Smoke Alarm (11 page)

‘Yes.'

‘Can I speak to him?'

Her response was arch as she moved behind her shiny desk. ‘Does
he
have a choice?'

His reply was blunt. ‘Not really.'

‘Right, then. Do I get to know what it's about?'

Talith had a sudden fantastic urge to leap over the desk, kiss those red lips and ask her what business it was of hers? Tell her that secretaries don't have the right to know
everything
about their bosses. Instead he gave a goofy grin and watched as she pressed a button on her keypad and told Karoglan, presumably, that Detective Sergeant Paul Talith of Shrewsbury police wished to speak to him.

Karoglan was no surprise. Oily, handsome, dressed in a silky continental suit, he appeared in the doorway, his hand already held out and a smile pasted across his face. ‘Hello,' he said in a Mancunian accent, ‘how are you doin?' Without waiting for a response he continued with the traditional, ‘And how can I help you?' When Talith didn't respond straightaway he followed this with an eagle glance and a perceptive, ‘I suppose it'd be better if we went in my office. Eh?'

‘Thanks.'

The office was predictably Spartan in its furnishings with a small table in front of the window, two black leather chairs and a desk whose top was bare apart from a computer screen. On the table was the sole ornament in the room, a rectangular, blue glass dish decorated with an orange fish swimming across its middle. The wall reflected the minimalist taste of the room with one huge painting, a Turkish street scene of a man with curving slippers sitting in the foreground smoking a hubble-bubble pipe. It looked an original rather than a print. Talith's eyes swept around the room and returned to Karoglan, who was grinning at him. He jerked his head towards the painting. ‘Yeah, well,' Karoglan said with a self-effacing grin, ‘had to remind myself of the old country.'

The old country, Talith thought. Judging by his accent he'd probably never even been to Turkey, except maybe on a two-week package deal. Karoglan motioned Talith to sit and looked alert. Alert, Talith reflected, not wary. He dived straight in.

‘You've heard about the house fire at Melverley?'

Karoglan frowned. ‘Yeah. Awful. I heard Mrs Barton and her daughter died.'

‘How did you find out?'

‘A guy I used to work with.'

Talith hazarded a guess. ‘Pinfold?'

‘Yeah. That's right. He rang me up and told me. Awful.' Karoglan's frown deepened. ‘How did it happen?'

‘We don't know.' Talith paused, his lids hooding his eyes. Karoglan was an intelligent man. He'd know why he was here. He decided to approach his questions obliquely and made his voice deliberately pally. ‘What was Pinfold's take on it?'

‘Shocked. That's about it. Such a horrible thing to happen. Was it an accident, do you know?'

Talith said nothing and after a hard stare Karoglan leaned forward across his desk, his elbows flat. ‘You're not telling me it was deliberate?'

‘It's possible.'

‘Oh, sweet Jesus.'

He must have caught the surprise in Talith's face. He grinned. ‘There are such things as Turkish Christians, you know.'

Talith laughed too. Against his better judgement he rather liked the fellow. But he was not here to make friends. ‘I have to ask you – do you know anything about the fire?'

‘No.' There was just the hint that Karoglan might be about to take offence.

‘And, just for the record, where were you last Wednesday night between the hours of ten p.m. and two a.m.?'

Karoglan chuckled and gave a meaningful glance at the door, ‘I'll give you one guess,' he said, playfully assuming a Jack-the-lad expression.

Talith kept his face deliberately wooden. ‘And can anyone corroborate your story, sir?'

Karoglan got to his feet in one agile movement. ‘Teresa, love, can you come in here a minute?'

She was an elegant creature, Talith reflected, as Teresa entered the room, tossing her black hair behind her like a chiffon scarf. ‘Yusuf?'

‘Just tell the Sergeant here where I was last Thursday evening, there's a darlin,' he drawled lazily.

Talith was a weenie bit jealous of the careless, easy way Karoglan had with Teresa. If he'd had a girlfriend like that he'd have treated her like porcelain, not like some cheap, ordinary woman.

But Teresa didn't seem to mind. She aimed a friendly smile in the sergeant's direction. ‘I think I cooked for you that night, didn't I, darlin'? And then we watched a spot of telly and then . . .' The scarlet lips curved and she looked straight at Talith. ‘I wouldn't be a bit surprised if we went off to bed.' She gave Talith a mocking look. ‘That do you, Sergeant?'

