Up in Flames

by Evans, Geraldine

  ‘Have you released Linklater yet?’ he now asked Catt.

  ‘No. Thought I’d let him stew for a bit. Let him get in a bit of practise at studying four walls. Why?’

  ‘Just as well. I think we ought to keep him locked up. The mood the local Asians are in I wouldn’t like to guarantee his safety on the streets.’ Casey closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a splitting headache. His entire body ached from all the pushing and shoving as well as a few well-aimed punches.

  Briefly, he was filled with a longing for the relaxed lifestyle of his parents. Why couldn’t he have taken after them and been happy throwing weirdly-shaped pots with a bit of leisurely cannabis growing on the side? On days such as today he began to understand the appeal of such a life. The trouble was they had given him little to rebel against, so instead, he’d rebelled by becoming conformist, even going so far as to join the police. Parents, he thought. They really could be the very devil. ThomCatt didn’t appreciate his luck in avoiding the complications they brought.

  Casey opened his eyes, reached in his drawer for some pain-killers and nodded at the pile of reports. ‘Anything of interest in that lot?’

  ‘Not so far.’ Catt paused before he added, ‘I’ve set the ball rolling to get Mark Farrell’s alibi checked out. And while the reports have thrown up nothing to interest you, the phone call I received earlier might. It was about Farrell. I checked on him as you asked, and there was nothing on record with regard to violence to women. Neither was there anything reported according to Sergeant Allen who should know as he’s been here since before Farrell was born. But–’

  ‘But?’ Casey echoed, wishing Catt would get on with it.

  ‘I had earlier rung the last school he attended. The same Head’s still there. It was him that rang me back. Seems Farrell was a bit of a fire-setter in his youth. They managed to hush it up and Farrell promised to be a good boy in future. The Head was on a bit of a guilt trip. Seemed desperate for me to reassure him that Farrell had nothing to do with the Bansi deaths.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Casey stroked his jaw. He needed another shave. Like his father, he had thick black hair. His father didn’t bother to shave, of course. Far too much trouble. Casey had to shave twice, sometimes three times a day. ‘And you think he might have resumed his youthful hobby? Consigned her to the flames on the principle that if he couldn’t have her neither would anyone else?’

  Catt shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility. Especially if our lovelorn swain and Chandra exchanged more than the few kisses he claimed before she rejected him again.’

  ‘Angela Neerey didn’t think so,’ Casey pointed out.

  ‘True. But if Farrell and Chandra were having a fling, I imagine Chandra would have been careful to be discreet. She would have got any unsuitable visitors to come up the back alley rather than the street. She wouldn’t want to risk her family finding out. And let’s face it, she was under just the sort of emotional turmoil to make her lower her guard. If she did allow Farrell more than kisses and it got back to the family who knows how they would react?’

  ‘We both know the answer to that one,’ Casey replied. There had been enough cases in the national press of young Asian women killed by their families for secretly dating white boys or even unapproved Asian boys for them to know only too well. ‘Still, I’d be surprised if that was the case here. I think Angela Neerey would have picked up on it. She doesn’t seem to miss much.’

  ‘So I noticed. She certainly gave you a thorough onceover.’ Catt grinned.

  Casey smiled briefly. ‘I want you to go and see the Head Teacher you spoke to. It was Chandra’s school as well as Farrell’s. Find out who her other friends were. We should have done this before. We would have, but for Gough and his lying friend. She may still have continued to see some of them. Take Shazia Singh with you. She seems to have a way of wiling things out of people.’ He smiled wryly. It hadn’t taken her long to winkle from him the hippie name his parents had foisted on him. It was something he did his best to keep quiet. Fortunately, it shortened to a nice, normal, everyday sort of name. ‘Maybe she’ll get some interesting gossip from Chandra’s friends. Anyway, just see what you can find out. While you’re doing that, as the vicar is still missing, I’m going to see Dean Linklater’s mother, see if she can tell us anything about Gough’s usual hangouts so I can check if he was at any of them at the time of the fire. After that, I’ll see if his girlfriend’s come back. Wish me luck. We could do with some firm answers one way or the other.’

