Smoke Alarm (29 page)

They both nodded. Randall looked at Talith. ‘And the only connection we've found so far between the Barton family and our nurse is the fire on Beech Ward in Shelton Hospital in the late sixties. Monica Deverill was a nurse on duty on the ward that night and William Barton was one of the attendant fire officers. It's not much of a connection and doesn't exactly suggest foul play. Also, Barton senior was already dead by the time of the second fire. It's at best a tenuous connection but it's all we have.' He looked at them. ‘Right so far?'

‘Yes, sir,' they answered in unison.

‘There is another possibility,' Randall said slowly. ‘And until we're more sure we shouldn't jump to conclusions, should we?'

This time the two officers shook their heads and waited for him to continue.

Randall focused his gaze on WPC Shaw. ‘I agree. The five thousand pounds she withdrew from the building society
could
have been blackmail money,' Randall said. ‘Her house
could
have been destroyed to muddy the waters of her disappearance either by the blackmailer or by her. If the connection
is
with the Shelton fire it's possible that William Barton and Monica Deverill were targeted by a relative of someone who died in it.' He paused. ‘Though why they should exact their revenge on two people who tried to help so long after the event is beyond me. Unless . . .' He looked at the two officers. ‘There hasn't been some recent release of information about the tragedy, perhaps over the Internet, has there?'

‘Not that I know of,' Delia Shaw answered. ‘The stuff I got over the Internet about the fire was years old.'

‘Quite so. Maybe that isn't such a great idea. But if the money she withdrew was to tide her over while she hid, who was she hiding from?'

He gave them both a grin. ‘You know,' he said in a friendly, confiding tone, ‘this is one of those cases which seems to get more complex and throw up more complications the further your investigations go. She could have been kidnapped and her car disposed of or hidden.' Another grin, rueful this time. ‘There are endless possibilities but one, I can assure you, will fit all the facts like a handmade kid glove.'

‘Who would the kidnapper be, sir?' It was Talith who asked the question.

Randall laughed. ‘Obviously the same person who torched her house. Don't worry, Talith. I'm playing Devil's Advocate here, opening up scenarios. I'm only pointing out that there is more than one potential answer. We must look at them all, keep our minds clear and our investigations broad. And there is always the possibility that Monica Deverill herself is our arsonist, though why she should draw attention to herself in this way – well – it could only be the result of a very sick mind.'

They were all silent at this. The term
sick mind
brought the terrible vision of the disturbed patients on a locked ward banging on the doors, begging to be let out, finally succumbing to the dreadful coughing and the inhalation of toxic smoke which would finally kill them. Was it really possible that Monica Deverill set the fire and watched, sadistically, as her patients died? It was a hideous thought and one which silenced them.

It was WPC Delia Shaw who finally broke the silence. ‘Well, we know who has the perfect alibi, don't we? William Barton.'

Randall and Talith looked at each other. Neither could resist a smile accompanied by an inevitable groan. Shaw felt flat.

‘I wish he was alive,' Talith grunted. ‘He'd help us out, I'm sure.

They all nodded gloomily. Randall knew he needed to keep them focused. ‘There are a few more questions you should be asking yourselves.'

They eyed him expectantly.

‘Is there anything to indicate that Mrs Deverill might have been kidnapped?'

They shook their heads dubiously.

‘I agree. I would say it's unlikely. It is much more likely that she has gone underground. Why? Try this for size: because the very thing that she has feared for more than forty years has happened? When Melverley Grange was set on fire, for some reason, she believed that she would be subjected to a similar assault. And that is exactly what did happen.'

He waited to let these words sink in before continuing. ‘Now then, it would be tempting to look around for someone who could have been at Shelton Hospital on the night of the fire and decided to repeat the act. Perhaps an ex-patient, someone who would have been fairly young at that time. Or the family of a victim of the Shelton fire. I would have asked you to check the list of the dead. But forty years later? I'd take some convincing.'

He paused. ‘Next question. Was it necessary that
Nigel Barton
was away from home on the night of the fire?' He looked at them as though waiting for them to provide the answer, before giving it himself. ‘I would say yes, that it is no coincidence. In his statement he said that he was away from home roughly once a month. That's not very often. There would have been much more chance that he would have been at home than away.'