Talith's response remained wooden. ‘Are you absolutely sure that's how you spent last Thursday evening?'

She nodded, not smiling at all now and actually not looking quite so pretty either, but even more vampirish.

Talith persevered. ‘And you wouldn't mind signing a statement to that effect, miss?'

‘Holloway,' she supplied, then shrugged as though the whole thing was of no interest to her. ‘Not at all – if that's what you want.' She looked back at Karoglan. ‘That all?'

Neither man moved and she took the initiative, her high heels clopping on the parquet floor like a horse's hooves. Both men watched her go. Behind her she left an aura of femininity and predation.

‘See,' Karoglan's voice was chummy now, conspiratorial. ‘If you think about it, it's obvious. I had no axe to grind with Barton or his family. If anything he'd have had the quarrel with me.' He gave a nasty smile. ‘I'm the one who's sucking his business bone dry. And . . .'

He didn't need to mention either the secretary or the Lexus parked outside. Talith was perfectly aware of both and Karoglan knew it. He was a man who would always underplay his cards. And yet the alibi could so easily have been arranged. And Talith was perfectly aware that Karoglan would be a ruthless and cruel opponent.

At the same time as Talith's encounter with Karoglan, PC Gethin Roberts had tracked Ben Hatton down to a small printer's in Slough. It didn't look a particularly prosperous business but rather seedy from the outside with a corner of the window boarded up and the chipboard plastered with graffiti. Hatton himself opened the door, bloodshot eyes and a day's stubble on his chin. He smelt stale and eyed Roberts warily.

Gethin Roberts swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously in his neck. ‘I'm from the Shrewsbury police,' he managed. ‘We're investigating a fatal house fire in the village of—' He got no further.

Hatton glared at him furiously. ‘So what are you coming here for?'

Roberts stood his ground. ‘We believe you . . . knew . . . the family,' he said bravely.

‘I knew them all right,' Hatton said grumpily. ‘I knew them all.' He stood quite still for a moment, as though he'd forgotten the police officer was there. Then he gathered himself. ‘I suppose you may as well come in,' he said grudgingly.

The shop inside was, if anything, even seedier than the outside. It smelt of tobacco smoke and sour milk and the carpet was badly stained, the counter made of thin, bendy hardboard. Even the machines looked ancient with sun-bleached plastic, wires and plugs everywhere.

Hatton sank down into one of the two chairs. ‘So what are you doing here?' he asked. ‘I left Barton's firm nearly three years ago. I've had nothing to do with him since then.'

Roberts felt very nervous now. ‘I have to ask you,' he squeaked, ‘where you were last Wednesday between the hours of ten p.m. and midnight?'

Hatton looked incredulous. ‘You mean, you think I had something to do with it, that I drove all the way up to Shropshire just to set fire to Barton's house with his family inside? That's ridiculous.'

‘Just answer the question,' Roberts said, ‘please.' He wished he didn't sound quite so desperate.

‘Look,' Hatton said. ‘It's all water under the bridge. Me and Julie, me and Barton. It's all behind me now. I've moved on.'

Roberts wished he had the confidence to point out that it didn't look much to him as though he had moved on. If he'd had to put a judgement on the situation he would have said that Hatton had not so much stagnated as slid backwards. He had plenty of reason to hate Barton and his family. He decided to go out on a limb just a bit. ‘How did you come to leave the firm?'

Hatton looked at him. ‘I was sacked,' he said. ‘I'd discovered a new way of doing things. Dear old Nigel really liked it. So much so that he took it on board himself. Took all the credit and all the profit. Bastard,' he muttered under his breath.

WPC Lara Tinsley tracked down Felicity Pinfold and found her defensive of her son and very bitter about ‘the way he was treated'.

‘Trumped-up charges,' she said angrily. ‘That's what they were. Trumped-up charges. Dear old Nigel just wanted to get rid of Stuart.'

‘And where is he now?'

‘He's working in a bar in Holland.' This was a surprise.

‘Does he come home much?'

‘Now and then. I go over there mostly. Fond of the country, I am. It's civilized.' Her sharp little eyes missed nothing.

‘Was Stuart home last week?'

