Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  He arrived at the front door to see DS Reynolds climbing out of a grey car, a cigarette clamped between his lips. Spotting Hugh, he dropped the cigarette onto the ground and stepped on it. DI Steadman emerged from the passenger side and, with a glance over the house and garden, went to the rear door to extract his raincoat, which he pulled on before coming across the gravel.

  Steadman gave a solemn nod of greeting. ‘Mr Gwynne.’ Then, as if to get on with the business in hand, he strode past Hugh into the house with Reynolds in his wake.

  ‘Slater’s coming from London,’ Hugh told them. ‘He might be held up.’

  Steadman was staring at the remains of the hall ceiling. ‘But he’s in no doubt, you say?’

  ‘None. He says it’s definitely arson.’ Recalling Slater’s words on the phone, the barely suppressed excitement in his voice, Hugh relived his own shock at having been proved right, the vindication and the anguish.

  ‘Did he indicate what sort of evidence he’d found?’

  ‘He said it was best explained in person. But I imagine the evidence is strong. For him to be so sure.’

  Steadman gave a slight nod. Noticing his hair again, how immaculately combed and blow-dried it was, how unnaturally dark it was against his face, Hugh tried not to hold his vanity against him.

  Steadman indicated the living room. ‘This is where the fire started, is it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He swung his gaze towards the kitchen and dining room. ‘And no signs of a break-in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And your wife wasn’t expecting anyone that evening?’

  Hugh said tightly, ‘We’ve been through this before.’

  Steadman shaped his mouth into an understanding smile. ‘I appreciate that, Mr Gwynne, but in view of developments I’m afraid it’s going to be necessary to go through certain aspects again.’

  ‘The facts haven’t changed since Monday.’

  ‘It’s a question of establishing the details.’

  It might have been the amount of coffee he’d drunk or a sugar-rush from the chocolate or the suspicion that Steadman hadn’t bothered to read Reynolds’ notes, but Hugh was shaken by a small rage. Only with an effort did he keep his voice steady. ‘Well, I’m not prepared to go through the whole thing again unless it’s to make a proper statement.’

  Steadman’s steady gaze betrayed nothing. ‘As you wish, Mr Gwynne. Perhaps you could take us through the house then?’

  Destined, it seemed, to reopen his wounds on a daily basis, Hugh started on the familiar tour. Like a well-trained guide he set the scene with care, describing the location and appearance of the absent sofa, the state of the windows and door, the work Lizzie had been doing on her computer, the time she had closed the last file, before leading his visitors along the track of the fire, directing them to points of interest, pausing now and again to let Reynolds catch up with his note taking. Unlike a well-trained guide, however, he deserted his visitors at the final attraction. With no stomach to watch the two men casting their cold inquisitive gaze over the unmade bed, he hung back on the landing. Once, Reynolds came out and asked a question about the window. Otherwise Hugh paced slowly back and forth, listening to the men murmuring to each other as they moved about the room. Despite the cold, he had sweated through his shirt; his stomach felt nauseous.

  Steadman reappeared, wiping his hands on a large cotton handkerchief. ‘Nothing been moved or altered since the fire?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Just a routine question.’ Steadman went on wiping his hands, as if he’d come into contact with something nasty he couldn’t shift.

  Hugh said, ‘The bed’s in such a mess because the firemen were searching for other victims.’ Other victims? He had caught the plague of official-speak. He corrected himself. ‘Searching for me.’

  ‘I see,’ Steadman said impassively. ‘You mentioned the clothes on the chair, the way they were folded.’

  ‘Yes – my wife would never have left her clothes like that.’

  ‘Could you be more specific?’

  ‘Well, she never folded them. Ever. Any clothes she was going to wear the next day she draped over the back of the chair. And she always, always, put her underwear straight into the laundry basket, never left it out. And she wore a nightdress except in hot weather, and when she was found she was naked.’

  Steadman waited for Reynolds to finish writing this up.

  ‘And the clothes haven’t been touched since the night of the fire?’

