Wheel of Fire

by Hilary Bonner

  ‘Yes, like you said, there could be intruders dead in there as well as the two victims we know about,’ said Vogel. ‘And you can’t search the place yet?’

  ‘No way,’ said Bob Parsons. ‘The house is still burning as you can see, and the few bits of it that remain standing are likely to collapse at any moment. All we can do is pour water on it. But, bizarrely, because of the size of the explosion, the speed with which the fire took hold and its ferocity, we may be able to put the fire out sufficiently to gain entry more quickly than is often the case when a big old place like this goes up—’

  Parsons was interrupted by a fire officer calling out from closer to the house.

  ‘Bob, sorry, but you’re needed round the back.’

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ said Parsons to Vogel.

  ‘Of course, you get on,’ Vogel responded. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  Parsons began to walk towards the house. After a few steps he stopped and turned back to face Vogel.

  ‘Just one more thing I should tell you,’ he said. ‘Do you know about this gardener, odd-job-man, driver chap?’

  ‘I was going to ask about him,’ replied Vogel. ‘George something, isn’t it? All I know is that he’s the one who apparently started this armed intruder business. Obviously, we need to speak to him. Is he here?’

  ‘Not any more. We and the medics found him outside the house when we were finally allowed through. Armed response had already helped him to relative safety and made him as comfortable as they could, but he was in quite a state. Bleeding from wounds to his shoulder and one leg. Couldn’t stop sobbing, either. Kept saying this wasn’t meant to happen.’

  ‘I see,’ said Vogel. ‘Do you know how he sustained his injuries? Was he caught up in the fire? Was he burned? I thought nobody else was supposed to be in the house.’

  ‘That’s quite right,’ said Bob Parsons. ‘Though Grey claimed he tried to get into the house, but was too late. No. He said he’d been attacked by the armed men he’d alerted Sir John and his nurse to. Didn’t look like anything to do with the fire, actually. Not burns anyway. More like stab wounds, though I was too busy tackling the fire to take a lot of notice. You’ll have to ask the medics. They’ve taken him to hospital, the Musgrove in Taunton.’

  ‘Well, that complicates the issue a bit doesn’t it,’ murmured Vogel.

  He shivered. It really was a horrible morning. His feet were like blocks of ice. He looked down. His suede slip-ons were sodden already and caked in mud. He had a penchant for Hush Puppies, and this, he suspected, would be the ruination of yet another pair. His wife, Mary, would not be pleased. He did now possess a pair of wellington boots – purchased for him by Mary, of course, within the first few weeks of his transfer to the Avon and Somerset Constabulary – but he had a terrible habit of forgetting to take them with him. After all, he was a police officer, not a farm worker. Although sometimes nowadays he was beginning to wonder.

  He turned up the collar of his honourable old corduroy jacket and wrapped his arms around his body. He was aware of Saslow shaking her head, almost imperceptibly. And probably disapprovingly. Rather like Mary. She was always trying to get him into all-weather gear, or at least to persuade him to buy himself a heavy-duty country coat. Something suitable for the rural areas and moorland which covered a hefty slice of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s territory.

  Vogel sniffed. He hoped he wasn’t catching another cold. And if he were, he would get little sympathy from Mary. She seemed to think he developed them deliberately since moving out of the capital, as if to demonstrate how unsuited he was to life away from inner-city London – even though he’d been absolutely in agreement with his wife that it was worth making such a move, for the sake of their daughter. Vogel would do anything for Rosamund.

  ‘Sir, would you like my scarf?’ asked Saslow, interrupting his thoughts.

  Vogel blinked rapidly behind his thick spectacles. This was extremely embarrassing. Was the DC taking the mickey? Or had he reached the stage in life where a young woman offered him part of her clothing merely to keep him warm? Vogel had never been a lady’s man, there’d not really been anyone in his life other than Mary. But he did have his pride.

  ‘No thank you, Saslow,’ he said, his manner mild, as usual, and his voice giving nothing away. He hoped.

  ‘I don’t need it, sir,’ said Saslow.

