by Joy Ellis
‘Fancy a cup of tea, Leon?’ asked Wendy. ‘I’m just off to put the kettle on.’
‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’
Wendy left, and Eve joined Leon in the wildest area of the Monks Lantern garden. ‘What brings you back here so soon?’
Leon stared around. He looked troubled. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s bothering you?’ Eve said. ‘Can I help at all?’
They walked through the dewy copse, looking at the moss-covered tombstones and chipped stone angels.
‘It’s these deaths. The ones your daughter is investigating.’
‘The fires?’
He nodded slowly. ‘I’m the only link to the three victims, Mrs Anderson, and one of my parishioners told me there was another fire last night, an old farmhouse out near Frampton.’ He looked thoroughly miserable. ‘And if it turns out to be Michael Porter’s home, I know him too.’
‘Oh dear. I see. But you have no idea why these people have been murdered?’
‘I have no idea at all. I knew them all for different reasons, and to my knowledge, they were complete strangers to each other.’ He stopped and stared at a cobweb strung between the branches of a birch tree. ‘The thing is, when we were here yesterday something flashed through my mind. I didn’t really think about it at the time, and now it’s gone.’
‘But you think it’s important? About the fires?’
He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I don’t know what it was. But I thought that if I came back here, something might jog my memory.’ He sighed. ‘But it hasn’t.’
‘It will come back. They always do, those elusive thoughts. But it doesn’t help to try to force them to the surface. Come and have some tea, then maybe walk around again, calmly, and with an open mind. It’s worth a try.’
Leon smiled at her. ‘Absolutely. I’m probably just being an idiot, but you can see why I’m worried. I’ll be suspect number one, if things go on as they are.’
‘Then maybe we should try to reconstruct our meeting yesterday? Wendy will help. She has good recall. Let’s have that tea, and then we’ll all come back out here and try to remember where we walked and what we were talking about. What do you think?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Anderson. I appreciate it. I wouldn’t trouble you, but I honestly think it’s important.’
* * *
Tom Black was exhausted. He had sat up half the night with his sister as she fought her way through another asthma attack. Then Giles, who had been on his way to an early meeting in Lincoln, came back in to say that the house had been daubed with slogans. Now he and Corinne were trying to clean the filthy words from the front door.
‘This’ll never come off, Tom.’ Corinne stared at the results of ten minutes spent scrubbing at a single word.
She was right. ‘I’ll call a professional to come and sort it all out. If necessary, we’ll just have to re-paint them. Bloody vandals!’
‘I think we should call the police, but Giles said no,’ Corinne grumbled.
‘He’s right. We don’t want the police back. You know that.’ He gave her a faint smile. ‘Ten to one it’d be our charming, nosey, PC Collins who turns up.’
‘I suppose. But does it really matter? There’s nothing for her to see here, and we can’t go on suffering this kind of abuse from those hateful thugs. I’m worried about what they’ll do next.’ Corinne threw her sponge into the bucket of water. ‘And you can’t tell me it doesn’t bother you as well, Tom Black, because I know it does.’
His sister-in-law was right. It did. ‘Then maybe it’s time I found some other way to rid us of this curse. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’
Corinne made a face. ‘I hate that phrase. What are you getting at anyway?’
‘What’s the point of being surrounded by all this power and influence if you don’t take advantage of it?’ he said reasonably.
‘You mean use the members themselves to help deal with the thugs?’ Corinne sounded dubious.
‘Needs must when the Devil drives, don’t you think?’
He gave a wicked smile, and for the first time that day, Corinne laughed.
* * *
Rory was back in the morgue early. He had taken a brief look at Michael Porter’s body on his way out to the crime site, and he was anxious to start the post-mortem. Spike, his technician, had just arrived, and so had Ella. They were almost ready to go.
It was Rory’s belief that this particular death would be the one to lead them to the killer. This silent witness would speak the loudest. He was certain of it.
‘Ella! My little Ack-Ack girl! Come in and bring your trusty camera.’
Spike looked puzzled, but didn’t ask. He too was used to Rory by now.