  Hugh hesitated. ‘I looked at them once, just to see what was there. But I replaced them exactly as they were. And we were careful to take photographs beforehand. Slater was, rather. He took pictures of everything.’

  ‘So . . . that would have been two days ago?’

  The implication was clear: it was too long after the event to count. ‘But absolutely nothing was touched before then,’ Hugh said firmly. ‘No one’s been allowed into this room, not even the family. I knew there’d have to be a proper investigation. I knew nothing must be touched.’ Sensing that Steadman remained unpersuaded, Hugh added, ‘And Ellis’s photographs must show the clothes.’

  ‘Ellis?’

  ‘The fire brigade investigator.’

  Absorbing this with a slow nod, Steadman cast an eye around the landing and up at the ceiling. ‘I’m not clear about one thing, Mr Gwynne. You say your wife was alone in the house and no one was expected.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But your son arrived sometime that evening.’

  ‘He arrived late. After the fire started.’

  Reynolds looked up from his notepad. ‘Your son’s name, Mr Gwynne?’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Is that Charles?’

  ‘No. Charlie.’

  Steadman said, ‘And you weren’t aware he was coming?’

  ‘His mother knew. He phoned her earlier that evening.’

  ‘Ah. And how would he have got here?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What transport would he have used?’

  ‘Well . . . coach from Birmingham. Then a bus. Except it might’ve been a taxi because it was so late. But what’s that got to do with anything?’ Realising this had sounded rather abrupt, Hugh added a conciliatory shrug.

  Steadman paused, as if deciding whether to break with his normal practice and reveal his thinking. ‘If your wife was expecting him, she might have answered the door rather more readily than otherwise.’

  ‘But she knew he was going to get here late – at eleven or twelve. And he would have let himself in.’

  Steadman’s gaze turned inward, as if Hugh’s reply had confirmed the foolishness of entering into discussions with civilians. With a glance towards Reynolds, he said, ‘Thank you, Mr Gwynne, I think that’s everything up here.’

  When they reached the hall Reynolds said, ‘The wine glasses, they’re still in situ, are they, Mr Gwynne?’

  They trooped into the kitchen and stared at the glasses standing upside down on the draining board, their surfaces tarnished with a faint film of soot. Hugh explained how Lizzie always used the dishwasher for glasses because she believed it cleaned them better.

  Reynolds referred to his notebook. ‘Previously you said she might have used two glasses in one evening.’

  Hugh could see where this was leading. He said, ‘It’s possible, yes.’

  ‘But you’re suggesting someone else washed them up?’

  ‘All I know is Lizzie wouldn’t have washed them up by hand.’

  It was Steadman who voiced the obvious. ‘The second glass could have been for an unexpected guest.’

  But not a lover, Hugh thought with a warning glare. But if Steadman’s mind was journeying down that route, he didn’t say anything.

  ‘Have the glasses been touched?’ Steadman asked.

  ‘No.’

  Steadman’s gaze settled thoughtfully on the bay window before coming back to Hugh. ‘Anyone have a grudge against your wife, Mr Gwynne?�
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  ‘Not to my knowledge, no.’

  ‘She worked at the Citizens Advice, I believe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She mention any troublesome customers there? People who might have threatened her?’

  ‘No. Some of her clients got upset now and then, when they got turned down for housing or whatever it was. But they didn’t take it personally. They knew it was the system that was against them, not Lizzie. But you should ask Angela Parfitt, her team leader. She’ll be able to tell you more than me.’

  ‘And outside her work? Your wife was involved in some high-profile campaigns, I believe.’

  ‘No. I mean, there was only one you could call high profile – the Denzel Lewis case.’

  ‘And what was her involvement there?’

  ‘She helped him find a new lawyer. And she did what she could on the campaigning side.’

  ‘What, leaflets, that sort of thing?’

  ‘More, contacting useful people, getting their help.’

  ‘What kind of useful people?’

  ‘Forensic experts, criminal barristers . . . And Chief Inspector Montgomery. She saw him a few times.’

