FIRE ON THE FENS a gripping crime thriller filled with stunning twists

by Joy Ellis

  ‘There are some very odd reports coming in, so I think maybe we should wait for the dust to settle, in case I feed you misinformation.’

  ‘He’s dead, of course?’ Joseph said.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, but I’m told he’s not as badly burnt as the other victims.’

  Nikki heaved a sigh of relief. The whiteboard in the CID room was making her feel queasy every time she looked at it. ‘Come on, John, what are these odd reports? We won’t hold you to them.’

  ‘Michael Porter made a 999 call. I don’t know exactly what was said, but I’m told you need to hear the recording.’ He paused. ‘They say he intimated that the killer contacted him, just before the house went up. That’s why you need to hear it for yourselves.’

  Joseph stared up at the skeletal remains of the old farmhouse. ‘Phew! This was some blaze, wasn’t it?’

  ‘He set it in at least three different places. And he started the fire at the far end of the house at the farthest point from the kitchen, where Michael apparently spent most of his time. It would have been well underway before Michael had a clue as to what was going on. Then I should think he went to investigate, and our killer took the key from the inside of the back door, locked it from the outside and rolled a heavy stone planter in front of it to barricade it further.’ John stared at what was left of Rycroft Farm. ‘Most of the windows were those tiny diamond shape mullions, so Michael couldn’t even break the glass. Poor guy. He must have been terrified.’

  ‘Did the fire crew find him and get him out?’ asked Joseph.

  ‘Yes, although it wasn’t easy. They found him in the bathroom, which had a deep roll-top bath. He’d climbed in and pulled wet towels over the top of him, but he still asphyxiated.’ John shook his head. ‘Luckily, they managed to get his body out before the bathroom floor caved in.’

  ‘We need to hear that 999 call, Joseph,’ Nikki said. ‘There’s nothing we can do here. Uniform has been alerted to set up the crime scene, and it’s going to be a long while before it’s safe for forensics to get in there. We should get back to base and arrange a door-to-door, although there’s not many of those out here on the fen.’ She turned to John. ‘Are you coming with us?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll keep my ears open here, and pass on anything of interest to you.’

  ‘John?’ Nikki said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get some sleep, man! You look like shit. And that’s being kind.’

  ‘I’d hate to be on the receiving end of one of your unkind observations.’ He smiled wearily. ‘I’ll do as you say — when you have this man locked up. Until then, it’s power naps for me.’

  ‘Power naps are supposed to supplement a night’s sleep, not replace it,’ Joseph said. ‘You take care now. We need you on the case, not driving your car into a fen ditch because you nodded off.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Nikki said. ‘But keep in touch, okay?’

  John saluted. ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘And get some sleep!’

  She waited for a reply. None came.

  * * *

  Joseph made them hot drinks and, together with Cam, they went to listen to Michael Porter’s last words.

  Nikki steeled herself. She’d listened to messages like this before, mainly with suicide cases, and it was gut-wrenchingly hard to do.

  They heard the operator ask, “Which emergency service do you require?”

  “The house! It’s burning! It’s on fire! Oh my God! It’s everywhere!”

  There were a series of clicks as the connection to the fire control room was made. “Give me your address, sir! Help is on its way.”

  “Rycroft Farm! Nuthatch Lane! Outside Frampton.” There was a bout of coughing. “Please . . .”

  “Try to remain calm, sir. Are you inside the building?”

  “I can’t get out. He . . . he’s locked me inside.”

  Nikki put her hand to her mouth. His terror was palpable.

  “Where are you located within the building, sir?”

  “The upstairs bathroom.” Another hacking cough.

  “Get down low to the floor, sir. The smoke is worse higher up. And keep talking to me. We have your location, and appliances will be with you very soon.”

  “Please listen! There’s something I have to say. It’s too late to help me, but I’m just so sorry!”

  “Just keep calm, if you can.” The fire control officer was holding it together well. Her voice was steady and soothing.

  “I have to tell you . . . about Mischief Night. It was just a bit of fun, honestly.” By now he was choking.

