‘Why not just put a light to the sofa?’
‘What, and wait till it takes hold, you mean? Because he’d want to be well away before the fire started,’ Slater declared. ‘First rule of the clever arsonist. Get your alibi fixed up. Make sure you’re having a drink with your mates when the fire breaks out.’
‘Supposing he didn’t care about that,’ said Hugh after a pause. ‘Supposing he cared more about the fire.’
Slater pulled his mouth down. ‘A simple torching job? Possible. Yes . . . I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. But nine times out of ten that’s your habitual arsonist. Someone who’s been fire-raising since he was a kid. Gets his kicks out of watching the fire go up. They usually get caught from the breaking and entering. Fingerprints, basic stuff like that. And you said there was no breaking and entering?’
‘No. Nothing obvious anyway.’
‘And not a lot of disaffected youth in this neighbourhood, I assume.’
Another pause while the image of the hoodie ran through Hugh’s mind. ‘More than you’d think.’
Slater’s eyebrows went up. ‘Proximity to Bristol, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’
‘And your wife wasn’t in social work or anything like that?’
Hugh shot him a startled look. ‘Well, yes. Yes, she was. She worked for the Citizens Advice. But she kept her work quite separate.’
‘Yes?’
‘She would never have let clients know where she lived,’ Hugh insisted, as if Slater were arguing the point. ‘She would have been well aware of the risks.’
‘Just asking, that’s all. One house fire I investigated, the couple had retired after thirty years as foster parents. While they were away in Spain one of their previous foster kids came out of prison and came looking for them. Knew where the key was kept. Got upset that they weren’t there, or started a fire to keep himself warm, depending on his story. The house was gutted.’
Hugh’s phone rang. Digging into his pocket he hauled it out and silenced it. ‘Well, we’ve never done any fostering. And my wife didn’t have any clients who were into arson. She would have told me, you see. She always told me about her clients. Not the names necessarily, but the sort of problems they had.’
‘There we are then.’
While Charlie’s druggie friends were a different matter, Hugh thought suddenly. What did we ever know about them, Lizzie? Apart from the fact that most of them were capable of stealing and cheating to feed their habit? In the dark world Hugh now inhabited, where suspicions were two a penny, arson didn’t seem such a big leap from drug addiction, not when he remembered some of the types Charlie had hung about with in the bad days, types, he couldn’t help thinking, who looked and behaved like Elk.
Hugh said, ‘So . . . if it was a kid with a lighter, we’ll never know?’
Slater sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Unlikely to find evidence from the fire itself, no.’
‘And if it was this clever guy?’
‘Ah,’ said Slater, brightening up again, ‘he’ll have wanted to get well clear before the fire started. He’ll have set up a delaying mechanism, something nice and dependable. With a bit of luck that’s what we’ll find – some trace of the device he used.’ With this thought Slater pulled on some blue latex gloves and, excusing himself, went to work.
Hugh watched as the three men shifted the sofa onto a large plastic sheet and began to seal it up. Remembering the missed call, he checked his phone. The number wasn’t one he recognised.
It was Ellis who answered. ‘Ah, Mr Gwynne,’ he said tersely. ‘Thanks for returning my call.’
‘Not at all. Have you—’
‘Just wanted to check something,’ Ellis cut in.
‘Sure.’
‘Just wanted to check that we’d got a deal.’
‘You mean . . . on the confidentiality issue?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ he shot back.
‘Yes, we have a deal. Absolutely. Why?’
‘Because I’ve had the police here, and I’ll be in deep trouble if they know I’ve been talking to you.’
‘They’re going to investigate after all?’
‘I don’t know about that. All I know is that it was a chief inspector, and he was here for a good hour, wanting chapter and verse. If it gets out that I’ve been talking to you I could be in deep trouble, Mr Gwynne. I just wanted you to be aware of that. All right?’
‘All right,’ Hugh said in a calming voice.
