Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  ‘So . . . what makes the smoke travel?’ Hugh prompted with the same grave air of enquiry.

  ‘It depends on layout and what you might call opportunity,’ Ellis explained, with the air of knowing his subject backwards. ‘From the source of the fire it’s a matter of what doors and windows are open and where the smoke can get to easiest. Smoke rises, given the chance, so if there’s an open door and a stairwell it’ll go up to a higher level. If it can’t go up, it’ll spread sideways across the ceilings and then work its way down.’

  ‘Can you tell how quickly the smoke would have spread?’

  ‘It’s only ever a calculated guess.’

  Taking it slowly, maintaining a look of almost academic interest, Hugh made a show of absorbing this. ‘But you can track the smoke?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘What, based on the smoke damage?’

  Ellis nodded. ‘Though certain types of smoke leave more damage than others. It all depends on the type and quantity of the inflammable materials.’

  Hugh looked around the walls of the bedroom. ‘But the fire itself, that behaves differently, you say?’

  ‘Oh yes. Fire needs oxygen and it needs combustible materials, so the speed and intensity of the fire will depend on how much of each it has to feed off. A small fire in an airtight room will burn itself out, while a fire in a room full of combustibles with an open window and a good draught will spread rapidly.’

  ‘And you can always tell how far the fire got?’ Hugh looked around the room again and up at the ceiling.

  Ellis said hastily, ‘Oh, there was never any fire in here.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No way.’ Ellis led the way onto the landing. ‘No, this is as far as it got.’ He gestured towards the ceiling above the stairwell and the burnt banisters.

  It was just as Hugh had thought, but the relief still came at him like a shock. A tightness gripped his chest, his throat swelled, his eyes fired with sudden tears. He would have gone outside then, but Ellis, having taken Hugh into his confidence, was in full swing, pointing out the route of the fire as it came up the stairwell, leading the way down into the hall to indicate the badly burnt ceiling, pausing on the threshold of the living room.

  ‘It started in here,’ he said.

  Hugh would have held back, the source of the fire seemed so unimportant to him just then, but he knew he would never have such an opportunity again. ‘Whereabouts, do you know?’

  ‘Off the record?’ Ellis said.

  ‘Off the record.’

  The room was in an even worse state than Hugh had realised. Much of the ceiling had gone, some of the joists were scorched and burnt, the walls were black for several feet below the ceiling, and the floor was inches deep in squelching debris.

  Ellis went to what had once been a pale sofa, the right side burnt down almost to the frame, the remainder badly charred. ‘Just here,’ he said, squatting down to inspect the scene again. ‘Likely between the arm and the cushion, that’s usually the place these things start.’

  Hugh said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The fire started here in this sofa,’ Ellis stated categorically.

  Hugh had been expecting an electrical fault, a lamp, a socket, anything but the sofa. ‘How could it do that?’

  ‘Cigarette. Match. Candle. But most likely a cigarette.’

  ‘But my wife didn’t smoke.’

  Ellis indicated the window above the sofa. ‘The curtains would have been next. You can see the way the fire fanned out at the top there.’ He was pointing towards the devastation that was the ceiling. ‘And then this window here was open, just a few inches but enough to provide a draught, the door was open too, so as the fire spread’ – he pushed his hands up and sideways – ‘it tracked over here towards the door.’ He pointed both hands towards the hall.

  ‘My wife didn’t smoke,’ Hugh repeated.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could have been a candle stood on the surface here,’ Ellis suggested, indicating the top of Lizzie’s badly scorched desk. ‘Which fell over onto the sofa.’

  ‘She’d never use a candle at her desk,’ Hugh argued fretfully. ‘Why would she use a candle?’

  ‘These scented candles have got very popular—’

  ‘But she’d never use anything like that, not at her desk.’

  Uneasy at this sudden change of mood, Ellis regarded him warily.

  ‘She just wouldn’t,’ Hugh repeated firmly.

  Ellis moved towards the door. ‘Well, I’d better get on.’ Realising that Hugh wasn’t going to follow, he said, ‘If you could be sure not to touch anything, Mr Gwynne?’

