by Ashe Barker
“Someone will be along to talk to you soon, Miss. If you’d just like to wait here. They won’t be long.”
I spend the next five minutes fruitlessly quizzing PC Solemn about everything. When did it start? How did it start? How many students were inside? Where are they now? I’d have gotten more sense out of Fred and Wilma, my kittens back at Greystones. He was quite deadpan, and totally tight lipped. Always the same answer, whatever the question. “I’m sorry, Miss, I have no information I can share with you at this time.”
Sure enough, reinforcements are not long in arriving. The police patrol car pulls up behind my Clio within a few minutes, and two uniformed officers swagger in my direction. I suddenly have a really bad feeling. I’m a victim, surely. My property has been attacked in some sort of as yet unspecified crime. So how come they’re looking at me like something usually encountered at the bottom of a pond?
“Miss Spencer?” The first officer, a tall, stocky chap plants himself in front of me, his thumbs hooked in his ant-stab jacket and his tone definitely aggressive as he regards me down his nose.
His companion, smaller, less imposing but somewhat brighter looking if you were to ask me, is tugging his notebook out of one of his many pockets. My first reaction is just to stare at them. I know a bully when I see one. Two even. And for the life in me I can’t fathom out why they’re picking on me.
“Yes, I’m Sharon Spencer. Except I’m not, not any more. I’m Ashley McAllister now. I changed my name.”
“Oh. And why would you want to do that then, Miss Spencer?”
“McAllister. It’s Miss McAllister now.” Assertive, that’s what’s needed, I tell myself. Polite but firm.
“I see. So, Miss Spencer, are you the owner of these premises?”
I grit my teeth, decide to let it go, for now. My instinct tells me I need to pick my battles carefully. “Yes, I told this officer”—I gesture toward my dear friend PC Solemn—“it was my mother’s house, and now it’s mine. She died, you see, and I inherited it. Last year.”
“Yes, we’ve been hoping for a word with you. There are some questions we need you to answer. At the police station. Would you come with us please, Miss Spencer?”
“What, yes all right. My car’s just there, in front of yours. I’ll follow you.”
“No, Miss Spencer, you’ll come with us, in our car. Now, if you don’t mind.” PC Tall and Stocky is rocking on his heels, puffing out his armored chest at me, making no attempt to conceal his expression of distaste.
“What? Why?” This is all feeling horribly familiar. This is how the police spoke to me when I was arrested for lying to help Kenny. But times have changed, and I make one last attempt to get them to see reason.
“Look, I’m happy to make a statement, I want to provide any help I can. But I’ll need my car later, I have to sort out insurance, see my solicitor, make arrangements for repairs…”
There’ll be no repairs for a while yet. Now, if you’d just come with us…?”
“Are you arresting me? What the hell for?”
“We were hoping it wouldn’t come to that, but… Sharon Spencer, I’m arresting you on suspicion of arson…”
Chapter Five
The rest of his rights speech is lost on me as my brain turns to porridge. Arrested! I’m being bloody well arrested. For arson. These idiots think I actually set fire to my mother’s house. My mother’s house, for Christ’s sake. My grandparents’ house.
Idiots or not, I’m soon enough installed in the back of the patrol car, PC Tall and Stupid next to me while his colleague drives us to the police station. Once there, I’m taken to the custody suite, presented before the custody sergeant as an arson suspect. My panic mounting, I do at least remember enough of the drill to know I should be allowed to phone someone. At my desperate request the custody sergeant pushes the desk phone at me.
“Make it quick. We’ve not got all day.”
Maybe I should try to get a solicitor, but the only one I know in the area is sweet old Mr Miller. This is hardly his bag. I think of Tom, because he’s who I really want. I know he’ll believe me, and he’ll help me. But I’ve only got one quick phone call, and for all I know Tom’s still in a mobile not-spot. I can’t risk not getting through. I dial the number for Black Combe instead, and almost faint with relief when Eva answers.
“Eva, it’s Ashley. Please can you get a message to Tom?”