‘He said not to discuss it with anyone. He made a point of it. Not to discuss it with anyone at all.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘He didn’t have to. He’s a chief inspector.’
‘What was his name?’
A sharp pause, then Ellis said reluctantly, ‘Montgomery. Chief Inspector Montgomery.’
The name was familiar, though Hugh couldn’t immediately place it. Work perhaps. Or the local news. ‘He’s Inspector Steadman’s boss, is he?’
‘Don’t know. One last thing, Mr Gwynne,’ he said in a different tone. ‘About my report, I just wanted to say that the opinion I arrived at was the best I could do with the time and facilities at my disposal. If I was wrong – if I missed anything – I want you to know it wasn’t for lack of looking.’
‘I realise that.’
‘We don’t have the power to call in the forensic specialists. That’s for the police.’
‘What did Montgomery tell you about the investigation?’ Slater and his men were starting to manoeuvre the packaged sofa out of the living room. Moving further away, Hugh lowered his voice. ‘Did he say they were thinking in terms of arson?’
A short defensive silence. ‘Nothing. He didn’t say anything.’
‘But he went through it with you?’
‘I told you, I can’t discuss it. He came on really strong about that. Not to be discussed with anyone.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, Mr Gwynne. Sorry.’
‘Okay,’ Hugh said. ‘Before you go – did you manage to get an answer to my question? Did you find out what my wife was wearing?’
‘Look, Mr Gwynne, it’s like I said – I really can’t discuss it.’
‘This one last thing.’
A silence.
‘I’ll keep it confidential, I promise.’
‘That’s not the point any more, Mr Gwynne. The point is . . .’ But he was weakening, Hugh could hear it in his voice.
‘It’s just to put my mind at rest,’ Hugh said, even as the mixture of dread and anticipation gripped his stomach. ‘That’s all. For peace of mind.’
This time the silence seemed unbearable. Finally Ellis exhaled softly into the mouthpiece. ‘She wasn’t wearing anything, Mr Gwynne.’
‘Thanks,’ Hugh said levelly. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
Ringing off, he pushed his way into the kitchen and stood blindly in the middle of the room while a succession of scenes racketed through his mind, forming and re-forming, appearing possible and impossible, often at the same time. She had been so ill she hadn’t had the time or energy to put on her nightie. She had decided to sleep naked on a sudden whim. She had been overcome by smoke before she was properly in bed. She had been drugged and dumped naked on the bed by an intruder. Or maybe it was a friend: nothing seemed impossible just then. She had been raped; though signs of a struggle would surely have shown up in the post-mortem. And then the policemen’s favourite scenario: she had been entertaining a lover. And why not? If she was going to break the habit of a lifetime by sleeping naked, why not break every habit in the book? Take a lover, leave two glasses on the draining board, light a candle on the desk, leave it on the very edge ready to fall onto the sofa, open a window to fan the flames; choose this one night of the entire year to go completely against character, conviction, temperament, everything she’d ever believed in.
How long he stood there he wasn’t sure. Eventually his phone rang. When he answered, his voice sounded strange to his own ears.
/> ‘Hi, Dad,’ came Lou’s voice. ‘How are you doing?’
‘All right, love. How about you?’
‘Okay. You still at the house?’
‘Yeah. The insurance people are taking their time. You know how it is.’
‘I’m calling because Angela Parfitt from the Citizens Advice just dropped by and left a message about a Reverend John Emmanuel wanting to have a meeting with you.’
Hugh had a moment of confusion. ‘What about? The funeral?’
‘No. Her message says’ – a pause while Lou browsed the note – ‘he worked with Mum and has something important to discuss with you and can you phone him, please. There’s a mobile number.’
‘Okay,’ Hugh said, and took the number down.
‘You be home for lunch, Dad?’
‘Not sure yet.’
‘Shall I bring a sandwich over?’
‘No.’ He didn’t want her seeing what was happening, he didn’t want her getting worried. ‘No, I’ll just come and grab something when I get the chance.’