  Steadman’s impassive features showed something like mystification. ‘Oh?’

  ‘She saw him only last week, in fact. The day before she died.’

  Steadman gazed at him while he considered this information. ‘You know why?’

  Maybe it was his lawyer’s training which had taught him to divulge the minimum information, maybe it was his natural caution when dealing with something he didn’t fully understand, but Hugh said, ‘Best ask him yourself.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Steadman glanced around the other half of the kitchen before asking, ‘Your wife have any contact with Lewis’s associates? His fellow gang members?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Or with rival gangs?’

  ‘No,’ Hugh said emphatically.

  In a tone of enlightening him, Steadman said, ‘The Carstairs Estate is rife with gangs, Mr Gwynne. The Yardies are in charge at present. They make it their business to know who’s who. If she was going there on a regular basis, her presence would have been noted.’

  ‘Well, she never mentioned any trouble to me.’

  Steadman wandered towards the side counter and peered at the half-drunk bottle of red wine, and beside it the corkscrew with a cork still in it. ‘You stated you’d seen a hoodie in the garden two days before the fire. Could you give us a description?’

  It seemed so long ago that Hugh struggled to summon up an image. ‘I don’t know . . . He was about five nine or ten, I suppose. Skinny. Young. Fit. That’s about it. It was very dark.’

  ‘Ethnicity?’

  ‘White. I think so, anyway.’

  ‘You saw his face, then?’

  ‘For a second. But it was raining hard, I didn’t get a good look at him.’

  ‘And he was acting suspiciously?’

  But Hugh had picked up the sound of an approaching car and was already moving towards the hall.

  ‘Traffic,’ Slater said, as he came energetically into the house. He was wearing a dark suit and crisp white shirt, and carrying a cabin bag which he set down on the floor. He looked around expectantly. ‘CID here?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’

  Slater’s quick eyes brightened. ‘Excellent.’

  Hugh took him in and made the introductions. Slater handed Steadman his card. ‘Done quite a bit for the Met, Thames Valley, Hampshire Force,’ he announced. ‘Always glad to help in any way.’

  Steadman put the card in his pocket without reading it.

  Slater pressed his hands neatly together, like a lecturer summoning his students. ‘Well, shall we get started then?’

  Hugh collected his memo recorder and followed the others into the living room, where they formed a loose semicircle around the absent sofa. Slater crouched down and, unzipping the case, extracted first a laptop which he opened and set up on the seat of an armchair, then some enlarged photographs of the sofa, which he offered to Steadman.

  ‘Right.’ Slater looked from face to face, as if to gauge the attentiveness of his audience, perhaps even to heighten the dramatic effect, and it occurred to Hugh that this was a high point of his career, a tale he would recount many times in the future. ‘Right . . .’

  Hugh held his recorder out to catch Slater’s voice.

  ‘The fire brigade and ourselves agree on the source of the fire – that it started on the sofa which stood here, under the window. The right-hand side of the sofa, to be precise. On the seat, close to the arm.’ He directed Steadman to the photographs. ‘You can see the frame at this point was burnt right through to the wood.’ He waited for Steadman to look up again. ‘And the fire damage clearly emanates from this area, spreading sideways, but mainly up and over. The window behind the sofa was slightly open, the door fully open. So, once the fire had got a grip it travelled towards the door and out into the hall, getting as far as the upper landing before it was extinguished.’ He paused enquiringly to make sure everyone was with him so far. ‘Now, in cases of suspected arson I’m looking for one or both of two things – first, how the fire was started, and second, the way or ways it might have been encouraged to spread. As you’ll be aware, most arsonists are what you might call amateurs, they use accelerants like petrol which leave detectible residues and telltale burn patterns, and they often start more than one fire at the same time. But our arsonist was in a different class. He had two clear aims: a) to leave as little evidence as possible, and b) to be well away from the scene by the time the fire started. So he didn’t use an obvious accelerant, and he started only one fire.’ A glimmer of satisfaction crossed Slater’s face. ‘But that doesn’t mean he left no evidence.’

