Blazing Obsession

by Dai Henley

  We bought a beautiful holiday cottage in Lymington, a delightful coastal town in Hampshire, close to the New Forest, about three hours drive from home.

  The cottage resembled the classic chocolate-box lid – a thatched roof crowning whitewashed walls softened by rambling pink roses around the door and pale blue racemes of wisteria reaching up into the eaves. The pretty garden, enclosed by a white picket fence, had several cherry trees, which carried stunning blossom every May.

  When Lynne first saw the cottage she said, “Oh, it’s beautiful! We must buy it.” We hadn’t yet set foot inside. I warned her not to be so enthusiastic in front of the vendor, but I failed. As a result, it made negotiating a decent price tougher. I didn’t care.

  When Georgie saw the marina, he said, “Wow! Look at those yachts. Can you teach me to sail? One of my friends’ dads taught him. Said it’s wicked!”

  Whenever we visited, usually most weekends in the summer months, he and I went to the local sailing school. He proved to be a natural sailor and we spent many happy hours together tacking on the Solent before meeting up with Lynne and Emily for lunch or an early dinner.

  Emily’s gleeful reaction to the wild New Forest ponies, especially the foals tramping across the winding roads as if they owned them, made every trip worthwhile. I imagined her taking riding lessons when she became older.

  Life couldn’t possibly get much better.

  However, on our last visit, Lynne became withdrawn and preoccupied.

  “Is everything OK, Lynne? You don’t seem your usual self.”

  “No, I’m fine. Just a bit tired, I suppose.”

  As I locked up that evening before we went to bed, I looked through the side window next to the back door and thought I saw movement in the garden. I opened the door and peered into the darkness, with the light from the windows feebly illuminating the immediate area. I called out, “Anybody there?”

  No reply.

  I thought it must have been a bird or a squirrel. Maybe I imagined it.

  A week later, two police officers came to my office and told me about the arson attack.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  August – December1998

  When DI Flood had asked me if I could think of anybody who’d want to murder my family, I had no hesitation in suggesting that Nick must have arranged it.

  “I know he’s inside, but maybe he arranged for a hit man or something,” I said.

  I explained Nick’s background: the restraining order, the drug dealing, the abduction and the trial to the DI, whilst his detective sergeant furiously made notes.

  “OK, I’ll look into it,” he said. “In the meantime, I’d like you to be available if we want to talk to you.”

  His earlier implication that I might have been involved with the arson simply because, for the first time ever, I didn’t travel down to the cottage with my family unnerved me.

  I racked my brains to come up with cast-iron evidence that would prove, beyond doubt, my innocence. Then I’d ram it down DI Flood’s skinny throat, break my media embargo and broadcast it to the world.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of anything. Except the fact it had to be Nick, the only person I knew with a motive.

  *

  The media stepped up their interest once the police released a statement confirming the fire had been started deliberately and asking the public for any information that could help find the perpetrator. I maintained my self-imposed media embargo and refused to talk to them.

  I rarely left the house. My phone at home constantly rang but I never answered it, just checked for messages every couple of hours.

  I parked away in my mind the hideous details of the fire and considered whether Nick planned to murder me too? Possibly, my business meeting saved my life.

  Something else gnawed at me incessantly, feeding my guilt. Why didn’t I install smoke alarms when we bought the cottage? I must have been stupid not to. Especially with a thatch. Would have saved their lives.

  Stupid, stupid.

  The post-mortem examination confirmed the cause of death; Exposure to fire and fire effluents: toxic gases, smoke inhalation and heat. The coroner sent me a letter informing me that he’d released the bodies and sent the relevant paperwork to the Registrar in Lymington. This meant I could register the deaths and go ahead with the funeral arrangements.

  I couldn’t organise anything. Since the fire, I acted on autopilot, going through the motions. Fortunately, Pat came to my rescue and, with Alisha’s help, they made most of the arrangements.

  PC Williamson, the family liaison officer, called.

  “I thought you ought to be aware that Nick Burrows has applied to the Governor of Belmarsh prison for a Special Purpose Licence to attend his son’s funeral.”

  “You are joking! He’s the one who got someone to set fire to the cottage. How could he possibly think of attending?”

  “We have no evidence of that at the moment, Mr Hamilton, and as Georgie’s biological father, he has every right to attend.”

  “Do you know, I sometimes question whose side the police are on. I’ll tell you one thing. If he does come, I won’t be responsible for my actions. I’ll bloody kill him!”

  Maintaining her coolness, she said, “I understand how you feel, but I don’t think that’s going to help. And I should warn you about your threatening language. The Governor hasn’t agreed yet. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Slamming the phone down, I yelled, “The fucking world’s gone mad!”

  *

  The day of the funeral passed by in another blur. I barely remembered it happening, except for several scenes that remained in my head.

  The huge number of people who came to pay their respects, many of whom I failed to recognise, surprised me. I assumed they’d read about the case or seen the media coverage on TV. Several of Georgie’s school friends came too, many of them crying whilst carrying small bouquets or wreaths.

  Margaret, weeping openly, had to be supported by Alisha. Especially when the three coffins, a maple one for Lynne, and two white ones for Georgie and Emily, were carried by the undertakers slowly into the crematorium.

