‘But he gave you some names of people who might have felt animosity towards him and his family?’
‘Yes,’ Randall said.
‘So what’s your next step?’
He stood up. ‘Jude.’
This was the second time Alex Randall had met Jude Barton. The first time had not been helpful. The boy had been sedated and still very traumatized by his experience. It had felt cruel to press him for details. Jude Barton looked like a poet, with pale skin and very dark hair that flopped over his eyebrow. He had long, fringed eyelashes and thin, sensitive fingers, also long. Randall wondered if he had an aspiration to become an actor. He certainly had the looks for it.
He settled down in the chair at the side of the bed and studied the boy. Jude’s eyes were almost closed as though it was too much effort to keep the lids open. He looked weary. Both hands were still swathed in thick bandages. Randall wondered whether he would need the skin grafts the doctors had mentioned. After a minute’s silence he realized that Jude was waiting for him to speak. ‘First of all, Jude,’ Alex said, adopting a friendly tone, ‘I want you to know we’re all very glad that you survived.’
The boy’s attempt at a smile was heart-rending. Tears squeezed out of his eyes. He made no attempt to brush them away but let them roll down his cheeks.
‘And I’m really sorry about the rest of your family,’ Randall continued.
‘Thanks,’ the boy muttered, looking away.
‘Tell me a bit about the evening of the fire. Anything you remember about earlier on.’
‘It was just ordinary,’ Jude said, his gaze wandering away from Randall towards the blank wall. He gave a cynical snort. ‘So very ordinary.’ He turned his head back so his eyes stared straight into Randall’s. ‘Mum made tea around seven.’ He couldn’t stop his mouth from curving into a smile. ‘Cottage pie. She was always making that.’ His mouth twisted again into a look of obvious pain. ‘I went back into my room. I had some homework to do. Addy was in her room, listening to some music, I think. Mum and Grandad were watching TV downstairs. I went back down for a hot chocolate and some biscuits around ten. Addy was still in her room. I shouted goodnight to her but I don’t think she heard me. She was probably listening to her MP3 player. Grandad was in bed too.’ Another grin. ‘I could hear him snoring.’
Randall interrupted. ‘So your grandfather was asleep then?’
The boy read nothing into this. ‘Yeah, he sort of catnaps half the time then wakes up in the middle of the night all confused, not knowing where he is. He sort of wanders around. Once or twice he’s even wandered up the stairs and into my room in the early hours. Gives me a right shock. He looks like a ghost and hasn’t a clue where he is. Whoever finds him just takes him back to bed.’ Jude grinned. ‘Like a sleepwalking child. He’s quite obedient. It’s not a problem,’ he added finally and defensively.
He seemed to have forgotten the fact that his grandfather was now dead and there was the question whether he had been the one who had set the fire. But at this point in the investigation it would have been unkind to remind Jude of this fact.
‘Go on. Finish telling me about the evening.’ Randall wasn’t sure how or even whether this glimpse into the Barton’s family life would help but it was worth a try.
‘Mum was just coming upstairs with a mug of tea.’ Again his eyes clouded as he remembered, probably realizing that this had been the last time he had seen his mother, wished his sister goodnight and heard his grandfather breathing. Randall didn’t want to remind him, but had to prompt, ‘Ye-es?’
‘I went up to my room. I had my headphones on.’ He hesitated. Swallowed with a noisy gulp. ‘I can’t hear a thing when I’ve got them on.’ A look of mischief lightened his expression. ‘Drives Mum mad.’
‘And a thousand other mothers, I expect.’ Randall joined in. ‘Then?’
‘I must have dropped off to sleep.’ He paused. Frowned. ‘Something must have woken me but I’m a long way off all the others. I opened my door and I could smell smoke.’ He looked away. ‘I panicked, Detective Randall. I didn’t know what to do. I thought Grandad must have . . .’ His voice trailed away miserably but Randall knew what he had thought: that his grandfather had started another fire.