Talith and Shaw waited for him to continue.

‘Did you find any connection between the three business associates who had a grudge against Nigel Barton and Monica Deverill?'

Talith answered this one. ‘No, sir.'

‘But what about Pinfold's flying visit to the UK?'

Talith grinned. ‘Not surprising he didn't go to see his old mum – unless she was after some of the supergrass he was importing from the Netherlands. Don't worry, sir, all that's being investigated.'

Randall grinned. ‘Good,' he said. ‘And Nigel Barton's alibi is unshakeable?'

Shaw responded. ‘Yes, sir. We have corroborated evidence from two independent witnesses that on the night of the fire he was in the hotel grill until ten and then in the bar until after eleven, as the CCTV pictures suggest. And he wasn't alone. A young woman was with him – at a guess, the lovely Mirabelle. It's a three-hour trip from York to Melverley. Not a fast road. The fire was phoned in at 11.38 p.m.'

‘Right.' Randall smiled at her. ‘Then it leaves us with only one person.'

The response from both officers was surprise. ‘Sir?'

Randall stood up. ‘Work it out for yourselves,' he said and left the room.

He went outside the station to ring Martha from his mobile phone. He didn't want his colleagues listening in. As soon as she picked up and without a word of explanation he said, ‘I thought I might pop up and have a cup of tea with you.'

The pleasure she felt was quite disproportionate to the invitation. ‘Wonderful, Alex,' she said warmly. ‘That'd be lovely. I'll ask Jericho to put the kettle on and . . .'

He interrupted her. ‘I'll bring jam doughnuts.' And put the phone down before she could quip that he knew the way to a woman's heart. When she heard the click of his phone she was glad she hadn't said it.

Even before he arrived she'd known from his jaunty tone that the case must be near to some resolution. Then it would be her turn again to reopen the inquest and finally pronounce a verdict on the three family members who had died at Melverley Grange. And the nurse? she asked herself. Well, no body no inquest. She corrected herself. There were cases where an inquest had taken place when there had been no body but these were rare and unusual cases. This wouldn't be one of them. Alex would be able to solve this. Monica Deverill's fate would not elude them for ever. She couldn't deny it. She was intrigued and looking forward as much to seeing him as to the jam doughnuts he'd promised.

And the broad grin he gave her as she opened the door to him confirmed all her suspicions. He stood in the doorway, tall, slim almost to the point of thin, his features irregular enough to make him attractive. Large nose, wide mouth, sharp chin. But there was a warmth in his hazel eyes, a kindness in his spirit and an honesty in his words that made her heart give a little skip in his presence.

She cursed herself. What was the point? DI Alex Randall was a professional, a colleague and a married man. She listened very carefully to every single word before responding. ‘So what do you propose to do next?'

‘We have three points of enquiry – the three fires,' he said.

She hesitated before, in a measured voice, she began asking him questions to clarify the suspicions that were sprouting in her mind. ‘Can you explain to me exactly where the splashes of petrol were found at the Grange?'

He didn't answer straight away but regarded her gravely, then, ‘Landing, up the stairs. The carpet in both front rooms was pretty soaked.'

Martha nodded. ‘And did anyone see Jude Barton descend his ladder?'

This time Randall didn't even make a reply. He knew she was prodding him. He stood up, smiled and took a step towards her. For the briefest of seconds Martha panicked, thinking he was about to kiss her. But he didn't. He simply smiled, said his goodbye and left.

D
etective Inspector Alex Randall called the briefing for six o'clock, his plan being to rein in all the facts, interviews, review the evidence and make contact on the following day. He also wanted to book all his interviews and make sure everyone was available. He had a feeling of danger, of impatience and sudden urgency that he couldn't quite figure out. It wasn't really like him. He was normally a patient man, happy to construct the evidence before diving in with an arrest. But this was different. He had a feeling of anger at the fate of people unable to defend themselves, frightened as this home went up in smoke. And at the back of his mind was the terrible picture, not only of the two women who had died at Melverley Grange and the old man who had tried vainly but bravely to help them. But there was also the sepia image of the patients at Shelton Hospital, trying, in their confused way, to escape. Maybe beating on doors, screaming. It was horrible.

