‘She started it,’ Jude muttered. ‘It was her fault.’
Randall affected ignorance. ‘What do you mean exactly?’
Jude’s eyes glittered with the fanaticism of someone watching martyrs burn. ‘She soaked the sofa with something inflammable,’ he said steadily. ‘Deliberately.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘My grandfather. He told me the story.’
‘Did he say it was done deliberately?’
Jude dropped his eyes, evading the question. ‘He said she’d hidden the off-duty rota,’ he muttered, ‘trying to pretend she wasn’t the nurse whose job it was to check the day room. The fire was her fault and instead of calling the fire brigade she had a pretty inept go at tackling the blaze herself.’ He gave a smirk. ‘As if,’ he said.
Nigel Barton was watching his son with his mouth open and an expression both of growing horror and a sort of cowed acceptance.
‘How do you know all this detail?’ Randall asked Jude, already anticipating the inevitable answer.
Roberts was busily storing every tiny detail of the interview in his memory ready to relate to Flora. Soaked the sofa with something inflammable. He noted the father’s stunned amazement, the boy’s brazenness, Randall’s cool questioning.
‘Grandad told me that starting a fire isn’t easy. And once it’s got going it’s even harder to put out.’ Jude hesitated, as though wondering how much he should enlarge on this and gave a swift, checking glance at his father. ‘We did the little fire in his room just for him to show me,’ he said. ‘That’s when he told me that there had been an accelerant used in the Shelton fire. That it was deliberate murder, arson. He said he was the only one who knew it and what was more he knew who’d put it there. Who was responsible. And why. I asked him who and he said it was pretty obvious – the nurse in charge that night who’d put the lights out in the day room, turned the key to lock in the patients. Twenty-four people died in that fire, Inspector. Eleven were seriously injured. Maimed.’ He said the word with a sickening relish. ‘Grandad said that when they’d had the enquiry he could see that she was feeling pretty bad about something. It wasn’t only delaying calling the fire service. It was all her bloody fault. He said he knew a guilty look when he saw one and there was something she wasn’t telling and that’s what it was. She finally confessed to him and asked him not to say anything. And he didn’t – not for years. But then we bumped into her in the Darwin Centre and he told me. He told me everything.’
Randall’s mind stopped dead. Monica Deverill had said the spilling of the acetone had been an accident. But if Jude’s statement was a true version of his grandfather’s story she had missed out something vital. Had it been deliberate? Was there something else?
He tracked back over her statement, searching for a black hole of lies but came up with nothing. On balance he was more inclined to believe Monica Deverill than the boy.
‘Everyone knew she’d been the duty nurse but she hid the off-duty rota.’ It was turning into a rant.
Randall frowned, unsure where this was leading. He leaned forward. ‘You say your grandfather knew why Mrs Deverill would have deliberately set a fire at the hospital?’
‘Well.’ Jude was still trying to win his father over, but it wasn’t working. He tried harder. ‘Maybe she had an issue with the hospital authorities. Maybe . . .’
And Randall knew Jude Barton was running out of ideas. He was finding it hard to concentrate on the boy’s words now and the hour was late. He decided to resume the interrogation in the morning. ‘I think we’ll leave it there for now, Jude,’ he said. ‘One of my officers will get you a drink and if you’re hungry something to eat.’
Nigel spoke stiffly. ‘So we’re not free to go?’
‘Not just yet, sir.’ Randall spoke almost apologetically. ‘We’ll make you as comfortable as we can.’
Friday, 25 March, 8 a.m.
Monica, too, had spent the night at the station. She had no home to go to and had appeared happy to stay. Neither of her sons had offered to put her up. When they went in the next morning she was looking bright, surprisingly well rested and was cradling a large, plain white mug of tea. She looked up calmly and shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose my boys will ever forgive me,’ she said. ‘They’re not terribly wonderful at understanding my point of view.’ She sighed regretfully. ‘But still . . .’
‘The fire was years ago,’ Randall said, sitting down opposite her. ‘I don’t really understand why Barton reacted as he did. Why now? And in that way?’
