Cara Hunter is the author of the Sunday Times bestselling crime novels Close to Home, In the Dark and No Way Out, all featuring DI Adam Fawley and his Oxford-based police team. Close to Home was a Richard and Judy Book Club pick, was shortlisted for Crime Book of the Year in the British Book Awards 2019. No Way Out was selected by the Sunday Times as one of the 100 best crime novels since 1945. Cara's novels have sold more than three quarters of a million copies worldwide. Her fourth novel, All the Rage, is out soon. Cara Hunter lives in Oxford, on a street not unlike those featured in her books.
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04/01/2018 00.55 a.m.
Helmet camera footage, Firefighter Fletcher, Oxfordshire Fire and Rescue Service
Incident at Felix House, 23 Southey Road, Oxford Footage starts as two fire engines pull up in suburban street. The houses are large. It’s dark. Sirens, Flashing lights.
DISPATCH FIRE CONTROL TO APPLIANCES:
This incident is persons reported. 999 call said four people potentially in the dwelling. Two adults, two children.
INCIDENT COMMANDER:
All received. Now in attendance. Ground Floor well alight.
Camera swings right towards a house with black smoke billowing out of right-hand upper windows and fire visible on Àoors below. Half a dozen passers-by and neighbours in the street. Sound of shouting voices, more sirens. Police car draws up. Firefighters are pulling down ladders, pulling off the hose reel, strapping on breathing apparatus.
INCIDENT COMMANDER TO CREWS:
None of the neighbours have seen the family so I need two BA to go up and search the First Floor.
BREATHING APPARATUS ENTRY CONTROL OFFICER:
All received. Alpha Team 1 are just getting ready to enter.
Flames now clearly visible through glass-panelled front door. Breathing ApparatusAlpha Team 1 led by Firefighter Fletcher proceed up the drive to the house. A ladder goes up on left-hand side. Fletcher ascends with a hose reel. Sounds of muffled voices and radio interference. Heavy breathing in the BA mask. Camera tracks over the windowsill into the room. Thick smoke. Helmet torch beam swinging left to right, Sicking out shelving, a chest of drawers, a chair. Novisible flames but carpet is smouldering. Camera swings back round towards window, shot of Firefighter Evans ascending ladder.
BA ENTRY CONTROL OFFICER:
Alpha Team 1, any sign of casualties?
FLETCHER [breathing heavily]:
Negative.
Fletcher moves towards door and exits on to landing. Camera jerks from side to side, light beam picks up three further doors and stairs leading to an upper storey. Lower stairwell shows flickering light from flames on the ground floor, sparks in the air, smoke funnelling up the stairs and along the ceiling. More crackling on the comms system, sound of water from hoses as firefighters outside attempt to extinguish the fire. Fletcher moves to adjacent door, partially open. Football posters and single bed just visible through the smoke. Covers thrown back but no occupant. He searches the room and checks under the bed.
BA ENTRY CONTROL OFFICER:
Alpha Team 1, for information, neighbours say there’s a boy, ten or eleven, and a toddler.
Fletcher moves back out to landing and along to next door. It’s open. Smoke is much thicker here. Fire is well established – rug, curtains and cot bedding all alight. Fletcher rushes to the bed. There’s a child, not moving. He returns quickly to first room and hands over child to Firefighter Evans on ladder at window. Gust of air into the room. Areas of carpet catch light.
FLETCHER:
Alpha Team 1 to BAECO. One casualty found and being brought out via ladder. Child. Unresponsive.
INCIDENT COMMANDER:
All received, Alpha 1. Paramedics on scene.
Fletcher returns to landing followed by Firefighter Waites. Moves to top of staircase. Firefighters Evans and Jones have also entered the building to search for casualties, and approach from other side.
FLETCHER:
You found anyone?
Evans gestures negative. Jones has hand-held Thermal Imaging Camera. Tracks around and starts gesturing urgently down the stairs.
JONES:
There’s someone down there – near the bottom.
FLETCHER:
Alpha 1 to BAECO. Casualty identified at base of stairs. Could be the other kid. Going down.