‘We’ll start by photographing the deceased Mr Porter as he was delivered to us. Then we’ll proceed to photograph him unclothed. I particularly want pictures of any unusual features, Ms Ack-Ack, okay?’
Ella glanced across to Spike and grinned. ‘The wedding? The costumes? Second World War? Get it?’
Spike raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Thank you for that.’
‘Back to work, kiddies! Mr Porter awaits. Now, this time we aren’t looking for the usual things — the time, mechanism or manner of death —because we know all that, almost to the second. We are looking for more subtle clues. So, let’s proceed. Have you got your initial shots, Ella? Then, Spike, measure and weigh the gentleman, please, and we can start to record our information.’
It didn’t take long to conduct the initial external examination and carefully remove the clothes and prepare them for the crime lab to process.
‘We need to examine the body for injuries, both old and new. The extent of burning is considerably less than the others, due to his getting into the bath and covering himself up, but he didn’t escape completely unscathed. Ella? Photographs, please. Then we’ll turn him, for posterior and lateral shots.’
She took several shots, and then Rory and Spike turned the body onto its front for her to take pictures of the man’s back.
‘Oh!’ Ella exclaimed. ‘I see what you mean, Prof!’
‘Exactly. What do you make of that then?’ Rory stood back.
‘Old scar tissue,’ Ella said.
Spike leaned closer. ‘Scar tissue from serious burns.’
‘This wasn’t the first time Michael Porter was subjected to fire,’ Ella murmured. ‘The poor man! He’d been severely burnt before. He must have been terrified.’
Rory nodded. ‘Unimaginable.’ They looked at the puckered, scaly skin that stretched across the back of his left arm, along his shoulder blade, and down his ribs. ‘It would appear he lifted his right arm to shield his face, then pushed through whatever was ablaze, and sustained these burns.’ He paused. ‘Or possibly something ignited right in front of him, like a blast from something flammable thrown onto a bonfire, and he turned and lifted that arm to protect himself.’
‘That last conjecture sounds more like it, Professor,’ observed Spike. ‘Funny that there’s evidence of skin grafts on the arms, but not the rest of him.’
‘I’m told grafts can be very painful. Maybe he didn’t think it was worth going through it, since they were on his shoulder and back.’ Rory stared at the body on the table. ‘One thing I’m certain of. These burns will help our friends in CID find the killer. This chap must have been pretty seriously injured when the accident happened, assuming it was an accident. I would think he needed specialist treatment, probably even in a burns unit.’
‘And that would mean Nottingham City Hospital, I think,’ said Spike, ‘or maybe the Queens Medical Centre, but I know it would be Nottingham for this area.’
‘And they would keep records. I’d be very interested to see what happened to this man, and how long ago. Those scars aren’t recent, not by a long chalk.’ Rory straightened up. ‘Right. When we’ve finished here, I intend to find out.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Yvonne drove down a narrow fen lane to the farthest end of Nuthat
ch Lane, where it joined the road to the town. She’d been sent on door-to-door enquiries and knew the area well enough to know that there could be half a mile between each of those doors.
Her first call was to a pair of old farmworkers’ cottages at the junction. They had recently been sold and knocked into one good-sized dwelling. It stood alone, commanding a view across hundreds of acres of arable fields. Yvonne reckoned that from their upstairs windows you’d see for miles in every direction. If anyone left Nuthatch Lane in a tearing hurry the night before, the home owners could well have noticed them.
The door was opened by a youngish man in stained jeans and a sweatshirt that had more plaster on it than her ceiling.
‘Sorry, sir, bad time?’ Yvonne said.
‘No, a pretty good one actually. I’m just beginning to realise there are some things an amateur should not attempt.’
Yvonne smiled and showed him her warrant card. ‘I won’t keep you long, sir, but I was wondering if you heard or saw anyone out here last night?’
‘Apart from what seemed like twenty fire trucks flying down the road?’ He held the door open. ‘Come in. My wife is just making tea.’
Not one to turn down a brew, Yvonne followed him in. ‘That’s kind of you.’