‘I made a plan. I shut the door. Then I thought I’d take my keys down with me and climb down the rope ladder.’ There was another brief spark of mischief. ‘I’d tried out my rope ladder before. I knew it was safe. I thought I’d climb down,’ he said again, ‘and see what was happening. When I got down I went round the front of the house. Then I could see it was worse. Much worse than I’d thought. It was terrifying. There were flames and smoke bursting out of the front windows. The bedrooms, too, where Mum and Addy sleep. I got in through the back door. But it was hopeless.’ He buried his face in his hands and groaned.
Alex interrupted. ‘Was the back door closed or open, locked or unlocked?’
The boy looked at him with respect, as though he had just realized that DI Alex Randall was a real policeman. ‘As far as I remember,’ he said carefully, ‘it was unlocked but closed. I might be wrong but I don’t remember having to use my key. I think it’s probably still in my pyjama pocket.’ Jude Barton’s pyjamas were currently in forensics. He looked anxious. ‘I closed the door behind me to stop the draught making the fire worse.
‘Did you decide which key you needed?’
‘I had both,’ Jude said carefully. ‘Front and back. But when I’d looked out of my window I could see that the fire was worst at the front. I could either hang the ladder from a hook at the front or at the back but I could never have climbed down the front of the house or got in through the front door so I went round the back. I got into the kitchen but not much further. It was like hell.’
‘Could you hear anything else?’ He meant the women screaming, the grandfather calling, but he didn’t labour the point.
The boy closed his eyes wearily. ‘I don’t know. There was so much . . . drama . . . and noise going on. I don’t know what I heard or what I thought I heard. I might even have been screaming. There were sirens and . . .’Again he paused. ‘I’ve thought and tried to remember if I did hear Mum or Addy or Grandad but I don’t really know. Not for sure. I don’t know what was in my head and what was real. When I close my eyes I seem to hear them screaming but I still don’t know whether it was my imagination or what.’ Again he covered his face with his hands. ‘I don’t know what’s real any more. And then I saw the policeman coming for me and my clothes were on fire. My hands felt hot. I couldn’t find the door because the smoke was thick. I think I was shouting for Mum and Addy but I don’t know. The screaming might all have been inside my head. I just don’t know.’ His mood shifted slightly. ‘And what good will it do? It won’t bring them back whatever I remember. Then the policeman dragged me out.’ The dark eyes met his. ‘I’d have died in there if it hadn’t been for him. I would have died with Mum, Grandad and Addy.’ He leaned back on the pillows, exhausted, before adding softly, ‘Maybe I should have done.’
Alex allowed him his silence before asking very softly, ‘Who do you think started the fire, Jude?’
The boy shook his head. ‘I can’t think of anyone,’ he began then stopped abruptly. ‘I don’t know anybody that horrible.’ His eyes closed. ‘That wicked,’ he said. There was another brief silence before he finally said a firm, ‘No.’
‘Did you hear anyone else in the house that night, other than your family?’
Jude shook his head.
‘Your father tells me that your sister had a boyfriend.’
For the first time during the interview the boy grinned. ‘Oh, you mean Hotter Trotter.’
Randall smiled along with him.
‘It wasn’t anything like Dad thought,’ Jude said. ‘Dad thought it was really serious and Addy was going to drop out of studying.’ He grinned again. ‘To go off with that spudhead? I don’t think so, Inspector Randall. It was just Dad.’
‘You mean your father didn’t want Adel
aide to have a boyfriend?’
‘He couldn’t have cared less,’ Jude said, ‘as long as it didn’t interfere with her going to uni.’
For the first time, Alex reflected, as he left the hospital minutes later, he could perceive a crack in what had appeared such a perfect family. He could almost hear Martha snort that there was no such thing – except when it was long dead and gone, and retrieved from an inaccurate and fantasy-producing memory.
SEVEN
Wednesday, 2 March, 3 p.m.
The Armoury
The Armoury was an eighteenth-century building to the north-east of the town. A neat Georgian building, it had the atmosphere and décor of a London wine bar, the walls lined with bookshelves, scrubbed tables and high windows which overlooked the Welsh Bridge and the River Severn. It was a popular meeting place with a warm and friendly ambience but there were dark corners too, hidden from the public gaze, where acquaintances could meet surreptitiously, or so they might think. Shrewsbury is not really a big enough town to hide in.
