Smoke Alarm (16 page)

‘I'm going home,' she said. ‘Call me on my mobile if you want me. I've a couple of sheep ready to lamb. It's a bit early in the season and I don't want to lose them to the cold, if you don't mind.'

Delyth's walk was more of a waddle but her exit was still dignified. Coleman stared after her feeling a little foolish. Then he turned to the watching firemen. ‘Come on, you,' he said, ‘it isn't a free show, you know.'

M
artha expected a call to come in at any time about the house fire, either that the police had found a body or that they'd made contact with the missing woman. Had her job not been so absorbing the day might have passed slowly but it didn't. She immersed herself in her tasks and left her office at five. On the way home she bought the
Shropshire Star
, expecting to see something more than she already knew but the newspaper headlines were muted, merely mentioning the fire in Sundorne without making much of it. There was no word of the nurse or whether she was dead or alive, the only reference being that the house which had been gutted by the fire belonged to a retired nurse named Monica Deverill, who was in her sixties. Martha assumed that the police would make no public comment until they had made certain of the woman's fate. She scrutinized the headlines, trying to read the meaning behind the words and noted that no connection was made between the fire in Shrewsbury and the Melverley arson. The modus operandi was not disclosed in either case and she strongly suspected that this detail was being deliberately withheld. She had heard nothing from either DI Randall or Mark Sullivan, the pathologist, so deduced there was no body to make the coroner informed of and no post-mortem in the offing which, again, would have involved her. She was intrigued and, naturally, itching to find out how the investigation was progressing. But it wasn't her role to ring either of them. She had no option but to wait for Alex Randall's call.

Without making an appointment or even ringing to say he was on his way, Alex Randall arrived unexpectedly at her office a little after midday. Jericho rang through, patently resenting the unannounced intrusion. ‘Ma'am,' he said a little testily, ‘I have DI Randall here. He wonders if he
might
have a word with you.'

The emphasis on the word
might
told Martha everything, that Jericho hoped she would relay the message back (via him) that she was far, far too busy to spend time with the detective. But the truth was that Martha was glad of the interruption. And curious, too, so she asked Jericho to send him straight in. Randall greeted her with a wide grin which provoked her comment, ‘You're looking very pleased with yourself, Alex. Does that mean you're getting somewhere?'

He faced her for a minute, looking friendly, but at the same time not overly anxious to respond to her question. His comment, though, was interesting. ‘Not really, Martha,' he said, his face breaking into a grin, ‘I just knew that you'd want an update and I thought I might share a couple of thoughts.'

‘That's nice of you.'

His next comment was even more neutral. He looked at the window and the view outside. ‘The nights are beginning to get lighter and brighter.'

She, too, glanced across at the window, wondering why this preamble. ‘Yes, they are, aren't they? Almost feels like the beginning of spring. It's a lovely time of year, isn't it, the end of the winter in sight?' As he didn't answer she added, ‘Did you come here merely to comment on the weather?'

He smiled back at her, in no great hurry, obviously, and she continued. ‘So how are the investigations going?'

‘Slow.' He didn't look too bothered by the lack of progress.

‘And the house in Sundorne?' she prompted. ‘Have you found Mrs Deverill?'

He shook his head. ‘There's no sign of her in the house although we can't be absolutely sure until we've combed right through the wreckage.' He stopped, frowning. ‘She
could
still be in there.'

She caught the doubt in his voice. ‘But you don't think so?'

‘I'm holding back my judgement.' He took pity on her then. ‘Let's just say that if she walked into the police station in Monkmoor saying she'd been on a last-minute cruise and had forgotten to tell her sons I wouldn't be hugely surprised. She sounds an independent woman who's quite feisty, used to living life her own way.'

She nodded. ‘So you think she's still alive.' It was a statement not a question.

Randall nodded, then tacked on, ‘But, you know, Martha . . .'

‘Do sit down, Alex, you're making me nervous.' She was no dwarf but he topped her by a good few inches and his naturally restless nature made it difficult for him to stand completely still. Something around Alex Randall was always moving, his feet, his hands, his head, his arms, his legs.

