Smoke Alarm (13 page)

‘Addy was asleep?' he asked eagerly, grabbing at this one straw.

Martha hesitated. She really did wish that she could spare the man this but she had a duty to tell him the truth. It would all spill out in the inquest anyway. ‘She had pulled the bedclothes over her head, Mr Barton,' she said. ‘The fire officer's opinion was that she had been too frightened to try and make her way to the door.' There was no need to torture the man by pointing out that even had she reached the door the attempt would have been futile. She simply added, ‘I'm sorry.'

The man's resolve broke down then, but still in a quiet and contained way. He groaned and covered his face with his hands. Martha let him grieve. Her own belief was that grief is healthy. It is a tribute to the dead. It is
lack
of grief that chews you up and gnaws inside you like a rat in a box. But she noted that it was the description of his daughter's fate rather than the image of his wife desperately trying to escape that had finally cracked him.

Interestingly as soon as he had recovered his wife didn't feature in his next question either. He asked, in a tight voice, ‘And my father?'

And Martha read a thousand accusations in that one, simple question. ‘Your father also died of smoke inhalation,' she said. ‘His body was found on the landing. It's possible . . .'

Barton cut her short then. ‘Possible,' he said, opening his eyes. ‘What's possible? That my muddled old father locked my wife and daughter in their bedrooms and then set fire deliberately to the house? Murdering them?'

Martha realized then that deep down Barton really was suffering, torturing himself with this scenario.

‘We don't know that for sure, Mr Barton.' She felt she had better prepare him. ‘We might not ever know for sure exactly what the sequence of events was. In the meantime, don't you think you should give your father the benefit of the doubt?'

Barton let out a heavy breath and said nothing.

Martha decided to do a little ‘digging'. ‘Tell me a little about your father? He caused a fire before, didn't he?'

‘We were never quite sure,' Barton said slowly. ‘Dad said he was just . . .' He stopped. ‘It was hard to know sometimes what was in his mind. He'd talk about things that happened years ago as though they'd happened yesterday. And another time he'd forget whether he'd eaten a meal half an hour before. He'd ask the same questions over and over again. Watch kids' stuff on the TV.' His face was anguished as he looked at Martha then beyond her. ‘It's my fault,' he said flatly. ‘I was the one who persuaded Christie to keep Dad with us. She wasn't too keen – especially when once or twice he didn't seem to know her, and he could be quite aggressive.'

‘Aggressive?'

Barton looked even more distraught. ‘He got confused. He'd push her out of the way, argue with her, refuse to eat, wash. He was getting more difficult. He took a swing at her once or twice. Gave her a black eye. And another time he pushed her down the stairs.'

Violent
would have been the adjective Martha might have used rather than
difficult
but she realized how important it was to let Barton choose his own words.

‘That must have been very trying for your family,' Martha commented quietly. ‘Not just your wife but also your son and daughter.'

Barton nodded.

‘Was Jude able to enlighten you as to how his grandfather had been over the last few days?'

‘He said he was all right. But, you know.' At last Nigel Barton's face lifted and he smiled. ‘Dad and Jude, they were like this.' He twisted his middle finger around his index finger in the age-old gesture. Martha looked at his face and the fingers and sensed that he had just said something quite significant. But it was beyond her to work out what it was. She frowned and thought,
Time for another spot of digging?

‘When did you go away?'

‘Wednesday morning. I was away for two nights. I had a meeting on Wednesday afternoon, another one on the Thursday and a third one planned for the Friday morning, early, all in the same area so it made sense to stop over rather than travel. I'd hoped to beat the traffic on Friday and get home just after lunch. I suppose,' he said, ‘if I'd been there I might have smelt the smoke earlier and prevented the tragedy.'

‘You might have died too.'

Barton bowed his head.

‘Did you stay away often?'

‘Once a month, rarely more.'

Martha digested this before asking, ‘Was your father less aggressive with you than with your wife?'