The question threw her. Randall could tell that she was wondering how to answer that question. In the end she came to a decision and gave a little smile. ‘Remember I’m a nurse,’ she said. ‘And he appeared to have some dementia. He knew me all right but it was as though the intervening years had been erased, as though the entire event had happened yesterday. That’s why he responded to me like that.’
‘OK, it’s an explanation.’ Randall felt he would never fully understand dementia, what memories stood out bold, and what slipped away downstream. ‘Let’s go back to the enquiry after the fire. When did Mr Barton speak to you about his suspicions?’
She coloured. ‘It was in the initial few days. We were all shocked and the patients disturbed. It was very difficult.’
Randall waited.
‘I confided in him. When he started talking about an accelerant and looking for someone who’d started the fire deliberately I knew I had to stop him. I did convince him that it had all been a terrible accident but he mentioned the fire extinguisher they’d found. Inspector,’ she said frankly, ‘we all know what to do in the case of fire or suspected fire. Raise the alarm. We are not supposed to make any attempt to tackle it. But none of this was important until that day when we met in the Darwin Centre with his grandson.’ She frowned. ‘Then he said things that he hadn’t even mentioned before, some of it not true.’
Randall interrupted. ‘Like hiding the off-duty?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know where he’d got that from. I didn’t. There would have been no point. Everyone knew I was on duty that night.’
‘But not everyone would know that you were the nurse responsible for checking the day room.’
Monica coloured.
Not quite so truthful, Randall thought. ‘What were you doing with acetone anyway?’
For the first time Monica’s eyes dropped away. She had no explanation. Randall let it ride – for now. He didn’t mention the explanation Stella Moncrieff had given him. It could wait for now.
‘When Jude rang me he demanded three thousand pounds. He told me to read the papers. He said the same would happen to me unless I coughed up.’ Her face was anguished now. ‘I read about the three deaths. So I had a choice, Inspector: pay up – for ever stay in my house and wait to smell the smoke – or go. I chose to go.’
‘Why didn’t you come straight to the police?’
Again her eyes slid away, then she answered softly. ‘I was going to,’ she said, ‘but then I thought, would you believe me?’
Randall started to nod but checked himself. ‘Well, we’d have looked into your story.’
‘Would you? It would all have come out.’ She gave a cynical harsh laugh. ‘You know how the newspapers sensationalize things. They’d have made mincemeat of me.’ She eyed Randall dubiously. ‘I didn’t want to be involved.’
‘You could have saved us a lot of trouble.’
She gave him a sweet smile. ‘I was responsible, Inspector. I didn’t start the fire but I should have checked that no cigarettes were left burning. And it took hold because of me.’ She thought for a minute, then added, ‘If the Shelton fire hadn’t happened, I don’t think Melverley Grange would have burnt down. And if the Grange hadn’t burnt down those two women and William wouldn’t have died.’
There wasn’t a lot Randall could say. He left the room with a feeling of depression. Time was running out. The PACE clock was ticking and he still hadn’t bro
ken Jude.
He entered the interview room without optimism and sat down opposite the boy, Talith at his side. But instead of speaking straight away, he was silent. Was it really possible that this slim, pale-faced boy had sent his mother, sister and grandfather to a hideous death? Even now he had his doubts. He linked his fingers and started. ‘Tell me more about your grandfather,’ he began.
As before Jude was eager to talk about his hero. His pale face lit as he spoke. ‘He said that it wasn’t as easy to set a fire as people thought. I asked him what about the Shelton fire and he told me that the nurse had set the fire herself.’
‘What about the fire at your home in which your mother, sister and grandfather died?’
‘It was my idea,’ Jude said proudly. ‘I just had to get my grandad to understand what excitement, what a coup it would be but it didn’t go according to plan. It wasn’t meant to happen like that.’ He was frowning and his voice was tight with irritation.
Irritation? Randall thought. Irritation when he had condemned three members of his family to hideous deaths?
