Smoke Alarm (17 page)

Randall was still gentle with her. ‘Was there any hard evidence of anything?'

‘No.' Then her natural defences struck up. ‘Well, there wouldn't be, would there?'

A titter did a Mexican wave around the room this time while Randall cursed his choice of adjective.

‘Is Mirabelle married?'

‘Divorced.'

‘On the grounds of?'

‘Irretrievable breakdown.'

‘Good.' Randall approved. At least the WPC had done her homework, followed through a lead, checked out a hunch. He determined to speak to her after the briefing and ask her to follow up her idea.

He turned again to the whiteboard and the list of three names. ‘Now then, of the three business associates, Karoglan's in the clear. He was with his secretary in his flat in Chester.' Talith couldn't resist grinning at the memory of the lovely and very sexy Teresa Holloway.

Randall continued, oblivious to his sergeant's fantasy. ‘The doorman saw them go in around eight and they didn't come out again. He was nowhere near Melverley.' He pencilled a line through the name before moving to the second name. ‘Hatton is now living in Slough. Although he's still bitter I can't see him travelling up to Melverley. Besides, he'd know that Nigel was away roughly one night a month. His quarrel was with Nigel Barton – not with his family. I think he would have made sure that Barton was in the house that night.'

Another pencil line then he tapped the tip of the pen. ‘And Pinfold lives in Amsterdam, according to his mum. She still lives in Melverley and is very angry and bitter towards Barton. She feels that he ruined her son's life because he never gave him a second chance.' He looked around the room. ‘But we know something she doesn't know: her innocent little boy was in the United Kingdom between the dates of the twenty-third and twenty-sixth of February. So what was he doing here? I suggest that we have another chat with Mrs Pinfold.' He hesitated. ‘And young Jude.'

Gethin Roberts stirred. Randall caught it. ‘Go on, Roberts.'

‘The boy was burning,' he said. ‘He was in a panic. I can't believe he had anything to do with it.'

‘Right. OK. It's a valid point.' He paused. ‘I have no suspicion that Jude started this fire but I wonder if he knows just a little more than he is telling. Now does anyone else have anything else to add?'

It seemed not. Alex Randall summed up, divided them into teams and wrote a list. ‘We need to focus first of all on Stuart Pinfold and his mother. Talith, you and Coleman can head off on that one. Shaw – as you've already an interest in Mirabelle you can pursue that line of enquiry. Roberts, you and I will be searching through all the detail we have to see if we can discover a connection between the Bartons and Monica Deverill. Coleman, take some statements from the neighbours and see when Mrs Deverill was last seen, if there are any clues. OK? Any questions? No?'

He dismissed the briefing.

It took until the afternoon before the team of firemen working at Sundorne could give him a categorical answer. Alex had returned to the property and found Will Tyler and Colin Agnew in deep discussion.

Tyler spoke up for them. ‘We've gone right through with a toothcomb, Inspector. She isn't here,' he said. ‘Wherever she is she didn't die here. And her car's missing.'

Randall frowned, met the fireman's eyes and waited for him to enlarge. He'd met Tyler before and found him a wise old fire chief. He knew about fires. Alex trusted his instincts.

‘So?'

‘So she's either on holiday and blissfully ignorant that she doesn't have a house any more, or she set it alight herself or –'

Randall finished it for him. ‘Or,' he said, ‘she was abducted by our arsonist.'

Tyler scooped in a deep breath. ‘I'd better speak to her sons,' he said.

James and Gordon Deverill were easy to track down by mobile phone. They already knew about the fire and that their mother was missing and Alex Randall felt it was important that they were kept up to date with the investigation.

After receiving a negative answer when he asked them whether their mother had been in touch, Randall asked that they come down to the station ‘for a chat'. He suspected they were not fooled as neither of them asked whether their mother's body had been found. He felt a touch of sympathy when Gordon Deverill tried to cover up his upset by repeatedly clearing his throat while his brother stood stiffly by. Randall suspected that James, being the older, was better at hiding his feelings.

