by Casey, Jane
‘I don’t really understand how setting fires would make them feel better,’ Derwent said.
‘It’s a release, like self-harming or substance abuse. The difference is that it’s external. A fire isn’t a secret.’ Harper shrugged. ‘I’ve had a few cases of arson where the fire setter turned out to be a very disturbed teenager and you just hope they get the help they need while they’re in custody because otherwise they’ll come back out and start again. It’s like an addiction.’
‘Scary,’ Mal Upton commented.
‘Not as scary as the revenge arsonists,’ Harper said, his voice sombre. ‘They’re the ones who keep me awake at night. They use fire to get even, to punish people who’ve crossed them. They’re the ones who’ll firebomb premises without any concern for innocent people who might get caught up in the blaze. They’re ruthless.’
‘So what have we got here?’ Una Burt asked.
Harper smiled. ‘That’s something you’ll have to work out. I’ll tell you as much as I can about how they did it. Why they did it is another problem.’
‘It was a trap,’ I said, staring at the floor plan.
Una Burt turned, a frown pulling her eyebrows together. ‘What was that?’
‘Where the fire started. It blocked off the outside staircase for the people on the tenth floor, and the eleventh. It sent everyone down the internal staircase. If they escaped at all, I mean. The lifts weren’t working, even if they’d risked using them during the fire. They had no other way to get out. We should assume the fire was set deliberately, to target someone on the tenth or eleventh floor, and the other victims were just collateral damage. We need to talk to the survivors and find out if they saw anyone hanging around in the stairwell or on the tenth floor. Melissa Pell—’
‘Ah, we’re back to her. I wondered how long it would take.’ Burt’s face was mottled with pink patches, even though her voice was calm.
‘I think it’s relevant. She has a violent ex-partner.’
‘Which is so much more likely than the hate-figure politician being a target.’
Sarcasm. Perfect.
‘It’s more common,’ I pointed out. ‘But you’re right. It could have been Armstrong who was the target. It could have been someone else. The fire could have been designed to kill. It could have been to flush someone into the open. It could have been to scare someone or send a message.’
That was the one thing I appreciated about Una Burt. She was scrupulously fair. I saw her take my point and I saw her make up her mind. ‘We should assume that they were all targets until we can rule them out.’
‘What, everyone?’ Pete Belcott looked horrified at the impending workload.
‘Everyone on the tenth and eleventh floor,’ Una Burt said calmly. ‘We need to talk to everyone, and we shouldn’t assume they’re telling us the truth. Not everyone will see it as being in their interests to be honest with us. They need to be investigated as thoroughly as our potential arsonist.’
‘We don’t even know it is arson,’ Belcott protested.
‘And if we wait around until we find out for sure, he’ll have time to try again.’ Burt shook her head. ‘I want a guard on everyone in the hospital. I want you to offer advice to the uninjured survivors about their personal safety. They should all be keeping a low profile for the next few days.’
‘The press will be looking to talk to them,’ Harper observed. ‘That’s a given. Human interest stories.’
‘We have to assume the ones who are aware they might be in danger won’t seek to talk to the papers. Mind you, I’ve known stranger things. People are stupid.’ Burt looked surprised as a titter ran around the room. She hadn’t been playing it for laughs. ‘Priorities, people. We need to get current addresses for every resident of the top two floors of Murchison House. The ones who aren’t in hospital who were council tenants will be in temporary housing arranged by the council. Bed and breakfasts, hostels – nowhere very glamorous but better than a burned-out shell. We’ll have to trace any private owners through the insurers. And I want someone to review the CCTV from the estate.’
‘Looking for?’ Derwent asked.
‘Someone out of place. And Armstrong, so we can get an idea of when he arrived and who was with him. The arsonist, ideally, although I don’t think we’re going to be lucky enough to see anyone carrying a petrol can into the building.’
‘I can get on with that.’ Colin Vale was a glutton for admin, a DS who lived for the long, tedious data-crunching that actually solved many murders. Hours of CCTV made him positively happy. I would have been clawing out my eyeballs at the prospect.
