by Val McDermid
‘You should have given it to me,’ he shouted above the roar and crackling of the fire. ‘I’d have made it easy on you. Burning’s a bad way to go, Jane. A bad way to go.’
Still crouching, Jane turned her head towards the window to see if there was an escape route there. But heavy wooden shutters were bolted shut top and bottom. There was no way of reaching the top bolts. The only furniture in the room was too heavy for one person to shift. She looked back at Dan. ‘You bastard,’ she screamed. ‘You bastard.’
He grinned at her, the familiar open, careless expression she knew so well. It was like a physical blow. ‘I’ve always admired your spirit, Jane. Just despised your ambition.’ The fire was rising now, and she could hardly see him. ‘I’m off now, it’s getting a little too hot around here for my taste.’
And he was gone.
‘Fuck this,’ Jane said, coughing as the smoke caught the back of her throat. She wasn’t going to let this happen. It was now or never. She moved crabwise as close as she dared to the blaze. She blinked the tears from her eyes, pulled her coat over her head and launched herself through the flames in a diving forward roll.
Jane scrambled to her feet, pulling off her smouldering coat. Dan had barely made it to the top of the stairs and she went for him with a scream of pure rage. Dan stopped and turned back, taking the full force of her charge in the ribs. He grunted in anger and drove into her, landing a punch to the side of her head that made her dizzy. She lashed out again and caught him in the ribs. This time he yelled and she felt a moment’s grim satisfaction.
But still he was coming at her. He smashed a fist into her stomach, forcing the air from her lungs in a sudden whoop. Jane staggered backwards and his hand was on her wrist, forcing it back, threatening to break it. He pushed her and she felt herself falling. But just in time, she grabbed hold of his jacket, catching him off balance. They crashed to the floor together, their momentum carrying them back towards the stairs. Jane scrambled away from him, trying to get to her feet, but he was faster than her, lurching forward and grabbing her leg. She kicked him in the face with her free foot and he yelped as he let her go.
This time, she made it to her feet. Three steps and she was at the top of the stairs. She chanced a look over her shoulder just as he launched himself at her. Instinctively she threw herself to one side.
He crashed into the newel post at the top of the stairs then spun away from it. For a long moment, he seemed to hang immobile, one foot on the top stair, the other in space. Then his balance went and he tumbled sideways, completely out of control. One foot caught a stair tread, pitching his whole body into a cartwheel. He landed head first at the bottom of the stairs with a sickening crunch.
Jane was frozen with shock. She couldn’t move a muscle. Then she began to shake, her whole body shivering from head to foot. She clutched the banister for support, staring down at the unmoving heap below. This time, it was the crackle and hiss of the fire that got her moving. Step by step, she made her way downstairs. Even in the gloom of the hallway, she could tell he was dead. Nobody’s head could be at that angle to their body and still be alive.
A sob caught in her throat. It didn’t matter that it had been Dan who had made it a matter of life or death. What her head knew hadn’t yet filtered down to what her heart comprehended. At that moment, she was looking at her friend with his life snuffed out.
A loud crack from upstairs galvanised her into action. She stooped over his body and tried to figure out where the papers were. It was no good; she was going to have to turn him over. Grunting with the effort, she managed to push him on to his side. His jacket fell open, revealing a plastic folder rolled up in the inside pocket. Hastily, she grabbed it, checking it was truly what she sought. She glanced upwards, in time to see the balustrade crumpling under the weight of flame and falling into the hall scant feet from her. She had to get out of there.
Jane raced for the back door, still unlocked as she had left it. She burst into the cold air, chest heaving, pulse hammering in her head. She knew she had to get away from the house, knew it wasn’t safe to stay close. Staggering after her effort, she rounded the corner of the house and made for the track. Fire brigade, police. Stupidly, she patted her pockets. Jacket. That’s where the mobile was, in the jacket she’d discarded on the landing.
Her head swimming and her legs rubbery, Jane staggered off down the track towards Irish Row.
Jake had been sitting in the car at the end of Irish Row for a good twenty minutes when he realised he couldn’t wait any longer to pee. He got out of the car and turned to walk behind it when he saw a faint orange glow against the skyline. At first he thought it was a bonfire but as it intensified and grew bigger, it dawned on him that this was something much more serious.
He zipped himself up and headed for the track, almost tripping over a mountain bike stashed behind a bush. Catching himself before he fell, he stumbled on to the track and headed in the direction of the fire.
As he rounded the bend, he saw tongues of flame shooting out of a couple of upstairs windows of a lone cottage. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he exclaimed, reaching for his mobile. When he was connected to the emergency services, he explained he needed the fire brigade. ‘There’s a cottage on fire. In Coniston. You go up past Irish Row, it’s maybe a quarter of a mile further on. It’s a huge blaze,’ he said, raising his voice as another window exploded like a bomb, showering the air with shards of glass that glittered in the red glow of the fire.
