Eleven Days (3 page)

A thick column of smoke rose above the tall houses of St Peter’s Square. The far end of the street was blocked by two fire engines, a police patrol vehicle and a gathering crowd.

‘It’s like bloody Bonfire Night,’ Carrigan grumbled as Geneva parked the car on a double yellow line outside the Greek Orthodox cathedral. The black snow was coming down heavy and thick and it was getting hard to see, the lights of the fire engines and patrol vehicles streaked and smeared against the dizzy profusion of snow.

Carrigan was unprepared for the sheer noise of the fire, the crackle and roar filling his ears as they made their way down into the square, past the fire service barricades and the silent trellised homes whose residents were crowded on narrow balconies, their heads craned towards the raging spectacle, eyes wide in mute astonishment.

Carrigan searched for the uniforms but there were so many people, all moving fast, that it was hard to get a sense of the scene. Fire engines edged towards the burning building, their ladders projecting into the night, hoses unfurling, the firemen wiping sweat from their brows and conferring among themselves. A small group of onlookers had managed to get past the initial cordon and were staring up, hypnotised, while others held phones above their heads as if in supplication, pushing one another aside for the best view. And yet, above all this, there was a sense of quiet celebration, of expectancy, perhaps the hope for a sprinkle of seasonal magic to light up everyday life.

‘Christ, it’s a fucking circus,’ Carrigan said, approaching the fire command unit. Geneva tugged his sleeve and pointed out three uniforms, standing and watching the blaze, as transfixed as the public. From somewhere, maybe the next road along, they heard the ghostly voices of carol singers getting louder and then diminishing as the wind changed direction.

‘Who’s in charge here?’

The uniforms turned to see Carrigan standing behind them. They quickly adjusted their postures and looked at the floor. ‘Forget it,’ Carrigan said. ‘We need to set up a perimeter, did no one think of that?’

The three looked at each other as if they’d been caught smoking by a teacher.

Carrigan ordered them to start clearing the area of onlookers and residents. He stared up at the large detached house, now totally engulfed in flames, yellow and red and blue, silently praying that the occupants had been shopping when the fire broke out. If the house had been empty it would mean he could hand the case over to another team. ‘Happy Christmas!’ he told the constables, and headed towards the main fire truck.

He talked to the driver then stood and waited for the fire marshal to emerge from the burning building. They were at the narrow end of one of the elegant garden squares that Notting Hill and Bayswater were so famous for. The houses were tall and white; imposing and austere as Roman temples with their profusion of fluted columns and ornate pedestals. The burning building was two from the end. It was covered in a shawl of flame, the wind whipping it into scattering phantoms and flickering patterns. Black smoke poured into the sky. Residents from the adjacent premises were leaving in a panic, families with bulging backpacks and bewildered looks on their faces, their evening meal suddenly turned into life and death.

Carrigan saw the firemen spraying water from thick grey hoses which kept kicking and bucking in their hands. The snow kept coming down. The crime scene was being destroyed as he watched and there was nothing he could do about it.

He finally saw the fire marshal emerge from the black smoke, covered in soot and dust, his eyes tearing from the fumes, his body crumpling with each sustained burst of coughing.

Carrigan flashed his warrant card and the marshal stopped, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, leaving it streaked like a soldier on night patrol. Behind them, Geneva was helping the uniforms set up a perimeter, the crime-scene tape screeching and mewling like a hungry infant as it was stretched across the road. Carrigan turned to the marshal. ‘Any idea what we’re looking at?’

‘One hell of an insurance claim,’ the man replied, and when Carrigan gave him a dark look, he laughed. ‘Just kidding.’ His name-tag said Weir above the left pocket and he was short and squat. ‘It looks like the fire’s been going for at least an hour. We’ll be lucky if we can save anything.’

Carrigan wrinkled his nostrils at the smell, an acidic reek of burning plastic and wood that settled at the back of his throat. ‘Is it safe to go inside?’

Weir shook his head. ‘Too dangerous, these houses, too much wood, everything’s collapsing.’ On cue, a tremendous crack split the air and a burning beam sheared off from the front of the house and landed in the garden, exploding in a shower of sparks. Carrigan felt flashes of heat and light behind him and turned to see a news van parking alongside, two cameramen already out and snapping photos. ‘Christ!’

The fire marshal grimaced. ‘Made their day, this has.’

Carrigan liked the man’s understated cynicism and was glad he was in charge. He was about to ask him something else when a muffled cry turned them both in the direction of the burning house.

Initially, Carrigan could see only smoke and fire, and then he made out the faint outline of a couple of bodies emerging from the darkness. At first, he thought these were survivors but then, as the smoke cleared, he recognised their yellow helmets and dark dusty jackets.