It was after two by the time Slater and his men had finished parcelling and labelling debris and sections of carpet, and begun to load their equipment into the van. While he waited to lock up, Hugh went through the drawers of Lizzie’s desk. Though everything on the flap had been reduced to congealed ash or charred, water-welded globs of paper, the contents of all but two of the drawers and compartments had survived, albeit with varying degrees of water damage. The day after her death he had found her passport and birth certificate, miraculously intact, in the drawer furthest from the flames. Now in a lower drawer he found some of her old diaries and notebooks, though nothing dated later than April. He was flicking through them for a second time when Lou’s voice startled him.
‘Dad?’
‘Lou!’
She was standing inside the door with some cling-filmed sandwiches in her hand. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’
‘Sweetheart . . . Thank you. Yes, I’m hungry.’
As she came forward she stared at the space where the sofa had been and the rectangle of bare floor where the carpet had been removed and the reference labels on the walls.
‘They’re very thorough,’ Hugh explained.
She nodded, her mouth flexing slightly. ‘Are you coming home soon?’
Where was home? Where the heart is. And my heart’s still here, he thought. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m going to meet this vicar or pastor or whatever he calls himself.’
‘You’ll be back for supper, though?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because Charlie and I need to have a talk with you.’ Before he could ask more she turned and walked out of the room. He called after her, but with a brief backward wave she was gone.
Lowering clouds had brought an early dusk to the city; a few lingering bands of brightness lay in thick yellow streaks across the western sky. From a distance, silhouetted against the last of the light, the cluster of tower blocks had a deceptively elegant look, a suggestion of Manhattan, until Hugh had climbed the hill to the edge of the estate, when the towers loomed up directly in front of him, grey and forbidding, the corrugated concrete streaked with grime, and the strings of lights that had looked so enticing from the bottom of the hill revealed themselves to be the regimented illuminations of the stairwells. School was over for the day but few windows were lit and there were no kids playing on the concrete aprons beneath. The place had a deserted air. There were conflicting rumours about the Carstairs Estate: one that it was due for demolition any day, the other, surreal in its predictability, that the conservationists were applying for it to be preserved as a paradigm of late sixties estate architecture, but perhaps this proposal had died a death or local reaction had driven it underground because he didn’t remember reading anything about it recently.
The church was on the far side of the estate, between a parade of shops and an electricity substation. Most of the shops looked closed for good, their shutters daubed with graffiti; only one blazed with light, a corner shop with a large handwritten sign in the window which, like some reactionary diatribe against single mothers, read ‘Only 2 children at same time’. The church was constructed in the ubiquitous corrugated concrete, as low-built as the towers were high, a wide, spindly, sixties take on flying buttresses giving it the appearance of a crouching spider. For a spire it had a metal spike with a light on top. Above the door was a brightly painted sign saying ‘All Welcome’.
The interior was plain, the adornment minimal. There were four or five people scattered around the pews, sitting in silent contemplation. Hugh could see only one door that might belong to the vestry. He knocked and heard the sound of a chair scraping back, then the door was flung open by a tall man, broad and powerful as a boxer, with a large face, polished-ebony skin, and metal-rimmed spectacles that had the effect of magnifying his eyes. He was wearing a bright blue tracksuit and white trainers. He reached out a broad hand and shook Hugh’s solemnly.
‘Mr Gwynne. Very good of you to come. Please . . .’ With a sweep of one arm the Reverend Emmanuel gestured Hugh inside.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, Reverend. I hope I’m not delaying you.’
‘By no means. And it’s John.’
‘John,’ Hugh echoed obediently.
Hugh was surprised to find someone else in the room, a strikingly beautiful woman with deep-coffee skin, wide features, and extravagantly braided hair. She was smartly dressed in a black suit and white shirt, and was standing very straight. The reverend introduced her as Jacqui Lewis.
‘I’m Denzel Lewis’s sister,’ she explained, shaking Hugh’s hand.