  ‘I won’t touch anything.’

  Alone, Hugh stared at the charred sofa and blackened desk while he went over what Ellis had told him, but the information clogged in his brain, he could make no sense of it. Why would Lizzie have broken the habit of a lifetime to put a lighted candle on her desk? And so dangerously close to the edge? Even assuming she’d found room next to what were now the gnarled remains of her handbag. Cigarettes and matches were equally implausible. He understood that Ellis was trying to fit the available evidence into the most likely box, but in doing so he was in danger of missing the facts.

  Eventually he drifted across the hall into the study, then the dining room, and saw smoke damage. The kitchen seemed untouched. The floor was dry, apples and bananas lay in the bowl, glasses on the draining board, the sun shone through untarnished windows. Only when he touched a surface did he realise everything was covered by a film of grime. A note was wedged under the scales where Lizzie always left money and communications for Mrs Bishop. His heart tightened as he saw her handwriting. Dear Mrs B, Charlie may be here. If sleeping, best not disturb! I’ll be back before three. L. He could make no sense of this either. Which day was she referring to? Yesterday? Today? And since when had Charlie been coming home?

  Outside, the sun was winter bright, the security men were boarding up the living-room windows, and Mike and Ray were there, standing by the fire-brigade car, talking to Ellis.

  Mike came over. ‘How are you doing, old fella?’

  ‘You should have got some more sleep, Mike.’

  ‘No, I’m fine! No – couldn’t sleep anyway!’ he lied brazenly, looking crumpled and battered.

  ‘You’ll be in no state to drive back.’

  ‘Who said I was driving back? No rush at all.’

  ‘Your work . . .’

  ‘That’s what I’ve got a trainee for. And a mobile phone. And I didn’t have much on—’

  ‘Hugh?’ Ray’s voice interrupted. He was striding towards them, looking spruce and crisp in a suit and tie, only the puffiness round his eyes betraying the lack of sleep. ‘Listen, we need to contact your insurance company as soon as possible. You can’t remember their name by any chance?’

  ‘Not just at the moment, no.’

  ‘The documents – are they . . . ?’

  ‘In the study.’

  ‘Right.’ Ray swung away, only to turn back with an air of having overlooked a vital point. ‘Look, you don’t have to worry about a thing, Hugh. Okay?’ He made an emphatic gesture. ‘Not a thing. I’m going to get all this stuff sorted. You just . . . well . . .’ He buttoned his mouth down and said in a tone of suppressed emotion, ‘You just concentrate on the family.’ With a touch to Hugh’s sleeve he strode purposefully away.

  ‘Why don’t you come and grab some breakfast,’ Mike said, ‘then we can make a plan.’

  But Hugh missed what Mike said after that, as a thought came to him that was so sickening and so horribly obvious he couldn’t think why it hadn’t struck him before.

  ‘Hugh?’

  ‘Sorry . . . You said . . .’

  ‘Just that we might make a list of people to call.’

  ‘Yes . . . Lou . . . Lizzie’s family . . .’

  ‘I was saying, Charlie thinks he knows the name of the people his grandmother’s staying with, and he’s—’
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br />   ‘I need to talk to the police,’ Hugh cut in.

  Mike’s expression froze. ‘Okay . . .’

  ‘Will you drive me there?’

  ‘Well . . . yes, of course. When did you want to go?’

  ‘Now. Right away.’

  Mike eyed him anxiously. ‘What about some breakfast first? You need to get some food inside you, Hugh. It’s going to be a long day.’

  But the idea was racketing around Hugh’s head, it had to be told as soon as possible. And he wasn’t in the least hungry.

