Minds That Hate

by Bill Kitson

  ‘You think Rathmell killed Stacey? And Tucker?’ Clara asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Not for sure,’ Nash admitted. ‘But I’m convinced one of the people in these photos committed both murders.’

  Becky stared at Nash in horror. ‘You can’t believe Gemma Fletcher murdered her own daughter? Just because she’d found out about this affair?’

  ‘You haven’t met her,’ Nash replied grimly. ‘If her affair with Rathmell has lasted all this time, that shows a passion I wouldn’t have suspected Gemma was capable of. I honestly believe Gemma Fletcher would have gone to any lengths to protect Rathmell. Still would to this day. A small matter like the murder of a journalist would be something she’d not think twice about. Nor do I believe she’d flinch from disposing of her own daughter if she felt threatened. Gary told me Stacey was the result of Gemma’s one-night stand. In her file the birth certificate reads “father unknown”. I’m not sure there was ever such a thing as a normal maternal relationship between Gemma and Stacey.’

  ‘You reckon it was Gemma, rather than Rathmell?’ Becky persisted.

  ‘On balance, I think Rathmell’s favourite. In my opinion he’s a cold, calculating, evil bastard. He’s prepared to use any means to get what he wants. Look at this political campaign he’s launched; a lethal mixture of xenophobia and racism. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the racially motivated attacks have taken place just as Rathmell’s starting this “new political initiative”. He’s charismatic, gives the impression of latent power, and that attracts those weak enough to believe in him. They mistake ruthlessness for strength. You take a man like that, put him in a relationship with a woman like Gemma Fletcher, give him chance to wield some authority, and the mixture is like an unexploded bomb. The violence we’ve seen could only be the prelude to far worse, unless we nip it in the bud. As for poor Stacey, I’m afraid that coming between those two, she didn’t stand a chance. I certainly wasn’t going to give Vickers any hint as to who might be responsible.’

  Nash didn’t have any difficulty getting to sleep; the events of the day ensured that. At one point, he half stirred at the sound of a distant siren. A while later he heard it again, closer this time. Then closer still. After some confusion he realized it was his mobile. ‘Nash.’

  Seconds later he was wide awake. His contribution to the conversation was mostly monosyllabic. ‘What? Where? When?’

  He switched the light on and pressed a number on his phone. ‘Clara, we’ve got a problem.’

  Nash surveyed the scene from a safe distance. Two fire engines had been deployed. Their hoses were trained on the source of the blaze. It was part of a terrace comprising shop units, with flats above. Nash was struck by the familiarity, but it was a few seconds before he placed it. This parade of shops was identical to the one on the other end of the estate, where the Hassan family had narrowly escaped death. Here and there were small groups of residents forced from their homes by the blaze, the danger, the insistent firemen or just plain curiosity. Those living closest to the fire were clad in a variety of nightwear hardly suitable for outdoors in Britain. Fortunately it was a warm night. The heat from the fire helped. Doug Curran approached. ‘Evening, or should I say morning, Mike. Another bad one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Any casualties?’

  ‘Not that we’re aware of. We got everyone out of the flats. The shops were all closed, even the off licence. We managed to get into all the other units bar that one.’ He pointed to the shop that was burning fiercest. He pushed his helmet back wearily. His face was stained with sooty black residue, down which rivulets of sweat formed clean trails.

  ‘Was it deliberate?’

  ‘Definitely. Some form of accelerant; probably petrol.’

  ‘What was the shop?’

  ‘It wasn’t a shop. Not anymore. It was Councillor Appleyard’s constituency office.’

  ‘Really? That’s interesting. Anybody contacted him yet?’

  ‘One of my chaps was phoning his home when you arrived.’

  ‘Excuse me, Doug.’ They swung round as a fireman approached. ‘I’ve just spoken to Mrs Appleyard. Her husband isn’t home. She said he was working late.’ The fireman jerked his thumb towards the inferno. ‘In there.’

  ‘If he was in there, he wouldn’t stand a chance. And we’ll not be able to find out either. Not for the best part of twenty-four hours.’