  Neither Lynne nor I belonged to a church. I’d asked a secular administrator to conduct the service. She’d sympathetically extracted information from Alisha and me and spoke in a reverend tone about each of their lives. She asked whether I wanted to offer a eulogy, but I wasn’t up to it.

  Just as well, because seeing Emily’s tiny white coffin disappearing behind the curtain on its way to the incinerator, I felt my legs buckling underneath me and fought hard not to pass out.

  Mercifully, I didn’t have to face Nick Burrows. The Governor had carried out a risk assessment and decided not to grant the escorted visit on the grounds of public concern. Nick’s short temper had resulted in a few scrapes with prison warders; he’d hardly proved to be a model prisoner. The Governor’s refusal to grant him a Special Licence would have driven him mad.

  When I got home, I read and re-read the many letters of condolence.

  They helped greatly; a way of getting into my thick skull that my family were no longer around.

  *

  A week after the funeral, I received a phone message asking me to visit DI Flood and his sidekick at my local police station, Greenwich. He came straight to the point in his usual brusque manner.

  “The scenes of crime officers have been busy. So have we. We’ve discovered the remains of a disposable lighter. Remarkably, the thumb wheel has survived and it’s being checked for DNA. We’ll get the results soon. We believe the perpetrator used this lighter to ignite a rag or paper and then posted it through the letter box.”

  “How on earth did any part of the lighter survive?”

  “We believe the arsonist assumed it would be destroyed by the flames. The firemen tell us the fire developed rapidly, igniting the petrol vapours first, and then spread up the stairs, at the same time heating up the lighter on the floor. They said the p
lastic lighter casing enclosing the lighter fuel would have been under enormous pressure and they assume it burst, projecting the lighter away from the seat of the fire. We found it about eight feet from the front door under part of a collapsed ceiling. This protected it. The thumb wheel’s in pretty good nick.”

  “I can’t believe anyone could be so callous. It’s such a cowardly thing to do.” I slumped forward and stared at the ground.

  “Can I get you a drink of water?” the DC said.

  I shook my head. Flood carried on. “I’m sure you’d also like to know we’ve spent a considerable amount of time interviewing Mr Burrows at Belmarsh. We were especially keen to establish his current feelings. His ex-wife and you aren’t his favourite people. He’s certainly motivated.”

  “You could say that.”

  “We questioned him regarding the possibility that he arranged for a third party to carry out the arson attack.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He emphatically denies any involvement. We’re currently trawling through the phone calls and letters he’s written since he’s been inside. We’re drawing up a list of candidates he may have met in Belmarsh and now released who could have been involved, directly or indirectly.”

  “I’m telling you, he’s got to be behind this… no-one else could possibly have a motive.” My hatred of Nick went off the scale.

  “Well, maybe that’s true, maybe it’s not. We’re digging as deeply as we can. We’ve found nothing out of the ordinary on your wife’s computer, although it appears to be fairly new.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Her old one became obsolete. I took it to the dump. I bought her a new one a couple of months ago.”

  “For the record, can you tell us which dump?” I told him.

  The DS made a note in his book. Flood continued, “A search of her car has yielded nothing either.”

  I gave him a withering glare. “I could have saved you a lot of trouble. Of course there’s nothing on her computer or in her car.”

  A thought struck me.

  “What about this being a case of mistaken identity? Have you ruled that out?”

  The DS spoke for the first time. “The previous owners rented it out and we’ve checked each of the occupiers of the cottage for the five years before you bought it. We also interviewed your closest neighbours. I’d say it’s unlikely the arson attack was a case of mistaken identity.”

  DI Flood cut in. “As you know, we’ve also checked your computer at your office. Nothing’s cropped up we can act upon. Can you think of anybody in your business dealings who might be a candidate?”

  “No. No. We sell cars. Surely no one would do this if they simply thought they’d been sold a dud.”

  DI Flood stood up. “OK. If you think of anything else, please contact me.” He handed me his card.

  *

  I had numerous telephone conversations with Flood and the family liaison officer, PC Williamson, over the following three months and she offered sterling support to Margaret during that time.

  Despite a detailed investigation and questioning of potential witnesses, Flood discovered no link whatsoever between Nick and a possible perpetrator.

  They’d checked out the list of prisoners whom he had access to and followed up everyone released from Belmarsh before the incident.

  In one of our conversations he said, “We’ve got back the results of the DNA test on the thumb wheel of the lighter. Amazingly, it’s intact. We’ve checked it against the current National DNA database set up in ’95. Regrettably, there’s no match.”

  He told me nothing had resulted from potential witnesses either. By the time our neighbours noticed the fire, the thatch no longer existed and the rest of the cottage had been destroyed. And CCTV didn’t exist in this pretty part of Hampshire.

  Flood asked, “We’ve eliminated Nick Burrows from any involvement with the arson attack, and a case of mistaken identity has also been ruled out. Is it possible your wife could have had a relationship with someone? And possibly that relationship had gone wrong?”

  I couldn’t accept he could be so brainless. I let him have it.