‘If we’re going to concentrate on the residents I want to allocate the flats to teams of detectives.’ Burt flattened out a list on the clipboard in front of her. ‘Flat 102 and 105, Pettifer and Upton, flat 101 and 103, Kerrigan and Derwent, assuming we can prove Armstrong was in 103 – I’ll reallocate you if he was somewhere else. While we’re waiting to hear about that you can interview the family from 101 and the lady from 104. Flat—’
‘Hold on a second,’ Derwent said from the back of the room. ‘I want flat 102.’
‘I thought you might. Mal and Chris are handling it.’
‘Oh, come on. I’ve started on it already. And I want to do a good job on it, for the boy’s sake. He deserves the best.’ Derwent glanced across at Mal Upton. ‘No offence.’
‘Offence taken.’ Mal glowered at Derwent. ‘I think we can manage this one on our own, sir.’
‘That’s my boy,’ Chris Pettifer said, just loudly enough that everyone in the room could hear him. Mal was a recent addition to the team and terrified of Derwent. I was impressed that he was standing up to him.
‘Concentrate on Armstrong, Josh,’ Una Burt said. ‘He’s an important part of this. It’s foolish to think he isn’t. This is the most sensitive aspect of the investigation, potentially. It’s the one thing that is going to keep the media focused on us and what we’re doing at all times. I want someone senior working on Armstrong, and he is going to take up a lot of your time. The family in 101 should be fairly straightforward. Armstrong will be anything but. So get your priorities right.’
The expression on Derwent’s face was pure murder.
‘Anyway, it shouldn’t matter.’ Burt smiled at him sweetly. ‘You’ll all be working as a team. I expect you to share your knowledge. Ask your subjects about the other residents. Find out as much as you can. I want to build up a complete picture of what life was like in Murchison House before the fire. Assume that everyone is lying unless you can corroborate it independently.’
‘I think we all know how to conduct interviews,’ Derwent spat.
Her head snapped up. ‘I’ve learned not to assume you know the basics, Josh. I’d rather remind you now than pick up the pieces afterwards.’
Wisely, he decided not to challenge her to be specific. I could see it was a struggle. The fact was that he had made mistakes in the past. I’d even helped to hide some of them, not that he was remotely grateful.
Burt turned to Harper. ‘We all have a lot of work to do, it seems. Thank you for sharing your knowledge with us.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll be working on this fire for the foreseeable future. I’ll keep you informed, of course, if anything else comes up.’
In the general chaos as the briefing ended, I found Derwent at my side.
‘What a load of bollocks.’
‘Harper was interesting. He knew his stuff.’
‘Not him. Her.’
I grinned at him. ‘I know. I was just winding you up.’
‘I’m already wound as far as I can go.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s waiting for me to put a foot wrong. The tension is killing me.’
‘If you do what she says she can’t complain.’
‘She can, and she will.’ Derwent rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. ‘Christ, the lack of sleep is catching up with me.’
‘You’re getting old.’
‘Watch it, Kerrigan,’ he s
napped.
‘Okay, okay. You’re still young and vibrant.’
Una Burt bustled past us and Derwent gave her retreating back a death stare. ‘She fancies Harper.’
‘What? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘He’s exactly her type. An older man, rugged and brave. I’d say she’s in with a chance, too.’
‘Really?’ I was genuinely surprised.
‘Absolutely. He’s used to studying things that have been set on fire and put out with a shovel. Burt’s face probably looks like homework.’
Before I could reply, Derwent leaned across and grabbed Chris Pettifer’s shoulder. He turned from his conversation with Mal, surprise darkening to disapproval on both of their faces.
‘Listen, sorry about before. I never meant to suggest you two weren’t good enough to handle the Melissa Pell investigation. It’s just that we’d already started on it and got involved. You know how it is.’
Derwent had turned on the charm for them, giving them the benefit of the honesty I found so disarming.
Apparently I was the only one.
