She sat back; allowed herself a little dream. What if she was the one who broke through this case? For some silly reason she visualized herself standing on a podium, being cheered on by her colleagues, a laurel wreath on her head. A laurel wreath? She made a face. How classical. Classical and silly. It was a great thought but about as likely as winning the Euro Lottery. Still – she may as well try. She picked up the phone and dialled the phone company. Then pulled her hand back. Number one was the most instant and dramatic action. She reached out and dialled and wasn’t surprised to be put straight through to an automated answer phone which repeated the number in a monotonic, robotic voice and invited her to leave a message.
WPC Shaw did just that, asking whoever was at the other end of the phone to contact her at the Monkmoor Police Station in Shrewsbury. She left her name and number twice and replaced the receiver thoughtfully, her mind analysing the time frame before she confided her suspicion to Paul Talith, who was still absorbed in his computer screen, frowning and muttering to himself as he cross-referenced data.
Delia Shaw concentrated on her job in hand. Randall was always emphasizing the point that you couldn’t look too closely at dates and times. She smiled to herself. Truth was she had a bit of thing about DI Randall. He was one of the best detectives she had ever worked with, with his methodical way of analysing data. He might be considered by some a cold fish, a loner, someone who did not join in the frolics of the Force but he was a damned good officer, loyal to his team, good at bringing out their talents and correcting their shortcomings. He also had a talent for homing in on the weaknesses in their prosecutions way before they faced the humiliation of the CPS doing what they did best, their vulture act: picking flesh from bones and ultimately their cases apart. There were senior officers who enjoyed belittling their juniors, focusing on their shortcomings and mocking their inexperience. Randall was not one of these.
She glanced back at Talith. Should she confide in him her instinct? She thought for a minute then decided it would be much better to present him with a fait accompli. She dialled the number again. And received the same response. She looked harder into the phone detail and sat back, mentally sending a Thank you, God, prayer heavenwards. That clinched it. From the fifth of March neither James nor Gordon had rung their mother’s mobile or her landline. In other words, Shaw tidied it up in her mind before confiding in her sergeant, six days before the fire James and Gordon had known their mother wouldn’t be around to pick up the phone. And the call to James would have been made from her new mobile.
The Armoury was quiet that lunchtime. Miranda was already sitting down at a small table in the corner when Martha arrived. She smiled. She didn’t know why or how it was but Miranda was one of those women who had never really changed her style since the sixties. And yet she always managed to look fashionable. Her hair was the same dark, shining bob that she had always worn. And she was dressed in classic black trousers with a white silk shirt. The only change Martha could spot was that today Miranda was wearing forties-style siren-red lipstick. Miranda gave her a sparkly grin. ‘Well,’ she said as Martha reached the table and kissed her cheek. ‘You sounded desperate. Whatever is it?’
Martha sat down. ‘I don’t feel so bad now,’ she said. ‘Having a pal to chat to makes quite a difference.’
Miranda grinned even wider. ‘Was the problem that easy to solve?’
‘Yes, I was just being silly. Tell me about you first. How’s Steven?’
‘Well – that’s why I’m feeling so good,’ Miranda said. ‘He’s finally buggered off to South Africa. For the first time in years I feel safe.’
How different from her own story, Martha thought. Steve had been a violent, difficult, bullying, unpredictable man and Miranda had been initially intimidated and finally terrified by him. How different from Martin’s gentle ways. Martin, whom she mourned for no longer.
‘And what about you?’
Martha’s tale began to unravel, her desire to meet someone else, her difficulties over confused emotions, her failure to feel anything but friendship for the one man who should have felt eligible and finally her absorption in a work colleague she knew to be married. Her friend listened without interruption. Then she reached out and touched Martha’s hand. ‘Poor you,’ she said. ‘Poor you.’
Martha felt a combination of better and worse. ‘Hey,’ she objected, ‘I don’t want your pity.’