‘Marginally. I think he recognized me all right.'

‘And Jude?'

‘Yes – he seemed to always know us. And as I said – Jude and the old man were as close as peas in a pod. It was Christie and Addy that he was difficult with – the women.'

All of a sudden it was as though he realized he would never see ‘the women' again. He sat still, rigidly staring ahead, awash with grief, then again dropped his face into his hands. ‘I don't know what I'm going to do without them,' he said. ‘I can't face going back to the Grange – not ever.'

‘Time is a great healer,' Martha said gently. ‘It is a cliché, I know, but like many clichés it exists because it is true. And I have personal experience of it.'

Barton lifted his head and, with a penetrating gaze, looked straight at her. ‘Thank you for that,' he said. ‘I believe you are sincere.'

And you?
Martha wondered.

She ended the interview with the usual any questions, a promise to keep him informed when the date for the inquest was fixed and a card with the office contact details neatly printed. ‘If you need further information you can contact my assistant, Jericho Palfreyman.' She paused for a moment before overstepping the mark and asking, ‘Do you have any idea who might have done this?'

Barton stared at her. ‘I can hardly bear to think it but I'm fearful it might be . . .' She waited but Barton didn't enlarge and, looking at the grief which scored his face, she knew he suspected his father.

It was almost six when Alex Randall rang the office. She had been about to leave but the interview with Nigel Barton had upset her and she'd decided to work a little later than usual. Jericho had already gone so she picked up the phone herself.

‘Martha.'

‘Alex?'

‘It seems your idea might have borne fruit.' His voice held a small tinge – only that – of respect.

‘How so? You've had lots of calls?'

‘Quite a few. It'll take us weeks to follow them all up.'

‘Any promising?'

‘It's hard to tell, Martha, until you really speak to them. Some callers
sound
really promising but lead to nothing. Some are plainly cranks who just want a bit of attention and company or crave being in on the drama. Others sound like nothing, and they very often turn out to have that nugget of information that slots neatly into place. We'll have to see. We're all working on it. We'll start following them all up from tomorrow. I just thought I'd let you know that it was a helpful suggestion. I owe you one.'

Owe you one? A drink? Something to ponder on her drive home. ‘Thank you,' she responded primly.

‘How did you get on with Mr Barton?'

‘Rather sad, really. He broke down a couple of times. He's convinced it was his father, you know? He says William was aggressive towards Christie and Adelaide. He blames himself; thinks maybe the old man should have been put in a nursing home where he'd have been taken care of. In the end Nigel Barton blames not his father, but himself for having foisted William on them and not having protected his family.'

‘He's convinced it was his father?' Randall sounded very surprised.

‘It would appear so.'

‘You sound hesitant, Martha.'

‘I always worry when the dead are blamed for something. They can't defend themselves. Besides, it doesn't really fit the facts, does it? If William had been fire-raising why break a window from the outside to divert suspicion away from him? Was he capable of being that cunning? Don't tell me someone with Alzheimer's is capable of complicated and future planning? It all seems a bit too neat, a bit too tidy, a bit too convenient. Don't you have any other leads? What about Barton's business associates?'

‘Well, we have one, though whether it will lead anywhere I'm not sure.'

‘What?'

‘Stuart Pinfold paid a brief visit to the UK at the end of February from the twenty-third to the twenty-sixth.'

‘How do you know?'

Randall chuckled. ‘Good old mobile phones,' he said. ‘Wonderful records.'

‘So is he your hot suspect?'

‘Put it like this, Martha: we're looking very carefully at him.'

She hesitated before asking her next question in a wheedling tone. ‘Alex?'

‘Ye-es?' His response was guarded.

‘I'd like to go back to Melverley. Visit the scene again.'

The request didn't seem either to surprise him or to faze him. He answered smoothly. ‘That can be arranged.' He paused. ‘Looking for anything in particular?'

‘I just want to get a clearer picture in my mind. In other words – oh, you know me, Alex. I'm just not convinced.'