In normal circumstances, the instinct for self-preservation would have driven Jake from the scene for fear that this fire was something to do with his acquisition of the manuscript. But the ancient fascination of fire held him fast. Enthralled, he watched the flames thrusting like blades into the sky, the cinder trails snuffing out as they fell to earth, the billows of smoke shifting like clouds on fast forward. The figure that came staggering down the path from the house was almost upon him before his trance was broken.
At first, he registered only that the escapee from the fire was dishevelled and filthy, bleeding and stumbling, coughing and gasping. He saw the glint of eyes in a smoke-blackened face, then a voice he knew as well as his own rasped, ‘You too? You were in it too?’
‘Jane?’ was all he had time for before she was upon him, raining blows against his chest, sobbing and shouting incomprehensibly. He tried to fight her off without hurting her, but she was like a woman possessed. She just kept hitting him.
The next thing he knew, strong hands were gripping his arms and shoulders. Jake struggled, but he was held firm. He realised there was a man on either side of him, clearly determined not to let him go. A third man had his arms round Jane from behind, holding her tight and saying meaningless words of reassurance.
‘What the fuck’s going on here?’ one of the men said.
‘I’ve got no idea,’ Jake said desperately. ‘I saw the fire and called the fire brigade. Then Jane came staggering out of the fire with some crazy notion that I was involved and started beating up on me.’ As he spoke, he realised how unlikely his version appeared.
‘That sounds like a right load of bollocks to me,’ his other captor said. ‘Reckon we’ll wait for the cops to come and sort it all out.’
‘Are you all right, love?’ the man holding Jane asked, loosening his grip and turning her to face him.
Jane burst into a fresh bout of sobbing and leaned against him. ‘Nay, lass, it’s all right,’ he said, looking over her head at his mates with an expression of bewilderment. Before anyone could say anything more, the night was split open by blue flashing lights and sirens.
He was, Jake realised, well and truly fucked.
I lived in Savannah for five years, signing on with trading ships for short voyages when I needed money. But my heart cried out for home & at length I decided I must take my chances. The country being in the grip of war against Bonaparte, I believed my return might go unnoticed. I informed my dear brother Edward of my decision & placed myself in his hands. When I landed
at Bristol, he sent word that I was to meet him at an inn near Bath. When we embraced for the first time in more than ten years my heart felt swollen in my chest & I could scarce breathe. We were agreed that I should journey to the Isle of Man, where our friends & relations would be happily complicit in keeping my identity a secret from outsiders. My brother had papers for me in the name of John Wilson & I made my way safely back to a place that felt akin to home. But I confess this life of quiet chafed with me. I am not a man built for idleness. Furthermore, the sea called me like a siren song. I dared not sign on with any regular ship under a British flag for fear of being recognised even after all these years. In conclusion, I was faced with only one possibility, & for the past two years, I have earned a fine living as a smuggler. I have become a familiar of the shoals of the Solway Firth, bringing brandy & claret to the gentry & the commons without the intercession of the exciseman. I do not pretend that this is a noble calling. But it suits my temper & it presents me with the opportunity to exercise my one skill of seamanship. However, mine is a life not without risk. & rivalry & I fear that I will not make old bones. For that reason, I have come to you that you might set down the true tale of Fletcher Christian, mutineer of the Bounty that men may know my true fate.
43
Jane decided she liked the hospital room. It was white and it was quiet and she didn’t feel ill enough to be scared by what being there might mean. According to the doctor, she’d suffered minor smoke inhalation, a painful but medically minor blow to the head, plus assorted cuts and bruises. They were only keeping her in for observation because they’d thought her incoherence on arrival had to do with concussion. But then, doctors were not trained to diagnose grief.
There was, she knew, a police officer outside her door. The one on duty first thing had been really helpful, calling Rigston and telling him she was ready to make a statement. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to hold her emotions at bay for long and she wanted to get the events of the night off her chest before they became blurred by her reactions to them. The inspector had been there within twenty minutes and in spite of the attempts of the nursing staff to thwart Jane’s desire to talk, he’d taken a statement from her. He hadn’t given her an easy ride, threatening at one point that he would charge her with police obstruction if only to make sure she stayed in one place for long enough for him to complete his enquiries without any further catastrophe. But by the end of their conversation, she felt from him a grudging acceptance of her version of events.
‘You need to stay here while I examine the evidence and decide whether you’re telling the truth,’ he said firmly when they were done. ‘I’m leaving an officer on the door. He’ll have orders to arrest you if you try to escape.’
‘I promise I’ll stay put if you answer two questions for me,’ Jane said.
‘I’m the one who asks the questions.’
Jane pulled a face. ‘Spare me the hard-boiled cop routine. First thing I want to know is what happened to the papers that I had tucked into my waistband last night?’
