Smoke Alarm (20 page)

Alex continued with her reasoning. ‘And before he ignited the fire. The back door was bolted and the front door would have been in flames.'

‘Unless the car was stolen earlier,' Lara Tinsley suggested.

Talith gave a lopsided grin. ‘Bit of a coincidence, isn't it, Lara, two crimes in one night? Besides, if Monica had been aware her car had been stolen she would have reported it.'

She persisted. ‘What if they were committed by the same person? He stole the car and then came back?'

‘To torch the house,' Martha extrapolated. ‘Perhaps she saw him steal the car and ran out. And he came back later to torch the house.'

Talith pursed his lips as he considered this option. ‘It's possible,' he conceded.

‘There's another thing, Alex.'

He looked up.

‘There was quite a time lapse between your broadcast and her telephone call. You say she'd heard your lunchtime broadcast but didn't call until the evening. Why do you think that was?'

He drew in a deep breath. ‘Sometimes it's because they didn't realize the significance of what they knew.'

‘Is that what you think is the case here?'

Randall shrugged but everyone watching knew that the action was not because he didn't care but because he didn't know. And when he did speak they could hear the frustration in his voice. ‘Well, wherever she is, Mrs Deverill is not here.' He thought for a moment then fished his mobile phone out of his pocket and connected with James Deverill, the older of Monica's two sons. He told him where he was and outlined the current situation quickly: that the forensic team had failed to find his mother's body so she was listed as missing, that her car was too and that they had put a stop and apprehend order on both vehicle and person.

‘Naturally,' he said quickly before Deverill jumped to an unfavourable conclusion, ‘it's imperative that we find your mother and make certain she's safe. I wonder if you've had any further thoughts? Is it possible your mother is perhaps staying with a friend? Do you have any contact details that have been so far omitted?'

‘She would have told me,' James Deverill insisted. ‘She'd know I'd worry. I've been trying her mobile phone all morning but she isn't picking up.' He paused. ‘It isn't even ringing. It's going straight through to answerphone. I take it you haven't found anything at the house that would give you a clue as to her whereabouts?'

‘There isn't much left of the house, James,' Randall responded gently. ‘I'm afraid it was a very bad fire.'

‘I was thinking of going round later.'

‘That's fine by us but it isn't terribly safe. I'm afraid the combination of the fire plus the firemen's hoses have pretty much destroyed it. You'll have to wear a hard hat and you'll be supervised but there may be things you can salvage,' Randall said doubtfully. He added: ‘James, there is something else.'

‘Oh?'

‘Your mother rang us the night before the fire in connection with the blaze at Melverley Grange. She said she knew something about it. Have you any idea what it might be?'

‘Not a clue.'

He did sound genuinely confounded.

‘Did she know the Barton family?'

‘Not to my knowledge.'

‘Did she say anything to you about the fire at the Grange?'

‘Not to me.'

‘To your brother?'

‘You'll have to ask him but I doubt it.'

‘Can you think of any connection between Melverley, the Barton family and your mother?'

‘No. I can't think of any connection except that she simply loves going to the old black and white church in the village. I think she found it peaceful and rather beautiful. She was upset when she learned that the banks were slipping and helped with a couple of charity events to raise money to shore it up.' He paused. ‘She may have met the Barton family through that but I think it's unlikely. If she did, as I said, she never mentioned them.'

‘Really?' It was, at best, a very tenuous connection. But it was still a potential connection. ‘Your mother wouldn't have been in touch with your brother and not you?'

‘No.' Deverill was patently irritated by the question. ‘She would never do that. If she'd spoken to one of us she would have spoken to us both, I'm sure. Mum was a thoughtful person. And she had a conscience. She would have hated to cause us worry. This simply isn't like her.'

Randall tried to retrieve the situation. ‘Look, James,' he said, ‘I wouldn't worry if I were you. She could have gone somewhere in the car, somewhere perfectly innocent, and while she was away someone torched her house.'

The attempt at consolation didn't work. James fired up. ‘Bit of a coincidence,' he said sarcastically. ‘If that's all, where is she now? And why hasn't she been in touch?'