  In the course of his legal career Hugh had come to this police station in the eastern suburbs of Bristol perhaps half a dozen times, usually to bail out clients for drink-driving, once for an assault. But this was the first time he had been made to sit in the waiting room with the punters, who today consisted of two slumped youths, a heavily made-up girl with glaring eyes, and an older woman whose body spilled out over the sides of the chair. All had the sullen air of regulars. Every so often Mike sauntered up to the desk to make his number with the reception officer, only to get the same message, that nothing could be done until someone became available. What were they doing to make themselves so unavailable? Hugh wondered. Filling out forms in longhand in defiance of the computer age, manipulating the crime figures to meet irksome government targets, hanging on the phone for information that never came; anything, he supposed, to put off an interview with a grief-stricken man wanting to talk about the death of his wife, an event which, though tragic, wasn’t going to justify their time or trouble. As the minutes went by, Hugh imagined describing the episode to Lizzie: the absurdity of the wait, the ludicrous inefficiency of the system. But when he tried to conjure up her image he had no hold on her. She was a shadow, an absence, her existence in his memory as a talking, laughing, argumentative being had melted away. He couldn’t picture her reaction, couldn’t hear her voice, and he missed the idea of her terribly.

  When someone finally became available it was a detective constable called Smith, a pallid, paunchy, twenty-something man with bad teeth and a bland expression which sharpened a little when Mike introduced himself as Hugh’s legal advisor, an expedient to get Mike into the interview room, which was hot and airless, the surfaces of the chairs and tables tacky from sweat and lies and sweet drinks.

  As soon as they sat down Smith went through a standard speech of condolence before expressing concern that family liaison hadn’t yet been in touch with Hugh. He could only apologise, he was sure they must be trying to contact him and his family at this very moment. He stressed how experienced they were in these matters, how sensitive to families’ needs, how they would be able to deal with all the problems and queries arising from the unfortunate incident.

  When Hugh said he hadn’t come about that, he’d come about the fire itself, a dullness came over Smith’s features, and Hugh knew what he was thinking, that he had more important things to do than be tied down for hours listening to a bereaved man’s outpourings of survivor guilt, to be forced to hear the tale of the decorators with blow-torches leaving timbers to smoulder, or the dodgy electrical contractors, or whoever else might be to blame for the accident. Even when Hugh went through the tale of the break-in and the lurking hoodie and the fact that Lizzie didn’t smoke, Smith made no attempt to take notes but adopted the pose of the dutiful CID man, sitting back in his chair, head slightly to one side, eyes narrowed, one hand resting against his chin.

  When Hugh had finished, Smith was silent for a time. Finally he said, ‘So you’re saying these events could be connected?’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying, yes.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Hugh couldn’t make out whether he was being slow, or rather clever. ‘The hoodie might have forced his way into the house and harassed my wife, even restrained her in some way, and then started the fire.’

  ‘Deliberately, you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes. Oh, not with petrol or anything obvious like that, but with matches, papers stuffed down the side of the sofa, that sort of thing. An act of vandalism, if you like. Or out-and-out arson.’

  Now that Smith was having to think up questions his eyes kept tracking diagonally down to the edge of the table, and it occurred to Hugh that he was totally out of his depth.

  ‘The break-in,’ Smith said, ‘what makes you think it could be linked to this hooded youth?’

  ‘Well, it seems strange to live in a place for fifteen years without any crime, and then to have a break-in and a hooded youth in your garden within the space of a couple of weeks. And then, two nights after the hoodie, to have your house burnt down with—’ But he couldn’t say it, couldn’t say with my wife inside. So stark, so matter of fact. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence by anybody’s standards.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What is your line of business exactly?’

  ‘I’m a solicitor.’

  Smith’s expression didn’t change, though like most cops he probably looked on lawyers as the enemy. ‘A disgruntled client, perhaps?’

  ‘I do boring stuff, Detective Constable. Conveyancing, wills, probate . . . And none of my clients is remotely young or hooded.’ Aware that Smith was only doing his slow, lumbering duty, Hugh added, ‘That I remember, anyway.’

  Smith seemed to come to a decision. Sitting forward, he said, ‘Right, I’ll need to get all this down, so while I get set up, how about I organise a cup of tea?’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t he take notes first time round?’ Hugh murmured after Smith had left the room.

  ‘Modern crime investigation,’ said Mike.

