Surefire (6 page)

All the way down the monotonous gray drag of the M6 and the M5, I’m turning over in my head all the things I did to try to make my house safe and fire-proof. I read the regulations carefully, installed everything that was required and a lot of the additional recommendations too. I spent a bloody fortune, but it’ll have been worth it if those precautions meant that my tenants survived the fire. What did Mr Miller say, they all got out safely? Did he mean no one was injured? It’s at last sunk in that no one died in my house last night, but what about smoke inhalation? Horrific burns? Other terrifying images swirl around my head as all the possible disastrous consequences compete for the honor of distracting me from the road. A naturally careful driver, I give myself a talking to and get a grip. The last thing I need right now would be to find myself catapulted into the central reservation for good measure.

And accordingly, three fraught hours later, I’m pulling up outside my mother’s house, my house now. Or what’s left of it. I should have gone to the offices of Miller and Hampson, but my autopilot instinct brought me straight here. I need to survey the damage for myself, assure myself there isn’t still some unfortunate student cowering under his bed, burnt to a crisp.

Of course the front is blackened, the door completely destroyed. There’s yellow and black police crime scene tape across it, and a policeman standing solemnly beside the remains of the door. A fire service incident investigation unit van is parked in my driveway, so I assume the fire investigators are inside now. I need to talk to them, I need to know what happened. I fumble with my seat belt and manage to scramble out of the car. I walk down the path in something of a daze. My house, my beautiful house. What a mess.

“Sorry, Miss, you can’t go in there.” The solemn policeman places himself firmly in front of me just as I would have clambered past the police tape. I look up at him, bewildered. “But it’s my house. I own it. I used to live here. I need to go in.”

“Sorry, Miss, it’s a crime scene. I can’t let you pass.”

“But…” Then it sinks in.
Crime scene.
“What crime? It was a fire. Just a fire…”

“Who did you say you are, Miss?”

“I’m Ashley, Ashley McAllister.” Then, “Or Sharon Spencer. I was Sharon Spencer. My mother lived here, Susan Spencer. She died…” My voice trails off, I’m babbling. And PC Solemn is on his radio, no doubt reporting to higher authorities that a mad woman with more names than anyone should rightly lay claim to is demanding entry to his crime scene. Sure enough, he turns back to me.

“Someone will be along to talk to you soon, Miss. If you’d just like to wait here. They won’t be long.”

I spend the next five minutes fruitlessly quizzing PC Solemn about everything. When did it start? How did it start? How many students were inside? Where are they now? I’d have gotten more sense out of Fred and Wilma, my kittens back at Greystones. He was quite deadpan, and totally tight lipped. Always the same answer, whatever the question. “I’m sorry, Miss, I have no information I can share with you at this time.”

Sure enough, reinforcements are not long in arriving. The police patrol car pulls up behind my Clio within a few minutes, and two uniformed officers swagger in my direction. I suddenly have a really bad feeling. I’m a victim, surely. My property has been attacked in some sort of as yet unspecified crime. So how come they’re looking at me like something usually encountered at the bottom of a pond?

“Miss Spencer?” The first officer, a tall, stocky chap plants himself in front of me, his thumbs hooked in his ant-stab jacket and his tone definitely aggressive as he regards me down his nose.

His companion, smaller, less imposing but somewhat brighter looking if you were to ask me, is tugging his notebook out of one of his many pockets. My first reaction is just to stare at them. I know a bully when I see one. Two even. And for the life in me I can’t fathom out why they’re picking on me.

“Yes, I’m Sharon Spencer. Except I’m not, not any more. I’m Ashley McAllister now. I changed my name.”

“Oh. And why would you want to do that then, Miss Spencer?”

“McAllister. It’s Miss McAllister now.” Assertive, that’s what’s needed, I tell myself. Polite but firm.

“I see. So, Miss Spencer, are you the owner of these premises?”

I grit my teeth, decide to let it go, for now. My instinct tells me I need to pick my battles carefully. “Yes, I told this officer”—I gesture toward my dear friend PC Solemn—“it was my mother’s house, and now it’s mine. She died, you see, and I inherited it. Last year.”

“Yes, we’ve been hoping for a word with you. There are some questions we need you to answer. At the police station. Would you come with us please, Miss Spencer?”