Nigel Barton tried his best to sidle in, arouse no attention, find one of these corners and wait. But he was fully aware that anyone who happened to glance in could and probably would see him. And that was just what he didn’t want.
Not right now.
Wednesday, 2 March, 3.30 p.m.
Detective Inspector Alex Randall knew that the investigation needed to start somewhere. It was no use floundering around like headless chickens. They had to begin by eliminating suspects. He had made the decision to start with the three business associates of Nigel Barton but he wasn’t overly optimistic. Already he had the feeling that this would be a long and tortuous case. They had no real leads but Alex Randall was as determined and tenacious as a python, enveloping people in its coils before tightening.
So the first step had been to send DS Paul Talith to speak to Yusuf Karoglan.
As Barton had told them, Karoglan had set up a rival business in Chester, just outside the town walls. It was a smart-looking place overlooking the racecourse, modern in contrast to the ancient city, with bright advertising and neat parking spaces at the front. Outside stood a silver grey Lexus ISF. Roughly £60,000’s worth of car. Talith wasted a few minutes admiring it, wishing he had one of these instead of the eminently practical Ford Focus which he and his wife shared. Then he turned away. Ah, well.
He knocked on the door and it was opened by a secretary wearing an expensive-looking and well-fitting black suit, very, very high heels, black, straight, shining hair and scarlet lipstick. Talith stared at her, taken aback. She reminded him of Morticia Adams. There was a vampirish, almost predatory air about her which the DS wasn’t quite comfortable with. For the second time in as many minutes his mouth dropped open and he stood and stared, then remembered his manners and flashed his ID card, mumbling that he wished to speak to Mr Karoglan.
‘Then I invite you in, Sergeant,’ she said with a flirtatious curve of those very red lips. ‘Although I don’t suppose I have any choice, do I?’
Talith had recovered himself. His response was a bland smile of his own. ‘Is Mr Karoglan in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I speak to him?’
Her response was arch as she moved behind her shiny desk. ‘Does he have a choice?’
His reply was blunt. ‘Not really.’
‘Right, then. Do I get to know what it’s about?’
Talith had a sudden fantastic urge to leap over the desk, kiss those red lips and ask her what business it was of hers? Tell her that secretaries don’t have the right to know everything about their bosses. Instead he gave a goofy grin and watched as she pressed a button on her keypad and told Karoglan, presumably, that Detective Sergeant Paul Talith of Shrewsbury police wished to speak to him.
Karoglan was no surprise. Oily, handsome, dressed in a silky continental suit, he appeared in the doorway, his hand already held out and a smile pasted across his face. ‘Hello,’ he said in a Mancunian accent, ‘how are you doin?’ Without waiting for a response he continued with the traditional, ‘And how can I help you?’ When Talith didn’t respond straightaway he followed this with an eagle glance and a perceptive, ‘I suppose it’d be better if we went in my office. Eh?’
‘Thanks.’
The office was predictably Spartan in its furnishings with a small table in front of the window, two black leather chairs and a desk whose top was bare apart from a computer screen. On the table was the sole ornament in the room, a rectangular, blue glass dish decorated with an orange fish swimming across its middle. The wall reflected the minimalist taste of the room with one huge painting, a Turkish street scene of a man with curving slippers sitting in the foreground smoking a hubble-bubble pipe. It looked an original rather than a print. Talith’s eyes swept around the room and returned to Karoglan, who was grinning at him. He jerked his head towards the painting. ‘Yeah, well,’ Karoglan said with a self-effacing grin, ‘had to remind myself of the old country.’
The old country, Talith thought. Judging by his accent he’d probably never even been to Turkey, except maybe on a two-week package deal. Karoglan motioned Talith to sit and looked alert. Alert, Talith reflected, not wary. He dived straight in.
‘You’ve heard about the house fire at Melverley?’
Karoglan frowned. ‘Yeah. Awful. I heard Mrs Barton and her daughter died.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘A guy I used to work with.’