  She didn’t either. Her coat was a hooded puffer jacket of some sort, or Vogel thought that’s what they were called, and she’d changed out of her shoes upon arrival at Blackdown Manor into the wellington boots she somehow always seemed to manage to have with her. Unlike Vogel.

  ‘It’s fine, Saslow,’ said Vogel, trying to look as if it was.

  He was rescued somewhat by the arrival at his side of a tall lean man, with thinning grey-brown hair, who swiftly introduced himself as Detective Constable Ted Dawson from Taunton nick.

  ‘Sorry sir, I was on the phone to my sarge when you arrived,’ Dawson apologised.

  Vogel muttered a good morning and shook the man’s hand.

  ‘Fill me in then, Dawson,’ he said. ‘If the fire boys are right, and my guess is they probably are, then we might have a case of arson here.’

  ‘Looks like it, sir,’ replied Dawson.

  ‘And at least two people have died,’ Vogel continued. ‘So, if it is arson we are looking at double murder. Question is, did the arsonist intend to kill?’

  ‘Well, whether he did or not, he made a pretty good job of it, didn’t he, sir?’ commented Dawson.

  ‘You could say that, Dawson. I’ve just been hearing about this driver gardener character. George something?’

  ‘Yes sir. George Grey. Lives in The Gatehouse with his wife.’

  ‘Did you see him before he was carted off to hospital?’ asked Vogel.

  ‘No sir, the paramedics took him away as soon as they were allowed through. I only got here an hour or so before you. Sounds like he’d have been in no condition to talk, anyway. They called me out to assist you with local knowledge, boss. I live in Wellington, you see. That’s the market town ten miles or so away.’

  Vogel nodded.

  ‘I know,’ he said confidently.

  Although, in fact, the only knowledge he had of this part of the world had come from going online that morning.

  ‘We’re expecting a fire investigator later today, and CSI are here, boss, if you want to talk to them,’ Dawson continued. ‘They’ve had a snoop around the grounds, I understand, but, of course, they haven’t been able to get near the house, and it’s going to be a while before it’s cooled down enough for anybody to do much. The structure will need checking, too.’

  Vogel nodded. He had noticed a Crime Scene Investigators van parked just back from the fire appliances and a few officers milling around, a couple leaning against the van smoking.

  ‘What about pathology?’

  ‘Karen Crow was called first thing and arrived about half an hour before you, boss,’ said Dawson, referring to the District Home Office Pathologist, a woman Vogel had already worked with several times since his move to the West Country.

  ‘It was really just protocol at this stage, though. She left pretty much straightaway when she had ascertained that there was nothing she could do yet. And to tell the truth, it’s doubtful she will be able to do an awful lot at any stage. You know how hard it is with fire cases, certainly a blaze as major as this. You’re lucky to find anything much at all resembling a human body.’

  Vogel tried not to visibly wince.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he muttered thoughtfully.

  Dawson was also appropriately dressed, in a cap, Barbour jacket, and the obligatory wellington boots. But then he would be. Vogel had guessed at once, just from his appearance and his manner, that this was the sort of career DC you didn’t come across much anymore; approaching retirement, diligent, but content with his lot and unwilling to seek promotion, as that would mean change. Almost certainly Dawson had rarely allowed his p
olice career to get in the way of his lifestyle. And so he had stayed put in the place where he’d been born and brought up, choosing a settled family life over career prospects.

  Vogel didn’t know any of that, of course. It was just guesswork. All he really knew was that Dawson had been co-opted to work with MCIT because of his local knowledge. He decided to make the most of it.

  ‘All right, DC Dawson, I’m going to pick your brains,’ he said. ‘Any idea who might want to kill Sir John Fairbrother? I’ve done a bit of homework this morning. Surprisingly little about him online. Nothing derogatory. A rumour that he might have been unwell, which seems to have now been backed up by the 999 calls from a woman who said she was his nurse, a woman who appears to have died with him. One or two question marks about how well the family bank is doing, but that would almost be expected in the present climate, I should imagine. He was a bit of a philanthropist too, wasn’t he? Known for helping with local causes around here? Is that right?’