  DI Steadman inclined his head a little, as if to urge Slater to get on with it.

  ‘So . . .’ Slater said, gaining pace. ‘Because the sofa was the sole source of the fire we were able to concentrate our examination there. And we found evidence of a simple but effective method by which he could be away from the scene by the time the fire started. If I could demonstrate . . .’ Like a conjuror producing a rabbit, he reached down and took a packet of cigarettes out of his case and extracted one. ‘He lights a cigarette . . . he places it on the sofa . . .’ In the absence of the sofa, Slater perched the cigarette on the edge of Lizzie’s desk. ‘Then . . .’ Reaching down into the case again, he brought out a book of matches, the sort restaurants and hotels used to give away before smoking was banned. ‘He flips the matches open, he bends the cover right back so the matches are standing up . . . and he places the matches over the near end of the cigarette . . .’ Slater took a moment to balance the book of matches in the right position. ‘Now, a cigarette takes between seven and eleven minutes to burn to the end, then the cover of the matches will catch light, then the matches themselves. From that point on, the fire will take anything between ten and twenty-five minutes to take hold, depending on the proximity of flammable materials and the use of accelerants. So, adding it all together, our man had at least a quarter of an hour to get away. How do we know he used this method?’ He went back to his case and extracted a sealed, transparent plastic bag. ‘We know because all book matches, no matter where you obtain them, are fastened with the same unique staple.’ He held up the plastic envelope in front of him, the staple just visible in one corner. ‘And it was just such a staple we found at the epicentre of the fire. A staple, in other words, that could only have come from a book of matches. As the fire got going, the staple worked its way down through the foam and ended up on the sofa frame, which is where we found it.’

  Hugh tried not to imagine the number of ways a clever lawyer would find to challenge this sort of evidence. Where was the proof that the book of matches hadn’t been lying down the side of the sofa for years? Or hadn’t fallen onto the sofa with an unattended candle?

  ‘But it’s not enough for this arsonist to start his fire,’ Slater said. ‘He has to make sure it�
�s going to get a good hold. The way our man achieved this was very simple. He took the floor-length curtains that were hanging at the window here and brought them forward over the front of the sofa onto the seat cushions, in close proximity to the cigarette and matches. How do we know he did this? Because we found residues of the curtains on the sofa. If I could just demonstrate . . .’ He went to the laptop and brought up a diagram showing a line-drawing of a sofa, sideways on, with the curtains brought forward onto the seat cushions. He pressed a key and the diagram came to life. A small red flame appeared on the cushion and began to spread up the curtains towards the ceiling. As the curtains burnt, the residue, shown as a series of bright green specks, formed on the cushions of the sofa. When the lower halves of the curtains had burnt through, the top halves swung back towards the window and the residues began to fall onto the floor. ‘This is the only scenario consistent with the evidence,’ Slater said. ‘The curtains were used to get the fire going.’

  Here was proof, but Hugh felt no elation, no triumph, only a dull, persistent anxiety.

  Slater was facing them with an eager enquiring look, as if to invite questions, but it was a full half minute before Reynolds asked, ‘There was no accelerant used?’

  ‘We’ve found no evidence so far, certainly nothing obvious like petrol, but absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence when it comes to accelerants. In my opinion it’s highly likely one was used, but since this guy knew what he was doing, he’d have chosen acetone or something similar, which leaves no trace.’

  Hugh’s recorder clicked as the tape ran out. He extracted the cassette and turned it over.

  ‘Your reasons for thinking an accelerant was used?’ Steadman asked.

  Slater acknowledged the validity of the question with a quick nod. ‘Partly a gut feeling – this guy was leaving nothing to chance. Partly the intensity of the fire, the pattern of the damage. But that’s just my opinion,’ he added, with an eye to his expert status. ‘Nothing I could swear to in court.’

  Hugh pushed at the cassette but couldn’t get it to click into the slot. Giving up, he asked Slater, ‘How would someone acquire this sort of know-how? Is it freely available?’