  ‘Maybe you should charge Gough anyway,’ said Catt softly, only half-joking. ‘Look at the trouble it would save. Not to mention pleasing the Asian community and the brass PC brigade. Might even help me get my promotion.’

  Casey’s expression hardened. ‘The day I do something because it’s politically expedient and suits the ‘right on’ causes is the day I’ll pack the job in and go and become-’ He broke off. He had been going to say ‘become an old hippie like my parents.’ Instead, he quickly substituted ‘become a security guard’. Granted, Wayne Gough’s an unpleasant individual, but is he the one who killed Chandra and the baby? He’s going down for the other arsons for sure, they’ve got his thuggish signature all over them. But I want to be certain when I charge the killer that it’s the right killer, whether they be white, brown or polka dot.

  ‘God knows the liberal elite have compromised enough of the judicial system in this country. They’ve got half the police scared to even look at a non-white, never mind arrest them in case he’s dragged in front of a disciplinary board. I tell you, ThomCatt, nobody’s doing any spinning on this one, least of all me. I want the truth and I mean to get it, however unpalatable it might be in certain quarters. As the victims, Chandra and her baby deserve that much. They deserve justice. It’s what the job’s all about or used to be.’ He paused for breath and to regain his composure.

  Catt stared in amazement at Casey’s uncharacteristic outburst. However, he made no comment other than to observe, ‘Better be damn sure then. If we arrest one of the ethnic minorities, especially one of Chandra’s family and it turns out you’re wrong, you’ll be crucified.’

  Casey found a wry smile as he remembered his last meeting with the Asian community. ‘Between the Asian community and the brass I’m likely to be torn in two long before anyone could do that. But if I’m not, you can have the words ‘I’m sorry. I made a mistake’ carved on my gravestone after the crucifixion.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  Casey arrived back at the station after speaking to Mrs Linklater to find that Catt had beaten him by five minutes.

  ‘So, what did you find out?’ Casey asked as they sat either side of his desk with the canteen’s leftovers. The sandwiches had been made hours ago and were beginning to curl at the edges; Casey lifted a slice - the cheese was as sweaty as a prize-fighter after ten rounds. Too hungry to care, he replaced the top slice and took a bite as he listened to what Catt had discovered.

  ‘Only that Mark Farrell did want to get together with Chandra. According to her friends he had it bad. But - and it’s an important but - he reads the papers. He’s quite a bright lad by all accounts and he knew that if he pushed it Chandra would take the consequences. Apparently, he settled for friendship and made sure he rarely went to her flat unless he was part of a crowd.’

  He had certainly gone at least twice in the past few weeks - and on his own, according to Angela Neerey, Casey thought. ‘Hm. So, you’re saying the family can’t have found out about them?’

  ‘There wasn’t now, and never had been, anything for them to find out. There was nothing going on between Farrell and Chandra.’

  ‘But did the family believe that? And don’t forget the unrequited passion on Farrell’s part. It’ll be interesting to learn if his alibi holds water. As you said, it’s possible that his unrequited love could have pushed him in to torching the flat on the principle that if he couldn’t have her, no one else would.’

  ‘But as it appears that
they weren’t having a fling it at least seems less likely that the killings were done for “honourable” reasons. What about you? Find out anything more revealing about Wayne Gough than what he’s already made blindingly obvious?’

  Casey nodded. ‘Dean’s mum was surprisingly chatty now she’s had time to recover from the discovery that her little lad’s an awfully big liar. She was relieved to know that Dean’s not going down for the killings at least. And Gough’s girlfriend has returned. Seems she needed to see her mother in London and discuss what she should do. Happily, her mother advised her to tell us the truth; all of it. By the way, you didn’t tell me that Wayne’s regular girlfriend is a surprisingly sensible, level-headed girl. She told me she’s studying social sciences and-’

  Catt snorted at that. He didn’t have a high opinion of social workers. Casey wasn’t altogether surprised the girl had turned sullen and unforthcoming when Catt interviewed her. ‘What does she see in a moron like Wayne?’