He followed Weir across the street. They reached the edge of the garden and the heat was terrible, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. The firemen emerging from the smoke were carrying something and, as he got closer, he could see that it was one of their own, blackened by soot and convulsing as if in the throes of an epileptic fit. The marshal immediately called the paramedics stationed nearby. Carrigan could tell that the injured man was on the verge of slipping away, his face red and blotchy, the skin already pulsating, his eyes rolling white into their sockets.

Weir spoke to the fallen man, held his hand and squeezed it gently, then stood up. ‘Jesus . . .’ he said, wiping his brow. ‘He’s been in the house. He’s been upstairs. You better listen to him.’

Carrigan knelt down, feeling the sweat and heat engulf him, and he could only just make out the man’s voice above the roar of the flames.

‘What? What did you say?’

The injured fireman tried to repeat what he’d said but he broke into a fit of coughing, vomiting a thin yellow stream of bile onto the pavement beneath him. ‘There’s . . .’ his voice wheezed and stuttered and broke, ‘upstairs . . . body . . . bod . . .’

Carrigan leaned closer until he could smell the man’s burned flesh, dark and funky and familiar in his nostrils. ‘There’s a body up there?’

The fireman shook his head and even that small movement seemed to cause him incalculable pain, his eyes turning small and pale. ‘Mm . . . mm . . . more than one.’

‘How many?’

The fireman started convulsing again, his teeth cracking loudly against one another.

‘All over the place . . .’ he coughed and spluttered and retched. ‘Everywhere . . . there’s fucking bodies everywhere.’

Ambulance sirens now added to the general noise and chaos. The fire continued burning, the wood cracking and breaking, the sizzle and hiss of water hitting flame filling the night like the beating wings of a thousand butterflies.

‘I need to get inside,’ Carrigan said, sweat dripping into his eyes.

The fire marshal was signalling his men, pointing out areas of the blaze they weren’t covering. He was talking on the radio, his voice low and deep as he recounted the situation, his eyes fixed on his fallen colleague being stretchered into a waiting ambulance. He put down the handset, took off his gloves and pulled a packet of chewing gum from his pocket. ‘Want one?’

Carrigan shook his head. ‘When can we go in?’ He was impatient now, wanting to see what was waiting for them in there, what they would have to deal with over the coming days.

‘Not for a couple of hours at least,’ Weir replied. ‘Not unless you want to end up like him.’ Carrigan followed his eyes towards the stretchered figure, groaning and gasping in pain as they raised him onto the ambulance bed.

‘I need to get in there,’ he repeated. ‘I need to see what we’re dealing with.’

Weir nodded. ‘We don’t get this under control in the next hour, all you’ll be dealing with is ashes and dust.’

Carrigan found Geneva helping the uniforms extend the cordon. The public were swaying and cramming against the blue-and-white crime-scene tape, their mobile cameras held aloft, shopping bags discarded for the moment as they posed in front of the burning building. He pointed to a small cleared space and led her away from the noise and press of the crowd. He kept having to wipe sweat from his face and he was tired and hungry and pissed off he’d missed his movie. Geneva called for more back-up as Carrigan rounded up the uniforms.

‘Stop looking at the fire,’ he told the young constables, ‘and start looking at the people looking at the fire.’

They stared at him, confused and disoriented. ‘Start asking questions. Some of these gawpers might have seen someone running away from the scene, they might have been here when this started. They won’t be here long. Once the fire’s out, the entertainment’s over, and they’ll go back to their homes and we’ll never know what they saw.’ He stopped to wipe away more sweat popping on his forehead. ‘Look for the usual, anyone who suddenly decides it’s a good time to leave when you approach, anyone staring too hard . . . and pay close attention to people’s hands when you’re interviewing them.’

‘Their hands?’ a petite female constable asked. She didn’t look old enough to get served in a bar.

Carrigan nodded. ‘Look for anyone with soot or dust on their hands, but what I really want you to do is smell them.’

‘Smell them?’ This time it was all three uniforms who stared up at Carrigan as if a madman had taken over the case.

‘Yes. The crowd are too far away to pick up the smell. Here . . .’ He raised his arm and pulled on his sleeve. The cloth released its vapour and he watched with satisfaction as the uniforms wrinkled their noses. ‘That’s what you smell like if you’ve got too close to the fire. But, more importantly, look out for anyone who stinks of petrol.’ He watched as the young female constable took notes. ‘Do you have a video camera in the patrol car?’ he asked her.

‘We do.’

‘Good. Go get it. I want you to circle the crowd and film them. Do it several times so you get everyone.’

‘Film them?’ She stopped writing and looked up from her notebook.

‘People who start fires like to watch them burn,’ he replied, remembering a course he’d attended on this very thing, several years back. ‘They love to see their handiwork, it’s what gets them off. Chances are whoever set the fire is standing in the crowd right now, watching it.’

‘How do we know it’s not accidental?’ she asked.