Talith hazarded a guess. ‘Pinfold?’
‘Yeah. That’s right. He rang me up and told me. Awful.’ Karoglan’s frown deepened. ‘How did it happen?’
‘We don’t know.’ Talith paused, his lids hooding his eyes. Karoglan was an intelligent man. He’d know why he was here. He decided to approach his questions obliquely and made his voice deliberately pally. ‘What was Pinfold’s take on it?’
‘Shocked. That’s about it. Such a horrible thing to happen. Was it an accident, do you know?’
Talith said nothing and after a hard stare Karoglan leaned forward across his desk, his elbows flat. ‘You’re not telling me it was deliberate?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’
He must have caught the surprise in Talith’s face. He grinned. ‘There are such things as Turkish Christians, you know.’
Talith laughed too. Against his better judgement he rather liked the fellow. But he was not here to make friends. ‘I have to ask you – do you know anything about the fire?’
‘No.’ There was just the hint that Karoglan might be about to take offence.
‘And, just for the record, where were you last Wednesday night between the hours of ten p.m. and two a.m.?’
Karoglan chuckled and gave a meaningful glance at the door, ‘I’ll give you one guess,’ he said, playfully assuming a Jack-the-lad expression.
Talith kept his face deliberately wooden. ‘And can anyone corroborate your story, sir?’
Karoglan got to his feet in one agile movement. ‘Teresa, love, can you come in here a minute?’
She was an elegant creature, Talith reflected, as Teresa entered the room, tossing her black hair behind her like a chiffon scarf. ‘Yusuf?’
‘Just tell the Sergeant here where I was last Thursday evening, there’s a darlin,’ he drawled lazily.
Talith was a weenie bit jealous of the careless, easy way Karoglan had with Teresa. If he’d had a girlfriend like that he’d have treated her like porcelain, not like some cheap, ordinary woman.
But Teresa didn’t seem to mind. She aimed a friendly smile in the sergeant’s direction. ‘I think I cooked for you that night, didn’t I, darlin’? And then we watched a spot of telly and then . . .’ The scarlet lips curved and she looked straight at Talith. ‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we went off to bed.’ She gave Talith a mocking look. ‘That do you, Sergeant?’
Talith’s response remained wooden. ‘Are you absolutely sure that’s how you spent last Thursday evening?’
She nod
ded, not smiling at all now and actually not looking quite so pretty either, but even more vampirish.
Talith persevered. ‘And you wouldn’t mind signing a statement to that effect, miss?’
‘Holloway,’ she supplied, then shrugged as though the whole thing was of no interest to her. ‘Not at all – if that’s what you want.’ She looked back at Karoglan. ‘That all?’
Neither man moved and she took the initiative, her high heels clopping on the parquet floor like a horse’s hooves. Both men watched her go. Behind her she left an aura of femininity and predation.
‘See,’ Karoglan’s voice was chummy now, conspiratorial. ‘If you think about it, it’s obvious. I had no axe to grind with Barton or his family. If anything he’d have had the quarrel with me.’ He gave a nasty smile. ‘I’m the one who’s sucking his business bone dry. And . . .’
He didn’t need to mention either the secretary or the Lexus parked outside. Talith was perfectly aware of both and Karoglan knew it. He was a man who would always underplay his cards. And yet the alibi could so easily have been arranged. And Talith was perfectly aware that Karoglan would be a ruthless and cruel opponent.
At the same time as Talith’s encounter with Karoglan, PC Gethin Roberts had tracked Ben Hatton down to a small printer’s in Slough. It didn’t look a particularly prosperous business but rather seedy from the outside with a corner of the window boarded up and the chipboard plastered with graffiti. Hatton himself opened the door, bloodshot eyes and a day’s stubble on his chin. He smelt stale and eyed Roberts warily.
Gethin Roberts swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his neck. ‘I’m from the Shrewsbury police,’ he managed. ‘We’re investigating a fatal house fire in the village of—’ He got no further.
Hatton glared at him furiously. ‘So what are you coming here for?’
Roberts stood his ground. ‘We believe you . . . knew . . . the family,’ he said bravely.
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