  Casey shrugged. ‘Love’s meant to be blind, like justice, isn’t it?’

  ‘It would have to be blind, bothered and stupid in this case. For a college student to fancy Wayne-’

  ‘Tara Tompkins may be young, but she’s sharp enough, Tom. She’s also got Wayne’s number. After I explained that her boyfriend would go down for a long time if found guilty of this fatal arson, she told me that Wayne’s been an idiot. And she had been an idiot to let it go on so long. I think she’s got plans to improve him - she struck me as the crusading type.’ This brought another snort. ‘She told me she’ll change him.‘

  ‘The usual misguided claptrap, then. Do they never learn?’

  ‘Perhaps she intends using the study of Wayne for her thesis? Anyway, after a bit of umming and ahing and wondering if Wayne would forgive her for saving him from his macho self, she was far more forthcoming on the alibi front. She also enlightened me on how our Wayne came to claim the killings as his own in the first place. Apparently our two resident heroes had been boasting about the earlier arsons when one of their friends asked Gough if they’d torched ‘the Asian bird’s gaff’. Gough being Gough, said, ‘Yeah. We done that one, too. It was no big deal.’ He left Linklater no choice but to back him up or risk a beating for making Gough look a fool in front of his mates.’ Casey paused, then added, ‘Do you want to know where our errant vicar comes in - he turned up finally. I went to see him after I saw Dean’s mother and Wayne’s girlfriend.’

  Catt raised neat, perfectly arched eyebrows - Casey was convinced he used tweezers on them - and said, ‘Go on, surprise me.’

  Casey gave one of his rare smiles. He couldn’t help it. ‘He was only at the local church. With the local vicar. Being questioned about his Christian virtues and promising to bring the kids up C of E prior to getting married. Seems young Tara’s an old-fashioned girl and religious with it. She insisted on all the traditional trappings of marriage. God help her if her crusade’s to turn Gough into decent husband and father material. Anyway, on the day of the Bansi arson, Gough was there for the service beforehand as well as the lecture on the sanctity of marriage which the vicar gave them afterwards. They even took tea and cucumber sandwiches. He was there for the best part of two hours and didn’t get away till after 2.00 p m, so there’s no way he could have set the fire.’

  It was Catt’s turn to smile. ‘No wonder he preferred to go down for the killings rather than confess that lot to his mates.’

  The strain the case had put them under showed as they met each other’s eyes before they collapsed in gales of laughter. The thought of the tattooed and shaven-headed Wayne Gough having to endure such unmacho indignities was too much.

  As the tears coursed down his cheeks, Casey managed to gasp, ‘he’s already attended two services and lectures. He’s got a third one waiting for him when he gets out of here,’ before amusement choked off any more words.

  It was the first, the only, bit of light relief they’d had since the case had started with all the varying pressures that had followed. Casey, for one, had felt as if a huge weight had been pressing him down. The laughter came as a welcome release.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mark Farrell’s alibi had checked out. Farrell, it became clear, was something of an entrepreneur and, as he had said, he had been on a business trip to the continent during the relevant time. Several of the business acquaintances he had met had vouched for him.

  And as Casey headed wearily and unwillingly for home, after enduring another of Brown-Smith’s PC homilies, he supposed he should be grateful that another suspect was now firmly removed from their list of suspects. The trouble was, of course, that all the eliminated suspects had been white. And in spite of his brave rhetoric to Catt about making sure justice was done, he was aware of the possible implications for his future career should the winding trail lead back to one of the super’s less preferred suspects. And as, currently, Asians were the only ones remaining on the suspects’ list, that seemed only too likely.