He chuckled. ‘I know you, indeed.'

‘Thank you.' She wondered if she'd imagined the warmth in his voice and was misinterpreting his phrase,
I owe you one
. Probably not a drink or dinner or anything else. It was just a response.

‘Will Monday morning be soon enough?'

‘Yes. It'll be fine. See you Monday.' She felt almost gay. ‘Have a good weekend.'

Randall did not reply.

A
lex rang Martha at nine, reminding her of her wish to return to Melverley Grange for a second look and arranging to pick her up at eleven.

Already, just over a week after the fire, Martha could see changes. A car and two vans were pulled up in the drive. Randall handed her a hard hat and put one on himself. Boards had been nailed over the broken windows and as they entered the hall a suited man approached them, holding out his hand. ‘Saul Prendergast,' he said briskly. ‘Insurance Assessor.'

Martha looked around her. ‘Where on earth do you start?' she mused.

Prendergast followed her gaze. ‘Start at the seat of the fire,' he said, ‘look at structural necessities and decide what must be replaced and what is OK. Dreadful business.'

Alex and Martha agreed.

Two men passed them, carrying a Rolled Steel Joist. ‘First things first,' Prendergast said. ‘Make the place safe. Was there anything in particular, Inspector, Mrs Gunn?'

‘Yes.' It was Martha who answered. ‘Take me through the sequence of events, please.'

‘Right.' Prendergast walked into the lounge. The furniture had all been removed as well as the charred carpet and some of the woodwork. There were boards across the ceiling so you could not now look straight up into the bedroom. Prendergast crossed to the window. ‘As I see it,' he grinned, ‘and I have seen quite a few burnt-out homes in my time, the glass was smashed, then the window was opened, either from the inside or the outside. It could have been left open when the householders went to bed or it could have been left unlocked and simply raised. As you can see, it is an old-fashioned sash window.'

Randall was listening intently, his craggy face absorbing the man's words.

‘Petrol was splashed liberally around the room and in other parts of the house too but here and the other downstairs room was the seat of the fire. The stairs were much less badly damaged. I think the curtains, too, were soaked in petrol. The person left, again probably either through the window or possibly the back door. The front door was bolted on the inside. He possibly then threw a match through the open window. There was an explosion, blowing out the frame.'

Martha was studying the window as Prendergast was speaking.

Alex Randall was frowning. ‘If that was how it happened,' he spoke slowly, dragging the words out reluctantly, ‘the person who set the fire going could not have been William Barton, could he?'

‘You mean the old man? Well, if it was him he must have returned via the back door after the fire was set, which seems unlikely.'

‘And when were the bedroom doors locked?'

Prendergast shook his head. ‘It must have been before the fire was lit.'

‘Do you mean before the petrol was splashed all over the place?'

‘Not necessarily.'

Martha was thinking. ‘Can we go upstairs?'

‘Yes, sure.'

They filed up the staircase which had Acro jacks propping up some of the treads. The smell of scorched wood was beginning to recede and a chilly breeze blew through the open door bringing in the cold scent of winter, fires, snow and pine needles. Outside was eerily quiet. Villages are empty on a weekday. Everyone is out at work.

Christie's bedroom was completely empty and dingy as a piece of wood had been nailed across the window. Access boards had been laid across the joists, a temporary replacement for the floorboards which had been burnt. It was a good-sized room, square and high-ceilinged. Martha looked around for a moment then left and crossed the landing to enter Adelaide's room.

This, too, had been stripped bare and the window boarded across. The girl's room was slightly smaller than her mother's but it too faced the front of the house, overlooking the drive, and was badly damaged.

Martha turned to face Randall and Saul Prendergast. ‘If someone had driven up the drive they would surely have heard the car? It wasn't very late, after all.'

Both men nodded. It was Alex who raised the objection, ‘But if our fire-raiser did come by car all he had to do was to leave the vehicle just down the road and approach by foot.'