They arrived together an hour and a half later, James in a business suit – he must have come straight from work – and his younger brother in jeans and a sweater. They struck him as decent and pleasant young men and they both looked very apprehensive.

Randall showed them into an interview room and ordered tea for James, coffee for himself and the younger brother. He opened the conversation. ‘The fire people have now gone right through the house.' He paused. ‘They have found no sign of your mother's body.'

‘Thank God.' They spoke as one.

But then they started to put two and two together. They stared at him, seemingly unable to take it in. Gordon spoke first. ‘So she wasn't at home when the fire broke out?'

‘All I can tell you, with any certainty,' Randall repeated very steadily – hand to the tiller in rough seas – ‘is that her body is not in the house.'

He could tell from Gordon's widened eyes and James's hand rubbing an already-bald spot on his head that they weren't sure whether to be relieved, puzzled, or even more worried.

‘I know you've already been interviewed,' Randall said steadily, ‘but I want to go over everything. First of all, when did you last see or speak to her?' Without waiting for them to answer he continued, ‘And secondly, has she ever done anything like this before?'

The brothers looked at each other.

James spoke first. ‘I spoke to her a week last Monday evening,' he said, ‘the seventh. Val and I wondered if she'd like to come over for lunch at the weekend.'

‘What did she say?'

‘That she was busy that weekend,' James's clear eyes met those of the inspector, ‘but that she would be over this coming weekend i.e. the twentieth.'

‘Did you ask her what she was busy doing?'

James drew in a long, regretful breath. ‘No, I didn't. She didn't like us prying. She had a lot of friends from her nursing days and resented us intruding.' His eyes met those of his brother's and seemed to flash a warning. ‘She valued her privacy. Our father used to be fairly possessive. Apart from work Mum didn't really have much of a social life when they were together. When he died it was as though she'd been let off a leash. Weeks in Spain, cruises, visiting friends. She and Dad both had quite good pensions and she's always been good with money.'

Randall nodded. He was building up a picture of the proverbial ‘Merry Widow'.

‘She worked full time as a nurse?'

‘Oh, yes.' This time it was Gordon who spoke. ‘More than full time. Nights, weekends. The phone would ring at home and she'd be called in because someone else was off sick. Dedicated. She was dedicated.'

More of the picture. ‘What sort of nurse was she?'

‘Psychiatric.'

Randall felt a chill. His collar felt tight as though it was choking him. Surreptitiously he undid his top shirt button. Then realized that both men were watching him.

He forced himself to continue. ‘Has she ever done anything like this before – gone missing?'

It was Gordon who answered for them both. ‘Not for this length of time. Maybe the odd weekend but she'd have her mobile with her. Text or ring and let us know. We've been trying her mobile. It's been switched off. I'm really worried. Even without the fire I'd be worried.' His voice was rising as he carried on, ‘As it is I'm beside myself. It's awful.' There was a note of hysteria in his tone now.

‘I shall need a list of all her friends and acquaintances,' Randall said.

They looked at one another. ‘We don't know
all
of them,' Gordon said awkwardly. ‘And I suppose her address book and stuff has been destroyed.'

Inwardly Randall sighed. This would prove to be tricky. ‘Is there anything else that might help?' He looked hopefully from one to the other.

They looked glum. ‘No.'

A
fter speaking to the Deverills Randall spent some time drawing up another list of things to do.

For now he was treating the two cases as one and searching for a link. He might be wrong but this was to be his starting point. So top of the list was anything that might help track down the missing woman. And that meant her mobile and landline printouts and an alert on her car. They would appoint one of the junior officers to ring each and every number and see if any of her friends had a clue as to her whereabouts. At the back of his mind he still thought it a possibility that she was fine – just away, somewhere else, maybe with friends and the fire was an unlucky coincidence. She might not even be in this country. It was all too easy to get away last minute and there were still points on the globe where mobile phones and ‘the news' did not penetrate. She might be holed up in just such a spot and unable to inform her sons of her whereabouts. But he couldn't completely discount the theory that she had been abducted by the fire-raiser.

