‘But if they’re not looking for arson, they’re not going to find it, are they? An arsonist doesn’t need to soak the entire place in petrol to burn it down. All he needs is a match, some newspaper, something to set light to a sofa. If they’ve got their minds set on it being an accident, then they’re going to miss the evidence.’ Something about Reynolds’ slow nod gave Hugh the feeling he was being humoured. He said sharply, ‘But there’s no point in this without Steadman.’
Reynolds picked up his pad. ‘Shall we go through your complaint for accuracy then?’
Hugh asked him to correct some of the wording. Reynolds had just crossed out failure to undertake house-to-house enquiries and begun to write failure to undertake reasonable local enquiries when the door opened and Steadman came in. He was a trim sleek man with dark, gelled hair and pale eyes. It might have been the effect of the gel, but the blackness of his hair contrasted so strongly with his skin that it looked dyed. He shook hands briskly and, sitting down, fixed Hugh with an unwavering gaze.
‘I regret that you’ve found it necessary to make a complaint, Mr Gwynne, but I hope we’ll be able to answer some if not all of your concerns.’ As Steadman was saying this, he swung an open palm towards Reynolds, who placed the details of the complaint in his hand. Steadman glanced down the page then returned his pale gaze to Hugh’s face. ‘On the matter of the fire investigation, I appreciate that you must have a number of unanswered questions, but the fire investigators can only offer an informed opinion on the source and possible causes of a fire. In this case, all they can say with confidence is that the fire started in—’ He turned his head a fraction towards Reynolds.
‘In the lounge,’ murmured Reynolds. ‘In a sofa.’
‘In a sofa. And that it appeared to have started accidentally. Beyond that – the exact circumstances of how the item caught light – these are things they can’t determine with certainty.’
‘I’m well aware of the limits they operate under, Detective Inspector, but they haven’t even carried out a proper search,’ Hugh argued in a reasonable tone. ‘They haven’t even combed through the debris for evidence.’
‘I’m not sure I follow, Mr Gwynne. What sort of evidence would they be looking for?’
‘Well, traces of the materials that were used to start the fire. Evidence that it was started deliberately.’
‘The fire investigators are highly skilled, Mr Gwynne. Arson is almost the first thing they look for. And they found no indication of anything untoward.’
‘There was no sign of accelerants,’ Reynolds confirmed.
‘But you don’t have to use petrol to start a fire,’ Hugh pointed out. ‘It could have been started with anything – matches, newspapers, rags, you name it.’
Steadman’s stare narrowed, as if he was gauging the best way to deal with this line of argument. ‘I think I’m right in saying that matches and newspapers would burn in their entirety, Mr Gwynne. They would leave no trace.’
‘But how can the investigators be sure there’s no trace if they don’t even look?’ Hugh said, letting his exasperation show. ‘And they haven’t looked. They haven’t been back since the fire. That’s five days ago, and the house clearers are meant to be clearing the house . . .’ He drew a steadying breath. ‘The point is, Detective Inspector, my wife didn’t smoke, she didn’t use candles, she didn’t light matches at random, and she certainly wasn’t in the habit of dropping naked flames down the side of the sofa. It’s absolutely inconceivable that the fire could have begun in the sofa while she was in the house. Begun accidentally, I mean.’
‘So what else could have happened, Mr Gwynne?’ Steadman asked.
‘Well, there has to be a strong possibility that someone got into the house and started the fire deliberately. That’s obvious.’
Reynolds murmured, ‘There was no sign of forced entry.’
‘But there are dozens of ways he could have got in. He could have used a ladder and got in through a bedroom window. Or barged his way in when my wife went to answer the door. Or sneaked in and waited till my wife had gone to bed. A hundred different ways. We had a break-in two, three weeks ago. The same guy could have come back again.’
‘Access was through a broken window on that occasion,’ said Reynolds, getting a prize for doing his homework.
‘So he got in a different way this time,’ Hugh said, tiring of the argument. ‘We reported the burglary but your guys never came, so no chance of fingerprints or DNA.’
