by Ian Mayfield
Team Spirit
IAN MAYFIELD
Week One
Tuesday
Halfway up Gravel Hill more fire engines overtook them, sirens blaring like panic-stricken elephants. Sophia frowned as she watched them go past and then said, ‘That’s four.’
There was no response from her companion, who kept driving at a sedate forty.
‘Are you all right, Nina?’ Sophia said.
‘Mmm?’
Sophia waited. They’d just come from visiting a ninety year old woman, violated in her nursing home bedroom, little better than catatonic despite the best attentions of the care staff. Occasionally, even in this job, it got to you.
Nina became aware that some sort of response was expected, and twitched her head as if to snap out of a daydream. ‘Sorry, guv. No, I’m all right. Personal stuff, that’s all.’
Sophia nodded. ‘My door is always open, you know that.’ A pause, then the corners of her mouth jerked up into a smile. ‘Figuratively speaking.’
Nina looked across and grinned, appreciating the joke. Always open because it didn’t exist. An ‘office’ which consisted of having a bigger desk than everyone else. Intimidating though she usually was, there were times when the guv’nor was almost human.
They reached the roundabout at the top of the hill and the moment passed. Sophia’s attention was caught by something through the trees.
‘There.’
Nina followed her gaze away to the left and saw it: a column of black smoke rising from the valley.
‘Petrol station gone up?’
‘No, it’s all houses down there.’
Three police cars, one unmarked, leapt raucously from the third exit and crossed the roundabout. They disappeared in the direction of the smoke.
‘And what’s this got to do with us?’ Nina asked, pulling out after them.
‘Mr Heighway didn’t say.’ Sophia lifted the phone in her hand and looked at the text message again. ‘Just that he wants us on the scene and we’ll see why when we get there.’
It wasn’t hard to find. Down Ballards Way, left turn into Chapel View at the bottom, smoke billowing into the sky, high and violent like the pillar of cloud that guided Moses. The house was halfway along. Flames gushed from the windows, into which the fire crews were already training their hoses. Smoke billowed from the roof, filling the air with an acrid stench. Inside the house burning wood crackled and banged. Ahead of them the street was blocked, a logjam of red, white and flashing, strobing blue, emergency personnel hurrying and leaping over snaking hose, stringing out tape to keep spectators at a safe distance. Four paramedics emerged slowly, carefully from the garden, two stretchers their burden. An adult body and a small child’s, wrapped in plastic, what could be seen of them a ground, charred mass, like half-cooked burgers. It dawned on the two women that the smaller figure wore an oxygen mask. It was still alive.
But they weren’t what drew the eye. That privilege was reserved for the thing on the lawn.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Nina said, and crossed herself. Sophia just stared.
Planted in the flowerbed by the front garden wall, simply fashioned from two sturdy pieces of timber, was a cross. It was six feet high. And it too was in flames.
Copper or not, Detective Sergeant Kim Oliver thought, you could tell a major crime scene a mile off. As the car in which she was travelling crawled eastwards in the rush hour jam on Croham Valley Road, she lost count of the police vehicles and the uniformed and plain clothes officers who’d swarmed into the area to knock on doors. They contributed to the jam not only by blocking the road but also because their presence made everyone slow down to see what was going on. Kim sighed and caught a glimpse of herself in the wing mirror. She noted the bags under her eyes and wondered how much longer she would last. She’d come back on duty at seven that morning after a session with a rape victim that had lasted well into the previous night; now she faced an extension to the working day of unknown length to which she would have to gear herself.
The driver of the car was tired too. Detective Constable Marie Kirtland had been up most of the night nursing her two-year-old through an ear infection. Her left hand drummed on the wheel; her right held a burning cigarette from which she seldom took a drag but frequently tapped the ash out of the rolled-down window. Neither woman spoke. For now, all that needed to be said had been. Any utterance would smack of frivolity.
Marie gave a relieved sigh as at last they reached their turn and she was able to swing the wheel left and lean on the accelerator. She took a final puff, blew the smoke out through her nostrils and threw her stub out of the window. Kim, who’d given up six months ago, would normally have frowned on Marie smoking in the confines of the car. Today she forced herself to be tolerant, even though she herself was gasping for a fag and fighting a battle of none too strong will.
