Smoke Alarm (15 page)

Martha rubbed the centre of her forehead. ‘Oh, dear,' she said. ‘Of course we'll have to wait—'

‘For access to the building and the forensic fire investigator.' He gave a wry look. ‘He's having a busy time. We can't be sure yet that she was inside but—'

‘But you
are
connecting the two fires.'

He nodded, his face grim.

‘Then you know my next question, Alex. Is there any connection between the two families?'

‘Hey,' he protested, a smile softening his craggy features. ‘It's early days yet, Martha.'

Again, she waited for his response.

‘Not that we know so far.'

‘This retired nurse – did she have any enemies or was this a random attack?'

Alex's face creased with a grin. He was well used to Martha Gunn's ways. She might be coroner of Shrewsbury, mid and north Shropshire but he knew that she wasn't above a little sleuthing herself. A new perspective of ‘helping the police with their enquiries'. He suppressed a smile. ‘Again, too soon to say, Martha.'

‘But I take it you've already spoken to her next of kin, the two sons?'

He nodded. ‘They haven't seen her for a few days or spoken to her. That's not unusual, apparently. Since her retirement she's helped in the hospital shop. She also leads a very active social life and has been going on a number of cruises a year with various friends.'

‘So she could be away?'

‘If she is she hadn't told her family, which she normally would do, but she does have a wide circle of friends from her nursing days and sometimes pops over to visit them. Let's hope so. We're ringing round them now.'

‘Have you tried her mobile?'

‘It's not even ringing. Straight through to the answering service.'

‘Boyfriends? Jilted lover?'

Randall laughed. ‘She was in her early sixties, Martha.'

She decided to tease him a little. ‘Come on, Alex, you think women hang up their hormones when they touch fifty? Goodness – I'd better get my skates on. That gives me less than ten years.'

She immediately regretted her levity. Alex Randall's flush rose slowly but unmistakably and very colourfully up his neck, reaching his chin before sliding up his cheeks and suffusing his forehead. He looked around the room in utter, sheer embarrassment with a touch of panic.

‘I'm sorry, Alex,' she apologized. ‘I was just teasing.'

It did little to relieve his confusion. ‘Well, then.' Randall cleared his throat noisily. ‘We don't know of any boyfriend or partner and neither do her sons, but it's early days yet.'

‘And her computer will have been destroyed in the fire,' Martha mused, ‘along with her emails. Car?'

‘It isn't on the drive. There is a garage but when I last spoke they hadn't gained access.'

‘Well, Alex, either Mrs Deverill is in there, dead, or she is alive somewhere else. If the fire was started deliberately, as you say, and she was inside, it will be another case of manslaughter. And again, like the Melverley fire, either a personal or a random attack. But I have to say Melverley is a small village some miles out of Shrewsbury. Sundorne, by way of contrast, is right on the edge of the town. The two sites don't appear to have much in common. If this retired nurse was deliberately targeted was it by the same arsonist who torched Melverley Grange? Why these two dissimilar properties? Pure chance? Or is there a reason why these two places, these particular people were selected? Is there any connection between the two families? Is there perhaps something in Mrs Deverill's past which will lead you to your arsonist? Is this the work of one arsonist or is it a gang? Or could this possibly be a copycat fire?'

‘Phew. That's a lot to think about.'

‘What's in your mind?'

‘That we didn't release any details of the modus operandi of the fire at Melverley Grange.'

‘Could this be coincidence then? In such a small area? Is it possible the nurse's house was selected purely at random? Maybe. And if it was a random selection – well – we're all at risk.' She threw out her hands, relieved to see that Alex Randall's face had returned to its normal colour and expression. ‘I've not come across any deaths in connection with arson over the last few years.'

‘Luckily no one died in the recent arson attacks by those kids. They really are the only ones.'

‘They got a custodial sentence? I thought the idea was to keep first offenders out?'