Alpha Team 1 descend. Hall flooring is on fire and blaze is far advanced in all directions. They lift the casualty and retrace their steps up to the first floor where they pass him to Alpha Team 2, who carry him to the ladder. Sudden sounds of explosion and structural collapse as fire breaks through to upper storey. Shouts and alarm on radio. Flames now visible at bedroom door.
WAITES:
Shit - backdraught – backdraught!
INCIDENT COMMANDER:
Evacuate, repeat, evacuate.
FLETCHER [gasping]:
There must be other people in here – I’m going back in.
INCIDENT COMMANDER:
Negative, I repeat, negative. Severe risk to life. Get the hell out of there. I repeat: Get the hell out of there. Team Alpha 1 acknowledge –
Sounds of further explosion. Radio goes dead.
I bloody hate Christmas. I suppose I must have liked it once, when I was a kid, but I don’t remember. As soon as I was old enough I’d walk – anything to get out of the house. I never had anywhere to go, but even walking the streets in circles was better than sitting around the living room staring at each other, or the exquisite torture of yet another Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special. And the older I’ve got the more I loathe this time of year. Cheery festive tat from the end of October to long after New Year. You’ll change your mind, people said, when you have kids; you’ll see – Christmas with a child of your own is a magical time. And it was. When we had Jake, it was. I remember him making the most amazing paper decorations, all on his own – reindeer and snowmen and polar bears in cut-outs and careful, intricate silhouettes. And we had holly, and oranges in the toes of knitted stockings, and little white lights strung across the garden. I remember it actually snowed one year, and he sat there, at his bedroom window, completely entranced as huge flakes swirled softly down, barely heavy enough to fall. So yes, it was magical. But what happens when you’ve lost the child who made it so – what then? People never talk to you about that. They don’t tell you how to cope with the Christmas that comes After. Or the next, or the one after that.
There’s work, of course. At least, there is for me.
Though Christmas is a crap time to be a police officer. Just about every crime you can think of goes up. Theft, domestic violence, public disorder. Mostly low- level stuff, but the amount of bloody admin it creates is still the same. People have too much to drink, too much time on their hands, and so much twenty-four-hour proximity to people they’re supposed to love they find out that, actually, they don’t. And what with that and everyone wanting to take leave, we’re always short-staffed. Which is a very long way of explaining why I’m standing in a freezing cold kitchen at 5.35 a.m. in the dead zone at the fag-end of the holidays, staring out at the dark, listening to the Radio 4 news while I wait for the kettle to boil. There are dirty plates in the sink because I can’t be bothered to empty the dishwasher, the bins are overflowing because I missed the change to the collection day and the food caddy has been upended all over the side path, possibly by next-door’s cat, but more likely by the fox I’ve spotted in the garden once or twice lately, in the early hours. And if you’re wondering what I’ve been doing up at such a godforsaken time, well, you won’t have to wonder very long.
The radio switches to Prayer for the Day and I switch it off. I don’t do God. And definitely not at this time in the morning. I pick up my mobile, hesitate a moment then make the call. And yes, I know it’s stupid o’clock, but I don’t think I’ll wake her. She turns her phone off at night. Like a normal human being.
I hear the predictable four rings, the click, and the not-quite-human female voice telling me the person I am calling is not available. Then the tone.
‘Alex – it’s me. Nothing heavy. Just wanted to check you’re OK. That it’s helping. I mean, having time to think. Like you said.’
What is it about talking to machines that makes supposedly intelligent people blither like morons? There’s a sticky brown stain on the work surface I can’t remember being there yesterday. I start scraping at it with my thumbnail.
‘Tell your sister I said hello.’ Then a pause. ‘That’s it, really. Look, just call me, OK?’ I listen to the silence. I know it’s impossible but half of me is hoping she’s listening too. That she’ll pick up. ‘I miss you.’
I love you.
Which I should have said, but didn’t. I’m trying not to remember exactly how long it is since she actually spoke to me. A week? More. I think it was the day after Boxing Day. I kept hoping New Year would make a difference. That we could put the whole thing behind us then, as if a completely arbitrary change in the numbering of the days could make the slightest difference to how she feels. How I feel.
