Smoke Alarm

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘I knew them all right,’ Hatton said grumpily. ‘I knew them all.’ He stood quite still for a moment, as though he’d forgotten the police officer was there. Then he gathered himself. ‘I suppose you may as well come in,’ he said grudgingly.

  The shop inside was, if anything, even seedier than the outside. It smelt of tobacco smoke and sour milk and the carpet was badly stained, the counter made of thin, bendy hardboard. Even the machines looked ancient with sun-bleached plastic, wires and plugs everywhere.

  Hatton sank down into one of the two chairs. ‘So what are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘I left Barton’s firm nearly three years ago. I’ve had nothing to do with him since then.’

  Roberts felt very nervous now. ‘I have to ask you,’ he squeaked, ‘where you were last Wednesday between the hours of ten p.m. and midnight?’

  Hatton looked incredulous. ‘You mean, you think I had something to do with it, that I drove all the way up to Shropshire just to set fire to Barton’s house with his family inside? That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Just answer the question,’ Roberts said, ‘please.’ He wished he didn’t sound quite so desperate.

  ‘Look,’ Hatton said. ‘It’s all water under the bridge. Me and Julie, me and Barton. It’s all behind me now. I’ve moved on.’

  Roberts wished he had the confidence to point out that it didn’t look much to him as though he had moved on. If he’d had to put a judgement on the situation he would have said that Hatton had not so much stagnated as slid backwards. He had plenty of reason to hate Barton and his family. He decided to go out on a limb just a bit. ‘How did you come to leave the firm?’

  Hatton looked at him. ‘I was sacked,’ he said. ‘I’d discovered a new way of doing things. Dear old Nigel really liked it. So much so that he took it on board himself. Took all the credit and all the profit. Bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.

  WPC Lara Tinsley tracked down Felicity Pinfold and found her defensive of her son and very bitter about ‘the way he was treated’.

  ‘Trumped-up charges,’ she said angrily. ‘That’s what they were. Trumped-up charges. Dear old Nigel just wanted to get rid of Stuart.’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘He’s working in a bar in Holland.’ This was a surprise.

  ‘Does he come home much?’

  ‘Now and then. I go over there mostly. Fond of the country, I am. It’s civilized.’ Her sharp little eyes missed nothing.

  ‘Was Stuart home last week?’

  She shook her head. ‘He hasn’t been back here since Christmas. He rings me a couple of times a week though. And I ring him if I’ve got any news.’

  ‘Did you ring him about the fire?’ Tinsley asked.

  Mrs Pinfold’s mouth worked as though wondering what to say and Tinsley waited.

  Finally she got her answer. Felicity Pinfold gave a jerky nod. Lara wondered what her son’s reaction had been. But there was no point asking Stuart’s mother.

  She wouldn’t have told her anyway.

  Randall, meanwhile, had decided that he would speak to Sean Trotter, the boy who had been Adelaide Barton’s boyfriend. Though he didn’t believe for a minute that the sixteen-year-old had set the fire at Melverley Grange and locked both his girlfriend and her mother in their rooms to die, he felt he must check out all available leads. If anything, he reasoned as he drove through the town, Trotter would have felt vengeful towards Nigel Barton – not Adelaide’s mother, grandfather or brother. And certainly not Adelaide herself. As he drove out towards Melverley he passed the burnt-out wreck which had once been the Barton family home, and couldn’t help the feeling of sadness which swamped him.

  Trotter and his family lived in a very modest semi, probably once a farmworker’s cottage. Randall knocked on the door and waited. Trotter opened the door to him. He was, as everyone had told him, built like an American football player, with huge shoulders and thighs. He was dressed in a Chicago Bears sweater and loose-fitting jeans. Trotter knew instantly who Randall was and why he was there. ‘In case you’re wonderin’,’ he said, ‘I didn’t go to school today. I couldn’t face it. I haven’t been in since—’ He broke off then added, ‘You are the police, aren’t you?’