  They glanced up at the sound of screeching brakes. Tension eased when they saw it was Mironova. ‘The Belle from Belarus,’ Curran exclaimed.

  ‘I didn’t realize you were an admirer.’

  ‘I am, just don’t tell the wife. Anyway, I wouldn’t stand a chance. Whenever she’s free from obeying your every whim, she’s off gallivanting with the gallant major.’

  ‘Now, now, Doug. You mustn’t let jealousy embitter you.’ Nash inspected the fire officer. ‘I’m sure you look very handsome in your uniform. When it’s been to the cleaners.’

  ‘At least you can tell I’ve been working,’ Curran retorted.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Clara joined them.

  Nash and Curran began to explain, issuing fragments of disjointed sentences between them.

  ‘Hang on, hang on. One at a time.’

  Nash completed the briefing, ‘If Appleyard was inside, and Doug’s suspicions about arson are proved right, it’s murder. If he’s dead, there’ll be trouble when word gets out. If it’s foul play, there could be mayhem. If the xenophobes turn on the asylum seekers and migrant workers, there could be wholesale slaughter.’

  There seemed little the CID officers could do. ‘Go get your beauty sleep,’ he told Clara. He watched her car disappear through the clouds of smoke and steam. Curran had returned to directing his men. Nash took his mobile out. ‘Becks, it’s Mike. Would you like to come and sit by a nice warm fire?’

  He laughed at the expletives coming down the phone. ‘That’s not very nice. I’m in the middle of the Westlea. Someone’s torched a terrace of shops. I thought you might like some exclusive shots. You can chalk this up as a first. I don’t usually drag women out of bed.’

  Nash sought out Curran. ‘I don’t think there’s much I can do.’ He eyed the small knots of people staring at the burning building. ‘I’ll get hold of uniform and ask them to send some men to keep the onlookers at a safe distance.’

  Curran snorted. ‘Those aren’t onlookers. They’re looters, waiting for the heat to die down and they’ll be in there, faster than a seagull on its way to the council tip.’ He gestured at the assembly. ‘I’ll bet every last one has a carrier bag in their pockets. I’m astonished none of them has turned up with a supermarket trolley. Carrion, that’s what they are. Speaking of which, will you inform Mexican Pete? He should be on hand when we go into the building tomorrow. We’ve got to assume Appleyard’s in there.’

  ‘I’ll leave that until morning.’ Nash glanced at his watch. ‘What I will do is go talk to Mrs Appleyard.’

  ‘That might help,’ Curran admitted. ‘Hello, who do we have here?’

  Nash looked up and saw the Mini Cooper. ‘That’s Becks, Becky Pollard, photographer from the Gazette. I phoned her. Didn’t think you’d want to miss the chance of some action photos. Our firemen heroes! That sort of thing.’

  ‘Mike, you’re a lying pillock. You’re not even a convincing liar.’ Curran eyed the approaching girl. ‘I must say you know how to pick ’em. Are you er...?’

  ‘Not yet, and probably not at all. She’s the chief’s goddaughter.’

  ‘Christ, Mike! I thought I was the one who plays with fire.’

  Becky had already taken shots of the building, the appliances and the fire crews before she joined them. Nash introduced Curran. The fire chief held out his hand hesitantly. Becky glanced down and saw the grime. She shook his hand vigorously. ‘Can I take your photo?’

  ‘I was just suggesting that as you arrived,’ Nash said with a grin.

  Becky took more shots. ‘I had an idea on the way over,’ she told Nash. ‘I though
t if I rush these through to Netherdale I can write up some copy whilst I’m in the office. That way, I can go back to bed later and catch up on some sleep.’

  Nash thought for a moment. ‘If you drop your car off, I’ll give you a lift. I’ve a call to make, and I can tell you what we know for your article on the way.’

  Nash pulled up outside the Appleyard residence. All the downstairs lights were on. He’d been silent since they left Helmsdale. Now Becky saw the look of increased tension on his face. ‘Who are you going to see?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I get back. Just sit tight.’