  ‘Well yes, he put up the rest of the money last year so that the restoration of the Wellington Monument could begin.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Vogel. ‘I saw an item on the regional news a while back. Been fenced off amid rumours it might have to come down for safety reasons for years, hasn’t it?’

  Dawson nodded, and, although it was clear the question was rhetorical, replied.

  ‘Yes. Work is now supposed to start next year. Though I’ll believe it when I see it myself.’

  Dawson smiled wryly.

  A cynic, eh, thought Vogel. But he didn’t object to that in a police officer, because it generally indicated a questioning mind.

  ‘So, do I assume that Sir John was popular locally, then?’

  ‘Well, he certainly used to be,’ said Dawson in a non-committal sort of way.

  ‘Come on, Dawson, is there any background you can give me that Google doesn’t know?’ Vogel persisted. ‘That’s what I want.’

  ‘I can tell you what they say down the Culm Valley and up the Blue Ball, boss. I doubt Google’s ever reached those two boozers.’

  Dawson smiled.

  So, the DC also showed signs, however limp, of a sense of humour. That was promising. Vogel and Saslow had been through a lot together the last year or so. The need for a copper who took his work seriously but not himself was greater than ever.

  ‘Born and bred in the place, there’s not much goes on in this neck of the woods I don’t know about,’ Dawson continued chattily, just as Vogel had already surmised.

  ‘Right, spit it out then, man,’ said Vogel.

  ‘Well, boss, one of Sir John’s ancestors, Edwin Fairbrother, acquired the place in seventeen something or other. He allegedly won it in a game of cards. Quite a swashbuckler, it seems. Not quite what you expect from a banker. But I suppose banking was different in those days. It’s been the principal Fairbrother home ever since, and the family have always considered themselves to be proper Somerset people, involved in the community and so on. Sir John was known for that, even when he was away in London most of the time.

  ‘Anything going on locally, particularly the Wellesley Theatre in Wellington, and even the little panto they put on in Culmstock every year, Sir John would turn up now and again. There was always a big donation for any local charitable cause, and he was a fair employer locally. Used to boast about always employing local people. The Kivel family, from over Wrangway, they were in his employ for generations. Jack and Martha lived in. Or in The Gatehouse to be precise, where the Greys were put. They looked after the whole manor, Martha was housekeeper; Jack was Sir John’s right-hand man, did the garden and drove Sir John everywhere. Sir John used local builders and other tradesmen when he needed any work done. Simon Crockett always did the roofing, said it was like the flippin’ Forth Bridge. Half of Wellie was in and out of Blackdown Manor doing jobs. Big old house. Lot of work.

  ‘Then about a year ago everything changed. Sir John seemed to step back from everything locally. He’d had racehorses in training with the Pipes up at Nicholashayne for decades; out of the blue, David Pipe was told to sell the lot of ’em. The tradesmen Sir John had always relied on stopped getting called out. He no longer wanted goose eggs from Barry Byrant and Colin Sully; gardening help from Rob and David Crow; and suddenly he was never in for neighbours he had always made welcome, like John McCarten, the Childs or the Flahertys. He just didn’t seem to be around much, or even very interested in the manor any more. Or so it was said. Then Jack and Martha were given notice to quit. Just like that after nearly thirty years. And not personally, either. Sir John’s solicitor did the deed, apparently. Word is severance pay was typically generous. But that was all that was typical. Sir John was away somewhere when the Kivels were sacked, and neither Jack nor Martha ever saw him again, they say. That upset the whole Kivel clan. They’d thought of themselves as extended family, and believed that Sir John felt the same. So the whole thing was a terrible shock. Especially when almost immediately Sir John brought in George and Janice Grey from London and installed them in The Gatehouse to take over the roles of Jack and Martha.’

  Vogel thought for a moment, considering what Ted Dawson had said. Then he swung on his heels to face the older man.

  ‘Do you have any theories about what may have caused John Fairbrother to have changed so dramatically, sacked all his local staff and so on? You must have, surely. C’mon man. Not much happens around these parts that you don’t know about, you said.’