Again it was Reynolds who answered. ‘When the value of the goods or money is below—’
‘Don’t tell me, then it’s just a crime number. Well, every break-in is a hell of a lot more than a crime number to the victims, I can tell you. My wife was upset. So was I. We no longer felt safe in our own home. And with good reason, as it turned out.’
Steadman looked at the complaint again. ‘You say you subsequently had a prowler?’
‘Two nights before the fire. A hoodie hanging around in the garden.’
Reynolds said, ‘But no sign of a break-in?’
‘Well, no. I disturbed him. I chased him off.’
Reynolds went on, ‘And you believe the hoodie might have been connected to the fire?’
Maybe Hugh had been slow but it was only then that he realised Reynolds and Steadman were a double act. Not just boss and leg-man, but a well-honed team. He replied, ‘Well, it has to be a possibility, doesn’t it? Or the break-in was connected to the fire. Or all three were connected.’
Reynolds said, ‘Do you have a particular reason to believe they might be connected?’
‘Apart from the timing, you mean?’
Neither of them answered that.
‘Do you or your family have any enemies?’ Reynolds asked eventually.
‘No.’
Then, with the air of a busy man keen to move things along, Steadman said, ‘What about visitors, Mr Gwynne? Could your wife have had a visitor on the night of the fire?’
‘She wasn’t expecting anyone.’
Reynolds took over again. ‘A friend who just dropped by?’
‘They’d have phoned first. She’d have told me.’
Reynolds gave his slow nod. ‘You spoke to your wife at what time?’
‘About quarter to eight. Roughly.’
‘Not very late then?’
‘I’ve told you, she wasn’t expecting anyone.’
‘Friends of your children perhaps?’
‘Both our children were away.’
Reynolds pushed out his bottom lip as if this hardly answered the point. Then, with a glance at Steadman, he reached into the folder and took out a large glossy photograph. Twisting the photograph round he slid it across the table to Hugh. It was a picture of the kitchen. Leaning forward, Reynolds pointed to the draining board where two wine glasses stood in the drying rack. ‘Two glasses. And here . . .’ He pulled out a second photograph which showed the other side of the kitchen. ‘You can just see . . .’ His finger pointed to the counter under one of the side units. ‘A corkscrew with a cork still in it.’
‘So what? That means absolutely nothing.’
They were looking at him as if they pitied him, and then Hugh understood what they were trying to suggest: that Lizzie’d had a secret lover, that she’d used Hugh’s absence to invite him home. He gave a derisive laugh. ‘Wrong track. Completely the wrong track.’
They sat and stared at him a bit longer, then Reynolds said, ‘You see the point, Mr Gwynne. The visitor could have been a smoker.’
‘There was no visitor.’
Reynolds said, ‘Then who was the other glass for?’
Not trusting himself to speak just then, Hugh shook his head.
‘With respect, Mr Gwynne, it’s a reasonable supposition.’
Hugh took a moment to marshal his arguments. ‘Okay – the wine. My wife liked a glass of wine at about seven, as indeed did I – do I. She liked a second glass at dinner. She preferred white wine before dinner but often switched to red
with the meal. She – like me – wouldn’t have used the same glass for two different wines. She would have got a new glass from the cupboard. As for the corkscrew, I always forget to take the cork out after I’ve opened a new bottle. Most people do. So what? But strictly for argument’s sake, just supposing someone had dropped in, just supposing my wife had given them some wine, just supposing they had happened to be a smoker – though for the record I can’t think of a single friend of my wife’s who does smoke – then she would also have offered them an ashtray. Which they would have used diligently. They wouldn’t have dropped their cigarette down the side of the sofa. They wouldn’t have stubbed it out on the cushion. One way or another it comes back to the same thing – the fire couldn’t have started by accident. Quite apart from anything else, my wife would never have left the window open.’
Reynolds raised his eyebrows. ‘The window was open?’
‘It’s in the fire inspector’s report.’