She shook her head. ‘He hasn't been back here since Christmas. He rings me a couple of times a week though. And I ring him if I've got any news.'

‘Did you ring him about the fire?' Tinsley asked.

Mrs Pinfold's mouth worked as though wondering what to say and Tinsley waited.

Finally she got her answer. Felicity Pinfold gave a jerky nod. Lara wondered what her son's reaction had been. But there was no point asking Stuart's mother.

She wouldn't have told her anyway.

Randall, meanwhile, had decided that he would speak to Sean Trotter, the boy who had been Adelaide Barton's boyfriend. Though he didn't believe for a minute that the sixteen-year-old had set the fire at Melverley Grange and locked both his girlfriend and her mother in their rooms to die, he felt he must check out all available leads. If anything, he reasoned as he drove through the town, Trotter would have felt vengeful towards
Nigel
Barton – not Adelaide's mother, grandfather or brother. And certainly not Adelaide herself. As he drove out towards Melverley he passed the burnt-out wreck which had once been the Barton family home, and couldn't help the feeling of sadness which swamped him.

Trotter and his family lived in a very modest semi, probably once a farmworker's cottage. Randall knocked on the door and waited. Trotter opened the door to him. He was, as everyone had told him, built like an American football player, with huge shoulders and thighs. He was dressed in a Chicago Bears sweater and loose-fitting jeans. Trotter knew instantly who Randall was and why he was there. ‘In case you're wonderin',' he said, ‘I didn't go to school today. I couldn't face it. I haven't been in since—' He broke off then added, ‘You
are
the police, aren't you?'

Randall nodded and briefly flashed his ID card. Nigel Barton and his son had mocked Sean Trotter as an ‘all brawn and no brains' sort of guy but Randall's initial impression of the teenager was that he was blunt and honest, without guile, rather than stupid.

‘Mum's not here and Dad's at work,' the boy said. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?'

‘Yes.' Randall reflected how very normal this appeared. Quite civilized. Sean reappeared a couple of minutes later with two mugs of tea. ‘Didn't know if you wanted sugar,' he said. Randall declined.

They both sat down on a squeaky brown leather sofa.

‘Tell me about Adelaide,' Randall invited.

Sean drew in a deep, brave breath and shrugged. ‘She was just a really nice girl,' he said. ‘Natural, fun. Just nice. We weren't in love or anything and she'd have gone off to university anyway.' He gave a great shudder. ‘Not now,' he said quickly. ‘She won't go now.'

Randall had to steer the subject round very gently indeed. ‘Did you mind the fact that she would be leaving here?'

Sean simply shook his head. ‘'Course not,' he said. ‘'Course not. I was hoping to get a place at the sports college anyway. It's kind of built in to the way of things now. You have a relationship and then you both move on. I wasn't upset.' He dropped his head. ‘But I am when I think of what happened to her.' His face paled. ‘I keep picturing her screaming in there, burning. Going black. It's horrible.'

‘She died from smoke inhalation,' Randall said, wanting to alleviate the boy's obvious pain. ‘She didn't burn to death. She suffocated. She might not even have known what was happening.' But the picture he had in his own mind was of a frightened girl hiding underneath her duvet.

And Trotter didn't seem to be much reassured either. He closed his eyes and looked as though he was about to faint.

‘Just for the book,' Randall said casually, ‘I need to know where you were on the night of the fire.'

Trotter looked at him with his honest brown eyes and looked shocked. ‘You suspect me?'

‘Not really. It's just for the record.'

‘Football practice till eight. Then I came home for tea and did my homework. I didn't go out.'

‘And your parents?'

‘They were both here.'

‘Right.' Randall paused. ‘Do you have any idea who might have done this?'

The boy shook his head. ‘I can't think of anybody,' he said. ‘As far as I was concerned they were just a family.' He was frowning. ‘It doesn't make any sense.'

Randall couldn't see much point in continuing this conversation. It appeared that Sean Trotter had nothing more to add.

He returned to the station in a gloomy mood.

The briefing that evening was typical of the early stage of an investigation. Plenty of trivia to report but none that would move the case any further on. They hadn't really been able to exclude any of Barton's business associates. Yusuf's “alibi” was patently thin. Frustratingly they still had no idea why the arson attack had taken place, who had set the fire or even whether murder had been the ultimate motive.