‘You’re not getting it,’ Miranda said stoutly. ‘You’re getting empathy not sympathy. Don’t confuse the two. You’re not stupid. You know as well as I do these things just happen, encounters turn into relationships, relationships into love.’
Martha laughed, now feeling much, much better. ‘At our age?’
The pair of them giggled like teenagers and then Martha leaned in towards her friend. ‘The question is,’ she said, ‘what about Internet dating?’
‘Ah, well,’ Miranda said. ‘That’s where I can advise you.’
NINETEEN
In the end, in spite of Delia Shaw having made her own discoveries it was Talith who burst into her thoughts. ‘She’s alive,’ he said suddenly, and with conviction, tapping the computer screen with his index finger.
She turned in her seat. ‘How do you know?’
‘She withdrew five thousand pounds from her building society account on Saturday the twenty-sixth of February,’ he said, not looking at her but staring intently into the computer screen. He continued, ‘After the Melverley fire she knew something would happen to her. Probably guessed that her house would be torched too.’ Talith’s face was thoughtful.
‘The five K could have been blackmail money.’
But Talith looked at her and grinned. ‘Oh, no. Cause and effect, Shaw. There’s only one definite connection that we know of between the two households and that is the fire at Shelton.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going to have a word with DI Randall.’
‘Before you do,’ WPC Shaw put in quickly, ‘there’s something I’d like to show you.’ She ran her finger down the lists of mobile numbers, trying to make her thoughts as clear as possible to her colleague. When she’d finished speaking he nodded. ‘It fits in with my ideas,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Randall listened carefully to his two officers, his thick eyebrows tangling in the middle of his forehead as he frowned in concentration, thought for a while, then spoke. ‘Good work,’ he said to them both. ‘Good ideas but even better conjecture.’ His eyes rested on them each in turn. ‘And that’s what it is, the pair of you.’ His words were robbed of any sting by his grin. ‘Make no mistake, this is just an idea without, so far, any corroborative evidence.’ Then his face changed again, his eyes warming. ‘But it’s the best idea anyone’s come up with so far. And if it helps I think you’re on the right track. So now we’ve come to that conclusion let’s build on it. Sit down, the pair of you. Let’s review what we know for sure. The unmistakable facts. She hasn’t gone through passport control and her car hasn’t been found.’ His hazel eyes lightened. ‘Yet. So unless the combined forces of the country are being singularly obtuse and unobservant she’s hidden the car somewhere. Right?’
They both nodded. Randall looked at Talith. ‘And the only connection we’ve found so far between the Barton family and our nurse is the fire on Beech Ward in Shelton Hospital in the late sixties. Monica Deverill was a nurse on duty on the ward that night and William Barton was one of the attendant fire officers. It’s not much of a connection and doesn’t exactly suggest foul play. Also, Barton senior was already dead by the time of the second fire. It’s at best a tenuous connection but it’s all we have.’ He looked at them. ‘Right so far?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they answered in unison.
‘There is another possibility,’ Randall said slowly. ‘And until we’re more sure we shouldn’t jump to conclusions, should we?’
This time the two officers shook their heads and waited for him to continue.
Randall focused his gaze on WPC Shaw. ‘I agree. The five thousand po
unds she withdrew from the building society could have been blackmail money,’ Randall said. ‘Her house could have been destroyed to muddy the waters of her disappearance either by the blackmailer or by her. If the connection is with the Shelton fire it’s possible that William Barton and Monica Deverill were targeted by a relative of someone who died in it.’ He paused. ‘Though why they should exact their revenge on two people who tried to help so long after the event is beyond me. Unless . . .’ He looked at the two officers. ‘There hasn’t been some recent release of information about the tragedy, perhaps over the Internet, has there?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Delia Shaw answered. ‘The stuff I got over the Internet about the fire was years old.’
‘Quite so. Maybe that isn’t such a great idea. But if the money she withdrew was to tide her over while she hid, who was she hiding from?’