  “Sir! Are there any towels in the bathroom? If so, soak them in water and wrap them around your face. Then use some to block any gaps around the door, okay? Then get back down on the floor. Can you do that for me?”

  Nikki heard a scuffling noise and the sound of running water, then a muffled voice said, “I don’t know who he was, or how he knew my number, but he knew about Mischief Night! He knew!” Michael began to cry. “This isn’t fair! It wasn’t my fault! Please believe me!”

  “Hold on, sir! The appliances are in your lane now. They’ll get you out. Just stay down.”

  But they heard nothing more from Michael Porter. The last sounds were the piercing screams of the fire engine sirens.

  For a moment, the room was still. Then Cam heaved in a big breath and quietly thanked the officer who had played them the recording. ‘Let’s go to my office and work out what this tells us.’

  He walked from the room. Without a word, Nikki and Joseph got up and followed him.

  Inside his office, with the door closed, Cam asked, ‘Mischief Night? Was he talking about Halloween?’

  ‘It used to be called that locally, back in the fifties, I think, but it referred to the night before Halloween — 30 October,’ said Joseph. ‘Knock down Ginger and egging windows.’

  ‘Where my Gran lived, out on the marsh, Mischief Night was around Firework Night,’ said Nikki. ‘I was never sure why.’

  ‘I think it’s the same in Yorkshire,’ Cam said. ‘The night before Bonfire Night. Just an excuse for kids to be naughty. Trick or treat is nothing new. But what was Porter talking about?’

  ‘Something that happened on a Mischief Night, but when? And what?’ Nikki frowned.

  ‘And where?’ added Joseph. ‘Do you think this is connected to that girl who died young? The one that Harry said was Jez’s friend?’

  ‘Kids messing around and one got hurt in some way? It’s quite possible.’ Cam drew his brows together. ‘But if our killer is going after all the kids involved in hurting the girl, they would know each other, wouldn’t they? And there doesn’t seem to be any connection between them. Ronnie Tyrrell saw one of Clary’s paintings, didn’t he? But he said he’d never heard of the artist.’

  ‘We’ve found no connections at all between the three victims.’ Nikki pulled a face. ‘Not even geographically. They didn’t live in the same road as kids. They didn’t go to the same schools, churches, youth clubs, they had no connections through work, had different doctors, dentists . . .’ She threw up her hands. ‘If they’d been in a gang, running riot on Mischief Night, they’d remember each other, especially if something went wrong and one of them got hurt. Hell, if the kid died, they’d certainly remember!’

  ‘And don’t forget,’ Joseph added. ‘Jez said that the girl died, not that she was killed. So it wasn’t necessarily anything suspicious.’

  ‘Well, something happened, didn’t it? Porter was eaten up with remorse about it. He had to be, to want to apologise for it in his last moments.’ Cam drained his cup and threw it into the bin. ‘I think we ought to check for accidents on Mischief Night that occurred as a result of pranksters. We need to go back ten, maybe fifteen years. Anything that involved a girl being injured or killed.’

  ‘Okay, will do, but I’m wondering which date to pick, November fourth or October thirtieth?’

  ‘I guess we’d better go for both.’ Joseph shrugged. ‘Could
be either.’

  ‘And I suppose we need to cover the whole county. We have no idea where this may have happened. It could take time. I’ll get the team onto it first thing in the morning.’ Nikki yawned. ‘We need some sleep, and there’s nothing more we can do until the reports from the house to house come in, and we get something from forensics. We should all go home.’

  Cam stood up and stretched. ‘You won’t find me disagreeing, Nikki. I suspect tomorrow will be a very long day.’

  * * *

  This one had been the easiest of all, and possibly the most disappointing. He wasn’t quite sure why.

  It had gone off perfectly, and he had to admit that he was beginning to enjoy setting fires. The spectacle, the power of it, filled him with awe. It was like nothing he’d ever encountered before. Nonetheless, something had been missing. He supposed it was the fact that he hadn’t been face to face with his victim, just prior to his death. He wouldn’t use the phone again. It had distanced him from his target, and he wanted, needed to see their terror for himself. He hadn’t dared confront Michael Porter in person. He knew Michael had a temper and was strong. Too strong for him. The operation had been an unequivocal success. It was just that it left him feeling empty somehow, let down.