‘They'd been cautioned before. They destroyed some school buildings. They'd stopped for a while – a matter of ten months or so – and then one night they did four houses along the row. In one of them there was a deaf old lady. Luckily for her she could just about pick up the smoke alarm and she'd had special flashing lights fitted by a deaf charity so she woke up. Otherwise she'd be dead. The other householders have been very much inconvenienced; they haven't been able to live in their own homes for over a year. The courts took a dim view of the whole thing, decided to make an example of them and sent them down.' He gave a sigh. ‘Whether it'll teach them a lesson, who knows? Some of these youngsters can be surprisingly thick at learning lessons.'

Martha nodded. ‘Quite,' she said, ‘but it wasn't them either.' She smiled. ‘Not unless Stoke Heath has suddenly become extremely lax in its security arrangements.' It was a ‘safe' joke which Alex could join in. ‘Absolutely not.' He grinned. ‘Or unless Stoke Heath has a secret passage into Sundorne.'

‘I very much doubt it,' Martha said.

‘Did you have anything much planned this weekend?'

She was shocked at the question. She and the detective had never, ever explored their private lives. Their relationship had always been strictly business. She eyed him cautiously before answering. ‘Apart from the usual ferrying Sam back from his football match, Sukey's ironing, catching up on domestic stuff and taking Bobby for a lovely long walk, you mean? Do any of those count as special?'

He regarded her without blinking, his head tilted to one side. Still asking the question, then.

‘Well, yes, actually,' she said, ‘I do have something special planned. On Saturday I have a date.'

‘What?' It obviously wasn't what he had been expecting. He began to bluster, to cover up his confusion, then said, ‘Well, I suppose it's natural. You've been widowed for so long.'

She nodded her agreement.

Randall moistened his lips. ‘So who's the lucky guy?'

‘He was married to a very dear friend.' She knew she should be more honest with him. ‘To be honest, Alex, it's more of a friendship than a romantic attachment. We both miss our partners. We're friends but I don't think it'll ever progress beyond that stage.'

‘Why not?'

She searched his face and realized this was genuine curiosity. The very private detective was overcoming his natural reticence about private matters to interrogate her. She answered with blunt honesty. ‘I don't know.'

‘Was Martin
such
a hard act to follow?'

‘I don't even know that, Alex,' she said frankly. ‘It's more that the spark is missing.'

Randall grinned at her so she knew he had moved away from the serious questions and was teasing her now. ‘Maybe that's just an age thing?'

‘Maybe,' she agreed. ‘Maybe, but you know, Alex, it would be strange to embark on a relationship without it.' And now he had tiptoed into her private life she felt justified asking him the same question. ‘And you? What do you have planned for the weekend?'

Instantly the shutters came down. He looked away and muttered something about it being the usual weekend. ‘I wondered,' he followed up tentatively, ‘if you'd care to visit the house in Sundorne? See if you come up with anything.'

It was the invitation she had both wanted and dreaded. The images of a twisted, blackened corpse would imprint on her mind again, as they had after her visit to Melverley Grange, but she was unable to resist the chance to inspect what might well be a crime scene. She looked at him. ‘I'm not sure,' she said.

Randall must have sensed something of her concern. ‘After we've removed the body, if and when we find it.'

‘If you think it will help understand what happened,' she said. ‘There's no point me getting squeamish in my job. More coffee, Alex?'

Randall stood up. ‘No. I should be going. It's going to be a busy day. Well, thanks for the chat,' he said. ‘I'll be in touch.'

‘You're going there now?'

He nodded.

For Martha the day passed as planned. At five thirty she was outside the football ground, waiting for Sam and Tom. As they burst into the car, full of football chat and laughing about a few of the day's mishaps she stowed their bags away in the boot, thankful that the ground had good shower facilities.