‘How was it supposed to happen?’
Nigel Barton could hardly bear to look at his son. His hands on his lap had a slight tremor.
‘The ladder,’ Jude said, dropping his eyes. ‘I was going to rescue them.’ He frowned. ‘But it didn’t work out.’
‘The stone through the window?’
Jude looked proud of himself. ‘Made it look like an outside job.’
Randall didn’t even bother to point out that no one could open a window when the glass was shattered. He had a feeling of unreality as he continued with his questions, a feeling that Jude’s world was some nightmarish place. Not here. ‘So what did go wrong?’
‘The silly bitches had locked themselves in their rooms, as usual, so we couldn’t rescue them.’ Jude slapped his palm to his forehead in a gesture not of grief but of incredulity. ‘Can you believe it?’
‘Why did they do that?’
‘After the fire six months ago they started locking their doors before they went to bed whenever Dad was away, so Grandpa couldn’t hurt them. It just made it more of a challenge. But when we came up the stairs we couldn’t get at them, even though we were yelling. Grandpa was going to save Addie and I was going to take Mum. We’d have been heroes. I would have been decorated like Grandpa.’
‘But the fire took hold a lot quicker than you’d thought,’ Randall prompted.
Jude gave a curt nod.
‘And your grandfather . . .?’
‘It was great. We ran up the stairs, shouting and screaming like in Braveheart.’
Randall pictured the old man, hardly understanding what on earth was happening, simply following his grandson’s directions, arms outflung, pointing in the direction of his daughter-in-law and granddaughter’s bedrooms, trying to reach them, some pathetic reliving of the ‘good old days’. But Jude had known the doors were locked.
‘And you couldn’t persuade either of them to leave their rooms?’
The boy pouted. ‘It was Grandpa’s fault,’ he said sulkily. ‘He kept shouting and it frightened them. I had to bash him to try and keep him quiet.’
Randall couldn’t bear to look at the crumpled defeat in Nigel Barton’s face. He looked crushed. Destroyed. ‘Let’s move on now,’ he prompted. ‘The nurse. You tried to get some money out of her.’
Jude looked sly. ‘It seemed a good idea,’ he said. ‘In the end it was all her fault. Why shouldn’t she pay?’
Why indeed? was Randall’s distorted response. In a crazy world, why shouldn’t the nurse who had accidentally started a fire pay three grand to someone who knew her little secret, was prepared to blackmail her and murder three members of his family?
‘Why did your grandfather die?’
‘He was an old man,’ the boy said contemptuously. ‘He was overcome with the smoke. He couldn’t move fast enough. And he was muddled. I’d have thought he could have found his way in the smoke as a firefighter.’
That was forty years ago and you bashed him over the head, Randall thought, but said nothing. ‘But you could have saved him.’ He felt he had to enter the distorted world of Jude Barton and reason with him in his own language. ‘You could have saved him with a fireman’s lift.’
The boy bit his lip. ‘He might have—’ he blurted out, glanced at his father and the two officers and changed his story to, ‘I did try.’
No one in the room believed him. They knew what he had been about to say, that the old man, in his simple state, might well have blurted out the entire plot.
Randall had stopped listening. His mind was going through the details, trying to make sense of it all. The women had locked themselves inside their rooms so Jude and William could not rescue them as planned. But Jude had tried, which was when he’d sustained the burns to his hands.
He allowed his mind to wander and fill in the colour background. Jude Barton had been fed these fantastic stories of heroism by his grandfather who had told him tales of fires and bravery awards, of dramatic rescues, and had embellished the Shelton fire with a story that only he knew – that one of the nurses had spilt nail varnish remover on the very sofa where a cigarette smouldered and then, instead of ringing the fire alarm she had tried to contain the fire herself which had done no good at all, merely set up a delay which had allowed the fire to spread. Fate then that Jude had been with his grandfather on that chance encounter. That had led to ‘The Big Idea’. They had waited for Nigel to be away from home otherwise the plan could not have worked. And so that fatal encounter, in the Darwin Centre, had led to the loss of a family. Randall was struck with another thought. William Barton had kept quiet about the Shelton story until dementia had released his inhibitions and judgement. His status with his grandson had then been elevated from doddery ancient to youthful hero. But he had not known his grandson. Not really. Randall looked at the boy and wondered. Was he mad? Bad? Or both?