‘Millie! Another mug, please. We have a visitor.’ He turned to Yvonne. ‘I’m Andy Brothers, and my wife Millie is on kettle duty.’
‘How long have you been here, Andy?’
‘About three or four months. Living like squatters, but we’re getting there.’ He grinned. ‘Well, that’s what I keep telling the wife.’
For all his joking and despite his coating of plaster, he was making a great job of the old place.
‘Hello.’ Millie popped her head around the kitchen door. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, please,’ Yvonne replied. ‘This is lovely. You’re making a beautiful home out of these old cottages.’
Andy looked chuffed as little apples. ‘Sit down, Officer. You want to know about the fire, I guess? Heck, you could see the flames for miles!’
Millie placed a mug of tea beside Yvonne. ‘Horrible it was. I hate fire. Scares me.’ She sat down in an armchair opposite and said, ‘Was it deliberate? Is that why you’re asking questions?’
‘We believe so,’ said Yvonne carefully. ‘I’m very interested to know if you saw anyone around, just before the fire started?’
Husband and wife looked at each other. Andy said, ‘There was a vehicle, but neither of us actually saw it.’
‘We heard it though, and whoever it was, they weren’t taking too much care on these fen lanes. It was going like a mad thing.’
‘And the time, approximately?’
‘Oh, around half eight, nine o’clock, or thereabouts. Is that right, Mil?’
‘I think so, yes.’
From the timing, Yvonne was pretty sure that this had been the killer.
‘I do know it was a van,’ said Millie abruptly.
Yvonne looked up. ‘Why?’
‘I used to be a florist delivery driver, Officer, and vans just sound different to cars, especially the older ones. Kind of tinny.’
‘Did the one you heard sound old?’
‘Well, it wasn’t a brand new one, I know that. As a matter of fact, I’ve seen a small van, a white Renault Kangoo, out here a few times in the last week. That’s the sort of van we’re talking about.’
Yvonne couldn’t recall ever getting so much helpful information from the first door she knocked on.
‘Before you ask, I didn’t get the number. After all, I had no call to, did I? But it was a 2013 plate, that I did notice.’ Millie wrinkled her brow in concentration. ‘And it was one of those Compact vans, with lettering on the side.’
Were things finally coming together? Yvonne was getting more hopeful by the minute. ‘Do you know what the writing said?’
Millie frowned. ‘Can’t recall the name, but it was a property care company — you know, painting and decorating.’
‘I saw it too,’ chimed in Andy. ‘I almost stopped him and asked if he wanted a job.’
Bit of luck you didn’t, thought Yvonne. He could well have been our killer on his way to nail a few windows shut.
She finished her tea. ‘You’ve been incredibly helpful.’ She looked at Millie. ‘How come you’re so clued up on makes of van and years of registration?’
‘My dad was a used-car salesman. We lived over the garage when I was a kid.’ She smiled. ‘Cars and vans are part of my life, always have been.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, thank you. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but if you see it again?’ She handed Millie her card.
‘We’ll be on the blower like greased lightning, never fear.’ Millie’s smile faded. ‘The man who lived there died, didn’t he?’
Yvonne nodded. No point in denying it.
‘We didn’t know him. He seemed very detached, if you know what I mean? He’d acknowledge you if you spoke to him, but it was clear he didn’t want conversation.’ She looked sad. ‘I though he was a very unhappy man, Officer. Or maybe just very lonely.’
Back in her vehicle, Yvonne scanned the fields and the lanes, trying to think who else she knew lived out here. One person did come to mind, although she wouldn’t accept a cuppa there if offered. Meg Brownlee wasn’t the most hygienic of people. Her heart was in the right place, and she adopted any orphaned animal brought to her door, but housework was not high on her list of priorities.
‘Vonnie! How lovely to see you, me duck! It’s been ages! Cup of tea?’
‘Thanks, Meg, but I’ve just had one, and I’ll be wanting to wee if I have another. Got a moment?’