Randall sat, his chin in his palm, and thought. The next priority was to speak to Jude Barton. Again. Randall had a feeling that the boy knew something significant. Which, for whatever reason, he wasn't telling. After all, he was the sole survivor of what the papers were mistakenly now starting to headline as Death House 1. Even if he was not absolutely certain about the connection the local and national papers appeared to have no such doubts.

Randall also felt that he should follow up one small statement, which had seemed insignificant at the time but might be important. It could just lead them out of this blind tunnel and show them a way back into the light. The boy, Jude, had told him he spent time with his grandfather listening to stories. What stories? Randall wondered. Had the old man given the boy any sort of hint that all was not well in his psyche? Had there been forewarning that things might tip him farther away from his sanity? And why was he, Alex, even thinking about Barton the elder when it was patently obvious he could have had nothing to do with the second fire? Why? Why? Why?

And now Randall was wondering why he had not recognized just how important Jude Barton might be as a witness. Because the boy's statement had appeared so very bland and uninformative? He drummed his fingers on the desk. Almost banging out a rhythm, of admonishment to himself and a warning to be more vigilant. He would rectify this situation himself, leaving the rest of the team to focus on the other leads they had outlined in the briefing.

And so, finally, Detective Inspector Alex Randall went home, if not content and optimistic then at least feeling that the scent of optimism might lie just around the corner. He went home believing he had it all planned out.

The morning brought its own surprise. Randall was at the station for 8 a.m. and was met by Sergeant Paul Talith at the door. And Talith patently had something to say. He was shifting his not inconsiderable weight from foot to foot in a dance of impatience as Randall arrived. Randall had always had a hearty regard for Talith. Although he didn't look like a particularly thoughtful person – he was a big guy with thinning hair, meaty thighs and a double chin, which appeared to increase in size almost daily – Randall had realized that sergeant Paul Talith was blessed with a good dollop of common sense. He was a football freak who was not usually very good at dealing with the general public, displaying poor humour and impatience. But in spite of all this there had been times when it had been Talith who had put his finger right on the throbbing pulse of a case, made an apparently thoughtless or accidental remark which had led to a train of thought which, in its turn, had pointed the way towards a conclusion. Randall respected the guy and was always happy to have him around.

Talith began with a polite, ‘Morning, sir,' which Randall returned. Then the sergeant cleared his throat. ‘We've had a bit of an interesting development, sir.'

Randall felt his interest stir. A ‘bit of an interesting development' was just what they needed. ‘Go on, Talith.'

‘Well, you know the woman who's missing after the fire in Sundorne, Monica Deverill?'

‘Ye-es?'
Wait for it
.

Talith revealed his trump card. ‘She's logged on as having rung the helpline around seven p.m. after your TV appeal.'

‘What?' Randall felt his pulse quickening. ‘You're sure?'

‘We have the tape, sir.'

Without another word Alex Randall followed Talith into the communications room and slipped on a pair of headphones. He heard the operator say, ‘Can I have your name, please,' and the woman's answer, clear and precise. ‘My name is Monica Deverill. I heard your lunchtime broadcast. I think I know something about the fire out at Melverley Grange.'

‘Really?' The operator sounded only faintly interested.

‘Yes, you see . . .' There was almost a cluck of annoyance. ‘It's so difficult to put all this sensibly over the phone. It'd be better . . .' A pause, then, ‘Can I call in tomorrow morning and speak to someone personally?'

The operator's voice was soothing and polite now, bordering on patronizing. ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Deverill. We have a team of officers ready to talk to anyone who thinks they might have information on the case.'

Mrs Deverill didn't even hesitate. ‘I'll call in tomorrow then. Around eleven?'

‘That's fine, Mrs Deverill. Thank you for your call. Someone will speak to you in the morning.' There was a click and the phone was put down.