Scared to Live (5 page)

Mr Lowther was officially described in the forms as a managing director. In Fry's experience, most managing directors looked as though they'd eaten too many corporate lunches and Rotary Club dinners. But Lowther didn't. He was a big man, but had kept his leanness. Regular squash, or business not so good? For a moment, Mr Lowther was distracted by the fronds of a tree fern that hung near his chair. He reached out to tear a bit off the plant, with the air of someone who had no idea what he was doing. When he leaned over, Fry noticed that Mr Lowther's shirt buttons weren't fastened properly. One hole was empty, and its button had been fastened too low, so that part of his shirt hung untidily over his waistband. 'That was all Brian could tell me, really. He said that the house was on fire. And that he thought Lindsay and the children were still in there.' 'What did you do?' 'We went up there, of course - to Darwin Street. But the fire was all over by the time we arrived. They wouldn't let us go into the house. So then we went to the hospital, but Brian was sedated. We sat around for hours before someone came and told us that Lindsay and the boys hadn't survived. It was horrible. It seemed as though we were almost the last to know.' 'It can feel like that sometimes. But people have their jobs to do.' 'Yes, I know. But it doesn't really make it any better. Can I ask you something now?' 'Go ahead, sir.' 'Do you have any idea how the fire started?' 'Not yet. We think the seat of the fire was downstairs in the sitting room, but we need to examine the house more closely before we can be sure about anything.' Mr Lowther's gaze drifted away again, and Fry's attention was caught by the traffic on the A6. It had slowed suddenly as an unexpected type of vehicle mingled with the cars and

vans, displaying an entirely different pattern of movement. Even through the double glazing, Fry thought she could hear the creak and rattle. For a moment, she wondered if Pride and Prejudice was being filmed again somewhere nearby. 'A stagecoach has just gone past on the road down there,' she said. 'It was being pulled by four big grey horses.' 'Yes, they're Dutch Gelderlanders.' Fry turned, surprised to see Mrs Lowther standing in the doorway, her eyes dried, her voice almost steady, as if she'd made a great effort to bring herself under control. 'Beautiful, aren't they?' she said. 'Right. You've seen them before, then?' 'Sometimes there are two of them drawing a landau.' Henry Lowther glanced at the window, but didn't seem interested. 'The fire must have been caused by faulty wiring or something, I suppose. They'll find out what went wrong, won't they?' 'We don't know yet whether it was an accident,' said Fry. But Lowther shook his head. 'No, no. It can't have been started deliberately. I might just about imagine one of the boys playing with matches. But not arson.' 'We should know soon enough, Mr Lowther.' 'You don't understand. There's no one who could have had any reason to start that fire deliberately,' he said. 'It just isn't possible. Lindsay would never upset anybody. And as for Jack and Liam ' He stopped, as if finding himself unable to express the impossibility in the case of his grandsons. His anguished expression suggested that the idea of harming them was physically beyond comprehension. His wife caught a surge of his emotion and began to cry all over again. 'What about Brian?' 'He wasn't even at home,' said Lowther. Fry watched him, trying to detect an accusatory note in his voice. But perhaps it hadn't occurred to the Lowthers yet that

their son-in-law ought to have been at home with his family, should have been there to protect them, even if it meant he'd have died in the fire too. It would come later, that anger, the readiness to find someone to blame, if only for not being there. 'Nevertheless, do you think there might be anybody he could have got on the wrong side of? Someone who might want to take revenge on him?' 'You've met him, haven't you?' said Mrs Lowther, between sniffs. 'You can see he's harmless. What could he have done to anybody to make them commit an evil act like that, just to get back at him? It doesn't make sense.' Her husband nodded. 'Besides, Brian doesn't mix with people who'd do that sort of thing. He's a despatch manager in a distribution centre.' On the corner table was a set of photographs in silver frames. Smiling faces, boyish grins, a baby balanced on someone's knee - the Lowthers' grandchildren. Fry could see that Jack and Liam were fair-haired, with the pale look of their father. But the baby, Luanne, was much darker. The biggest frame contained an entire family group - Brian and Lindsay with all three children, their youngest child held proudly out front, taking centre stage as if it was her birthday or something. Fry felt an urge to pick the photos up and look at them more closely, but she was afraid it would distract the Lowthers' attention. Pictures of the fire victims had already been obtained for the case files and the media. She could look at them back at the office, more safely. Instead, she looked down at her notebook. 'Could we talk about the house for a few minutes? I mean, your daughter's address in Darwin Street. I presume you know it quite well?' 'Yes, of course,' said Mrs Lowther. 'We go there often. We were with them when they moved in. I helped Lindsay choose some of the furniture.' Hearing that, Fry knew she'd have to pick her words carefully when she asked the next few questions, or she was likely