Randall tried to pour oil on the troubled waters. ‘We'll continue our search of your mother's property, do house-to-house enquiries, see if we can ascertain when the car was last seen in the drive. A team of officers is ringing down the list of her friends' numbers. She has to be somewhere, Mr Deverill. We will find her.'

James Deverill was unconvinced. ‘I hope so, Inspector,' he said grimly.

Again Randall tried to reassure the worried man. ‘In a way the news is good, James. We haven't found her in the house. She isn't there. If she had been she would not have survived. We're looking for your mother – not a body.'

‘But –' Even James Deverill couldn't quite finish the sentence. Randall knew exactly what he would have wanted to say. If she is alive – and free – why has she not been in touch?

Randall was finally beaten. There were too many questions he could not answer – yet. He thanked James Deverill and rang off, then glanced at Martha who was waiting at his side. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I'd better run you back to your office.'

As soon as DI Randall had arrived back to the station he rang the younger brother, Gordon, who sounded much less disturbed about his mother's disappearance than did his sibling. Particularly when Randall told him the car was still missing.

Gordon Deverill was obviously reassured. ‘Then she must have gone off somewhere on a jolly,' he said, sounding initially relieved, then cross. ‘She could have saved us all this worry. And switching her phone off – well, it's just selfish. Thoughtless. Not like Mum at all.'

It was as though he had completely forgotten that his mother's house had burnt to the ground two nights ago. Not for the first time Alex Randall was astonished at the perspective of selfishness. He was at a loss what to say. ‘We've put a “stop and apprehend” on the car,' he said finally, ‘but there have been no sightings yet. If – when – it turns up we'll let you know. In the meantime if she does get in touch please do contact us immediately.' He felt he must say something more. ‘We are concerned as to her whereabouts.'

‘So am I.' His voice, now, was broken.

This was a bit more realistic.

Randall ended the call with a polite goodbye and looked up to see Talith and WPC Tinsley watching him. ‘We'll play it like this for now,' he said quietly. ‘Low key, and escalate the investigation if we find anything suspicious. Huh?'

They both nodded.

Martha had had a busy day and the visit to the two burnt-out houses hadn't really helped her. In her quieter moments she would keep wondering whether Mrs Deverill had been found but she resisted the temptation to ring Alex Randall. He would have enough to do without her pestering him. It wouldn't have been professional. So she ploughed her way through the piles of work in front of her.

Gary Coleman and Gethin Roberts were, meanwhile, in Melverley village, speaking to the Pinfolds, mother and son. Stuart had, his mother explained, returned from Amsterdam for a ‘flying visit'. It was opportune for the police except that the presence of her son gave Mrs Pinfold added confidence. In fact, she looked triumphant and was proving less than helpful. Her manner could better be described as covertly hostile. Felicity Pinfold was an unusual-looking woman in her mid-forties with very fair hair – almost white. Today she was wearing a shapeless brown cardigan over a flowery shepherdess dress which billowed around her knees. The ensemble was oddly completed by bare legs and grubby trainers. She probably wouldn't have won a Best Dressed Woman award, Gary Coleman reflected, putting his head on one side and studying her. She returned his scrutiny with a bold, defiant expression. Coleman turned his attention to the son. Stuart Pinfold was a slim, pale man with rounded shoulders and a shifty gaze. Neither policeman was surprised he had lost his job. They wouldn't have wanted to employ him. There was something slippery about him. And his mother didn't help, strongly defensive towards her son who could patently do no wrong in her eyes. She was very bitter towards Nigel Barton, whom she blamed for all that had gone wrong in Stuart's life.

Each time they mentioned something she had her answer ready to challenge them. The conviction for possession? ‘He planted it there.' Current employment status? ‘Who would employ him without references?' Depression? ‘His life's gone down the chute. I know who's to blame.' Fiddling expenses? ‘A trumped-up charge. Stuart would never . . .'

On and on went the catalogue of complaints against Nigel Barton.

Coleman had to bring it to an end. ‘And Mrs Barton, did you know her at all?'