“Ashley? Yes, of course. Where are you? Is everything all right?”
“No it’s not. I’ve been arrested. For arson. They think I set fire to my house. With bloody students asleep inside. Christ, Eva…” My voice is cracking, she must be able to hear it. I gather my wits, I need to make sure she understands what to do. “Please could you ask Tom to arrange a solicitor for me? I have money, I can pay, but I don’t know anyone. I don’t know who else to call. Please, Eva…”
“Ashley, yes, it’s done. Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine. Tom’s…”
“That’s enough, Miss. Time to move you along now.” The custody sergeant holds out his hand for the telephone, takes it from me then hangs up. “Let’s get your details and then find you a nice warm cell to wait in, shall we?”
It’s not only Tom who appreciates the power of anticipation. The cell door clangs shut behind me, its note of finality echoing around me. I promised myself never again. Never, never again would I allow myself to be locked up. Yet here I am, totally innocent and even so, I spend the next hour and a half perched on the edge of a cold bench in a Spartan cell, my only other furniture a rather unsavory looking stainless steel lavatory with no seat. I make up my mind then and there I’ll burst before I use that. Eventually though, the custody sergeant jangles his keys on the other side of my door and it swings open.
“Time for a little chat. Come with me please.”
Numb, I get to my feet and follow him along the tiled corridor, wrinkling my nose at the putrid smell of disinfectant doing battle with vomit and pee. God, I’d just about managed to forget what these places were like. It’s the smell that hits me the most, it always was. The sergeant ushers me into a small interview room where the two officers I met earlier outside my house are seated at a metal table in the middle of the room. To one side is another small table with the ubiquitous tape recorder set up on it. PC Tall and Stupid gestures for me to sit down while his colleague stands up, flicks the switch on the tape machine.
“Interview commenced at eighteen fifteen, those present PC Stuart Bragg.”
Not Tall and Stupid then? I can’t help thinking his official name suits him almost as well.
He turns to his colleague, still hovering beside the tape machine, who recites his name, PC George Graves. PC Bragg fixes his gaze on me. “Please state your name, for the tape.”
My turn, then. “Ashley McAllister.”
He glares at me, but having given my name, I remain silent. Bragg has to fill in his own gaps. “Miss McAllister, were you previously known by any other name?”
“Yes, I was. I was previously known as Sharon Spencer. But my name is now Ashley McAllister. I’d prefer it if you use my correct name please, PC Bragg. It’ll be more straightforward.”
He glares at me again, I’m clearly not endearing myself here. But he’s got other fish to fry it seems, and decides to move on.
“Miss Spencer—McAllister, can you tell us please where you were between the hours of ten p.m. yesterday evening and four a.m. this morning?”
Well, that’s simple enough. “Yes, I had dinner with friends.”
“Friends? Do these ‘friends’ have names, Miss McAllister?”
“They do.” I rattle off Tom, Nathan and Eva’s names, and provide their contact details too. Upstanding citizens all, company directors and a doctor of something or other. Eva’s a doctor of several something or others in fact. At least my alibi should stand up to scrutiny.
Undaunted, PC Tall and Stupid, sorry, Bragg, presses on with his line of inquiry. Line of total and crass idiocy if you ask me, but s
till, if there were prizes to be had for effort and determination, he’d be in the center of the podium. “Earlier, when you were arrested, you mentioned needing to contact your insurers. Do you remember that, Miss McAllister?”
“Of course.”
“Could you tell us the details of your insurance, Miss McAllister? How much do you stand to gain as a result of this fire?”
Ah, so that’s it. The penny drops. They think this is some sort of insurance scam. I could almost laugh out loud it’s so totally ridiculous. “No, I don’t know the insurance details. I need to dig out my policy, talk to the insurance company. I expect the repairs should be covered though.”
“Unless the fire was started deliberately, Miss McAllister. That would make your insurance void, would it not?”
So this is what they meant by a crime scene. “Was it started deliberately? If so, how?”
“You tell us, Miss McAllister.”