The kettle boils and I poke about in the cupboard for coffee. All that’s left is the jar of cheap instant Alex keeps for plumbers and decorators. Those poncey pod things ran out days ago. It was Alex who really wanted that machine. The cheap instant has some balls, though, and I’ve just poured a second when the phone rings.
‘Alex?’
‘No, boss. It’s me. Gislingham.’
I can feel my cheeks redden. Did I sound as desperate to him as I did to me? ‘What is it, Gis?’
‘Sorry to call so early, boss. I’m at Southey Road.
There’s been a fire overnight. They’re still struggling to get it under control.’
‘Casualties?’
But I know the answer before I ask. Gis wouldn’t be calling me at 5.45 otherwise.
I hear him draw breath. ‘Only one so far, boss. A little kiddie. There’s an older boy too, but they managed to get to him in time. He’s alive – just. They’ve taken him to the John Rad.’
‘No sign of the parents?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Shit.’
‘I know. We’re trying to keep that from the press but it’s only a matter of time. Sorry to drag you out of bed and all that, but I think you should be here –’
‘I was already awake. And I’m on my way.’
* * *
At Southey Road, Gislingham puts his phone back in his pocket. He’d been in two minds whether to call at all. Though he’d never say so out loud and feels guilty even thinking it, Fawley has definitely been off his game recently. Not just short-tempered, though he’s been that too. Distracted. Preoccupied. He didn’t go to the station Christmas party, but since he always says how much he hates Christmas that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. On the other hand, there’s a rumour doing the rounds his wife has left him, and judging by the state of his ironing that’s a distinct possibility. Gislingham’s own shirt doesn’t look much cop either, but they never do given he does them himself. He still hasn’t worked out how to do collars.
He turns and walks back down the drive towards the house. The flames have died back but firefighters in breathing apparatus are still sending jets of water arcing into the windows, pushing huge gusts of dense smoke into the dark sky. The air is thick with soot and the smell of burning plastic.
The Incident Commander comes towards him, his boots crunching on the gravel. ‘Off the record, almost certainly arson, but it’ll be a while before the investigation team can go in. Looks like it must have started in the sitting room, but the roof above has completely caved in so don’t quote me on that.’
‘So we might be looking at more bodies?’
‘Could be. But there’s three floors of rubble come down on that side. God knows how long it’ll take to sift through it all.’ He takes his helmet off and wipes his forehead on the back of his hand. ‘Have you heard anything about the boy?’
‘Not yet. One of my colleagues went in the ambulance. I’ll let you know if I hear.’
The firefighter makes a face. He knows the odds; he’s been doing this a long time. He takes a swig of water. ‘Where’s Quinn – on holiday?’
Gislingham shakes his head. ‘This one’s mine. I’m acting DS.’
The officer raises an eyebrow. ‘I heard Quinn had got himself in the shit. Though I didn’t know it was that bad.’
Gislingham shrugs. ‘Not for me to say.’
The firefighter eyes him for a moment in the throbbing blue glare. ‘Takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?’ he says eventually. ‘Being in charge.’ Then he chucks the water bottle away and starts up towards the fire engine, tapping Gislingham’s arm as he passes. ‘You go for it, mate. Gotta take your chances in this life. No other bugger’s gonna do it for you.’
Which is broadly what Gislingham’s wife said when he told her. That and the fact that Quinn got himself in this mess, and they could do with the extra money now Billy’s getting older, and what did he owe Quinn anyway? A question he’d (wisely) decided to assume was merely rhetorical.
He looks around for a moment, then heads towards the uniform standing behind the police tape. There are onlookers in the road, but given the time and the cold, it’s only a straggle. Though Gislingham recognizes a journalist from the Oxford Mail who’s been trying – and failing – to get his attention for the last ten minutes.
He turns to the constable. ‘Have they started the house to- house yet?’