  He had had his ritual shower — hair washed twice, clothes changed — but although the stench of burning lingered as it always did and made him slightly nauseous, he felt hollow, unfulfilled.

  He poured himself his customary brandy and sat at the kitchen table. After Jeremy Bedford and the stolen car, despite feeling sick as a dog, he’d been elated, high as a kite, manic with delight at what he’d achieved.

  Tonight he felt quite different. Sad. He was doing everything he promised, with spectacular success, but he didn’t want to go through it all just to feel like a failure in the end. Whatever was to follow, he must make sure to be with the target when the purifying flames did their work. It was worth the nausea, worth the lingering stink of burning on his skin.

  He sipped his drink slowly. He would put this one behind him, and move on, because his next fire would be special. He closed his eyes. Yes, very special indeed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A pale dawn filtered hesitantly through the iron-grey sky. Rory Wilkinson and Ella Jarvis, his SOCO forensic photographer, were picking their way through the blackened debris and rubble that had once been Rycroft Farm.

  ‘I burnt my toast this morning,’ grumbled Rory. ‘I knew it was a bad sign.’

  Ella laughed, and choked in a cloud of dust. ‘You’re lucky you got any breakfast at all, Prof. I got the call and left home straight away.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t sleep, dear heart. My mind is a veritable turmoil of wedding plans!’ He looked up at her from the old metal radiator he was busy inspecting. ‘You are coming, aren’t you?’

  ‘Try and stop me! And I’ve had an amazing bit of luck with my costume.’

  ‘Oh, do tell!’

  ‘My grandmother was an Ack-Ack girl. She was an anti-aircraft spotter in Second World War with an all-women gun crew on a 3.7 inch gun battery, and I’ve still got her old uniform. I dug it out of the attic last night, and it fits! Well, sort of.’

  ‘Oh my! That’s wonderful! Can’t wait to see it.’ He turned back to the radiator, an old-style, column cast-iron model. ‘Can I have a picture of this, Ella? Especially down the back of it, please.’

  Ella took several shots. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Someone packed newspaper down behind it, a bit of extra fuel to feed the fire. I noticed it on another one too. This place was definitely prepared ahead of time. I suspect we’ll find more evidence of this as we move around. I’ve seen it before, you know.’ He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose, ‘I was sent to a devastating fire in what was once an old mental asylum. Gothic Victorian it was, amazing architecture. It had started in the theatre, and I found that all the old radiators had been packed tightly with newspaper, just waiting for a match. The inmates had been planning the fire for months and thought it a great sport. Sadly, one of them died.’ He shrugged. ‘It was all covered up though. The official verdict was an electrical fault. Supposedly in the best interests of the hospital, the patients and the public. And as I had no proof that it was them that started it, I was forced to back down. Very galling!’

  They moved on, into what they believed had been the dining room.

  ‘Looks like this place was full of clutter even before the arsonist started work.’ Ella took a shot of what appeared to be a heap of old saucepans and kitchenware, alongside the twisted remains of an ancient treadle sewing machine. ‘Just a dumping ground for unwanted stuff.’

  ‘Most of this place was neglected beyond redemption. I think the lone occupant had given up a long time ago.’ Rory stared at the stinking, sodden mess that had once been a chaise longue. ‘I’d like to have seen this place fifty years ago.’

  ‘So there was just one victim?’ asked Ella.

  ‘As with all the other fires. A single victim. Trapped, and with no way of getting out. In this case, the firefighters removed the body to prevent it being totally cremated. He’s back at the morgue now, and I’d appreciate your expertise in photographing him.’

  Ella grimaced. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘Actually there’s something very interesting about the body, and I’d like to see if you notice what it is.’

  ‘Don’t be enigmatic, Prof. I haven’t had breakfast yet.’

  ‘I’m always enigmatic,’ Rory said smugly.

  By the time they had finished, Rory had discovered a number of extra little helpers that had fuelled the fire.