  ‘There’s been a lot of talk, but probably not a lot of substance. More about Sir John’s health than anything else—’

  ‘We know pretty much for certain that the man wasn’t well,’ Vogel interrupted. ‘He employed a nurse. At least one nurse. Possibly more. Do you have any idea what was wrong with him?’

  ‘I know what the rumour was …’

  Vogel waited. Ted Dawson remained silent.

  ‘Get on with it,’ the DI prompted.

  ‘Folk said he had Parkinson’s.’

  ‘Really?’

  There’d been no mention of that online. Vogel had a basic knowledge of Parkinson’s, of course, and was aware that it was a degenerative disease which ultimately destroyed the human nervous system, but he had never had personal experience of the condition. He knew enough to realise, however, that if it became public knowledge that the chairman and chief executive of an international company and a major private bank was suffering from the condition, the results in the world of business could be disastrous. Way beyond just a bit of a fall in the share prices. He addressed both Dawson and Saslow.

  ‘The nurse, Sophia, told the emergency services that Sir John had difficulties with speaking, and indicated that he certainly couldn’t talk on the phone,’ he said. ‘Do either of you know if that might be a symptom of Parkinson’s?’

  It was Saslow who answered, and straight away Vogel got the impression that she knew what she was talking about.

  ‘It can do, boss,’ she said. ‘But usually not until the latter stages. The voice can become very soft and a bit shaky. Also, sometimes people get so they can’t find the right words any more. My grandfather had Parkinson’s, and that happened to him. It was awful to watch it happen. It’s a cruel, cruel disease. My grandad, he’d always talked the hind leg off a donkey, you see …’

  Saslow stopped abruptly.

  ‘Thank you, Dawn,’ responded Vogel gently. He turned again to Ted Dawson.

  ‘Anything else you can tell us?’ the DI enquired.

  ‘Not a lot, really, boss,’ said Dawson. ‘It’s all gossip, anyway. The gossip capital of the world, this corner of England. Specially the pubs. But that’s what they’re for, isn’t it? Fiona up at the Blue Ball heard that the old man had got Parkinson’s before anybody else. Always got her ear to the ground, that one. And Sir John used to be an occasional regular at the Blue Ball. Would even have a game of pool with the lads now and then. But it didn’t explain why he cut himself off from everybody round here, not to me anyways. And as for sacking the Kivels!
Well, you’d think he’d want a couple like that – who’d been with him for so long, living at his home – all the more once he was ill.’

  ‘Yes, but he was Chair and CEO of Fairbrother International, for God’s sake, so he had good reason to try to hide his illness for as long as possible, didn’t he? Perhaps Jack and Martha got a little too close, do you think? Started to take things for granted, maybe?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ replied Dawson. ‘But it was always said they more or less ran the manor, and that nothing went on there without their say so.’

  ‘Is it possible that maybe Sir John got rid of them because he didn’t want anybody knowing so much about his affairs?’ asked Saslow.

  ‘If that’s so then it’s odd that it seemed to suit him so well for so long, isn’t it?’ commented Dawson. ‘The Kivels and the Fairbrothers were always considered to be joined at the hip. The kids grew up together. I can only think that something must have happened. Something to make Sir John no longer want that. Something more than being ill, I reckon. You see, from what I know of the set up with the two families, Sir John would have trusted the Kivels to keep his illness a secret. None more, I’d have thought.’

  ‘So, we have a bit of a mystery then, don’t we,’ remarked Vogel. ‘A mystery that’s been the subject of local gossip in the pubs of this corner of Devon and Somerset for the best part of a year now.’

  ‘Yes, that’s about the size of it,’ agreed Dawson. ‘But everyone likes a nice conspiracy theory, don’t they?’

  Vogel walked a little closer to the still burning house, his inadequate footwear making squelching noises in the sodden ground. Dawson and Saslow followed.

  ‘Anything of any substance other than the rumours about Sir John’s health?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Well, there was always the inevitable theory that financial skulduggery is at the root of it all. But that wouldn’t explain why Sir John cut himself off from the community here, and everyone who had previously been close to him, would it?’