He dropped down into the chair. ‘Melverley is not a big village,' he began slowly and very obliquely.

She couldn't see even where this was leading but when Alex enlarged on the point it hit her like a bomb.

‘Although it was late and very cold on the night of the fire at the Grange,' he continued, ‘minus four degrees, it was dry.'

Martha waited, still wondering where on earth this was going.

‘Quite a few people were walking their dogs.'

The silence was thick as Randall waited for her to connect.

‘No one saw anything,' he continued. ‘Not a car or a strange person. You understand, Martha?' Randall's eyes burned into hers.

She did understand now and was silent. So was Randall.

She broke the silence. ‘William? But he can't have . . .' Her voice trailed away. ‘Nigel?'

But Randall wouldn't commit. ‘I'll keep in touch,' he promised. ‘If there's any news I'll call in again.' Again his face creased into a grin. ‘That is if I can get past your watchdog.' He glanced in the direction of the door. Martha smiled, knowing too that Jericho would be right outside it, trying to glean anything about the case that he could. If she wanted to be cynical she might say that she suspected that Jericho Palfreyman's ‘insider knowledge' got him free drinks at his local pub!

Alex left and Martha began to work out a plan of action. Coroners frequently have the luxury of being able to make a difference. She had used inquests before to make a point, anti-smoking, the hidden dangers of alcohol, a warning about neglected illness, soothing relatives of a suicide, a plea against knife crime and revenge. She had tackled greed and selfishness, grief and anger. And she had the feeling that this case would be no different. She started making notes on the Barton family tragedy.

Smoke alarms
, she wrote first, before ringing up the fire station and urging them to put out an advertising campaign. She spoke to Will Tyler, the station chief, who listened very carefully to her words. He too knew that tragedy was a good time to focus the public's awareness on safety issues.

But when she had put the phone down her thoughts were not on these wider points but centred on the dual mysteries of the missing nurse and the Melverley Grange tragedy. She rolled her pen between her fingers and wondered. Were they connected? Who would want to destroy first almost an entire family and then an elderly retired nurse with no apparent connection?

Something nibbled away at the back of her mind, like a mouse gnawing through skirting board, noisy, regular, insistent. Something to do with the nurse and the locked doors in Melverley Grange. But for the moment it was eluding her. Martha's face changed so she looked shrewd and thoughtful, her features pointed, her lips thin.

The nurse? Missing? So far.

On holiday? Perhaps.

Or were her charred remains still buried underneath the rubble of her one-time home, waiting to be discovered by the forensic fire team?

Was it chance that first Melverley Grange and then the modest home in Sundorne had been burnt? Were the properties not selected but random? It was, she knew, the big question. The answer would lead them to . . . what?

Alex Randall's thoughts were running almost parallel to hers as he faced his investigating force. ‘Right.' He indicated the board. ‘This is a free for all.' He smiled. ‘Or a brainstorm, if you prefer to call it that.'

There was a ripple of amusement round the room. All the gathered officers were familiar with DI Randall's dislike of jargon.

He continued. ‘We can all throw in ideas for who might have done it, either the fire out at Melverley or here in the town. Think why; think how; think who.' He appealed around the room then turned back to the board. ‘Let's start with the fire at Melverley Grange and ask the pertinent questions. Why lock the women in their rooms but not Jude? Was it coincidence that Nigel Barton was away? What about the old man? What part did he play? And is it possible that the fire in Sundorne was a copycat arson attack? Should we be considering the two fires as one incident, the second fire perhaps a consequence of the first? Or two? OK.' He looked around the room. ‘Here goes.'

With some trepidation Gethin Roberts started the ball rolling with a wavering raising of his hand, looking around nervously at his colleagues. ‘I don't think it's a coincidence that Mr Barton was away on business,' he ventured.

‘OK, Roberts, what's your thinking? Why not?' And as the young constable still looked nervous, typically Randall tried to encourage him. ‘Try and take us through it, Roberts,' he prompted gently.