  The tea was strong but fresh. Smith was left-handed and wrote in the tortured way some left-handers adopt, his arm curved over the top of the paper, his wrist bent inwards, the pen held at a slant. He wrote slowly, frowning over his script.

  ‘The break-in was reported, was it?’

  ‘Yes, but nobody came.’

  ‘And what was stolen?’

  ‘Fifty pounds and some costume jewellery of very little value.’

  Smith looked up. ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘And a window was used to gain access?’

  ‘It was broken, yes.’

  ‘Any other damage?’

  ‘No.’

  Another pause in a long succession of pauses while Smith wrote laboriously.

  ‘And no one – neighbours, passers-by, tradespeople – saw anything suspicious?’

  Hugh felt like saying, Well, if you guys had bothered to turn up you might just have found out. ‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’

  After another five minutes they got on to the hoodie, and Hugh went through his account for the second time, how he spotted the youth in the darkness, stopped the car, got out to confront him, set off in pursuit, and was forced to give up the chase.

  ‘How would you describe him in terms of height, weight, age, ethnic group?’

  ‘About five ten or eleven, slim build, young, teens or twenties. White, I think, but I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Could you describe his face?’

  ‘I never got a proper look at him, no.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t be able to recognise him again?’

  ‘No.’

  Another lengthy pause, during which the futility of the exercise was brought home to Hugh. His statement would be logged, there would be the semblance of an investigation, until after a suitable interval the case would be dropped for lack of evidence. The detectives would be polite, regretful, they would offer their condolences once again for his ‘loss’ – how he was growing to dislike that word – then they would pass him over to a family liaison officer, doubtless female and softly spoken with a diploma in the art of counselling or some other caring and sharing life-skill. Then nothing. With this realisation came a sense of hopelessness and mild panic. By the time Smith reached the events of the previous day Hugh was longing to escape the hot airless room. Yes,
he had spoken to his wife in the evening at about seven twenty. What did he mean in the evening? he thought despairingly; it was yesterday, just yesterday. Yes, she was alone and not expecting anyone. No, they never knowingly left the front or back door unlocked. No, there wasn’t a separate panic button as such, but you could press 999 into the keypad by the front door to set off the alarm. And no, the alarm wasn’t connected to a security firm.

  Pondering his next question at some length Smith gnawed one side of his lower lip, revealing grey misshapen teeth, and suddenly Hugh felt the blood beat high in his head, he gave an involuntary shiver, and the next instant he was on his feet, sending the chair juddering back over the lino, announcing in a muted voice that he had to go.

  Mike craned forward to examine a road sign. ‘Is it right here?’

  Hugh, who had been gazing unseeing at the road, looked across and confirmed that it was.

  ‘Now, listen,’ said Mike as he negotiated the roundabout, ‘if you want someone to give the cops a bloody great kick up the arse, then just say the word. I’m your man.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘If Smith is half as useless as he looks I suggest leaving it two or three days then making an official complaint about the way the case is being handled. That’ll get the investigation up to detective sergeant level at the very least, maybe even detective inspector. I’ll be more than happy to do the stirring if you want me to. Nothing I like better.’

  Hugh said, ‘You must get back, Mike. You’ve done more than enough.’

  ‘Happy to stay.’

  ‘Ray can handle any official stuff. And I’ll do the rest myself.’

  Mike glanced across at him. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ And it was the only thing Hugh was sure about just then. Well meaning though people were, he didn’t want to be taken charge of, presented with decisions, treated as temporarily mentally impaired. He wanted to be with Lou and Charlie, sorting things out in their own way at their own speed. He longed for Lou to get back; he wished she was on her way. He had texted her last night and he remembered Charlie saying he had texted her too, but she hadn’t answered and he supposed she was out of range or had turned her phone off to save power. What would he say to her when they finally spoke? How would he find the right words? At some point in the night he’d thought of telling her a white lie, that Mum was ill and she should take a plane home just in case, but he had rejected this straight away. She deserved the truth, though the thought of inflicting such pain at such a distance and with a long flight ahead of her filled him with anguish.