“I know nothing about how the fire started. The first I knew of it was when my solicitor phoned me this morning. That’s Mr Miller at Miller and Hampson. They handle things for me, collect the rent and so on. I don’t live in this area anymore.”
He makes a point of studying the papers in front of him, including the personal details taken down by the custody sergeant. “And where is it you live now? Greystones, West Yorkshire. You’re a long way from home.”
“Yes. Because my solicitor phoned me to tell me that my house, the house I grew up in, the house that belonged to my mother, and to my grandparents before her, had been on fire. I was worried. I wanted to see the damage for myself. I wanted to start putting it right. And I was concerned about my tenants, the students. Someone could have been killed. Or seriously hurt. So yes, I am a long way from home.” I speak with deliberate care. He really is incredibly dim, and from me that’s saying something.
We glare at each other across the battered metal table, antagonism bristling between us. I know I should be more…servile…but these days I reserve that for Tom. It’s more rewarding. Long, hostile moments pass as we stare each other down, then the tension is broken by a tap at the door. PC Graves steps outside for a moment then comes back to whisper in Tall and Stupid’s ear. He listens, flicks his eyes up at me then gets to his feet.
“It seems your solicitor’s here. We’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.” He heads for the door, but has to step back sharply to avoid being barreled aside by the most imperious woman I think I’ve ever seen. She is one seriously scary lady, very tall, slim and austerely dressed in a dark gray closely fitted suit, a white blouse and four-inch black patent leather heels. Her fingernails are painted a brilliant red to match her lips. Her hair is pale blonde, pulled back into a severe chignon. She turns her head slightly to view the retreating police officers with thinly disguised contempt.
“I’ll summon you when my briefing with my client is complete. Thank you.” And so they are dismissed, and she turns her attention to me. Coming forward she places her elegant burgundy leather briefcase on the table before offering me one perfectly manicured hand. “You’ll be Ashley McAllister. I’m Julia Montgomery, from Jones Montgomery Sheldon. I’m representing you today.”
Well, she certainly looks the part. And I’m incredibly pleased to see her. “I, er, thank you. Did Tom send you?”
She fixes me with a formidable stare, assessing me. I shift uncomfortably, but she relents and explains her presence here. “I believe Mr Shore is on his way to Gloucester, as is Mr Darke. However, my services were retained by Darke Associates, though it was Miss Byrne who instructed me in this matter. My firm handles most of their legal work, although predominantly in matters of property and civil law. However the occasional foray into criminal proceedings does help to keep the account interesting. Now, shall we press on, Miss McAllister?”
Interesting? Well that’s me all right. I settle back, ready to do whatever’s needed to get me out of here. Darke Associates? Nathan’s corporate legal team? They should be up to the job. And it seems I have Eva—Miss Byrne—to thank for sending me Ms Montgomery. I turn my attention to the efficient solicitor who is deftly unscrewing the top of her elegant fountain pen, poised to take notes.
“So, tell me about the premises where this incident took place. The house was formerly your mother’s home, I understand, which you inherited a year ago. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right.” I go on to explain to her about not wanting to sell the house, for sentimental reasons as much as anything, but also because I saw a real chance to get a decent commercial return out if it.
“So, you own the freehold. Was there any outstanding borrowing against it when it came into your possession?”
“No, my grandparents bought it originally, back in the mid-sixties I think, when they got married. The mortgage was paid off years ago.”
“I see. And what about you? How did you finance the renovation and conversion works? Did you borrow against the value of the premises?”
“No. I could have I suppose, but I paid for the work out of the rest of my inheritance. As well as the house I got around fifty thousand in cash. So that’s what I used.”
“You spent fifty thousand pounds on the refurbishment costs? That sounds like a lot.” Her glance up from her notes is sharp, her tone clipped. I get the impression these details are extremely important so I think carefully about the work I did on the house, try to explain my reasons for spending so much. “I saw it as an investment. I had to put in bathrooms, extra kitchen facilities. And fire escapes. Christ, I’m glad of those now. And fire resistant doors, a wired in alarm system. The council building control inspector made me move the downstairs sensor three times before he was happy. And you’re right, it did cost a lot. But I reckon I’ll get my money back within about another four years. Could even do it in three.”