  Randall nodded and briefly flashed his ID card. Nigel Barton and his son had mocked Sean Trotter as an ‘all brawn and no brains’ sort of guy but Randall’s initial impression of the teenager was that he was blunt and honest, without guile, rather than stupid.

  ‘Mum’s not here and Dad’s at work,’ the boy said. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

  ‘Yes.’ Randall reflected how very normal this appeared. Quite civilized. Sean reappeared a couple of minutes later with two mugs of tea. ‘Didn’t know if you wanted sugar,’ he said. Randall declined.

  They both sat down on a squeaky brown leather sofa.

  ‘Tell me about Adelaide,’ Randall invited.

  Sean drew in a deep, brave breath and shrugged. ‘She was just a really nice girl,’ he said. ‘Natural, fun. Just nice. We weren’t in love or anything and she’d have gone off to university anyway.’ He gave a great shudder. ‘Not now,’ he said quickly. ‘She won’t go now.’

  Randall had to steer the subject round very gently indeed. ‘Did you mind the fact that she would be leaving here?’

  Sean simply shook his head. ‘’Course not,’ he said. ‘’Course not. I was hoping to get a place at the sports college anyway. It’s kind of built in to the way of things now. You have a relationship and then you both move on. I wasn’t upset.’ He dropped his head. ‘But I am when I think of what happened to her.’ His face paled. ‘I keep picturing her screaming in there, burning. Going black. It’s horrible.’

  ‘She died from smoke inhalation,’ Randall said, wanting to alleviate the boy’s obvious pain. ‘She didn’t burn to death. She suffocated. She might not even have known what was happening.’ But the picture he had in his own mind was of a frightened girl hiding underneath her duvet.

  And Trotter didn’t seem to be much reassured either. He closed his eyes and looked as though he was about to faint.

  ‘Just for the book,’ Randall said casually, ‘I need to know where you were on the night of the fire.’

  Trotter looked at him with his honest brown eyes and looked shocked. ‘You suspect me?’

  ‘Not really. It’s just for the record.’

  ‘Football practice till eight. Then I came home for tea and did my homework. I didn’t go out.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘They were both here.’

  ‘Right.’ Randall paused. ‘Do you have any idea who might have done this?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘I can’t think of anybody,’ he said. ‘As far as I was concerned they were just a family.’ He was frowning. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

  Randall couldn’t see much point in continuing this conversation. It appeared that Sean Trotter had nothing more to add.

  He returned to the station in a gloomy mood.

  The briefing that evening was typical of the early stage of an investigation. Plenty of trivia to report but none that would move the case any further on. They hadn’t really been able to exclude any of Barton’s business associates. Yusuf’s “alibi” was patently thin. Frustratingly they still had no idea why the arson attack had taken place, who had set the fire or even whether murder had been the ultimate motive.

  EIGHT

  Friday, 4 March, 10 a.m.

  Martha waited for two days before she contacted Alex Randall again. She had had a busy couple of days – there had been a death on the operating table at the hospital and the relatives were naturally distraught. Spending time with them had distracted her from the Melverley fire, but now she wanted to know how the investigation was proceeding.

  She’d hoped they would have made some headway but Randall sounded downcast on the phone. ‘We’re a bit short of lines of enquiry, Martha,’ he said. ‘None of the house-to-house calls has borne fruit. No one saw or heard anythi
ng.’

  She tried to reassure him. ‘It’s early days yet, Alex.’

  ‘I just can’t seem to find a motive.’ He paused. ‘Unless you count the life insurances Nigel Barton had on his family.’

  ‘That sounds promising.’

  ‘Amounts to a million on the three family members who died.’

  ‘And did he have a similar life insurance on Jude?’

  ‘I don’t know. I must ask him.’

  ‘Was he in financial trouble?’

  ‘It appears not. The house is paid for. And that must be worth a million easily. He has plenty of savings. His business is small enough to be healthy but necessary enough to keep going even in these tricky times and his wife had a well-paid job. He doesn’t appear to need money.’

  ‘Where’s he living at the moment? I take it the house is uninhabitable.’