As the officers filed in, he glanced across at the board with the pictures of the bodies of the three victims of the Melverley fire pinned next to two photographs they had of Monica Deverill. Appropriately enough, one was of her in her starched uniform in her Shelton nursing days which James had handed over reluctantly. ‘I really like this photo of Mum,' he'd said. ‘She looks so . . . professional.'

And the other photograph showed Monica as she was today, fun-loving, the grandchildren cut out of the picture, her in slacks and a loose fitting T-shirt – a little weightier than in the earlier photo but she still looked fiercely energetic. She was staring towards the camera, a half smile on her face. Her eyes still large, dark and intelligent. Randall peered closer and tried to understand her psyche. She looked a perceptive woman, practical, a pragmatist and far-sighted. There was around her an aura of no nonsense, a roll-up-your-sleeves sort of energy. And it lasted right through from the early photograph to the later one.

He felt he knew her. She would be the nurse on the ward who would make the brave decisions, shoulder the blame, take responsibility, clean up messes and chin-up to authority if it was in her patients' interest. Yes, he knew her. He also had the feeling that he would respect her.

If he ever met her.

The officers were watching him, each one with his or her own take on the moment. Gethin Roberts watched him with a sort of hero worship, wondering whether he would ever be the senior investigating officer on such an important case and stand up in front of junior officers, just like him, who would hang on every word. Give press releases. Roberts was a dreamer. In his mind he was already there, solving difficult cases, inspiring junior colleagues. He dreamed right on, to a moment when he would propose to his adored Flora and slip the ring on her willing finger.

Finally Randall broke into his thoughts. ‘I want an initial interview with young Jude,' he said. ‘Roberts, stick with me.'

Gethin Roberts turned slightly pink as though Randall had peeked into his fantasy but he still couldn't resist a quick scan of the room to gloat.
He
was the one who'd been picked.

Randall had already moved on swiftly, feeling the pace of the investigation quicken, like jungle drums, intensifying as they increased in tempo to match his own sense of urgency as they neared their quarry and prepared to pounce. ‘Then we'll move on to the Deverill brothers.' Randall stopped and he too looked around the room, realizing that most of the officers didn't have a clue just what road he was following. He gave them some explanation almost out of sympathy.
He
was the sighted leading the blind. He addressed them. ‘This has been a difficult case mainly because its cause is rooted in history. However, that will make it a learning curve for all of you, how to investigate seemingly unrelated cases and search for some connection.' He relaxed and smiled at them. ‘You won't always find one but that shouldn't stop you from looking.' He dismissed them with his customary, ‘Thank you.' And as soon as the officers had dispersed he spoke to PC Roberts who was hanging around the edge of the room as though he did not know what to do next.

Then he made the first of his phone calls.

It was as though Nigel Barton knew that something was afoot. He did not object when Randall asked him to bring his son down to the station – again. Neither did Nigel comment when DI Randall asked him whether he would like to bring a solicitor. Barton rejected the idea of a solicitor and simply acquiesced as though he was defeated.

But when father and son arrived Randall understood. If Nigel Barton had diminished in size and bluster the opposite was true of his son. Jude looked different now. Not the skinny, frightened teenager. He walked tall. He almost had a swagger. He had grown in confidence, appeared cocky. But when the boy's eyes met Randall's the detective realized that the truth was something quite different. The boy was bluffing. In reality he was putting on a show.

Randall decided to put the case square on to him. ‘Let me tell you a story,' he began. Predictably, like most teenagers, Jude Barton affected boredom. Randall had anticipated an objection any moment from Nigel but after an initial ‘Tut', of irritation the boy's father continued to look defeated and very, very tired. This was taking its toll on him. He, too, had had enough. He didn't even point out how many times his son had been summoned to this station any more. His gaze drifted around the room as though looking for some assistance. But he found none. He licked dry lips and made strange clicking noises in his throat as though he was choking. Nervousness, Randall guessed. As he meandered through a story of an old man who had returned to the past when he had been a hero, Randall sensed that Nigel Barton had travelled along much the same road to reach probably the same destination. So now they were in the same place? Except they weren't. Randall was in no way to blame for the events whereas Nigel? The detective leaned far back in his chair – almost far back enough to topple.