‘Fuck you very much,’ Pettifer snapped. ‘You might have got away with being a princess when Godley was in charge here but you’re not going to be able to do it while Burt is running the show. You need to learn some manners.’ He and Derwent were drinking buddies, so he could get away with talking to him like that.
‘It’s got nothing to do with manners. That was Burt looking for something she could use to annoy me. You two just got in the way.’
‘Again, fuck you.’
Derwent shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the wall, completely relaxed, or pretending to be. ‘Melissa Pell, right? Domestic violence victim. She’s run away from her husband and what was probably a pretty nice life to live in a high-rise shithole in north London with her kid. How do you think she feels about men?’
Pettifer shook his head. ‘Not relevant.’
‘Absolutely relevant. She’s going to be scared of you and she’s not going to tell you anything.’ Derwent elbowed me in the side, pushing me forward. ‘You need Kerrigan.’
I blinked, caught off guard. ‘What? Why are you putting me in the middle of this?’
‘Because you’re a bird and they aren’t.’ Derwent smiled thinly at Pettifer and Mal. ‘Look at them. Not the gentle sort, are they?’
Pettifer had played rugby until his knees gave out and he had the face to prove it. Mal was shaggy-haired, untidy and as clumsy as a Great Dane.
‘I wouldn’t say Kerrigan was exactly gentle either,’ Pettifer said.
I folded my arms. ‘I don’t know whether to thank you or tell you to piss off.’
‘You didn’t get your reputation for being sweetness and light.’
‘What reputation?’ I demanded.
‘Nothing.’ Pettifer started to back away. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘Come back and explain yourself.’
‘Nope. Too scared.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I said, disgusted. ‘As if you’re really scared of me.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Try terrified.’ Mal was shuffling away too.
‘So you’re too scared to leave her behind when you go to speak to Melissa Pell,’ Derwent said. ‘You couldn’t take that kind of risk.’
Pettifer stopped. ‘You never give up, do you?’
‘Not really.’
Pettifer pointed at me. ‘She can come. You’d better stay away.’
‘That was my plan.’ Derwent grinned. ‘Thanks, mate.’
‘Don’t thank me.’ He walked away, shadowed by Mal.
I turned to Derwent. ‘Where’s my thank you?’
‘Don’t push it, Kerrigan.’
‘You heard what Burt said. We’re going to be busy. When am I supposed to have time to speak to Melissa Pell?’
‘Whenever they need you. I’ll let you go,’ he said, magnanimous as ever.
‘Burt will rip off my head if she finds out.’
‘I’m sure that’s not what they taught her on her management course. She’s all about people skills now. She’ll just tell you she’s very, very disappointed in you.’
‘Oh, great.’
‘Enjoy it.’ Derwent stretched. ‘Your trouble is you’re a people-pleaser. You want to make everyone happy.’
‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘It is for you.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I like to make people happy. You like to make them miserable.’
He grinned. ‘If I have to.’
‘Or for fun.’
‘Or, indeed, for fun.’
‘So, this Melissa Pell thing,’ I said. ‘It’s because you know it will annoy Una Burt that I’m involved.’
The grin disappeared. All of a sudden he was as serious as I’d ever seen him. ‘Not at all. I meant what I said in the briefing. I want the best copper I know to investigate her case.’
I felt a warm, unfamiliar glow of pride mingled with surprise. ‘Oh. That’s—’
‘And if they can’t have the best,’ Derwent said, ‘you’ll have to do.’
Chapter 9
THE RELATIVES’ ROOM was overheated and the windows were clouded with condensation. It was a small, miserable space, furnished with wooden-framed armchairs that seemed to have been designed to be not quite comfortable enough to sleep in.