‘Of course. My wife often talked about you.’
‘My sister’s sorry she couldn’t make it. She’s still at work.’
Hugh nodded, not quite sure why the sister should have been expected.
‘But our whole family offer their sincere condolences, Mr Gwynne,’ Jacqui said. ‘Denzel phoned specially just to say how sorry he was. He appreciates everything Lizzie did for him and the campaign. We all do. She never lost faith, she kept with us all the way. That meant a lot. And now—’ She broke off with a glance at the reverend.
‘Thank you,’ Hugh said.
John said in his deep melodious voice, ‘Mr Gwynne, may I also extend my deepest condolences to you and your family. Such a sudden and pointless loss is always the worst to bear. I hope you will find some comfort in the knowledge that your wife was held in high esteem by those she helped in this neighbourhood. People have been coming to pray for her and to leave messages of condolence for you and your family.’
‘How very kind. If you’d thank them . . .’
The reverend tipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘For myself I will miss her more than I can say, both as a sister and a friend.’
‘I know she valued your friendship.’
‘Ah yes . . . we fought many a good fight together,’ John said in a reminiscent tone. ‘She would find the person we needed to see at the council, the social services, the police, wherever it was. The man. That’s what she used to say: “We have to find the man, John.” And when we got to see them she’d wear them down with sweetness and reason. That was her great gift – to wear them down so sweetly that they never minded one bit. Yes,’ he said with a show of feeling, ‘I will miss her greatly.’
‘Thank you.’
John drew a chair forward. ‘Please . . .’
They sat in a semicircle, Hugh facing a wall of blue surplices hanging in two neat rows with names tacked up above the pegs. There must have been at least thirty in the choir, and Hugh wondered what sort of music they sang, gospel or spiritual, or something more Caribbean. Whichever it was, he bet they made a fantastic sound. Without warning, his mind projected into the future he had taken for granted while Lizzie was alive, and he had a vision of the two of them sitting side by side in the church, listening to the choir in full swing, as they had sat in churches discovered at random on foreign holidays. Remembering all the things they had
planned to do and now never would, he felt a foreshadowing chill of the lonely years ahead.
John said, ‘If there is any way I can be of help to you and your family, I hope you will ask, Mr Gwynne. I will be glad to do what I can.’
‘Thank you. And please call me Hugh.’ Bereavement seemed to encourage formality, and this plea, like the statement ‘how kind’, was one he seemed destined to repeat many times.
‘Hugh.’ John placed his elbows on the chair arms and made a cage of his fingers. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me today at a time when I’m sure you have many things to attend to. The reason I asked you to come was to hear what Jacqui has to say. Jacqui came to see me on Sunday and told me something which I thought you would want to know about. Jacqui?’
Jacqui was ready to say her piece; she had been ready ever since Hugh arrived. ‘Mr Gwynne,’ she began in a low, tight voice, ‘you know that my brother’s in prison for a murder he didn’t commit. He’s got fifteen years minimum, and a bad chance of parole so long as he refuses to admit his guilt, which he’s never going to do when he’s innocent. Lizzie went and found us some new lawyers – and they’re good, we’re happy with them – but lawyers can’t do anything without new evidence. And that’s the one thing we haven’t got, Mr Gwynne. New evidence.’
Hugh gave a nod as he tried to imagine where this was leading.
‘Lizzie called me a while back to give me the name of a journalist who might be interested in doing an article on Denzel, and we chatted a bit. She asked how the plans for the public appeal were going, and I said okay. But I guess I sounded a bit down because she asked me what the matter was, and I said I wasn’t holding out much hope after all this time, and she told me I mustn’t lose heart because you never know what’s round the corner.’
‘The public appeal . . . ?’
‘To ask people to come forward with information. Sophia and I are doing leaflets, TV interviews, stuff like that.’
‘Oh yes,’ Hugh murmured as it came back to him.
Unforgotten Page 22