‘Just round here, yeah?’ Marie said in her broad Lake District accent, and flicked the left indicator without waiting for an answer. They were coming to a wide green bordered by modern semi-detached houses and bungalows, snuggling among blossom-filled cherry trees. Another street turned left, Chapel View. Marie took it.
Several patrol cars and a couple of dog vans hugged the pavement outside number 84, along with a mobile incident room trailer and a boxlike red van with FIRE INVESTIGATION UNIT written on the side. In front of the charred shell of what had once been a house a cordon of blue and white striped tape, patrolled by a PCSO, kept the public away while the forensic and fire investigators finished their work. Officers went about their business or stood around the trailer in conference or awaiting orders. A couple of dozen onlookers, mostly children, loitered in front of the parade of shops across the street. Some of them were talking to television news crews, an outrider for one of whom, hefting a video camera, was taking stock shots.
They tried to take it in. It was bizarre, disturbing. This should be an inner city estate, with a history of crime and tension. It wasn’t. This was a suburban street of green lawns, of second and third cars and grass verges, of comfortable semis that sold for upwards of two hundred grand. The eye turned as if drawn by a magnet to the burnt-out house, then to the obscenity on the lawn. Another world had come to visit.
As they parked, Detective Chief Inspector Sophia Beadle eased her bulk down from the trailer. She came over, looking at her watch.
‘Traffic?’
‘Yeah,’ Kim said. ‘Backed up right the way into town.’
‘Any news on the victims, guv?’ Marie asked.
Sophia looked grim. ‘Mother didn’t make it. The little boy’s still hanging on.’
She brought them up to speed. Not surprisingly, the fire investigator’s initial impression was that it had been started deliberately, and had spread throughout within moments, overwhelming the occupants before they could react.
‘You wonder,’ Kim said, ‘what sort of sick scumbag would want to...’ She broke off, grimacing as if from a nasty taste. She repeated, angrily, ‘You wonder.’
‘Do I detect a shift from impartiality, Kim?’ The DCI’s clear, china blue eyes fixed her in their field of vision. There was no humour in them.
Kim was undaunted. ‘Yes, I’m afraid you do.’
Sophia’s nod contained many things, but not approval.
Arms folded, Marie was looking at the cross. Charred white now, it acted as a garish signpost to the blackened spectacle beyond. She said, ‘The Job’s shown me some things, but… phew.’
‘The Ku Klux Klan used to use a burning cross as a calling card,’ Kim declared.
Marie digested this for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose anybody saw it put there?’
‘No witnes
ses so far,’ Sophia confirmed. ‘Except to the effect that it wasn’t there up to twenty minutes before the fire.’
‘Par for the course.’
‘But there is a suspect.’
‘Who?’
‘The babysitter.’
‘You’re joking,’ Marie said.
‘Name of Deborah Clarke,’ Sophia went on. ‘Sixteen, school leaver. Looks after the kid while Mrs Benton’s at work, collects him from school and watches him until she gets home.’
‘So she’s got a key?’
‘Yes. At the moment we have to fancy her strongly, because she appears to have done a runner.’
They waited mutely for her to explain.
‘Our only witness of any worth, Mrs Blissett, who keeps the newsagent’s over there, served Mrs Benton at about twenty past four. Five minutes later Debbie Clarke came in, apparently seemed a bit het up. She used cash to buy several bars of chocolate and a Basildon Bond notepad, and then according to Mrs Blissett she ran out of the shop and headed off’ - she pointed back the way Kim and Marie had come - ‘in the opposite direction to her home. Ten minutes after that the house went up like a Guy Fawkes bonfire.’
‘Coincidence?’ Kim said.
Sophia shrugged. ‘We know she must have gone down Croham Valley but we lose her once we get to the main road. Obviously the house-to-house is still going on and we may get something further from that. Nina’s also checking with the bus garage in case a driver remembers her getting on a 64.’ She gestured vaguely with a pudgy hand.