‘Just underway now, Sarge. We managed to rustle up three people. It’s not much, but –’
‘Yeah, I know. Everyone’s on holiday.’
A car pulls up on the street and someone gets out. Briskly, officially, flashing a warrant card. And that’s not the only thing that’s flash. Gislingham takes a deep breath. It’s Quinn’s car.
* * *
Oxford Mail onlineThursday 4 January 2018 Last updated at 08:18 Fatality in Oxford house ?re A boy of three has died after a ?re ripped through a seven- bedroom Edwardian home in Southey Road in the early hours of this morning. The cause of the ?re is as yet unknown, but Oxfordshire Fire and Rescue Service are working closely with a police forensics team to determine exactly how it began. A second victim, identi?ed by neighbours as the toddler’s older brother, was taken by ambulance to the John Radcliffe hospital, believed to be suffering from smoke inhalation. The emergency services were called to the house shortly after 12.40 a.m., when a neighbour saw ?ames issuing from a ground-?oor window. Patrick Moreton, station manager at the Rewley Road ?re station, said that the ?re was far advanced by the time his crew arrived at the scene, and it took over four hours for the ?ames to be brought under control. He said it was far too early to tell whether combustible Christmas decorations could have contributed to the blaze, but added, ‘This is a timely reminder of the importance of taking proper safety precautions when using decorations like candles and flammable materials such as tinsel, and testing your smoke alarms at least once a week.’ Thames Valley Police have declined to comment on whether the two children were in the house alone. |
15-year-old boy arrested following stabbing in Blackbird Leys Transport disruption expected as more snow is forecast next week
Council announces new measures to reduce air pollution in Oxford Oxford United beat MK Dons 3–1 |
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ernest_payne_gardener22 Josephyosef88188 |
* * *
It’s only when I’m signalling left on the Banbury Road that I remember exactly where Southey Road is. Three turnings north of Frampton Road. Frampton Road as in William Harper and what we found locked in his cellar. The papers called him the ‘Oxford Fritzl’. At least, at the beginning. It was eight months ago now, but I was still in court in December, and the file is still sitting on my desk, waiting to get shunted to archives. None of us are going to forget that one in a hurry. Least of all Quinn. Detective Sergeant Quinn as was, Detective Constable Quinn as now. Speaking of whom, his new black Audi is the first thing I see as I draw up in the street and turn off the engine. But then he’s always been a bit of a swanky git when it comes to wheels. I couldn’t tell you what Gislingham drives and I must have seen that damn car a thousand times. As for the scene, the fire may be under control but the place is a circus all the same. Two fire engines and three police cars. Nosy parkers. People taking pictures on their phones. Thank Christ they parked the undertaker’s van out of sight.
Quinn and Gislingham are up by the house and they turn to face me as I walk towards them. Quinn is stamping his feet in the cold, but aside from that the body language is awkward, to say the least. He took to DS like a dog to water – zero hesitation, maximum splash – but he’s having a lot more trouble going back down to DC. Well, you know what they say, trading up is easy, trading down is a different matter altogether. He’s trying to balls it out, needless to say, but it’s that part of his anatomy that got him into this mess in the first place. I can see he’s itching to get stuck in, but Gislingham deserves a chance to prove he’s up to this. I turn to him, perhaps a little too pointedly.
‘Anything new, Sergeant?’
Gislingham stiffens a little and whips out his notebook, though I can’t believe he actually needs it. His hands are trembling, ever so slightly. I suspect Quinn has spotted that as well.
‘The house belongs to a family called Esmond, sir. Michael Esmond, forty, is an academic. The wife is Samantha, thirty-three, and there are the two kids, Matty, ten, and Zachary, three.’
‘How is he – the older boy?’
‘Touch and go. He’s pretty poorly.’
‘And still no sign of the parents?’
Gislingham makes a face. ‘Master bedroom’s over there,’ he says, pointing to the left-hand side of the house. ‘It’s still pretty much intact, but there’s no sign of anyone. Fire boys say the bed wasn’t even slept in. So I googled the family and this came up.’