After a pause, Steadman pressed his hands together and rested them on the table. The fingers were long and white, the nails manicured, a heavy gold signet ring on the wedding finger. ‘The difficulty, Mr Gwynne, is where to go from here. The fire investigators have made their report. There’s no indication of a break-in. Your wife was upstairs in bed at the time of the fire, by all accounts asleep.’ He spread his hands. ‘You appreciate the problem?’
‘I appreciate that you’re not actively looking for evidence.’
Steadman said with a hint of patience wearing thin, ‘But what sort of evidence did you have in mind, Mr Gwynne? Apart from matches and newspaper.’
‘Fingerprints. DNA.’
Reynolds said, ‘An intruder who uses a ladder is likely to be a professional, Mr Gwynne, and most professionals don’t leave fingerprints or DNA. As for the other scenario you mentioned, someone barging his way in, there was nothing to suggest that your wife was attacked or involved in a struggle. She had no injuries. She didn’t make any calls to the emergency services.’
‘And she was in bed at the time of the fire,’ Steadman said again.
Hugh felt he was being argued smoothly into a corner. ‘But something happened,’ he insisted. ‘Something that wasn’t right.’
Steadman’s still eyes became opaque, as if his mind had already moved on to the next problem in his busy afternoon. He laid his palms on the table. ‘Mr Gwynne, I appreciate your concerns. They have been logged and will be placed on file. But on the available information there is nothing to suggest that the fire and your wife’s death were anything but a tragic accident. As a result I cannot justify the allocation of more police time to the matter. If, however, further information should come to light at some point in the future, information that merits investigation, we will of course give it proper and full consideration. In the meantime’ – a half glance at Reynolds – ‘family liaison have been on hand?’
‘Pat Edgecomb,’ Reynolds said.
‘Our best liaison officer,’ Steadman said, getting to his feet. ‘Goodbye, Mr Gwynne. My sincere regrets to you and your family.’ Before Hugh could say any more, Steadman gave a quick nod and was gone.
Reynolds made a kindly face as he began to gather up his papers. ‘Accidents are often the most difficult things of all to explain. Sometimes you can look for answers and never find them.’
Hugh indicated the photographs. ‘Can I see the rest of those?’
‘Ah. Regretfully, they’re not available.’
‘So how do I get to see them?’ Hugh asked.
‘Best try the coroner’s office.’
‘And if I wanted to see them unofficially, Detective Sergeant?’
Reynolds inclined his head as if to give Hugh full marks for trying. ‘I wouldn’t have the authority to show them to you.’
‘You’ve just shown me these.’
‘That was by way of illustrating the point. Best stick to the proper channels, Mr Gwynne. Best from everyone’s point of view.’
On the way down the corridor, Reynolds said in a tone of wanting to help out, ‘My kids’ friends, they used to drop by all the time. Never phoned ahead. Smoked like chimneys, girls, boys alike.’ He pressed the electronic release for the pass-door. ‘Just a thought.’
Reynolds walked him as far as the street door. Rain was drumming against the reinforced glass windows. As Hugh pulled on his coat, the door swung open and a burly man came in, momentarily filling the entrance, bringing with him a blast of cold and damp.
‘Afternoon, sir,’ Reynolds said in a rousing voice, suddenly all attention and deference.
‘Afternoon, John. How’s things?’
‘Ticking along, thank you, sir. The guv’nor’s expecting you.’ To Hugh, Reynolds said hastily, ‘I’ll say goodbye then, Mr Gwynne. Do call if there’s anything further we can do.’
The new arrival flicked Hugh a keen look, as if his name had rung a distinct bell, before following Reynolds to the pass-door.
Hugh went out into the rain. It was barely one. His complaint had been logged, heard and discharged in the space of forty minutes. The two detectives probably felt they’d given him more than enough time.
Isabel gave an audible gasp when she heard his voice. ‘Oh Hugh, I’m so very sorry about your wife. So very sorry. I would have phoned, I wanted to phone, but I didn’t want to intrude, and then Raymond said not to bother you.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘But I’m so very sorry, Hugh. So very sorry.’