  ‘Absolutely – quite apart from it still being sealed up as it’s a crime scene. He’s staying at The Lord Hill. Naturally the insurance company are footing the bill.’

  ‘Of course.’ Martha thought for a minute then made her decision. ‘Maybe it’s time I met Mr Barton, Alex. I thought I’d invite him here this afternoon. I need to explain some of the procedures to him anyway.’ She felt she needed to defend her involvement. ‘It’s normal practice in a case like this.’

  ‘I’ll be interested to hear your impression of him.’

  She smiled at the formal politeness in his tone. ‘You know as well as I do, Alex, that an impression formed, particularly in such a strained situation, can be very misleading.’

  ‘No one knows that better than you, Martha Gunn.’ There was mockery in his voice now. He was gently teasing her. ‘I’m trusting that you can slice through the grief and come out with some sort of valid impression at the end of it?’

  She couldn’t resist a smirk and caught sight of herself in the mirror looking decidedly coy. ‘And what about young Jude? Is he still in hospital?’

  ‘He went back to his father yesterday. He has to go in to the burns clinic for daily dressings but he appears on the mend.’ Randall paused and she knew he was puzzling over something. ‘I don’t think his injuries are as bad as they first thought. There’s been no more mention of skin grafts anyway.’

  ‘Well – that’s good news.’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Has he remembered anything else about the night of the fire?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Alex,’ she hesitated. ‘It isn’t my intention to teach you your job but I think you need to go public on this.’

  ‘You mean an appeal on the television?’

  ‘I think it would be a good idea. Throw your net wider and ever wider.’

  Randall chuckled. ‘I think I might just do that, Martha. Thank you for the advice.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Any time.’

  ‘Is there any particular reason why you think I should cast my net wider?’

  ‘As there appears no obvious motive for the attack I was wondering whether this involves someone or something outside the family. What about Barton’s business associates?’

  ‘We’re working on that line of investigation.’

  ‘My impression is that this isn’t quite such a domestic affair as it would appear.’

  ‘Not an inside job then, Martha? You’re still discounting Barton senior?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I simply have the feeling that to blame the fire and what is basically murder on a confused old man is a very easy option and an excellent way of diverting you from looking elsewhere for a killer.’

  ‘Mmm. Profound.’

  Martha frowned – and again caught sight of herself in the mirror that topped a mahogany sideboard. This time the image was not quite so pleasant. She was frowning. She concentrated again on the phone. ‘It isn’t profound, Alex. It’s an instinct.’ She hesitated. ‘Sometimes I fear I must have a criminal mind. I’m so good at thinking up nasty plots.’

  On the other end of the line, Randall chuckled.

  ‘And now I must get Jericho to track Nigel Barton down. I’ll be in touch.’

  Jericho soon contacted Nigel Barton over his mobile phone then put the call through to Martha. She was brisk and business like but, underneath, curious. The man had had a terrible loss. How would he be? she wondered. Traumatized? Still shocked?

  ‘Mr Barton,’ she began, ‘it’s Martha Gunn here. I’m the coroner for this area and as such will shortly be holding the inquests on the deaths of your father, wife and daughter. May I begin by expressing my sympathy? I am so very sorry. You must feel dreadful.’

  Barton responded stiffly. ‘I do.’

  ‘It would be a good idea for you to come in to my office so we can sort out some of the details. It’ll be easier. You understand there will have to be an inquest?’

  Barton gave no response so Martha continued. ‘I know this is distressing for you and I don’t want to make it worse but in cases like this I obviously have to work very closely with the police.’

  Barton simply grunted which Martha took as an assent. But then he began speaking in a peevish, irritable tone. ‘Well, as you’ve probably realized, Mrs Gunn, my house is currently a crime scene so I do not have access to it except with a policeman present. It will also have to be assessed by my insurance company so for now I am staying partly in my office and partly in the Lord Hill Hotel. Do you want me to come to your office?’

  ‘That would be a good idea.’