It brought a renewed tirade.

‘Did I know her? Everyone in the village knew her. Lady Muck, driving around in that flashy car, always expensively dressed, looking like someone out of
Hello!
magazine.'

It was interesting to get some reality and perspective on the dead woman. She was no longer a ‘sainted martyr burnt at the stake' but someone whom other people might dislike.

Coleman pressed on. ‘And the old man, Mr Barton senior?'

Felicity Pinfold looked disappointed. Even her vitriol could not spread this far. ‘He never went out of the house,' she said sourly. ‘I never met him. Only heard about him. From what I've heard they hid him away.' She grimaced. ‘He was probably barking mad.'

‘Right. What about Adelaide?'

Quite out of the blue, Felicity Pinfold's face softened. ‘She was a lovely kid,' she said sadly. ‘I can't get it out of my mind what happened to her. Poor little thing.'

‘How did you know her?'

‘She was in the local Wildlife Society. Always trying to sell raffle tickets or raise money for some Animals' Rescue centre. She was a sweet little thing.'

All this time Stuart Pinfold appeared to have been taking his cue from Mummy. Now he started nodding vehemently. Of all his mother's statements this was the one he agreed with most.

‘And Jude?'

Mother and son looked at each other. Felicity frowned. ‘He was a dark one,' she said. ‘I could never quite work him out. He was quiet and deep. You never knew what he was thinking.'

Her son nodded his agreement.

Roberts eyed him curiously and inserted a few of his own questions. ‘Where were you last Thursday night?'

They both stared at him. Felicity spoke first, eyes narrow, suspicion hardening her face. ‘Why?'

Then the penny dropped and her face cleared. ‘Oh, I see,' she said. ‘Not content with trying to pin the Melverley Grange fire on us you want us to confess to arson on the nurse's house. Well, I don't know her. I never met her and we didn't set fire to her house either. Constable,' she mocked, ‘if you're wanting to find someone to pin both fires on then you'll have to look elsewhere. Understand?'

Roberts ignored her outburst and turned to the son. ‘Stuart?' he prompted.

Stuart grew even paler. In fact, he looked distinctly unwell. He cleared his throat and jerked.

His mother spoke for him. ‘He didn't do any of those things,' she said flatly.

Again Roberts addressed the son – not the mother. ‘So when
did
you arrive from Amsterdam?'

‘I just got here a couple of days ago.'

Roberts waited and Pinfold finally supplied the answer. ‘Tuesday afternoon,' he said grumpily. ‘I wasn't in the country for either fire.'

Both Coleman and Talith knew Pinfold had been in the country at least for the Melverley fire and, looking at Stuart's shifty gaze, they suspected he knew what they knew. But for now they kept their cards close to their chests. They stored the interview away, ready to share with Detective Inspector Randall and the rest of the team at the briefing later on.

Delia Shaw, meanwhile, was at Nigel Barton's very smart office and ‘chatting' to his secretary, Mirabelle, wondering what exactly was the relationship between the boss and the very attractive but hard-faced young woman who seemed as brittle as cinder toffee.

After some preamble Delia asked the question outright. ‘What exactly was the relationship between you and Mr Barton? Your boss,' she added.

Mirabelle didn't answer straight away but seemed to be deciding what to say. She lifted her heavy eyelashes to stare straight into WPC Shaw's, as though she was setting up a line of communication. Then she shrugged her slim shoulders and tossed her head. ‘I think,' she began, and tried again. ‘Mr Barton . . .' And again. ‘He was a married man,' she said, as silkily as a lawyer. ‘He isn't the sort to play at flirtation when he has a wife.'

It didn't seem to occur to her pretty little head that this was a motive for murder. And WPC Shaw didn't feel the need to remind her. Mirabelle gave another smug little smile and pressed her lips together. But WPC Shaw didn't let her off the hook that easily. ‘Have you ever gone out together – not in connection with work?'

It provoked another smug smile. ‘We've had lunch together a few times.'

‘Alone?'

A coquettish nod. ‘Purely business.'

‘When was the last time you had one of your “purely business” meetings?'