That night she was meeting up with Simon Pendlebury – again. Simon was the widower of one of her very best friends in the world, Evelyn, who had died from ovarian cancer – the silent killer, as the medical profession called it – eighteen months ago. Simon and her husband, Martin, had been friends at university and had remained so until Martin's death from cancer more than ten years ago. Simon had come from a very average background; his father had abandoned the family when he had been a child and his mother had struggled to bring Simon and his sister up, barely managing when he had gained a place in university. The Simon of today was not recognizable as the product of that upbringing. It was as though he had been polished, like a gemstone, over the years and now appeared very suave, very wealthy and very handsome. He had even shed his once-pronounced accent from a rough area in Stoke on Trent. Over six feet tall with very dark hair, penetrating eyes and a perceptive, confident manner. Elegant.

Simon lived in the lap of luxury in a period manor house with an efficient German housekeeper to attend to his every need. He also had two opinionated and selfish daughters with characters as brittle and sharp as shards of glass. Between them they had seen off a couple of their father's unsuitable girlfriends, labelling them ‘gold-diggers'. Martha could see none of Evie's gentleness in either of them. Maybe they took after their father.

She and Simon had fallen into the habit of dining together once a week or so. Once or twice Martha had cooked for him and a few more times they had gone out for dinner. On a couple of occasions he had invited her back to his house and his housekeeper had provided dinner. It should have been a romance but it simply wasn't and Martha wasn't sure why not. He was good looking, the proverbial tall, dark, handsome and rich. Intelligent with a wicked sense of humour.

But, as she'd said to Alex, the spark wasn't there, neither for her nor, she suspected, for him. Maybe it was because she had been such a good friend of his wife, perhaps, or because she had witnessed his falling hopelessly in love with Christabel, a girl easily young enough to be his daughter. Or maybe it was Simon's two daughters themselves, spoilt, rich, selfish. Armenia and Jocasta Pendlebury were capable of finishing off any budding romance their father might have and saw any intruding female as a money-grabber, to be disposed of quickly. Martha had never quite worked out how gentle, sweet-natured Evie had produced two such monstrous daughters. Had it been their father spoiling them or the exclusive schools they had been packed off to? Whatever the explanation Martha was sure that Evie would have been very disappointed in them.

In fact, she wasn't particularly looking forward to this evening even though they were booked into Drapers' Hall, one of her favourite eating-places in the town.

They had arranged to meet at Drapers' at seven thirty. Martha had chosen a simple black dress with silver straps, black very high-heeled shoes and had tried to style her own hair (big mistake)!

But as she faced Simon Pendlebury across the table she wondered why she felt so little for him? He was rich, intelligent, handsome, funny and always beautifully dressed. So what was it that made her want to keep him at arm's length when she was perfectly aware that he wanted a relationship?

Could she really blame Jocasta and Armenia?

Or was it something slightly more troubling? Was it the mystery of where his money had come from and that she and Martin had always suspected he was not quite kosher that made her mistrust him and doubt his motives?

Was it the stupid affair he had had with Christabel?

Possibly a bit of all these plus more.

She didn't trust him and had an instinct that he was basically dishonest, the sort of man who would climb over other men's heads to get out of the swamp. Underneath the charm there was something cold, something cruel about this apparently perfect man. If she could not find and love his flaws she could never love him. It is a person's imperfections that make them unique, vulnerable and ultimately lovable. She would never feel safe in his arms as she had in Martin's and those observations explained why.

He was commenting on her appearance. ‘You look well.' He reached across the table for her hand. ‘But distracted tonight. What is it, Martha?' His very dark eyes seemed to bore into hers so she looked away. She didn't want him to read her revulsion. She started. Revulsion? Had she really used that word?

She drew her hand away anyway.

It was almost nine o'clock before the police, forensic team, firemen (and woman) and the police surgeon congregated at the scene. Another smoking house, another wrecked home. But this time they had a surprise. An omission.

Delyth Fontaine was remonstrating with the unlucky PC Gary Coleman. ‘Well, I can't certify death without a body.' She was a blunt-spoken woman who never minced her words. ‘It's Saturday night, Coleman. You might have waited at least until you were sure.'

Although he was used to Dr Fontaine's ways Coleman felt bound to defend himself. ‘Well, it seemed the most sensible thing to do – have you here, ready. Then we could get on with hunting through and finding the source of the fire.'