He gave them both a grin. ‘You know,’ he said in a friendly, confiding tone, ‘this is one of those cases which seems to get more complex and throw up more complications the further your investigations go. She could have been kidnapped and her car disposed of or hidden.’ Another grin, rueful this time. ‘There are endless possibilities but one, I can assure you, will fit all the facts like a handmade kid glove.’
‘Who would the kidnapper be, sir?’ It was Talith who asked the question.
Randall laughed. ‘Obviously the same person who torched her house. Don’t worry, Talith. I’m playing Devil’s Advocate here, opening up scenarios. I’m only pointing out that there is more than one potential answer. We must look at them all, keep our minds clear and our investigations broad. And there is always the possibility that Monica Deverill herself is our arsonist, though why she should draw attention to herself in this way – well – it could only be the result of a very sick mind.’
They were all silent at this. The term sick mind brought the terrible vision of the disturbed patients on a locked ward banging on the doors, begging to be let out, finally succumbing to the dreadful coughing and the inhalation of toxic smoke which would finally kill them. Was it really possible that Monica Deverill set the fire and watched, sadistically, as her patients died? It was a hideous thought and one which silenced them.
It was WPC Delia Shaw who finally broke the silence. ‘Well, we know who has the perfect alibi, don’t we? William Barton.’
Randall and Talith looked at each other. Neither could resist a smile accompanied by an inevitable groan. Shaw felt flat.
‘I wish he was alive,’ Talith grunted. ‘He’d help us out, I’m sure.
They all nodded gloomily. Randall knew he needed to keep them focused. ‘There are a few more questions you should be asking yourselves.’
They eyed him expectantly.
‘Is there anything to indicate that Mrs Deverill might have been kidnapped?’
They shook their heads dubiously.
‘I agree. I would say it’s unlikely. It is much more likely that she has gone underground. Why? Try this for size: because the very thing that she has feared for more than forty years has happened? When Melverley Grange was set on fire, for some reason, she believed that she would be subjected to a similar assault. And that is exactly what did happen.’
He waited to let these words sink in before continuing. ‘Now then, it would be tempting to look around for someone who could have been at Shelton Hospital on the night of the fire and decided to repeat the act. Perhaps an ex-patient, someone who would have been fairly young at that time. Or the family of a victim of the Shelton fire. I would have asked you to check the list of the dead. But forty years later? I’d take some convincing.’
He paused. ‘Next question. Was it necessary that Nigel Barton was away from home on the night of the fire?’ He looked at them as though waiting for them to provide the answer, before giving it himself. ‘I would say yes, that it is no coincidence. In his statement he said that he was away from home roughly once a month. That’s not very often. There would have been much more chance that he would have been at home than away.’
Talith and Shaw waited for him to continue.
‘Did you find any connection between the three business associates who had a grudge against Nigel Barton and Monica Deverill?’
Talith answered this one. ‘No, sir.’
‘But what about Pinfold’s flying visit to the UK?’
Talith grinned. ‘Not surprising he didn’t go to see his old mum – unless she was after some of the supergrass he was importing from the Netherlands. Don’t worry, sir, all that’s being investigated.’
Randall grinned. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘And Nigel Barton’s alibi is unshakeable?’
Shaw responded. ‘Yes, sir. We have corroborated evidence from two independent witnesses that on the night of the fire he was in the hotel grill until ten and then in the bar until after eleven, as the CCTV pictures suggest. And he wasn’t alone. A young woman was with him – at a guess, the lovely Mirabelle. It’s a three-hour trip from York to Melverley. Not a fast road. The fire was phoned in at 11.38 p.m.’
‘Right.’ Randall smiled at her. ‘Then it leaves us with only one person.’
The response from both officers was surprise. ‘Sir?’
Randall stood up. ‘Work it out for yourselves,’ he said and left the room.