“What, yes all right. My car’s just there, in front of yours. I’ll follow you.”

“No, Miss Spencer, you’ll come with us, in our car. Now, if you don’t mind.” PC Tall and Stocky is rocking on his heels, puffing out his armored chest at me, making no attempt to conceal his expression of distaste.

“What? Why?” This is all feeling horribly familiar. This is how the police spoke to me when I was arrested for lying to help Kenny. But times have changed, and I make one last attempt to get them to see reason.

“Look, I’m happy to make a statement, I want to provide any help I can. But I’ll need my car later, I have to sort out insurance, see my solicitor, make arrangements for repairs…”

There’ll be no repairs for a while yet. Now, if you’d just come with us…?”

“Are you arresting me? What the hell for?”

“We were hoping it wouldn’t come to that, but… Sharon Spencer, I’m arresting you on suspicion of arson…”

Chapter Five

The rest of his rights speech is lost on me as my brain turns to porridge. Arrested! I’m being bloody well arrested. For arson. These idiots think I actually set fire to my mother’s house. My mother’s house, for Christ’s sake. My grandparents’ house.

Idiots or not, I’m soon enough installed in the back of the patrol car, PC Tall and Stupid next to me while his colleague drives us to the police station. Once there, I’m taken to the custody suite, presented before the custody sergeant as an arson suspect. My panic mounting, I do at least remember enough of the drill to know I should be allowed to phone someone. At my desperate request the custody sergeant pushes the desk phone at me.

“Make it quick. We’ve not got all day.”

Maybe I should try to get a solicitor, but the only one I know in the area is sweet old Mr Miller. This is hardly his bag. I think of Tom, because he’s who I really want. I know he’ll believe me, and he’ll help me. But I’ve only got one quick phone call, and for all I know Tom’s still in a mobile not-spot. I can’t risk not getting through. I dial the number for Black Combe instead, and almost faint with relief when Eva answers.

“Eva, it’s Ashley. Please can you get a message to Tom?”

“Ashley? Yes, of course. Where are you? Is everything all right?”

“No it’s not. I’ve been arrested. For arson. They think I set fire to my house. With bloody students asleep inside. Christ, Eva…” My voice is cracking, she must be able to hear it. I gather my wits, I need to make sure she understands what to do. “Please could you ask Tom to arrange a solicitor for me? I have money, I can pay, but I don’t know anyone. I don’t know who else to call. Please, Eva…”

“Ashley, yes, it’s done. Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine. Tom’s…”

“That’s enough, Miss. Time to move you along now.” The custody sergeant holds out his hand for the telephone, takes it from me then hangs up. “Let’s get your details and then find you a nice warm cell to wait in, shall we?”

It’s not only Tom who appreciates the power of anticipation. The cell door clangs shut behind me, its note of finality echoing around me. I promised myself never again. Never, never again would I allow myself to be locked up. Yet here I am, totally innocent and even so, I spend the next hour and a half perched on the edge of a cold bench in a Spartan cell, my only other furniture a rather unsavory looking stainless steel lavatory with no seat. I make up my mind then and there I’ll burst before I use that. Eventually though, the custody sergeant jangles his keys on the other side of my door and it swings open.

“Time for a little chat. Come with me please.”

Numb, I get to my feet and follow him along the tiled corridor, wrinkling my nose at the putrid smell of disinfectant doing battle with vomit and pee. God, I’d just about managed to forget what these places were like. It’s the smell that hits me the most, it always was. The sergeant ushers me into a small interview room where the two officers I met earlier outside my house are seated at a metal table in the middle of the room. To one side is another small table with the ubiquitous tape recorder set up on it. PC Tall and Stupid gestures for me to sit down while his colleague stands up, flicks the switch on the tape machine.

“Interview commenced at eighteen fifteen, those present PC Stuart Bragg.”

Not Tall and Stupid then?
I can’t help thinking his official name suits him almost as well.

He turns to his colleague, still hovering beside the tape machine, who recites his name, PC George Graves. PC Bragg fixes his gaze on me. “Please state your name, for the tape.”

My turn, then.
“Ashley McAllister.”

He glares at me, but having given my name, I remain silent. Bragg has to fill in his own gaps. “Miss McAllister, were you previously known by any other name?”

