.’

‘Excuse me, Doug.’ They swung round as a fireman approached. ‘I’ve just spoken to Mrs Appleyard. Her husband isn’t home. She said he was working late.’ The fireman jerked his thumb towards the inferno. ‘In there.’

‘If he was in there, he wouldn’t stand a chance. And we’ll not be able to find out either. Not for the best part of twenty-four hours.’

They glanced up at the sound of screeching brakes. Tension eased when they saw it was Mironova. ‘The Belle from Belarus,’ Curran exclaimed.

‘I didn’t realize you were an admirer.’

‘I am, just don’t tell the wife. Anyway, I wouldn’t stand a chance. Whenever she’s free from obeying your every whim, she’s off gallivanting with the gallant major.’

‘Now, now, Doug.
You mustn’t let jealousy embitter you.’ Nash inspected the fire officer. ‘I’m sure you look very handsome in your uniform. When it’s been to the cleaners.’

‘At least you can tell I’ve been working,’ Curran retorted.

‘What’s going on?’ Clara joined them.

Nash and Curran began to explain, issuing fragments of disjointed sentences between them.

‘Hang on, hang on. One at a time.’

Nash completed the briefing, ‘If
Appleyard was inside, and Doug’s suspicions about arson are proved right, it’s murder. If he’s dead, there’ll be trouble when word gets out. If it’s foul play, there could be mayhem. If the xenophobes turn on the asylum seekers and migrant workers, there could be wholesale slaughter.’

There seemed little the CID officers could do. ‘Go get your beauty sleep,’ he told Clara. He watched her car disappear through the clouds of smoke and steam. Curran
had returned to directing his men. Nash took his mobile out. ‘Becks, it’s Mike. Would you like to come and sit by a nice warm fire?’

He laughed at the expletives coming down the phone. ‘That’s not very nice. I’m in the middle of the
Westlea. Someone’s torched a terrace of shops. I thought you might like some exclusive shots. You can chalk this up as a first. I don’t usually drag women out of bed.’

Nash sought out Curran. ‘I don’t think there’s much I can do.’ He eyed the small knots of people staring at the burning building. ‘I’ll get hold of uniform and ask them to send some men to keep the onlookers at a safe distance.’

Curran snorted. ‘Those aren’t onlookers. They’re looters, waiting for the heat to die down and they’ll be in there, faster than a seagull on its way to the council tip.’ He gestured at the assembly. ‘I’ll bet every last one has a carrier bag in their pockets. I’m astonished none of them has turned up with a supermarket trolley. Carrion, that’s what they are. Speaking of which, will you inform Mexican Pete? He should be on hand when we go into the building tomorrow. We’ve got to assume Appleyard’s in there.’

‘I’ll leave that until morning.’ Nash glanced at his watch. ‘What I will do is go talk to
Mrs Appleyard.’

‘That might help,’ Curran admitted. ‘Hello, who do we have here?’

Nash looked up and saw the Mini Cooper. ‘That’s Becks, Becky Pollard, photographer from the Gazette. I phoned her. Didn’t think you’d want to miss the chance of some action photos. Our firemen heroes! That sort of thing.’

‘Mike, you’re a lying
pillock. You’re not even a convincing liar.’ Curran eyed the approaching girl. ‘I must say you know how to pick ’em. Are you er...?’

‘Not
yet, and probably not at all. She’s the chief’s goddaughter.’

‘Christ, Mike! I thought I was the one who plays with fire.’

Becky had already taken shots of the building, the appliances and the fire crews before she joined them. Nash introduced Curran. The fire chief held out his hand hesitantly. Becky glanced down and saw the grime. She shook his hand vigorously. ‘Can I take your photo?’

‘I was just suggesting that as you arrived,’ Nash said with a grin.

Becky took more shots. ‘I had an idea on the way over,’ she told Nash. ‘I thought if I rush these through to Netherdale I can write up some copy whilst I’m in the office. That way, I can go back to bed later and catch up on some sleep.’

Nash thought for a moment. ‘If you drop your car off, I’ll give you a lift. I’ve a call to make, and I can tell you what we know for your article on the way.’

Nash pulled up outside the
Appleyard residence. All the downstairs lights were on. He’d been silent since they left Helmsdale. Now Becky saw the look of increased tension on his face. ‘Who are you going to see?’

‘I’ll tell you when I get back. Just sit tight.’

The girl who answered the door would be eighteen, no more, he guessed. She’d been crying. Nash showed his warrant card and was shown into the lounge. He introduced himself to the family; another daughter, a few years younger, and a son who Nash guessed would be in his early twenties.

‘I’m sorry to intrude.’ Damn silly thing to say, but Nash was no good at this sort of situation. He suspected nobody did it well. ‘I assume
you’ve not heard from your husband?’

Mrs
Appleyard choked on a sob. ‘No.’ The answer was little more than a whisper.

‘And there’s nowhere else he might be?’

It was the son who replied. ‘Father rarely went to the pub. Certainly not until this time of night. He had no other interests. He was only concerned with politics and his family.’

‘Does he often go to his office on Sundays?’

‘Father’s a very busy man, Inspector. He takes his responsibilities to his constituents seriously. He goes most days, regularly staying late.’

‘Then all we can do is hope there’s been some mistake. We won’t be able to find out for sure until the fire’s been brought under control.’

‘How long will that take?’ the older girl asked.

‘The fire
brigade reckon it’ll be later tomorrow before it’s safe to enter the building. After that, it’ll be up to the forensic experts to determine if anyone was inside. In the meantime –’ Nash offered his card. ‘– if there’s anything you need, call me. My mobile number’s on there.’

He got back in the car with a sigh of relief. ‘I hate that job,’ he admitted.

‘Tell me about it?’ Becky asked as he set off towards Netherdale.

Nash explained as much as he dared. ‘We believe it was arson. The source was
Appleyard’s office. Appleyard’s missing. I don’t want this printing, by the way.’