‘Where do we come in?’
‘Your job for now is to talk to the sitter’s parents: Andrew and Charlotte Clarke.’ She gave them the address. ‘Expect a hard time: the PC who went round got sent away with a flea in her ear by the father. Find out,’ she added, as they turned to go, ‘if Debbie’s been been back there or if they have any idea where she’s gone. They say not, but the father’s attitude may mean he’s hiding something. All right?’
Ballards Way was a long, wide residential street, much used nowadays as a rat run between the two main roads it connected, but still affordably affluent. The Clarkes’ house was a pebbledashed four bedroom semi with sizeable gardens front and back, a short gravel drive and a garage. A Japanese maple grew on the front lawn. The timbers of the house and garage were painted crimson, echoing the tree. There were two cars in the drive, a white VW Golf and a silver Volvo. Kim and Marie crowded into the red parquet porch and rang the bell.
There was movement behind the frosted glass pane and a man opened the door. He was fortyish, suited, blond, his florid, rough complexion suggesting he might keel over from a heart attack at any moment. There was a strong odour of tobacco on his breath when he spoke.
‘If you’re press, go away.’
‘Mr Clarke?’ Kim said. They showed their warrant cards. ‘Kim Oliver, Marie Kirtland, Croydon Special Crime Unit. Somebody told you we’d be coming?’
His faint frown was a look they’d become inured to over time, the look you got when not one, but two women in plain clothes turned up on the doorstep, both claiming to be from the police. One of them black, to boot. Once again Kim felt some uneasy pressure. Not for the first time, she wondered disloyally whether her colour was the sole reason Sophia had appointed her to the team.
Andrew Clarke said, ‘Yes. Come in.’ He held open the door with grudging disdain, like the doorman of a Mayfair club on ladies’ night. They were shown into a large sitting room, furnished in autumn browns. Sliding patio doors gave onto a well-kept lawn with a young cherry tree at the bottom of it. A petite, greying brown-haired woman sat perched on the edge of a settee, smoking. She looked up, as surprised by who she saw as her husband. Andrew Clarke said, ‘It’s the police, Charlotte.’ For the police’s benefit he added, ‘My wife.’ They’d guessed as much.
‘Mrs Clarke,’ Marie acknowledged. ‘May we sit down?’
‘I suppose,’ Charlotte Clarke said, ushering them with an apathetic wave to any seat of their choosing, ‘there’s no point asking if you’ve found Debbie?’
‘Not yet,’ Marie said. She paused for a moment before launching in. Kim sat, inclined forward, listening. Both had guessed that they might get more out of the Clarkes if Marie did the talking. She began, ‘Can I just ask you again if you’re sure your daughter hasn’t been back here?’
Andrew Clarke greeted the question with a huge and deliberate sigh, and let himself flop back into the settee, flinging his arms up in a show of exasperation.
‘We’re sure.’ Mrs Clarke took a deep drag. ‘We’ve checked and double-checked her room; we’ve been watching out for her constantly...’
‘And you’ve tried calling her?’
‘Frequently,’ Andrew Clarke said. ‘Her phone goes straight to voicemail.’
Marie nodded and turned back to Mrs Clarke. ‘Did you notice anything missing when you searched? Clothes, makeup?’
‘No.’
‘How could you tell?’ her husband cut in. ‘The state she keeps that room in, who knows what she’s got in there we don’t know about?’
‘She’d have had to pack,’ Charlotte Clarke said. ‘Her suitcase is still up there. All that’s gone is her tote bag, and she took that with her when she went to collect Robin.’
‘Mrs Benton’s little boy?’
Charlotte Clarke nodded. Kim expected her to ask after the Bentons, but instead she said, ‘She has that instead of a handbag, like a lot of girls her age. Asking for trouble really: they’re a pickpocket’s dream, nice and loose. But she will insist.’
‘Pretty roomy, those bags,’ Marie said. ‘Sure she couldn’t’ve stuffed some things in?’
‘Not her toothbrush,’ Andrew Clarke grumbled. ‘I checked.’
‘I saw her pick the bag up,’ his wife said. ‘I’d have noticed if it had been fuller than usual.’