‘Your precious manuscript is back in the hands of its owner,’ Rigston said. ‘It’s up to Mrs Wright now what she does with it. And I don’t want her pressurised in any way. She’s an old lady and she’s just lost her home in traumatic circumstances. Are we clear on that?’
Jane closed her eyes and sighed. ‘I’m not in any fit state to go round monstering old ladies. Trust me on that.’
‘What was your other question?’ Rigston asked.
‘Will you please pay attention to what DI Blair has to say about Tenille? She needs a break. I know she broke the law, but look at it this way: what she did triggered what happened last night. Without her intervention, you might never have solved those murders.’
Rigston shook his head in exasperation. ‘I’m not making any promises. It’s not my job to let criminals walk away from their crimes.’
She’d pushed him on the point, but he would say nothing more concrete. And she was too tired to carry on. Seeing that, he made his escape, leaving her to silence and white and the insistent nag of grief.
Her isolation didn’t last nearly long enough. The nurse granted her parents twenty minutes. Judy wept for eighteen of them while her father sat gripping her hand as if he would never let it go. Matthew, Diane and Gabriel were given ten minutes. Little was said that didn’t revolve around Gabriel but it felt like the start of something different between them.
None of this eased the terrible ache in her heart. Dan’s treachery was terrible, but her conviction that Jake was complicit only compounded the bitter taste of betrayal. And somewhere in the middle of all this, Tenille had got lost. She had made promises that she had failed to keep, and that hurt almost as much as what Dan and Jake had taken from her. And who, she wondered, had broken the news to Harry that his lover had been killed by one of his closest friends? The occasions for grief just kept piling up around her.
Rigston came back late in the afternoon, bringing an air of satisfaction into the room with him. ‘I think we’re there,’ he said. ‘We found Dan Seabourne’s prints in Edith Clewlow’s house where they had no business being because you were never there with him. No joy so far at any of the others, but, if you’re telling the truth, those later deaths were premeditated and he probably had the sense to wear gloves. We checked with Jimmy Clewlow and although he gives Seabourne a partial alibi for a couple of the deaths, he had enough of a window of opportunity to commit the murders.
‘We also checked out his computer. As well as the email address you were using for him, he had another anonymous account. And we found an exchange of emails with Caroline Kerr, your pal Jake Hartnell’s boss. They were negotiating for her to handle the sale of the manuscript. That’s what Jake was doing parked up by Irish Row. He was supposed to have a rendezvous with the vendor, though neither he nor Ms Kerr will admit to knowing the vendor’s identity. Nor that what they were negotiating for was going to be stolen property.’
‘Stupid greedy bastard,’ Jane said. But at least stupidity and cupidity were better than conspiracy to commit murder. It was small comfort, but it was better than nothing.
‘They usually are. Unfortunately I can’t find anything to charge him with.’ He sighed, staring out of the window with a glum expression on his face. ‘Can’t bloody find anything to charge you with either. This job’s a pain in the arse sometimes.’
‘What about Tenille?’ Jane hardly dared ask.
‘Her auntie’s coming to fetch her tomorrow.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m a fool to myself sometimes. I’m counting on you to keep her honest.’
‘Thank you,’ Jane said. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘Mind you don’t.’ He got to his feet. ‘Oh, and Dr Wilde says she’ll be in touch when she’s got something concrete to report.’ He paused on his way to the door and turned back. ‘Get yourself some counselling,’ he said gruffly. ‘Five deaths is a lot to carry on your conscience. Especially when they’re not your fault.’
Rigston had been followed in short order by the doctor, who pronounced her well enough to go home and free up his acute bed. To her surprise, when she had emerged from the room dressed in the clean clothes her mother had brought, her father was sitting on a chair further down the hall, twisting his cap in his hands. He jumped to his feet as she walked unsteadily towards him. ‘I sent your mother home with Diane and Matthew,’ he said. ‘She was doing everybody’s head in.’
Jane felt the prickle of fresh tears. ‘I love you, Dad,’ she said, linking her arm through his. By the time they arrived back at the farm, Jane was so tired she could barely climb out of the Land Rover and walk indoors. The stairs looked like a mountain, but she dragged herself up. At the top, she looked down at the anxious face of her father. ‘I need to sleep for about a week,’ she said. ‘Tell Mum to please let me sleep.’
Jane took the stairs one at a time, steeling herself for a major smother attack from her mother. When she opened the kitchen door, she was astonished to see Alice Cle
wlow sitting at the table with the inevitable mug of tea. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. ‘Judy’s just popped out to the shops,’ Alice said, as if her presence was as routine as the view from the window.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Jane said weakly, slumping into the nearest chair.
‘Somebody needed to talk to you and Jimmy’s too wrapped up in his own bloody psychodrama to be any use to man nor beast so I thought I’d better pick up the baton.’ Alice gave her an appraising stare. ‘You look like shit.’