  He longed for some solitude and the return of his home to its previous peaceful austerity. His home had always been his haven, his retreat from the world and its problems. It was where he did most of his thinking. But since the outside world in the shape of his parents had taken up residence, he found himself increasingly reluctant to go home. Instead, he had begun to work later and later, unwilling to face whatever further damage his parents had inflicted on his house. So far, between them, they had put his hob out of action, stained and ripped his kitchen vinyl and damaged his sound system with their scratchy old 60s records.

  Unfortunately, working late every night was turning out to be counter-productive. There was only so much information the human brain could absorb before it stopped functioning efficiently. Tiredness and the consequential increased irritability didn’t help, either. No doubt it was that which had prompted his earlier outburst that had so surprised Catt.

  He needed his quiet home back, his retreat. Only then would he begin to fire on all cylinders again. But there was little hope of that yet. His credit cards were up to their limit. He could of course increase the limits as the bank had so helpfully suggested, but, after years spent sorting out his parents’ financial muddles, he felt that was the sticky slope. He had never been keen on credit cards, anyway, nor credit of any sort. The puritan in him felt that if you couldn’t afford to pay cash you should do without. He’d only given in and applied for credit cards because they were so convenient, but he had strictly regulated his use of them. If he should start loosening his high standards now who knew where he would end up? Confessing all to a meeting of Debtors’ Anonymous was a distinct possibility, given his family’s propensity for addiction. And every addiction started with that one first step...

  Casey reached home and put his key in his front door. At least he could get on his computer and do a bit of internet research on India. With Gough, Linklater and Mark Farrell definitely out of the running and no other possible white fire-setters on the horizon, it was time to dig a little deeper into the Asian community and their cultural backgrounds.

  Just before he shut the front door behind him, he heard the sound of breaking glass from the living room.

  What now? he wondered as he dumped his briefcase in the hall and called out, ‘Who’s breaking up the happy home?’

  He had striven for lightness, but as he walked into his living room he couldn’t help but wonder what else would need expensive replacement or repair by the time his parents left. He soon found out.

  ‘Hi, Willow, babe,’ his mother smiled. ‘What do you think? Looks good, hey?’ She gestured behind her at the two fireplace alcoves.

  This morning, they had held his cherished scripophily collection. Now, his glass-framed old share certificates, some with beautiful artwork, were stacked anyhow against the wall. No doubt that explained the breaking glass. In their place were his mother’s Indian bazaar bargains, most of which had seen better days; assorted beads, his father’s old sitar with its still broken strings, and tatty old wa
ll-hangings their once rich colours now sadly faded.

  His austere but comfortable living room now bore more than a passing resemblance to an eastern market. A very downmarket market. As well as most of their gear gradually spreading outwards from the spare room and into his living room with the consequent mess and muddle, he was now expected to gaze admiringly at broken musical instruments and tatty old rugs.

  Really, on top of everything else, it was too much and Casey opened his mouth to protest, but his mother forestalled him.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t mind, hon. You did tell me to make myself at home and as the Guru Manesh Yogi said, creating the right ambiance around one is so important’

  This from a woman who had lived over half her life to the pleasant ambiance of bailiffs hammering on the door.

  ‘Besides, I found those symbols of capitalism you collect oppressive. Those railway ones gave me bad vibes every time I looked at them.’

  These two — The Stockton & Darlington and Liverpool & Manchester Railways — were only the most prized part of his collection. Two cherries on the cake, they were early 19th century, very rare and quite valuable. And as Casey leaned down to check the stack of frames, he was horrified to realise that the first of his prized cherries was the one with the broken glass. Quickly, he checked the certificate for damage, all the while muttering under his breath.

  ‘Did you know how many men died during the construction of those railways?’ his mother asked.

  As it happened, he did. He liked to learn about the historical backgrounds to the shares he bought. Though he doubted his mother could supply the answer to her own question. To Casey, his old shares were an interesting collection of social and industrial history, not a paean to capitalist worker exploitation as his mother claimed. Some had become quite valuable since he had bought them. His favourites weren’t even beautifully coloured like many of the foreign share certificates; old British shares tended to be on the plain side. It was probably why he liked them best of all.