‘What did she normally carry?’
‘Not much. Her purse, her mobile, a jumper. That’s about it.’
‘Leaves a bit of scope, though, doesn’t it?’ Marie said. ‘By your account the bag’d normally have been very light, so a couple of extra bits wouldn’t’ve noticed.’
‘You’ve got a bit of a bee in your bonnet about this bag, Miss Kirkwood,’ Andrew Clarke interrupted again.
Marie ignored the Miss and the mangling of her name. ‘Let me explain, sir. This was almost certainly arson - well, you know that from the officer who came before. It’s looking as if fires were set inside the house, but there’s no sign of a break-in.’
‘Are you accusing my daughter - ?’
‘Nobody’s accusing anybody,’ Marie said firmly. ‘But the fact remains Debbie left the house a few minutes before the fire and may have been the last person to see the Bentons. It goes without saying she may be - ’
‘A vital witness, yes, so we keep being told.’
‘Now,’ Marie resumed, having waited for him to vent, ‘is there anywhere she might’ve gone? A friend’s, possibly?’
‘Tch,’ Andrew Clarke said.
‘Boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Any brothers or sisters living away from home? Other relatives?’
‘She’s our only child. I’ve rung round everywhere,’ Mrs Clarke said. ‘No-one’s seen her.’
‘The friends you know of,’ her husband put in. ‘She has so many. Chopping and changing all the time. We gave up trying to keep track long ago.’ He shrugged and said, as if it explained everything, ‘She’s at that age. What can you do?’
‘Well, you could tell me if she kept an address book or diary.’
Andrew Clarke waved a dismissive hand, as if the sheer effort required to conceive of such a thing were beyond human capability.
‘Teenage girls generally do,’ Marie prompted.
Charlotte Clarke thought for a moment. ‘I think I’ve seen something,’ she said. ‘In her room somewhere.’
‘Could we try and find it, please?’ Marie requested, with solemn sweetness.
They accompan
ied Mrs Clarke upstairs to Debbie’s bedroom: a private territory her mother seemed reluctant to violate. A brief search produced a black leather bag, and from it a small navy blue diary. Kim leafed through it. ‘Crumbs. You were right about her friends, Mrs Clarke.’ The addresses section was full: Debbie seemed to have scribbled things both on the diary pages themselves and on scraps of paper and Post-its stuck in between them.
‘My wife and I can enquire round these friends if you like,’ Andrew Clarke said from the doorway.
‘Thanks for the offer, sir,’ Kim replied, abstaining from grinding her teeth, ‘but this is an official police investigation, OK, so really we’ve got to do it. Providing you’re prepared to let us have the diary, of course.’
The Clarkes looked at one another, then at their visitors. Andrew Clarke said, ‘If you think you can find her any quicker, why not?’
‘Thank you,’ Kim said.
‘Anything else you think might come in handy, just feel free.’
She suppressed a smile at his sarcasm. He wasn’t about to say so, but what he wanted was to get a look at this diary of his daughter’s he hadn’t known about. Kim said, ‘Anyway, based on my own past experience as a sixteen year old girl, I doubt many of the names’d mean that much to you.’
Andrew Clarke at once took exception to what he saw as the inference in her remark, but the detectives, aided by his wife, calmed him down. Back in the sitting room, they were able to confirm Debbie’s description, what she was wearing and anything about her that might help to trace or identify her. On request, Mrs Clarke gave them a recent portrait photograph, taken on her sixteenth birthday. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder sky blue party dress, and was carefully made up with neat blonde hair pinned back to frame her oval face and show off a pair of gold stud earrings. She looked very pretty; she would, Kim thought, be recognised and remembered. That, at any rate, was something going for them. They noted the resemblance to her father in the blue eyes, the nose, the jawline.
Kim put the photo in her bag and frowned at Marie. It had always seemed cynical to her, using people’s help and goodwill before turning on them like this. But there were still unpleasant questions to be asked, and if they’d come straight out with them earlier, certainly they would not now be in possession of Debbie Clarke’s portrait and diary.