  The girl who answered the door would be eighteen, no more, he guessed. She’d been crying. Nash showed his warrant card and was shown into the lounge. He introduced himself to the family; another daughter, a few years younger, and a son who Nash guessed would be in his early twenties.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude.’ Damn silly thing to say, but Nash was no good at this sort of situation. He suspected nobody did it well. ‘I assume you’ve not heard from your husband?’

  Mrs Appleyard choked on a sob. ‘No.’ The answer was little more than a whisper.

  ‘And there’s nowhere else he might be?’

  It was the son who replied. ‘Father rarely went to the pub. Certainly not until this time of night. He had no other interests. He was only concerned with politics and his family.’

  ‘Does he often go to his office on Sundays?’

  ‘Father’s a very busy man, Inspector. He takes his responsibilities to his constituents seriously. He goes most days, regularly staying late.’

  ‘Then all we can do is hope there’s been some mistake. We won’t be able to find out for sure until the fire’s been brought under control.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ the older girl asked.

  ‘The fire brigade reckon it’ll be later tomorrow before it’s safe to enter the building. After that, it’ll be up to the forensic experts to determine if anyone was inside. In the meantime –’ Nash offered his card. ‘– if there’s anything you need, call me. My mobile number’s on there.’

  He got back in the car with a sigh of relief. ‘I hate that job,’ he admitted.

  ‘Tell me about it?’ Becky asked as he set off towards Netherdale.

  Nash explained as much as he dared. ‘We believe it was arson. The source was Appleyard’s office. Appleyard’s missing. I don’t want this printing, by the way.’

  Becky thought for a moment. ‘How about police and fire brigade officials are treating the blaze as suspicious. One man remains unaccounted for, something on those lines?’

  ‘That’d be alright.’

  ‘What do you think about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Could be connected with Appleyard’s politics.’

  ‘I went to that meeting he held for Westlea residents.’

  ‘You mean the one where he was heckled for his “Britain for the British” ideas.’

  ‘Heckled, my arse.’

  Nash blinked in surprise. ‘You’ve an extremely pretty arse, but why do you say that?’

  She told him what she’d seen. ‘After they were ejected they all went off together. Hecklers and bouncers, I mean. Matey as could be. It was all rigged. I tell you, the whole evening was scary. Do you know what it reminded me of?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Those old black and white newsreel clips of the rallies in Germany before the war. It was just like Nuremberg, on a much smaller scale. The way everything was stage managed, the message itself and the air of menace.’

  There was a long silence. Becky looked across at him. Nash appeared lost in thought. She hoped he was paying attention to the road.

  ‘Good God.’ Nash took his foot off the accelerator abruptly.

  ‘What is it?’

  He put his foot down again. ‘Nothing. Just a crazy notion.’

  ‘Tell me?’

  ‘Later.’

  Nash wandered around the Gazette offices whilst Becky finished her piece. ‘Come on, Mike. Take me home. I’ll make coffee. You can tell me your crazy notion.’

  They sat in Becky’s lounge. Dawn was already breaking. ‘It was when you mentioned Nuremberg, I thought of The Reichstag.’

  Becky looked baffled. ‘Explain,’ she demanded.

  ‘I can’t remember the exact dates,’ Nash admitted. ‘I think it was in the early 1930s. The Reichstag was the German parliament building or something like that. Anyway it burned down. The Nazis blamed Communists for it. That was how they tricked their way into power. Later it was proved that the Nazis had done it to discredit the Communists.’

  ‘Right, I understand that. But I still don’t see the connection.’

  ‘Suppose Appleyard was in that office. I think we’ve got to assume he died in the blaze. If he died as a result of an arson attack, who’s most likely to get the blame? His opponents, those who disagree with his politics. People would come flocking to the cause in droves. So what if it was his people who were behind it?’

  ‘That’s one gigantic leap of logic. Aunt Gloria said you were dangerous. Is that part of what she meant? She said you were a brilliant detective. Is that how you do it?’

  ‘By thinking the crime through? I guess all detectives do that. I remember as a kid reading a lot of Edgar Wallace books. One of his detectives’ favourite sayings was, “I have a criminal mind”. I reckon you have to think like a criminal to catch them.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but how do you prove it?’