to lose Moira Lowther altogether. The untreated polyurethane foam wasn't her fault, but guilt knew no logic. 'First of all, the smoke alarm. They had one installed in the kitchen.' 'Yes, it was installed as soon as they moved into the house. Brian insisted on it.' 'Who advised him where to put it?' 'Advised him? I don't think anyone did. The kitchen was the obvious place. It's where accidents are most likely to happen.' 'I see.' Of course, in one way the kitchen was the obvious place for a smoke alarm. Every day, the fire service could be guaranteed a tea-time call-out to an overheated chip pan somewhere. But if Brian Mullen had bothered to read the manufacturer's instructions he would have seen a different recommendation. If he'd taken any notice of it, he might have kept his family alive. But there were too many 'its' in that equation. Nevertheless, Fry filed away the impression of Brian Mullen as the sort of man who'd toss the instructions disdainfully aside as he whipped out a screwdriver and relied on his masculine instincts to get the job done. 'Lindsay was proud of her kitchen,' said Mrs Lowther. 'It's not six months since she had new units put in, and a canopy cooker hood with a double extractor. It was immaculate.' 'Yes, I've seen it,' said Fry. 'I wonder, during the past few weeks, did Lindsay or Brian mention anyone hanging around near their house, or someone suspicious coming to the door?' 'No, not at all.' Before much longer, Fry had exhausted her questions. To be honest, she was glad to get out of the conservatory and away from the plants. 'What sort of business do you run, sir?' she asked. 'I own a very successful export company. We deal mostly in machine tools, which we sell all around the world. We've

been planning a shift towards computer technology, but that's not our core business right now.' Not a wholesale florist's, then. She'd just wondered. As they went back through the house, she saw begonias and chrysanthemums in the living room. And there were foliage plants everywhere: monstera, yucca, palms. It was like the hothouse at Kew in here. 'Oh, you have a visitor,' she said when they reached the door. A man was coming up the path towards the Lowthers' door. He was taking his time, pausing to smile sadly at the stone angel, stepping carefully on the flattened tortoises. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, smooth faced and wearing an overcoat of a kind that you didn't see very often these days. Fry wondered if he was a journalist. 'Oh, it's John,' said Mr Lowther. 'Our son.' 'Does he live here?' 'No, he has his own apartment, in Matlock. Poor John, he's very upset - he and Lindsay were so close.' 'Is he older than your daughter?' 'No, two years younger.' John Lowther looked at Fry and Murfin curiously as they met on the porch step. 'These people are the police, John,' said his father. 'They're here about Lindsay and the boys.' 'We were close. Did they tell you?' 'Your parents? Yes, they did.' 'I'm shut up completely.' 'I'm sorry?' But Lowther was looking at Gavin Murfin. 'I like your tie.' Murfin looked aghast at getting a compliment. 'Er, thanks.' 'Are you all right, Mr Lowther? I know it must be a very difficult time for you.' His eyes travelled back towards her, but failed to focus. 'Pardon? What did you say?'

'Have you thought of seeing your doctor?' Lowther laughed. 'I don't see my doctor, because he's not here.' He went into the house, where his mother greeted him with a sob and a hug. Fry and Murfin walked back to the car. For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Then Fry started the engine and drove slowly back down the road. 'A bit of a teacake,' said Murfin. 'What?' said Fry, thinking he was talking about food, as usual. 'That Lowther bloke. He's a bit of a teacake.' 'You mean John? Come on, Gavin, you just didn't like him because you thought he was gay.' 'What if he was?' protested Murfin. 'I don't judge people like that. Well, not any more. I've done the course.' 'Yeah, right. You've learned not to say out loud what you're thinking, that's all.' Murfin sniffed, but didn't deny it. 'Besides,' he said, 'you don't have to be gay to admire my tie.' 'No, just colour blind.' 'Well, did you like him?' asked Murfin. 'He was a bit odd, I suppose.' 'Two sandwiches short of a picnic, more like.' Fry sighed. 'Is it getting near lunchtime by any chance?' 'Well, now you mention it ' 'All right, all right.' Fry knew when to give in to necessity. She couldn't understand the way Gavin lived to eat, instead of the other way round. Sometimes she thought that most of the people around her had life upside down, or back to front. Take the Lowthers, for instance - they had a garden full of furniture, and a house full of plants. Something wrong there, surely?