“Yes, I was. I was previously known as Sharon Spencer. But my name is now Ashley McAllister. I’d prefer it if you use my correct name please, PC Bragg. It’ll be more straightforward.”

He glares at me again, I’m clearly not endearing myself here. But he’s got other fish to fry it seems, and decides to move on.

“Miss Spencer—McAllister, can you tell us please where you were between the hours of ten p.m. yesterday evening and four a.m. this morning?”

Well, that’s simple enough. “Yes, I had dinner with friends.”

“Friends? Do these ‘friends’ have names, Miss McAllister?”

“They do.” I rattle off Tom, Nathan and Eva’s names, and provide their contact details too. Upstanding citizens all, company directors and a doctor of something or other. Eva’s a doctor of several something or others in fact. At least my alibi should stand up to scrutiny.

Undaunted, PC Tall and Stupid, sorry, Bragg, presses on with his line of inquiry. Line of total and crass idiocy if you ask me, but still, if there were prizes to be had for effort and determination, he’d be in the center of the podium. “Earlier, when you were arrested, you mentioned needing to contact your insurers. Do you remember that, Miss McAllister?”

“Of course.”

“Could you tell us the details of your insurance, Miss McAllister? How much do you stand to gain as a result of this fire?”

Ah, so that’s it. The penny drops. They think this is some sort of insurance scam. I could almost laugh out loud it’s so totally ridiculous. “No, I don’t know the insurance details. I need to dig out my policy, talk to the insurance company. I expect the repairs should be covered though.”

“Unless the fire was started deliberately, Miss McAllister. That would make your insurance void, would it not?”

So this is what they meant by a crime scene. “Was it started deliberately? If so, how?”

“You tell us, Miss McAllister.”

“I know nothing about how the fire started. The first I knew of it was when my solicitor phoned me this morning. That’s Mr Miller at Miller and Hampson. They handle things for me, collect the rent and so on. I don’t live in this area anymore.”

He makes a point of studying the papers in front of him, including the personal details taken down by the custody sergeant. “And where is it you live now? Greystones, West Yorkshire. You’re a long way from home.”

“Yes. Because my solicitor phoned me to tell me that my house, the house I grew up in, the house that belonged to my mother, and to my grandparents before her, had been on fire. I was worried. I wanted to see the damage for myself. I wanted to start putting it right. And I was concerned about my tenants, the students. Someone could have been killed. Or seriously hurt. So yes, I
am
a long way from home.” I speak with deliberate care. He really is incredibly dim, and from me that’s saying something.

We glare at each other across the battered metal table, antagonism bristling between us. I know I should be more…servile…but these days I reserve that for Tom. It’s more rewarding. Long, hostile moments pass as we stare each other down, then the tension is broken by a tap at the door. PC Graves steps outside for a moment then comes back to whisper in Tall and Stupid’s ear. He listens, flicks his eyes up at me then gets to his feet.

“It seems your solicitor’s here. We’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.” He heads for the door, but has to step back sharply to avoid being barreled aside by the most imperious woman I think I’ve ever seen. She is one seriously scary lady, very tall, slim and austerely dressed in a dark gray closely fitted suit, a white blouse and four-inch black patent leather heels. Her fingernails are painted a brilliant red to match her lips. Her hair is pale blonde, pulled back into a severe chignon. She turns her head slightly to view the retreating police officers with thinly disguised contempt.

“I’ll summon you when my briefing with my client is complete. Thank you.” And so they are dismissed, and she turns her attention to me. Coming forward she places her elegant burgundy leather briefcase on the table before offering me one perfectly manicured hand. “You’ll be Ashley McAllister. I’m Julia Montgomery, from Jones Montgomery Sheldon. I’m representing you today.”

Well, she certainly looks the part. And I’m incredibly pleased to see her. “I, er, thank you. Did Tom send you?”

She fixes me with a formidable stare, assessing me. I shift uncomfortably, but she relents and explains her presence here. “I believe Mr Shore is on his way to Gloucester, as is Mr Darke. However, my services
were
retained by Darke Associates, though it was Miss Byrne who instructed me in this matter. My firm handles most of their legal work, although predominantly in matters of property and civil law. However the occasional foray into criminal proceedings does help to keep the account interesting. Now, shall we press on, Miss McAllister?”