He felt the customary dart of anguish. ‘Thank you.’ He was parked in a service station by the compressed-air machine, the rain sounding a steady tattoo on the car roof. He’d pulled in quite suddenly, without indicating, and got a blast of complaint from the car behind.
‘I need a favour, Isabel.’
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘Not for public consumption. Just between you and me.’
‘No problem.’
‘I need to find an independent fire investigator. And soon, like today. If he wants to charge double for dropping everything to come at short notice, then that’s fine. But someone good, Isabel. The best.’
‘All right.’
‘I think there’s a forensic advisory service somewhere, a professional body with a list of experts.’
‘I’ll find it. And you want this person to . . . ?’
‘Carry out a full investigation. The works. Everything he can think of, the latest technology, whatever it takes.’
‘I’ll do a full Internet search as well. See what names come up.’
‘Someone independent.’
‘Got it.’
‘And Isabel? This is just between you and me?’
‘Of course,’ she declared, not needing to be told twice.
‘I haven’t mentioned anything to the children, you see.’
‘No.’
‘And not to Ray, or anyone else.’
‘Of course not,’ she agreed, as if any other action would have been unthinkable. ‘I’ll get on to it straight away and come back to you.’
He almost rang off then, but duty prompted him to ask, ‘How did the Deacon case go?’
‘Oh, fine.’
‘Finish on time?’
‘Yes, three o’clock on Friday.’
‘And it went well?’
‘Desmond thinks so.’
He suspected this left out a great deal but he couldn’t begin to face the Tom Deacon problem just then.
He had pulled out into the stream of traffic before he remembered he’d forgotten to phone Lou to say he was on his way home. But it was too late now, the road was busy, the rain was heavy, and he felt an irrational compulsion to keep going, as though time was fast running out and the debris from the fire was even now deteriorating into an indistinguishable soup. Off his guard, he took instinctive refuge in the thought of discussing it with Lizzie when he got home. When realisation came, it was with a beat of despair, and he blinked away sudden tears.
Oakhill was locked, he had to use hi
s key to get in, and when he called the children’s names he got no answer. Passing the kitchen door he saw a note propped up on the counter. He recognised Lou’s neat handwriting even before he got close enough to read it.
The anxiety bumped against his chest. He pulled out his phone hastily.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she answered.
‘You’re at Meadowcroft?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, could you stop whatever you’re doing, please? Stop straight away.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Just stop now. Just go downstairs and don’t touch anything on the way.’
‘Dad, what is it?’ She was sounding upset.
‘Nothing must be touched, Lou. I can’t explain. Just leave everything as it is and come back. No,’ he corrected himself, ‘I’ll come and fetch you. Just leave everything as it is and wait in the hall. Don’t touch anything. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ she said in a small whisper.
As he drove round he berated himself for having snapped at her. It was hardly her fault, after all. Slow down, he said to himself, just slow down.
There were two cars parked outside Meadowcroft, one he thought he recognised as Pat Edgecomb’s, the other was certainly Sarah Koenig’s.
Lou was waiting under the porch, a bundle in her arms. ‘I came to pick up some clothes,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to put them back?’
‘Your clothes?’ he asked, as if she would be picking up any others.
‘Mine, yes.’
He embraced her, bundle and all, and said into her hair, ‘Darling heart, of course you can take them. Of course. I’m sorry.’ Pulling back, he saw Pat Edgecomb standing in the open door with Sarah Koenig just behind.
‘It’s the insurance people,’ he announced. ‘They don’t want anything touched.’
Pat Edgecomb looked puzzled. ‘I thought they were all finished.’
‘Has anything been touched?’
‘Well, in Lou’s room – yes.’
‘What about the other rooms?’
Pat Edgecomb shook her head.
‘Sarah?’ Hugh demanded.
Her eyes shifted guiltily. ‘I had a quick look at a couple of rooms,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Just put my head round the door.’
Unforgotten Page 17