‘Too much coincidence, too much money involved.' He went red. ‘The life insurance, I mean.'

Randall felt bound to point out, ‘But Barton's finances were in good shape. He didn't need the money. Besides, he really was away on the Wednesday and Thursday nights. We've spoken to the business associates and confirmed his meetings. At the time when the fire started he was seen at the hotel bar in York. We've seen the timed and dated CCTV pictures of the hotel foyer. That means, Roberts, that if he was, as you suspect, behind the fire, he would have needed to hire someone to set the fire going for him – which would put him in a very vulnerable position and open to blackmail.'

Roberts looked chagrined but Randall wanted the boy to develop as an officer. To use his brain. Think laterally, put himself in the place of a fire-raiser. And that would need encouragement. Not ridicule. Roberts' colleagues, he noted, were not inclined to jeer but were listening intently and quietly.

Good.

‘Don't give up, Roberts,' he urged. ‘Just try to think things through. Are you suggesting that Nigel Barton masterminded the entire event? I would find it hard to believe that he would murder his father, wife and daughter and risk his son's life. While we don't really know what the relationship was between Barton and the rest of his family, he's clearly very fond of the boy.'

Roberts was learning – quickly. ‘Well, I was thinking that he could have masterminded the entire thing.' He sourced inspiration from somewhere. ‘If he knew about Jude's ladder and that he was up at all hours' – he was warming to his subject –‘perhaps he'd know that Jude would escape.'

Randall gave the idea due consideration. ‘It's one hell of a big risk,' he said. ‘Fire shoots upwards and the boy was on the top floor. He could have fallen asleep early that night or been trapped or had his headphones on. If he had been asleep he would have died alongside his mother, sister and grandfather. Unless he was in on the act.' He blew out a sharp breath. ‘Or.' Randall scrutinized Roberts. ‘You saw him trying to rescue his family,' he said. ‘How did he appear to you?'

‘Distraught,' Roberts said without even thinking. ‘He was scream-ing and shouting. But then he was on fire. He was hysterical.'

‘Can you believe he could have known about it?'

Roberts shook his head. ‘He wasn't acting, sir. I'm certain of it.'

Randall nodded and threw the questions wider. ‘OK, let's go back to Mr Nigel Barton.'

The room fell silent as they all considered the guilt or innocence of the man.

Alex prompted them. ‘Is it simply coincidence that he was absent from home that night with an unbreakable alibi? But is that in itself something we should be suspicious of? York is miles away from Melverley. The journey couldn't be done in under three hours. It's 160 miles. It's not possible that he was there.' He shook his head. ‘No. He's off the hook. So – although it looks as though the Melverley fire might have been an inside job we can't complete the circle. We don't think Jude started the fire; neither do we believe that Nigel would have risked his son's life and there's no evidence of friction between Nigel and his wife or daughter. And he appears positively protective towards his father.' He tried to put his thoughts in order. ‘Was he the intended target? Did he just
happen
not to be there?' He should have remembered that he was in a room full of coppers. A ribbon of scepticism threaded around the room. The police dislike coincidence.

WPC Delia Shaw spoke up. ‘Sir,' she said tentatively, ‘I went to Mr Barton's office.'

‘Go on,' Alex prompted softly, sensing something soft as velvet but ugly as murder was creeping near.

‘It's very smart, near the abbey,' she continued. ‘It looks prosperous. He has a secretary called Mirabelle. Very attractive, I sensed.' She coloured. ‘She seemed a bit . . .' She frowned. ‘I wondered . . .'

Alex was tempted to retort,
Spit it out, whatever it is. Don't be coy, Constable
, but it wasn't his way to belittle his officers. He wanted to encourage them. Nurture them. They were his family. He needed to tease this out of the WPC as he had out of PC Roberts.

‘Are you suggesting that there was something between Nigel Barton and his secretary?'

The entire room was listening. Now it was Delia Shaw's turn to colour. ‘I just wondered. That's all,' she said lamely. ‘She seemed a bit – well, considering what's happened she seemed a bit cocky. A bit familiar. A bit casual.'