In Foxlow, a police patrol arrived outside the gates of Bain House at about a quarter past one that afternoon. Thirteen sixteen hours, according to the incident log. PC Andy Myers pressed the intercom button on the gatepost a few times, but got no response. 'Maybe it's not working,' said his partner. 'I can hear it buzzing.' 'Well, Control can't give us a phone number for her.' 'She must be ex-directory.' 'So what do we do, then?' Myers looked at the wrought-iron gates and the stone pillars on either side. 'One of us has to get his arse over these gates. There should be a release on the other side. Mind the spikes when you get on top, Phil. They look lethal.' 'Oh, thanks a lot. Don't strain yourself, will you?' 'I'm the driver. I have to stay with the car.' Myers watched his partner struggle over the gates, grumbling all the way as he tried to avoid ripping his uniform or impaling his hand on a spike. Finally, his boots crunched down on to gravel at the other side and he found the release button to open the gates. 'The bloke who phoned in was a farmer name of Cross,' said Myers from the window of the car. 'He says there's a bedroom window open round the back somewhere, and a light on.' 'Why didn't he climb over the bloody gate, then?' 'Him? He'll be long gone, ploughing his sheep or something.' 'You don't get out into the country much, do you, Andy?' The two officers went up to the front door and knocked. They still got no reply. Myers began to walk round the side of the house. 'Yes, I can see the open window,' he called. 'I'm trying the back door.' 'Anything?'

'No.' 'Nor here, either. Think we ought to go in?' 'I don't like this open window,' said Myers. 'There's a burglar alarm - you can see the box up there on the wall. And security lights, too. She's not some careless householder who'd leave her property insecure.' 'I'll call in and let Control know what we're doing.' 'OK, Phil. Then you'll have to find a window to get through on the ground floor. I wouldn't give much for your chances of reaching that open one.' 'Hey, wait a minute '

When Fry and Murfin arrived in Darwin Street, a man was standing in the garden of number 34. He seemed to have appointed himself some kind of supervisor, checking that everyone attending the fire scene did their job properly. He was holding a small digital camera and squinting through the viewfinder at a SOCO in a scene suit carrying two bulging plastic bags towards a van. 'Hoping to sell some photos to the press, sir?' asked Fry. He glowered at her. 'No such luck. They've all been here and done their own pictures, TV cameras and all. These are for my records.' 'Records?' 'I'm in Neighbourhood Watch. This'll come up at the next meeting, you can bet. I was right here from the start, you know. In fact, it was me that rang 999.' 'Would you be Mr Wade?' 'That's me: Keith Wade.' He was either overweight or so bundled up in sweaters that it was impossible to judge his shape. He was sweating a little, but whether that was from excitement or exertion, she couldn't tell. Keith Wade looked like a man who'd spent all his life in the driver's seat of a lorry, eating egg and chips at truck stops and gradually turning pear-shaped.

'Did you happen to take any photographs during the fire, sir?' she asked. "Course I did. Look ' He turned the camera round and held it up as he fingered the controls. A picture appeared on the LED screen. It was very dark - almost black, but for a dull, reddish glow. Only the faint outline of a roof and chimney stack could be made out at the top of the picture. 'Are they all like that?' 'I followed the progress of the fire, and recorded how quickly the emergency services arrived. I took some with the flash when the firemen were here, but all I got was a lot of glare off the reflective strips on their jackets.' 'We'd like copies of any shots you took during the fire.' Wade looked pleased, then his face fell. 'I haven't got a colour printer.' 'That's all right. Have you got internet access? You can email them to us.' 'Yes, I can do that.' Fry gave him her card, and he fingered it happily. 'Detective, are you?' 'That's right.' 'Is that usual?' 'What?' said Fry, ready to react to some sexist remark. 'Sending a detective to a fire.' 'When there are fatalities, yes.' 'Fatalities, right. The two kids were killed, weren't they? Never stood a chance, they reckon.' 'And their mother, of course.' He nodded. 'Tragic. I knew Lindsay and Brian pretty well. We've been neighbours for six years.' Wade's house was so close to the Mullens' that the smoke had stained his walls, too. Pools of water lay in his garden, and someone had trampled a flower bed on their way to the fire.