‘We don’t, but if it’s not then this is our only chance at this.’

The sound of crashing drums and squealing guitars burst through the night. Carrigan and Geneva looked up and saw a group of people standing on a balcony diagonally across from the burning house. They were passing around a bottle of champagne, smoking cigars and watching the fire with rapt expressions. ‘Christ,’ Carrigan muttered. ‘Someone tell these jokers this isn’t some bloody Christmas party.’

The uniforms nodded and avoided Carrigan’s eyes. They chatted among themselves for a moment then spread out to tackle the crowd.

‘You okay?’

He hadn’t even realised she was still standing beside him. ‘I can imagine better ways to spend my day off. Do you have any idea why Branch called us in?’

But Geneva wasn’t paying attention. He saw her look past him, squint, then frown.

‘You can ask him yourself,’ she said, pointing over to the perimeter and then quickly turning back. ‘Oh my God, I hope that’s not who I think it is with him.’

Carrigan brushed some of the dust off his jacket. It had mixed with the melting snow and now lay like an oil slick across his clothes and face. He straightened up as Branch approached but it was the other man he was watching.

‘Assistant Chief Constable Quinn,’ he said neutrally, as the pencil-thin figure next to Branch stepped forward. ‘I’m surprised to see you here.’

Quinn came to a stop a foot away from Carrigan. He was a tall bony man, all angles and points, always neat and fastidious, with a whispery moustache perched on his upper lip, making him look more like a mournful pre-war bank clerk than the third most important man in the Met. ‘And why is that?’ Quinn’s dry enunciation filled the air around them, crisp and hard as a whipcrack. ‘Do you all imagine that I do nothing but sit behind a desk?’

Carrigan had never been able to read the man and couldn’t tell if this was his attempt at humour or a rebuke. ‘I just meant this is a fire, accidental for all we know. Why bring my team into this?’

Quinn sucked the insides of his cheeks, his eyes probing Carrigan’s as if searching for some obscure meaning behind the words. ‘I happen to live on this street,’ he said, pointing behind him. ‘I heard the fire engines, looked out and saw where it was. I called DSI Branch immediately.’

Carrigan was certain he’d missed something. He glanced over at the burning house then back at Quinn. ‘Where
what
was?’

‘The fire, young man, the fire,’ Quinn replied tersely. ‘Now, DI Carrigan, let’s stop wasting time. What do we know?’

‘Not much as of yet,’ Carrigan admitted. ‘Still too dangerous to go in, but one of the firemen reported seeing bodies.’

‘Oh no,’ Quinn said, cupping his forehead.

‘What?’ Carrigan saw the ACC’s face sag and blanch, saw Branch shaking his head. ‘What is that house?’

‘It’s a convent.’ Quinn looked up and Carrigan noticed the rings circling his eyes, the drawn and puckered skin, late nights, smoke and booze, a lifetime of bodies and blood.

‘A what?’ He wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

‘Nuns, DI Carrigan, nuns lived there.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘Yes, quite,’ the ACC said. ‘I want you on this, Carrigan. I asked Branch specifically. The work you did last year, that dreadful child soldier thing, earned us some good points with the public. I want you in charge.’

‘Sir, I think we should wait and see what the fire investigator finds . . . it’s just as likely this was an accident.’

Quinn seemed to be weighing this up. ‘Just as likely, yes, you could say that. But how would we look if this turned out to be intentional and we were caught behind the curve on it?’ He pointed to the two white vans. ‘The press are already here, Carrigan. The press are already asking questions.’

Carrigan nodded, noting that Branch hadn’t said a word during the entire conversation. ‘Do you know how many nuns lived there?’

Quinn turned to Branch and smiled for the first time, his lips sticking defiantly together. ‘See, Jason, that’s why I want him on board, already asking the right questions.’ Branch’s eyes turned small and fierce as Quinn addressed Carrigan. ‘Ten, Detective Inspector, ten nuns lived there. My wife occasionally helped them. She’s very upset, as you can imagine.’ Quinn’s eyes suddenly narrowed. He looked up as a blast of reggae made its way from the balcony across the road. ‘What in God’s name are those people doing?’

‘Someone’s on their way over.’

Quinn nodded curtly, conferred with Branch, then brushed some of the black snow off his suit and disappeared back into the smoky night.

‘Not my decision.’ Branch was sweating heavily, his face blotchy and crimson.

‘Didn’t think it was,’ Carrigan said.

Carrigan watched the fire being extinguished. An hour passed and then the fire marshal approached him.

‘You ready?’ he said.

Carrigan nodded and followed Weir past the cameramen setting up their tripods, the reporters practising their lines, the sound of triggered car alarms and distant guitars wailing.

‘How bad is it?’ Carrigan asked as they went through the gate.

The marshal looked up at the blackened shell of the house and shook his head. ‘Bad,’ he said. ‘Really bad.’