Smoke Alarm Read online

  If Monica was still alive.

  Detective and coroner stood and regarded the sight, then looked back at one another. This felt somehow strange. Not merely tragic. It was lacking an explanation. Where was she? She had to be somewhere, didn’t she? People didn’t simply disappear, did they? And where was her car? As they walked up the drive Martha’s feeling of disquiet intensified. This felt supernatural, other-wordly. Even this act of simply walking up the drive seemed to represent the spookiness of a sequence in a horror film, the eye sneaking up on the unsuspecting victim, the wrecked house waiting and watching. Martha shivered and Alex Randall noticed. ‘The atmosphere,’ he commented. ‘It’s getting to you, isn’t it, Martha?’

  She nodded. ‘I just wish I knew what was going on, and what’s happened to her. Even if she’d written a confession to starting the Melverley fire and turned up dead it would feel less threatening.’

  Randall nodded in agreement.

  ‘So we’re still left with the major questions,’ she said. ‘We still don’t have a clue who set this fire or what Mrs Deverill had been about to tell you about the arson attack on Melverley Grange.’

  ‘Million dollar questions,’ he said grimly. ‘I just hope we get some settlement on this.’

  And Martha could not help but agree.

  The fire chief was standing outside the house and they fell into step with him as they approached what had been the front door. Hard hats again and they were inside. The three of them stood in the hall and looked up. It was like the house at Melverley but worse. Overhead parts of the roof still hung on blackened beams. But where the roof had caved in the clear blue sky of a winter’s day was visible. The effect was of a broken patchwork, gleams of cold blue air flooding the stricken property with light and softening the smell of the smoke so although the building had been worse affected than Melverley Grange the atmosphere inside was less claustrophobic. Martha looked at the broken steps of the stairs and Will Tyler, fire chief, voiced her thoughts. ‘I wonder which bedroom she normally slept in.’

  Martha looked up. Then back down again. It wouldn’t have made much difference. All the bedrooms had been destroyed.

  Even to her untrained eye she could see that it simply wasn’t safe to explore the house. The front room had been completely destroyed. And much of the furniture from the bedroom above lay skewed, on its side, as the joists beneath them had collapsed. Even as they stood and stared there was an ominous creaking above and an impression of a release of latent heat.

  The forensic team, two men from Birmingham, specialists in malicious fire damage, were still taking samples and labelling them carefully. Martha watched them with the fascination and respect she always felt for a professional doing his – or her – job. She spoke to them. ‘Can you be quite sure that Mrs Deverill isn’t here somewhere? Maybe lying underneath some of the furniture?’

  ‘She isn’t here,’ Tyler said. ‘Even when fire damage is as extensive as this is a human body is quite easy to spot.’

  She turned her head. ‘So what have you found?’

  ‘Same as before,’ Tyler responded. ‘Petrol-soaked rag through a broken window.’

  ‘We think she must have slept in the front bedroom,’ fireman Colin Agnew put in gloomily. ‘It’s the worst affected.’ And as though to underline his certainty he repeated, ‘She definitely isn’t anywhere.’

  As the staircase was unsafe a ladder had been placed against an external wall and Agnew climbed it, making running commentaries to the detective inspector from above, talking him through events. ‘The front bedroom has all but been destroyed. Most of the joists . . .’ He demonstrated by putting his weight very gingerly on a heavily scorched floorboard, ‘have been burned. If not right through, then severely weakened. It was quite a blaze. Took hold quickly. And the gas fire and cooker didn’t help. They exploded and took the fire to another dimension.’ He grinned down at them. Even on the ground floor Martha and Alex were walking very gingerly, feeling the floorboards move under their weight and listening for that terrible sound of splintering which would herald the floor completely giving way. Above them they could see the bed was still in the centre of the room, dipping down towards them. Agnew drew their attention to the bedding, badly charred. But they knew it was empty. The watchers all knew that she was somewhere else, dead or alive, free or a prisoner but she was not here. They watched Agnew move through the rest of the room, stepping around the perimeter and avoiding the centre which was about to cave in completely. Even as they watched the bed slipped a little farther towards them and they withdrew.

  So if she wasn’t here, where was she? They all knew that people confused and disorientated by smoke can lose their way even in an environment as familiar as their own bedroom. There had been signs of this in Christie Barton’s room in Melverley Grange. First she had headed for the window, not the door, her first mistake being to step out of the wrong side of her bed. People in the dark, in the dead of night, normally find their way from their bed to the bathroom. People disorientated by smoke do not. Tyler led them next to the kitchen which was at the back of the house and less badly damaged by the fire, though still a wreck with laminated cupboard doors melted and burned and the rubber floor tiles burnt right through. Martha could not resist opening the larder cupboard just in case. Maybe Monica had mistaken the door for an exit. Behind was not so badly damaged. Smoke had seeped in but she was not here. The shelves only held packets of food partly scorched and soot-stained. They could not find her. They would not find her. Was she playing a macabre game of Hide and Seek? As they progressed through rooms, opening cupboards, Agnew even shining a light into the downstairs shower cubicle, it felt like it. That the woman’s presence was here but eluding them. It was Agnew who spoke up first, his voice both timorous and feisty, holding anger and frustration. ‘So where the hell is she?’ His eyes turned to Randall. ‘There’s been no sightings of the car?’

  Randall shook his head, his face grim.

  Martha felt a sudden flash of hope, a conviction that Monica Deverill was wherever her car was but safe. She smiled at Alex. Perhaps? But the warm feeling quickly chilled as she read his expression.

  He stepped towards the back door. ‘We’ll just take a peek inside the garage,’ he said, ‘in case there’s something there.’

  Apart from checking for the car and a very superficial search the SOCOs had largely left the garage alone, concentrating their efforts on the house. They stared around a neat and empty space, a few boxes stacked neatly at the back, a chest freezer. It was obvious that Monica had sometimes garaged her car – there were oil stains and the garage was relatively clear, leaving plenty of room for it, and just as obvious that the vehicle was not here.

  Randall did a cursory search, moved a couple of token boxes. Martha knew exactly what he would be looking for – a petrol can. One of those with a screw top and a long spout.

  He didn’t find one.

  Their attention was diverted by a second police car pulling up and Sergeant Paul Talith and WPC Lara Tinsley climbing out. Or at least that’s how Talith’s awkward manoeuvres could better be described as he ‘eased’ himself out of the car.

  Even as Randall was greeting them the unpleasant thought Martha had voiced earlier was worming its way through her mind. The two fires had been started in the same way. Exactly. It was an unusual operandi and the results in each case had been catastrophic. Was it possible then that the nurse had, for some reason, burnt down Melverley Grange and then, in an attempt to disguise this, set her own home alight? Surely not. It had simply drawn attention to her. ‘The nurse and the Barton family,’ she asked, frowning. ‘Was there any connection between them?’

  Randall met her eyes with a gaze of his own which was hard to read. ‘Not that we’ve found out yet,’ he said, mirroring her frown. Then he drew in a deep breath. ‘But it’s early days yet, Martha. I’m confident all this will make sense finally.’

  ‘I suppose the fact that the car is missing points us in the direction t
hat Mrs Deverill drove herself away from here,’ she ventured.

  Randall turned to her. ‘We can’t make any assumptions yet, Martha. The arsonist could have taken it.’ He paused. ‘Even with her inside, dead or alive. All we know is that her body is not in there.’ He indicated the wrecked semi then added, ‘Anything’s possible,’ he said, ‘at the moment.’

  ‘If it was our arsonist he or she would have to have got the car key somehow,’ Martha pondered.

  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 enou
gh 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.