  ‘This afternoon?’ He spoke in a let’s get it over with voice that again Martha found off-putting. But sometimes grieving relatives were like this – unpredictable in their responses. So she kept her cool. ‘No, Friday.’

  He sounded defeated. ‘Three o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll instruct my assistant to expect you. Do you know how to find my office? It’s in Bayston Hill.’

  ‘No, actually.’ And again the peevish tone was back. ‘I’ve never had anything to do with a coroner’s office before.’

  ‘I’ll put you back to my assistant. He’ll give you directions. I’ll see you on Friday, Mr Barton.’

  It wasn’t until she’d put the phone down that she realized why the peevish tone. Nigel Barton was simply sorry for himself, wondering why he had been singled out for such cruel treatment. People like this never failed to fascinate her, the ones who only saw dramatic, tragic events as they impacted on their own lives. If disaster did not touch them personally then it did not exist. World affairs, tragedies in far off countries, economic crises. It was as simple as that – to someone who was completely and utterly self-centred they were unimportant, the victims of such events as insignificant as ants.

  Interesting, she thought. She was already beginning to form an opinion about Nigel Barton – even before she’d met him.

  In the meantime Alex Randall had followed Martha’s advice. In such a dramatic case it was not difficult to involve the TV and local radio stations who were always anxious to help the police with cases which were proving difficult to crack. He, too, had contacted Nigel Barton to ask him if he wanted to be present at the interviews or if he had anything specific he wanted to say, but Barton had declined. Randall hadn’t asked him whether he minded the case ‘going public’. It was up to him as the SIO to decide how best to tackle the case, not a bereaved relative. He didn’t mind tiptoeing round the man but in his sights was an answer – a solution and a final prosecution for murder. He would do all he could to reach that point.

  By lunchtime the drive of Melverley Hall was packed with press and TV and the usual public who magically appeared at the sight of such drama.

  Randall began by outlining the case, telling the wider world that the fire had been started deliberately, using petrol, that the two women had been locked into their rooms, that Jude had had a lucky escape and that Willliam Barton had suffered from Alzheimer’s disease and had also died in the fire. He left out the fact that Barton senior had caused a previous fire. But he did toss into the fray the fact that Nigel Barton had been
away on business on the night of the fire. He left this to fester in the suspicious minds of the ladies and gentlemen of the media as he appealed for information, knowing that someone would pick up on this fact and ask a relevant question. Sure enough, a tall, blonde woman whom he’d encountered on many a previous occasion opened the interrogation. ‘DI Randall.’

  He inclined his head toward her.

  ‘Jennifer Purloin, Daily Metro. Are you assuming that it was coincidence that Mr Barton junior was away on the night of the fire?’

  Randall met her gaze unflinchingly. ‘I don’t know is the true answer.’ He decided to take a step outside his usual stick-to-the-truth method. ‘But my instinct tells me that if our fire-raiser was inside the house and able to lock the two women in their rooms he or she would also have been likely to know that Mr Barton junior was away from home for the night.’

  The next question came from a very skinny guy with a tattoo on his neck. ‘You say that . . .’ He glanced down at his pad, ‘Jude Barton was injured?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Randall said testily. He knew he was walking over uneven ground here.

  ‘Are you able to tell us how Jude Barton managed to escape the fire?’

  Randall replied tersely, uncomfortable with the story, and told him that the boy had secured a rope ladder outside his bedroom which he had escaped down, that he had re-entered the house in the hope of saving his family but had been beaten back by the ferocity of the blaze. Even as he said the words he had an uneasy feeling, as though he was relating a script. The story of heroism. He frowned, wound up the press interview and sneaked a glance at his watch. One o’clock. Just in time for the lunchtime news.

  Nice timing.

  Friday, 4 March, 1.15 p.m.

  In a modest house in Sundorne, Shrewsbury, Monica Deverill was ironing while also watching the lunchtime news. As the detective made his appeal she stopped for a moment, the iron in her hand. Barton. William Barton. She stood still, remembering. Fire Officer Barton. She remembered that terrible encounter, recalled his voice, so different on the second occasion from the first.