He hands me his phone. It’s a page from the King’s College London website, advertising a conference on social anthropology taking place right now in London. One of the speakers is Michael Esmond: ‘Death by Fire and Water: Sacrificial Ritual Practices in Latin American Vodou’. Someone said, didn’t they, that coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous. Well, if that’s the case, all I can say is he has pretty poor taste sometimes.
I give Gis his phone back. ‘Call them and confirm he definitely showed. At the very least that means we have one less body to look for.’
‘Hold the barbecue sauce, eh?’ says Quinn.
I shoot him a look that wipes the smirk off his face, and turn again to Gislingham.
‘What’s the plan?’
He blinks a couple of times. ‘Locate Michael and Samantha Esmond and establish their whereabouts at the time of the incident. Carry out an initial house-to-house in case one of the neighbours saw something. Talk to Boddie about the PM. Identify and inform other next of kin. Liaise with the fire forensic boys.’ He points across the drive. ‘And track down the car, of course.’
Quinn turns to look at him. ‘What car?’
Gislingham raises his eyebrows. ‘There are wheel marks on the gravel. Plain as day. The Esmonds definitely have a car. So where is it? No one in their right mind would drive into London from here so I reckon if we find that car we’ll also find the wife.’
No prizes for guessing whose stock just went up a notch.
I nod. ‘Good work, Sergeant. Keep me in the loop.’
I turn back to Quinn. Who’s moved a yard or so closer to the house, presumably on the grounds that if you can’t beat ’em, walk away. The house isn’t really my taste, but if you like that sort of thing, I guess it’s a desirable property. Or was. Right now, filthy water is streaming down the facade and all the ground-floor windows have gone. It’s detached and double- fronted but the right- hand side is little more than a shell. The gable is still standing but only barely, and there’s nothing behind it but blackened walls and a heap of bricks and roof timbers and shattered glass. What’s left of the rest is pebble- dashed and overlaid with Tudorish wooden bits which must have been white before but are charred and soot-stained now. You can just about make out ‘1909’ above one of the windows. As well as an Arsenal sticker still clinging to the broken pane.
‘What are you thinking?’ I ask Quinn.
He starts slightly. ‘Oh, just the obvious, boss. How an academic gets to afford something that big round here. How much d’you think – five mill?’
More, if you ask me. Round here, houses are divided into large, small, large-small and small-large. Safe to say this is large. Large- large.
‘Could be family money,’ I say. ‘Worth checking, though.’
‘Why don’t you do that, Quinn,’ says Gislingham.
Quinn shrugs. ‘OK.’
And as I walk away I hear Gislingham say, under his breath, ‘OK, Sarge.’
* * *
At 7.05, DC Erica Somer is standing looking at her wardrobe, trying to work out what to wear. She’s only been in CID three months and Choosing the Right Clothes is a question that’s getting more vexed by the day. She never liked her uniform, but it had its advantages. Uniformity being, of course, one of the most obvious. But now she’s in ‘plain clothes’ and the best way to achieve that is anything but plain. How, she wonders for the umpteenth time, staring at the rack of hangers, do you manage to look serious but not frumpy? Professional but still approachable? It’s a nightmare. She sighs. In this as in so much else, the blokes have it easy. An M&S suit and three ties will pretty much do you – Baxter being the living proof. Verity Everett’s found her own way forward with a white- shirt- dark- skirt look that scarcely varies. Navy one day, black the next, grey the third and back to navy again. Flat shoes, and a cardi in winter. But on that basis you might as well go back to uniform and have done with it. And what about hair – is a ponytail too frivolous? A bun too school- ma’am?
She’s just pulled out the black trouser suit (third time in five days – that’ll be a uniform too if she’s not careful) when the mobile rings. It’s Gislingham. She likes Gislingham. Not brash (like Quinn) or gifted (like Fawley) but effective all the same. Methodical. Hardworking. And decent. Above all, decent. She really hopes he makes a fist of the sergeantship; he deserves it.
‘What can I do for you, Sarge?’