“I see. Can you explain to me your financial forecasting then, an outline of your business model?”
“My what? What do you mean?
She smiles at me, just a little less frostily. “Your sums, Miss McAllister. How do you calculate you’ll have your money back within four years?”
“Oh, right. I see. Well, the rent from student lets will be at least sixteen thousand a year, after agents’ fees and other expenses. Could be as much as twenty if the place is let out over the summer as well—conferences, summer schools, that sort of thing. But assuming not, just sixteen. I’ve had just over eight thousand so far this year so that’s on target. If the lettings continue at that level I’ll be in profit in three years, but I’m being cautious. I think four’s a safe estimate. Especially now, as the house won’t be fit to let again for at least a few weeks so I’ll lose money until it’s fixed.”
She’s nodding, rapidly scribbling notes on a yellow solicitor’s notepad.
“I’m assuming you can account for your whereabouts last night?”
“Yes, I can.” I explain that I was with Tom, and we stayed overnight at Nathan Darke’s home.
She seems satisfied with that. “Right. The preliminary reports from the fire investigation department suggest that an accelerant was used.” She explains further at my puzzled expression, “Petrol. Poured through the letterbox in all probability. That’s why most of the damage is in the hallway and the front door. The internal fire doors protected the rest of the house, pretty much, until the fire service arrived and put it out.”
Even though I knew it had to be something like this I’m still shocked. “Petrol. Someone poured petrol through the letterbox and set it alight. Knowing there were people asleep inside. Oh, God…” I drop my face into my hands, feeling sick suddenly. It could so easily have been an absolute tragedy.
Ms Montgomery waits for a few moments, apparently considering, then leans over the table, takes my hands in both of hers, squeezes and tugs until I look up at her. She holds my gaze, the glint of steel shimmering in her dark gray eyes. “You did a good job, Miss McAllister. Ashley. Your high quality refurbishment, in particular your fire safety works, probably sa
ved your property. And may well have saved lives too. Now, though, I need you to think. We know you didn’t pour petrol through that letterbox, but someone did. Have you any idea who might have done it? Have you any enemies? Anyone with a grudge?”
The obvious candidate is Kenny, so I briefly explain my previous association with him. But for all I know he’s still in jail. And anyway, this just isn’t his sort of thing. He’s a thug, handy with his fists, but to plan an arson attack? And manage to carry it out? He’d be more likely to set himself on fire. I can’t really see it and I tell her so. She nods, but even so uses her iPad to email her clerk with instructions to ascertain whether Kenny is on the loose again.
It seems to me there’s another, more obvious, explanation. “Ms Montgomery, surely, it’s more likely the target would be one of the students, not me. Have the police looked into that, checked out their backgrounds?”
“We’ll definitely put that to them. It they haven’t properly eliminated other reasonable possibilities that would weaken their case considerably if this does end up in court.”
My heart lurches, the reality of my predicament suddenly in sharp focus, all the hellish implications of the situation becoming clear. I gaze at her, wide-eyed.
“Oh, God, do you think it’ll come to that?” Given my record, my suspended sentence and the terms of my parole I have visions of being remanded in custody, I could be back in my old cell at HMP Eastwood Park before the day’s out. It was bearable before, but it wouldn’t be this time. This time I’m innocent, and I’ve got a life. A brilliant new life that I’m fast realizing could easily come crashing down around me unless the indomitable Ms Montgomery can make PC Tall and Stupid see sense. I desperately wish Tom was here, he’d know what to do, what to say, but I gather he’s on his way. Nathan too. And meanwhile they’ve sent Ms Montgomery to get between me and disaster. She seems to know her stuff, she’s calm, confident, and I can’t help thinking that if I’d had her on my side a year ago I’d never have become so intimately acquainted with the interior decoration at Eastwood Park.