The old lady stood on the doorstep of her ramshackle bungalow, a scraggy ginger cat under one arm and a coal shovel in her other hand. ‘For you, of course.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘I’d invite you in, duck, but Mr Grumpy is having one of his moods, so maybe we could just talk here?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Yvonne gratefully. Mr Grumpy was a ten-year-old rescue Chihuahua, and not renowned for his people skills. ‘Have you seen a white van out here recently, going in the direction of Nuthatch Lane?’
‘Yes, dear.’ Meg tickled the cat’s ears and seemed to think that was all that was expected of her.
‘Well, when was that, Meg?’
‘This week? Yes, that’s right. I seen him twice this week. Day before yesterday around lunch time, and the same time the day before. I know, because that’s the time I have to give Clucky her medicine.’ She gazed toward a makeshift chicken run. ‘She’s had worms, you know.’
Lovely, thought Yvonne. ‘Did you see what was written on the van, Meg?’ She wasn’t hoping for too much here, but at least she had some more times to add to her report.
‘It was a decorator’s van, duck. Fred someone. Didn’t get the rest, but as Fred was my dear husband’s name, God rest his soul, I noticed that bit.’
Better and better, thought Yvonne. ‘Is your phone working, Meg?’
‘I’ve had it cut off, duck. Pointless really.’
‘But . . .’ Yvonne was about to tell her how foolhardy that was when the old lady produced a smartphone from her cardigan pocket.
‘Pointless now I’ve got this, dear. My nephew set it up and showed me how to use it. Much more fun than that stupid old landline.’
Yvonne stifled a giggle. ‘Ah, good. Well, if you see that van again, ring me, okay?’
The old lady placed the cat on the floor. ‘Let me just pop you in my Contacts, then I can get you if I need to.’ To Yvonne’s surprise, her fingers flew deftly over the tiny keyboard. ‘Sorted. Now, are you sure about that tea? I’m sure Mr Grumpy will have calmed down by now.’
Yvonne declined again, turned to leave and paused. ‘I suppose you didn’t notice the driver of the van, did you?’
‘Youngish man, Vonnie. Lovely thick brown hair and a nice smile. He waved as he went past.’
Yvonne swallowed. Cool as a cucumber, wasn’t he? On his way to
prepare a funeral pyre and he waves to old ladies. That told her a lot about their man. Maybe more than she wanted to know.
* * *
Niall listened to what Yvonne had to report. ‘Let’s take this to the DI, shall we? And, Vonnie? If they can use you, you can lend them a hand if you like. I can swing it this end.’
‘Can I still keep an eye on the Black House though?’ Yvonne said.
‘Sure, if you think it warrants it, but this is really important stuff, so put it first.’ He cuffed her arm affectionately. ‘But I don’t have to tell you about priorities, do I, grandmother?’
‘Button it, Sergeant Farrow, or your grandmother might just clip your ears.’
‘I miss you, Vonnie,’ Niall said quietly. ‘I know I had to move on. I have a wife now, and a home, oh, and a dog to consider, but I still miss you and the beat.’
‘The feeling is reciprocated, young’un. It’s not the same, and that’s a fact. But as you said, you have responsibilities now, and you’ll do fine, never fear. You’re a good boy, Niall. The best.’ She sniffed. ‘Now let’s go see the DI.’
* * *
‘What?’ Nikki exclaimed.
‘It’s as I said. Michael Porter sustained serious burns in a previous accident some time ago. It’s awful that he should now die in a house fire, having survived what I suspect to have been a very nasty incident.’ Rory paused. ‘I’ve tried to trace his medical records but I’ve hit an impasse. Adult health records are reviewed and destroyed eight years after the patient was discharged or last seen. Or, if he was considered a child at the time of the accident, they would have been destroyed after his twenty-fifth or twenty-sixth birthday. It appears that he never attended the hospital again after his treatment was finished, hence no records.’
Nikki recalled Michael’s last words, about it not being his fault, that it was just a bit of fun and that he was sorry. What had he done? Cogs were turning, and pieces were slipping into place. ‘This could be the answer to why our killer uses fire, couldn’t it?’
‘I definitely think so.’
‘A prank that went wrong on Firework Night, or the night before — Mischief Night. Rory, this has to be traceable. We’ll get straight on to it! Thank you, my friend.’