  ‘Even supposing my crazy notion’s true, finding out who actually ordered the fire is going to be well nigh impossible.’ Nash stood up and stretched. ‘I’d better go, let you get some sleep.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Go to the office, I suppose. There doesn’t seem much point in going home.’

  ‘You can stay here if you want.’

  Nash looked at her. His pulse raced. ‘You mean that? But earlier, you said...’

  ‘My couch is just as comfortable as yours.’ Becky smiled.

  Despite his weariness Nash was awake again in what seemed like minutes. He glanced at his watch and saw that he’d actually managed almost two hours’ sleep. The early morning sun was streaming through the window, but that wasn’t what had woken him. He sat up, stiff from the unaccustomed posture. He was troubled by a stray thought, an elusive memory; something that had happened the previous day.

  He began pacing the floor in an effort to remember. It was after almost ten minutes of fruitless exercise that he made the connection. The realization caused him to sit down abruptly. He puzzled it over, then stood up and marched over to Becky’s bedroom door. He knocked and waited. Getting no reply, he knocked again. ‘What is it?’ Her voice was heavy, drugged with sleep.

  ‘Becky, get up. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Alright, alright.’ There was a world of reluctance in her tone. ‘Put the kettle on. I’ll be out in a minute.’

  She joined him in the kitchen. Her hair was tousled and her eyes half closed against the bright morning sun. She was wearing a towelling robe that appeared comfortable but was hardly the height of fashion. Nash thought she looked lovely. ‘I’m regretting allowing you to stay,’ she grumbled. ‘What’s the fuss about?’

  ‘Sorry to be a nuisance but this can’t wait. I was going over what happened at Grove Road yesterday. I want a woman’s perspective on it. Let me explain.’ He did so, in a few concise sentences.

  ‘I see where you’re coming from,’ she agreed after thinking it through. ‘And I believe you’re right. But why the urgency?’

  ‘Because the way fires are being started round here, I don’t want to arrive and find the place a smouldering ruin.’

  Chapter twenty

  Becky reappeared, dressed in jeans and T-shirt. ‘We’ll go to the station first. Collect Mironova and Pearce. Vickers as well.’

  ‘I hate to quibble, but have you noticed the time?’

  Nash glanced at his watch again. It was only 6.35 a.m. ‘Oh hell,�
� he said in exasperation. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.’

  Becky gave him a pitying stare. ‘Toast okay? Or muesli?’

  ‘Toast, please.’

  As she was waiting for the toaster to deliver, Becky asked, ‘I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but why are you including me? I could understand yesterday. But you seem prepared to let me in on details I thought were confidential.’

  ‘You’ve been involved since the fire at Tucker’s flat. It’d be ungrateful to exclude you, after you saved my life. And you’re the chief’s goddaughter, which makes you special.’ Nash smiled warmly. ‘Apart from that, I like having you around.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Well, that’s alright then.’ Becky turned to take the toast out. It gave her time to recover her composure.

  Clara strode into the CID suite, her mind absorbed with the text message she’d just received. ‘Mike,’ she exclaimed, ‘I’m glad you’re in early. I need a favour.’

  She noticed Becky. ‘Oh, sorry, I’ll catch you later.’

  ‘I asked Becky along because I’ve had another idea about Grove Road.’

  ‘You never rang the poor girl at this hour because of one of your weird ideas, did you? Mike, you’re impossible.’ She turned to Becky. ‘I’d have put the phone down.’

  ‘Er...it wasn’t like that.’ Becky was scarlet.

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You’ve got a filthy mind, Clara. Becky was at the fire. It was late when we finished last night, so I slept on her sofa.’ Nash glared at his sergeant.

  ‘If I’ve got a filthy mind, it’s because I’ve been around you too long.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s this favour you want? The one you’re so tactfully leading up to?’

  ‘If it’s personal, I’ll leave.’ Becky stood up.

  ‘It’s not private.’ Clara turned to Nash. ‘David’s got a few days’ leave.’ She squirmed as she continued. ‘Could I take some holiday? I realize it’s bad timing.’ Her eyes pleaded with him.