It didn’t help that there were so many people in the room – nine, including me and Derwent. We stood with our backs to the door, largely ignored, as a wizened woman blew her nose into a giant handkerchief. Two large men sat on either side of her. One was bearded, the other clean-shaven but you would have known them as brothers straight away by the shape of their heads, the breadth of their shoulders and their shovel-like hands. They were dark-haired, with sallow skin, and reminded me of storybook gypsies – I half expected them to have gold hoop earrings glinting among their curls. Beside them sat a plump fair woman with small eyes and petrol-blue nails. She looked up when we came in but didn’t speak, returning her attention to the two little girls who were squabbling over a colouring book on the floor. A boy sat beside the woman, staring into space. He was overweight, his t-shirt riding up to expose a half-moon of white stomach. I recognised the unseeing gaze: shock.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Derwent said. ‘I’m looking for a Carl Bellew.’
There was a pause before the clean-shaven man said, ‘That’s me.’
Derwent introduced us and explained that we were investigating the fire. ‘You are the owner of flat 101 on the tenth floor of Murchison House, is that right?’
‘That’s right.’ He was surly, not making eye contact with us. The older woman was watching us, holding the handkerchief up to her face so I couldn’t quite see her expression. Her eyes were shrewd, though, and I felt she was missing nothing. It was clear that the men got their colouring from her, even if her hair was now dyed a shade of blue-black that didn’t exist in nature. She was sallow, like her sons, but a quarter of their size. Her face was thin, the skin lined and cracked like a dried-out riverbed. Her nose was too big for the rest of her features and curved like a beak. She had a big black handbag on her lap and she held on to it with one claw-like hand that was wrapped in a white bandage. She wasn’t old so much as desiccated. She could have been any age from fifty to eighty.
‘And you live there with your family,’ Derwent checked.
‘Yeah. The kids, the wife and Mum.’
‘Are all of these yours?’ Derwent indicated the two girls and the boy.
‘No. Just the lad. My daughter is in intensive care.’
‘That’s why we’re here,’ the older woman said.
I frowned. ‘Isn’t intensive care on the next floor?’
‘Yeah, but there isn’t a room we can use there.’ She pulled her handbag closer to her chest. ‘It’s not as if we have anywhere else to go.’
‘Mum, you can come home with me, I told you.’ The bearded man patted his mother’s arm with a giant hand. She shook him off without l
ooking at him.
‘Leave it for now, Rocco. Now’s not the time.’
I caught the tail end of an expression that passed over the fair-haired woman’s face: pure horror. Not the easiest mother-in-law, I guessed.
‘Who exactly was in the flat at the time of the fire?’ Derwent asked.
‘Me. Mum—’
‘Nina Bellew,’ she said. ‘That’s my name. Nina.’
‘Yeah,’ Carl said, giving her a wary look. ‘Nina Bellew. Becky, my daughter – she’s seven – and Nathan. Nathan’s ten.’
At the sound of his name the boy’s eyelids flickered but he didn’t really come out of his stupor.
‘Anyone else?’ Derwent asked.
‘Debbie, my wife.’
‘No, she wasn’t there. She’d gone out, remember? Down to the shops. She wasn’t there at the time of the fire. That’s what he asked. Not who lives in the flat. Who was there at the time of the fire.’ Nina Bellew reminded me of a crow, with her harsh voice and staccato delivery. The words rattled out of her like machine-gun fire.
‘Yeah, all right, Mum. Debbie had gone out.’
‘Did she go to the shops on the estate?’ I asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘So she hadn’t been gone for long.’
‘No. Ten, twenty minutes?’
‘The bloody lift was broken again, wasn’t it? She had to walk all the way down and all the way back up again. Takes bloody ages.’ Nina sniffed. ‘She’s not one to hurry herself, is she?’
If Nina was waiting for her on her return, I was inclined to feel Debbie had every right to dawdle.
Before Derwent could ask his next question the simmering tension between the two small girls boiled over. Twin screams of rage tore through the air. It was all I could do to stop myself from putting my hands over my ears. Nina looked disgusted. Nathan drew his knees up and tried to curl into a ball on the chair, like an armadillo. He pulled his hoodie over his head and tightened the strings so his face was hidden.
‘Lola, stop it. Tansy, you too.’ The fair-haired woman spoke in a high, wispy voice, her words barely audible from where I was standing.
‘Come on, Louise, can’t you keep them quiet for five minutes?’ Rocco demanded.