He went outside the station to ring Martha from his mobile phone. He didn’t want his colleagues listening in. As soon as she picked up and without a word of explanation he said, ‘I thought I might pop up and have a cup of tea with you.’
The pleasure she felt was quite disproportionate to the invitation. ‘Wonderful, Alex,’ she said warmly. ‘That’d be lovely. I’ll ask Jericho to put the kettle on and . . .’
He interrupted her. ‘I’ll bring jam doughnuts.’ And put the phone down before she could quip that he knew the way to a woman’s heart. When she heard the click of his phone she was glad she hadn’t said it.
Even before he arrived she’d known from his jaunty tone that the case must be near to some resolution. Then it would be her turn again to reopen the inquest and finally pronounce a verdict on the three family members who had died at Melverley Grange. And the nurse? she asked herself. Well, no body no inquest. She corrected herself. There were cases where an inquest had taken place when there had been no body but these were rare and unusual cases. This wouldn’t be one of them. Alex would be able to solve this. Monica Deverill’s fate would not elude them for ever. She couldn’t deny it. She was intrigued and looking forward as much to seeing him as to the jam doughnuts he’d promised.
And the broad grin he gave her as she opened the door to him confirmed all her suspicions. He stood in the doorway, tall, slim almost to the point of thin, his features irregular enough to make him attractive. Large nose, wide mouth, sharp chin. But there was a warmth in his hazel eyes, a kindness in his spirit and an honesty in his words that made her heart give a little skip in his presence.
She cursed herself. What was the point? DI Alex Randall was a professional, a colleague and a married man. She listened very carefully to every single word before responding. ‘So what do you propose to do next?’
‘We have three points of enquiry – the three fires,’ he said.
She hesitated before, in a measured voice, she began asking him questions to clarify the suspicions that were sprouting in her mind. ‘Can you explain to me exactly where the splashes of petrol were found at the Grange?’
He didn’t answer straight away but regarded her gravely, then, ‘Landing, up the stairs. The carpet in both front rooms was pretty soaked.’
Martha nodded. ‘And did anyone see Jude Barton descend his ladder?’
This time Randall didn’t even make a reply. He knew she was prodding him. He stood up, smiled and took a step towards her. For the briefest of seconds Martha panicked, thinking he was about to kiss her. But he didn’t. He simply smiled, said his goodbye and left.
TWENTY
Detective Inspector Alex Randall called the briefing for six o’clock, his plan being to r
ein in all the facts, interviews, review the evidence and make contact on the following day. He also wanted to book all his interviews and make sure everyone was available. He had a feeling of danger, of impatience and sudden urgency that he couldn’t quite figure out. It wasn’t really like him. He was normally a patient man, happy to construct the evidence before diving in with an arrest. But this was different. He had a feeling of anger at the fate of people unable to defend themselves, frightened as this home went up in smoke. And at the back of his mind was the terrible picture, not only of the two women who had died at Melverley Grange and the old man who had tried vainly but bravely to help them. But there was also the sepia image of the patients at Shelton Hospital, trying, in their confused way, to escape. Maybe beating on doors, screaming. It was horrible.
As the officers filed in, he glanced across at the board with the pictures of the bodies of the three victims of the Melverley fire pinned next to two photographs they had of Monica Deverill. Appropriately enough, one was of her in her starched uniform in her Shelton nursing days which James had handed over reluctantly. ‘I really like this photo of Mum,’ he’d said. ‘She looks so . . . professional.’
And the other photograph showed Monica as she was today, fun-loving, the grandchildren cut out of the picture, her in slacks and a loose fitting T-shirt – a little weightier than in the earlier photo but she still looked fiercely energetic. She was staring towards the camera, a half smile on her face. Her eyes still large, dark and intelligent. Randall peered closer and tried to understand her psyche. She looked a perceptive woman, practical, a pragmatist and far-sighted. There was around her an aura of no nonsense, a roll-up-your-sleeves sort of energy. And it lasted right through from the early photograph to the later one.
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