  Ella checked the shots in her camera. ‘I’m amazed. One, at the fact that not everything burns, even in this kind of house fire. And two, at the kind of things you knew to look for.’

  ‘Oh, there are always snippets of unburnt evidence. Ask John Carson, or the new fire investigator. She should have a ball when she gets here.’ He looked around. ‘And odd things seem to escape the fire altogether, like this.’ He pointed to an umbrella stand close to the door. One side was scorched, the other looked wet but undamaged. ‘And he had to use things that had no smell, didn’t he? He could hardly splash a spot of turps around, or sprinkle some lighter fuel. Anyone with a nose would notice that.’

  ‘But cotton balls soaked in petroleum jelly? And the lint that collects in your tumble dryer? For heavens’ sake! Who’d have thought that would be so flammable.’

  ‘That fluff can be explosively flammable if it consists of fibres that are entirely cotton.’ Rory looked at the evidence bag in his hand. It contained a tiny, wet piece of lint residue that he’d found wedged into the springs of a sofa. ‘He’d probably been collecting it for months. And the wood shavings — they have a great surface-to-air ratio for combustion.’

  ‘That means he broke in while the owner was out and did all this prep, ready for the big finale?’

  ‘One nasty, callous person, my dear. Can you imagine actually going round screwing windows shut, and locking every possible way out, so that some poor soul would burn to death? It’s inconceivable.’

  ‘Is he insane, Prof? Or eaten up with a desire for revenge? Or both?’

  ‘A terrible trauma can trigger this kind of behaviour, although it’s rare. Oddly, arsonists don’t usually attempt to hurt people, just property. It’s the fire they’re after, and the power to destroy things. People usually get caught up in those fires purely accidentally. This man is a cold-blooded murderer, nothing less.’

  Ella shivered. ‘Well, I guess it’s time to go and meet his victim.’

  Rory nodded and began to pick his way towards the gap where the front door had once stood. ‘Mr Michael Porter awaits his last formal photograph. After you, dear heart, and I can’t wait to see you in your ATS uniform! Roll on next month!’

  * * *

  Eve and Wendy were both early risers. Years in the military had seen to that, and neither woman was comfortable with lying in bed. A
t six forty-five they were walking around the garden, enjoying the freshness of the early autumn morning.

  Jenny’s fern garden was finally looking as it should, with just the garden seat still to come.

  ‘She’d love this, wouldn’t she?’ said Wendy softly.

  ‘It’s as near to her plans as I could make it, so, yes, I think she would. And I think she’d be pretty shocked that this old fogey was capable of it.’ Eve laughed. ‘She always said I’d never make a gardener, but for once, I’ve proved her wrong.’

  ‘And you love it too, don’t you?’

  Eve thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I do. I can see now what people get out of planting and sowing and tending their plants. Sounds daft, I suppose, but after the kind of life we’ve led, it’s quite therapeutic. It’s all about life, not death. And there is definitely something about trees. They seem to lift the spirits somehow.’

  Wendy smiled. She ran a hand across the bark of a eucalyptus tree that swayed gracefully at the edge of the fern garden. ‘Shinrin-yoku. It’s a Japanese therapy we call “forest bathing.” I read about it in the Daily Telegraph the other day. They reckon fifteen minutes spent among trees can lower cortisol levels, boost the immune system and reduce anxiety.’

  ‘Good Lord! Really?’

  ‘You seem to have tapped into it organically, Eve Anderson. We’ll make a forest therapist out of you yet!’

  ‘Very funny.’ Eve looked up. ‘There’s a car down in the lay-by at the end of the drive.’ For a second the old fear came back.

  ‘I think I recognise it,’ said Wendy warily, ‘but I’m not sure who owns it.’

  ‘Let’s check it out.’

  They began to walk out of the fern garden. Wendy touched Eve’s arm and whispered, ‘There’s someone in the old graveyard.’

  They threw each other puzzled looks, and hurried quietly towards the gateway.

  ‘Morning, ladies! Hope you don’t mind. I didn’t think anyone would be up and out so early.’

  ‘Leon!’ Eve heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Of course we don’t mind. We just wondered who it was.’