TWENTY-TWO
Monica Deverill was released to the mercies of her two sons. Randall watched the three of them drive away in their separate cars, heading for James’s house for a family council of war. He would love to have been a fly on the wall when they ticked her off. Which son would prove the most forgiving? he wondered.
Two hours later he was sitting in Martha’s office, relating the entire saga to her. ‘What a story,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘And what a tragedy. I suppose Jude will have to be examined by a psychiatrist to determine his state of mind. Perhaps the old man had too much influence over him. He was young and vulnerable and believed the stories. He would appear to have a complete lack of reality, understanding and empathy. A very distorted mind. And as William was demented he must have fantasized over past events, embellishing and exaggerating them so, to the rather strange boy, he appeared a superhero.’ She smiled. ‘Though why his father didn’t spot it, I really don’t know. Particularly after that first fire.’
‘Wrapped up in his business,’ Randall hesitated, ‘and his secretary.’
Martha nodded.
‘I still don’t really know what Monica Deverill was doing with the acetone.’
‘Well,’ Martha said, ‘doing a bit of detective work and feeding in what we know of her nothing to do with nail varnish, I suspect.’
Randall waited, sure she would supply the answer.
Which she did. ‘Plaster marks,’ Martha supplied enigmatically. ‘Almost certainly she was removing plaster marks from a patient’s arm. It’s just the sort of thing you’d do in the day room. Psychiatric patients are sometimes nervous of any sort of physical contact. At a guess that’s what she was doing and how it got spilt, patient jogged her arm.’
‘But why not say?’
‘She’s the sort of woman who would carry guilt like Christ’s cross. She wouldn’t even try to mitigate herself.’
‘I see – partially anyway.’
‘Ask her,’ she suggested. ‘Oh, those poor women, Alex – and William. And, of course, the people
who suffered in Shelton that night.’
Randall looked up. ‘Suffered? Oh, you mean the fire.’
She nodded. ‘Not just that. I was thinking of the patient faced with what must have been a dramatic blaze wailing because she didn’t have her slippers on. People with OCD suffer, not with physical pain, but with mental pain. It’s suffering all the same.’
‘I know only too well.’
Martha held her breath and waited for Alex Randall to continue.
‘I perhaps should tell you this,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘My wife suffers from OCD.’
She knew this confidence was a huge step forward in their relationship. DI Randall was a notoriously private man.
‘She finds it hard to do things except in a specific way,’ he added.
As before Martha didn’t comment. She knew now he had begun to confide in her it was better she simply listened.
Alex looked at her. ‘They’ve tried cognitive behavioural therapy,’ he said, ‘and various medications which practically knock her out. Nothing works.’ He paused, swallowed. ‘And she’s getting worse. Fortunately we live in Church Stretton. She’s under a consultant in Hereford and a specialist in Birmingham but –’
He left it at that.
Martha put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Alex,’ she said.
‘She’s quite tortured,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s attempted suicide more than once. One of these days . . .’
Did she imagine a question in those deep eyes?
Friday, 25 March, 8.30 p.m.
She studied Simon Pendlebury surreptitiously.
Simon met her eyes, sat down, carefully adjusting the knees of his suit trousers. ‘What are you smirking about, Martha Gunn?’
She could answer him truthfully. ‘I was thinking about Jocasta and Armenia.’
He raised his eyebrows and peered at her. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And what exactly were you thinking about them?’
She could be frank with him. ‘That they will never take kindly to a stepmother, Simon.’
Simon’s lips tightened. He looked angry and sulky. The well-known thunderclouds were forming. ‘You think they will condemn me to a life of celibacy?’
Smoke Alarm Page 24