‘I’m at Southey Road.’ The wind must have got up; his voice is catching in the gusts. ‘There’s been a fire. One fatality and a lad in Intensive Care in the John Rad.’
She sits down on the bed. ‘Arson?’
‘We don’t know yet. But looks likely.’
‘How can I help?’
‘What with Christmas, we’re really thin on the ground – Baxter’s running the house-to-house but we’ve only got three uniforms.’
Somer knows what that’s like and it’s a shit of a job. Especially in this weather. She hopes to God he isn’t about to ask her to pitch in. And he must have sensed something because he adds, quickly, ‘But that’s not what I was calling about. I’m stuck on-site right now, and Everett doesn’t get back till this afternoon, so can you handle the PM?’
Why isn’t Quinn doing that? she wonders. But she doesn’t say so. She has her own history with Quinn – an ill-advised but mercifully brief relationship which she fears rather too many people know about. Notably Fawley.
‘Sure. No problem.’
‘Have you done a burns case before?’
She hesitates. ‘No, actually I haven’t.’ She’s only been to one post-mortem, in fact, and that was a stabbing. Gruelling enough but insipid by comparison. ‘First time for everything,’ says Gislingham. ‘You’ll be fine.’ He hesitates, then, ‘Take some mints.’
* * *
Interview with Beverley Draper, conducted at
21 Southey Road, Oxford
4 January 2018, 8.45 a.m.
In attendance, DC A. Baxter
AB: I believe you made the initial 999 call, Mrs Draper?
BD: Yes, that was me. My son woke me up – he was having a nightmare. His bedroom faces that way. I heard a noise – it sounded like a window breaking. I thought it might be a burglar so I pulled the curtain aside. That’s when I saw the flames. I remember thinking it must have been on fire for quite a while to have got so bad, but there are so many trees you can’t really see the house from the road. I suppose no one realized.
AB: And you called the emergency services at 12.47? BD: That’s right. AB: You didn’t see anyone near the house – or running away?
BD: No. Like I said, I’d been asleep until Dylan woke me. Do you know how they are – the family?
AB: We’re not in a position to release any information at the moment.
BD: I saw them take Matty off in the ambulance, but they’re talking on the internet about Michael and Samantha being missing. That can’t be right, can it? I mean
AB: As I said, we’ll be making an official statement in due course. Can you tell me what you know about the family? They were here, were they, over Christmas and New Year? Not away visiting relatives? On a skiing break?
BD: I don’t think they ski. And yes, they were here. The school did a carol singing thing the day before Christmas Eve and they were all there.
AB: Did they have visitors at all? Do you know of anyone else who might have been in the house last night?
BD: Well, I’m not sure–
AB: We just need to be clear who else might have been present. Family members? Friends? Take your time.
BD: [pause ] To be honest, they don’t do that much entertaining as far as I can tell. When we moved in we invited them round, like you do, and Samantha said she’d come back to me with some dates, but somehow it never happened. We had a party in the garden last summer and they came, but I think they were only going through the motions. They didn’t stay long.
AB: What about family?
BD: Michael’s father is dead, that I do know, and I think his mother’s in a home. Somewhere out near Wantage I think. I’ve never heard Samantha mention her family.
AB: We also believe the family have a car, but it wasn’t at the house.
BD: Oh yes, they definitely have a car. A Volvo estate. Quite old. White. But I don’t know why it’s not in the drive. That’s where it usually is.
AB: You don’t know anywhere Samantha might go?
BD: So she really is missing
AB: Like I said, we aren’t able to comment
BD: Don’t worry. I get it. But no. I’m afraid I have no idea. AB: And there’s no one else you can think of that we could contact?
BD: I’m sorry. We just weren’t those kind of neighbours.
* * *
The air in the mortuary is even colder than it is outside. Somer has two jumpers on under her scrubs; it was Everett who’d advised the extra layer (‘Once your teeth start chattering, that’ll be it – you won’t be able to stop’). The body is on a metal bed. The toddler. Zachary. Though she realizes at once that giving him a name is only going to make it a whole lot worse. Shreds of blue blanket are still clinging to his skin, but underneath he’s horribly damaged. His body is lurid with mottled yellow and blistered red, scorched with patches of lumpy, sooty charring. His head is turned away, the soft baby curls burned off, the lips shrunken and waxy. She takes a deep breath and it comes out as something too close to a sob. One of the assistants glances across.