  “I can’t believe what you’re suggesting. We’d been married for less than two years. We had a two-year-old daughter together. We lived a life of luxury. Why on earth would she have an affair?”

  “Strange things happen.”

  “We were incredibly happy together – ask our friends. They’ll tell you. Surely there’d be evidence… somewhere… Do you know what? You’re clueless! You’re struggling with this case, aren’t you?”

  He thrust his pocked face closer to mine and said, “As I’ve said to you before, Mr Hamilton, we’re checking out every conceivable possibility.”

  *

  I called RP, told him about Flood treating me as a suspect and that he wanted to pursue the idea about Lynne having an affair. He snorted down the phone. “Man’s not for real. That’s ridiculous.”

  I asked him to investigate any connections Nick may have made on the inside. I told him the police had followed up this line of enquiry, but I had more faith in RP’s inimitable way of digging out a result by whatever method he chose, legal or otherwise.

  I paid considerable sums of cash to RP over the next three months and he followed up numerous leads using his vast network of contacts.

  But even the great RP got no nearer to solving the case.

  *

  On many days, I didn’t bother to get dressed. There didn’t seem much point. I’d pull on a dressing gown and spend hours with the curtains drawn, slumped in front of daytime television programmes.

  Time had lost its relevance.

  I put off sorting out my family’s clothes, shoes and toys and left the bathroom cabinet exactly as it was.

  I’d open the wardrobe, stare at Lynne’s dresses hanging there, and then close the doors. The smell of Lynne pervaded my nostrils and I’d collapse back on the bed and roar with grief. It simply wasn’t fair.

  I missed her terribly. Night times were the worst. Often, I’d lay my pillows lengthways next to me in bed and sprinkle her perfume on the covers. I cuddled the bundle. I found it a comfort of sorts.

  I hardly slept and rarely ate. I couldn’t be bothered to cook anything. I lived on breakfast cereals mainly, the ultimate comfort food. I lost a couple of stone in three months and when I peered in the mirror each morning I barely recognised the face I occasionally shaved. I felt as if a woolly blanket enveloped me.

  Alisha visited me once or twice a week. On one occasion, she exclaimed, “Look at the state of you! And the state of this place!” She yanked back the curtains, causing a shaft of sunlight to pierce the room.

  I hadn’t bothered to clean the house for well over a month. Dirty dishes covered the coffee table in front of the TV.

  Several grubby glasses and a half-full bottle of Johnny Walker whiskey sat on a side table next to the armchair where I spent most of the day.

  “You need help, James. You should see a GP. He’ll prescribe anti-depressants.”

  She picked up the whiskey bottle, took it to the kitchen and I heard her pour the contents down the sink.

  I remonstrated with her. “What are you doing? I’m fine.”

  “You won’t be, carrying on like this. You’ll kill yourself. C’mon, let’s talk.”

  “I told you, I’m fine.”

  “This is you being ‘fine’ is it?” She looked around room. I followed her gaze. She had a point.

  “Ok, perhaps I’m not fine. At least I got out of bed today. Usually, I pull the duvet over my head and stay there and don’t talk to anyone or answer the phone.”

  “That’s what I mean. That’s not good.”

  “Yeah, but other days I do get up. I walk to Greenwich Park. We often went there together… all of us. I sit and watch other families with small children playing together.”

  “Well, that’s better. At least you’re getting out of this mess.”

  “Yesterday, I saw a father wi
th his daughter skipping by his side carrying a bright pink helium-filled balloon. Her other hand tightly clasped her father’s. Couldn’t have been more than four. Suddenly she let go of the balloon. As it flew away, she became hysterical, realising she’d lost it forever. She started crying. Within a moment, she’d gone from joy to grief…”

  Alisha hugged me as I watched my tears drip onto the back of her blouse.

  She spent more and more time with me. She often held my hand and listened to my ramblings. She sometimes brought food which she cooked and stood over me insisting I eat it.

  She must have been made of blotting paper, the amount of angst, pain and moodiness she absorbed. She never wavered in her support.

  I felt close to madness.

  Although the anti-depressants from the GP helped, they weren’t the answer. Especially when mixed with alcohol.

  Alisha realised I was stuck in a vicious circle of self-pity and guilt.

  “I think you should get professional help. I know a counsellor. Let me make you an appointment.”

  “What’s the point? Nothing can change the fact that Lynne and the children are gone. And after all we’d been through together…”

  *

  A few days later, Alisha bought me a book on dealing with grief. “If you won’t see a counsellor, I suggest you read this. I’ll go through it with you if you like.”

  The book identified the chronological stages of grief: shock, disbelief, bargaining, anger, then ultimately, acceptance and re-energising.

  I recognised these emotions from when my parents died. It took me a couple of years then before I acknowledged acceptance of their death. But that had been an accident, it wasn’t premeditated. Now, I felt stuck between the disbelief and anger stages. I could never see me reaching acceptance… ever.

  *

  As time passed, I felt marginally better. I stopped drinking and, with Alisha’s unfailing support, plus the ‘happy pills’, gained a semblance of normality in my life. But with no further information forthcoming regarding the murder investigation, I felt myself moving more deeply into the anger stage.