‘I know. It’s always doubly crappy when it’s a kid.’
Somer nods, not trusting herself to speak. Right now, all she can think about is the smell. She’s seen all those uber-realistic mock-ups on TV post-mortems but the one thing she hadn’t been prepared for was the stink. Even behind her mask, the body smells like a hog roast. She sends up a silent thank you to Gislingham for the mints, and swallows, trying to keep control.
‘Our first priority,’ says Boddie, ‘will be to confirm whether or not the victim was alive before the fire began. There being no obvious external injuries, I will therefore be examining the trachea and internal airways for evidence of smoke inhalation.’
He picks up a scalpel and looks across at her. ‘So, shall we begin?’
* * *
Gislingham is still at Southey Road. The low winter sun is casting a deep rose glow over the wreckage of the house. There’s frost in the air, but despite the cold the crowd in the road is larger. Perhaps twenty people, in scarves and gloves and big coats, their breath coming in chilly gusts. But they probably won’t stay long – there’s a lot less to see now. One of the fire engines has gone, and the firefighters who remain are damping down last areas of fire and loading kit back on to the truck. Inside, though, it’s a different matter. As well as three members of Alan Challow’s forensics team, there are two fire investigation officers, one of them with a video camera. The other is in the burnt-out breakfast room, with Gislingham and Challow. The heavy wooden table and chairs are still smouldering and there are flares of soot going up to the ceiling. Water is dropping through, and they can see through the joists to the room above. Winnie the Pooh wallpaper. The bare skeleton of a baby mobile. Gislingham is trying not to look at it.
‘We’ll need to do more analysis to be sure,’ the fire officer is saying, ‘but like I said, my money’s on it starting in the sitting room. That would also account for the delay in the 999 call – there’s no one overlooking the house at the back and, as far as we can tell, the neighbours that side are away.’
‘And you think it was definitely arson?’
The officer nods. ‘Based on the speed and spread, some sort of accelerant had to be involved, ably supported, no doubt, by the bloody Christmas tree. That would have gone up like the fourth of July. Must have been dry as a bone by now – might just as well have piled up a stack of kindling and have done with it. After that it was only a matter of time until boom: the whole place went up.’
‘How long could that have taken?’ asks Gislingham, making furious notes.
The fire officer straightens up. ‘To reach flashover point? Three minutes? Possibly even less.’ He gestures towards the stairs. ‘Judging by the charring, I’m guessing they had some sort of garland draped down the banisters too. Holly or something. Which would also have been tinder dry by now, needless to say, making it about as good a trailing fuse as you’re ever likely to get. Talk about bad timing. I mean, they’d have been taking it all down tomorrow, wouldn’t they?’
Gislingham looks blank, then, ‘Oh, of course, Twelfth Night. Bugger – I’d forgotten about that.’
His own house is festooned like a department store – Janet wanted it to be special for Billy’s first Christmas at home. Gislingham’s going to be up all night.
* * *
Verity Everett puts the phone down and sits back in her chair. She was half expecting to come back to a nearly empty office and the sad remains of the Christmas chocolates. But only half: this job has a way of catching you unawares. And to be honest, after several days of Uninterrupted Dad she’s rather relieved to be back. Her flat really isn’t big enough for the both of them. Especially not when he treats the place like a hotel, leaving his empty mugs wherever he’s sitting and never making the bed (her bed, incidentally; she’s had to make do with the futon, which is having the predictable effect on both her backache and her disgruntled cat). But tomorrow her father’s going home, and today she’s back where she belongs. Working. She scans the room, looking for Gislingham, but he obviously isn’t back from Southey Road yet. And much as she hates going over his head, this can’t wait.
A few moments later she’s tapping on Fawley’s door.
(C) Cara Hunter 2019