Up in Flames (3 page)

             
Casey gestured to Catt and he went out into the hall with his mobile. One of the first priorities would be to get positive IDs on the victims. With luck, from the information Angela Neerey had given them, plus dental records, Chandra Bansi, at least, if indeed it was she lying dead in the flat, should be quickly identified. Hopefully, the forensic investigation of the fire and the post-mortems on the bodies would reveal whether the two victims had been killed in the fire or had already been dead and the fire started in an attempt to conceal their murder.

             
Suicide, given what Angela Neerey had told them, was, of course, another possibility, although death by self-immolation was rare. And then there was the baby; a mother would surely not put her child through such a death. But the fact that she had lived in the flat for such a short time was a point against arson; at least, anything other than a random arson. She could hardly have lived there long enough to have made enemies.

             
But it was pointless speculating at this stage. The time for that would be when they had something in the form of evidence to speculate with.

             
Casey’s musings were interrupted by Catt’s return. He gave a brief nod to confirm that Mrs Neerey‘s information had checked out.

             
Angela Neerey had become quiet and they sipped their tea in a reflective, companionable silence. Casey, enjoying this lull before the storm, lifted his gaze to the back garden. It was a warm day with a clear blue sky. The back door was open. A fresh breeze fluttered the flimsy yellow and white gingham curtains and wafted the smell of smoke into the room. From here, he could see the abandoned sun-lounger. A pair of cheap sun-glasses had been discarded a few feet from the lounger, a bright blue plastic glass lay on its side a few yards closer to the house, presumably dropped by Mrs Neerey  when she realised her neighbour’s home was ablaze.

             
Although small, the garden was well-stocked and a kaleidoscope of colour and pattern met his eye. Generous swathes of bright yellowy-orange Rudbeckia with its rich, hot chocolate coloured centre, fiery orange Crocosmia with its branching stems, white and mauve Love-in-a-Mist and many more were crammed in to the limited space. Their fresh beauty struck a harsh contrast with the sight two doors down of charred bodies, twisted metals and blackened walls.

             
Casey turned back to Angela Neerey. ‘Did you hear anything from next door? Screams or cries? I understand you were in your garden when you first noticed the fire.’

             
She shook her head and cupped her hands round her now cooling tea. ‘Unfortunately, I had my headphones on,’ she explained. ‘I was listening to Rock music. I like my Rock good and loud.’

             
It was Saturday lunchtime, a time when most people would have been home. Casey hoped one of the other neighbours might have heard something. With the weather so warm there would be open windows and doors, so any noises or cries would be easily audible. It was now nearly 2 p m. Mrs Neerey had reported the fire around one o’clock. Conscious of the passing time, and all that had yet to be accomplished, Casey pressed on. ‘Tell me, was Chandra security conscious?’

             
Angela Neerey nodded. ‘Yes. So am I. Let’s face it, a woman alone is an easy target. And after the local arson cases, being Asian, she must have felt even more vulnerable. That’s why I’m surprised her father put her in the flat when her in-laws threw her out, instead of taking her back home.’

             
So was Casey.

             
Thinking about the victims’ Asian background prompted him to ask, ‘Do Chandra’s parents speak English?’ Obviously Chandra did, but she was of the younger generation. Often the middle-aged and elderly Asians kept to their own people and had little occasion to speak English.

             
‘Her father seems to. Of course, I’ve done little more than pass the time of day with him, but he understood my colloquialisms well enough. I don’t know about his wife, though. She just smiled and nodded on the couple of occasions they visited. I don’t even know their names. As I said, Chandra only lived there a few weeks, so I had little time to discover more.’

             
She seemed to have discovered most of Chandra’s short life history in the brief time she had known her, Casey reflected. And if this should turn out to be more than an accident and more than a random arson, it might be fortunate for the investigation.

             
He heard a rapid rat-a-tat. Casey leaned over and gazed up the hallway. PC Keane stood at the open front door. He called down the hallway. ‘The pathologist’s here, sir.’

             
Casey nodded, thanked Mrs Neerey for her help and handed her his card. ‘If you think of anything more, please ring me.’

             
Dr Arthur Merriman, the Pathologist, was the complete antithesis of his name; A Merry Man he was not. Thin, severe and not at all given to the telling of jokes, macabre or any other kind, he was just getting into his protective gear as they approached his car.

             
Casey and Catt, who had stripped off their protectives before they spoke to Chandra’s neighbour, Angela Neerey, quickly climbed back into them. ‘It’s like a war zone in there,’ Casey warned the pathologist. ‘Better get a helmet.’

             
After borrowing another hard hat from the fire crew, Casey led the way through the smashed front door of number 5a and gestured Dr Merriman ahead of them towards the back room.

             
As the pathologist stood on the threshold of the room studying the damage, Andy Simmonds, one of the forensic team, called over to Casey. ‘That looks the most likely seat of the fire,’ he said and pointed to an area of charred floorboards in the middle of the room. Apart from the adult’s corpse and clumps of plaster, the area was bare of articles that might have started the fire. ‘Curious,’ was Simmonds’ comment. ‘Unless we’ve got a case of spontaneous combustion...’ He nodded around him. ‘You can see the progress of the fire across the room.’

             
Casey took his word for it. The room didn’t ‘speak’ to him as it obviously did to Simmonds.

             
‘If this does turn out to be arson, I’d check out the local hospitals.’ Simmonds went on, ‘Arson can be a hazardous business — and not just for the intended victims.’

             
‘What do you mean?’ Casey asked.

             
‘Petrol evaporates at a very low temperature, so if there was a delay between setting an accelerant and lighting it, enough vapour can rise to create an oxygen-petroleum mixture that explodes — a fireball. Any arsonist may have sustained burns to their hands and faces. The local casualty departments could provide a rich source of suspects.’

             
Casey thanked him for the tip and added, ‘I’ll get it checked out.’

             
Dr Merriman had approached the first body while Casey and Andy Simmonds were talking. Without comment, he studied the corpse of the adult where it was lying on its back a couple of feet or so away from the area Andy had described as the likely centre of the fire. The body was covered in chunks of plaster from the ceiling.

             
The room looked even more desolate from the inside. Water from the firemen’s hoses still dripped down the blackened walls. What remained of the furniture was just springs and bars, the metal had twisted and contorted till, to the imaginative, each piece looked like a strange crouching beast, skeletal and sad.

             
Catt, seeing the still strangely undamaged blue idol in the corner, nodded at it and commented, ‘Must be a god of fire and naturally protected from flames.’

             
Casey didn’t correct him. But, as he had reason to know, the Hindu god of fire was
Agni.
And although he had lost his usual peacock feathers, Casey recognised him as
Krishna;
the many-faceted Hindu god, and while his many followers were particularly passionate, fire didn’t come under his sway. If he remembered rightly, the festival celebrating his birth was around this time of year.

             
The SOCOs in their hard hats and masks were still busy, collecting their various samples. Every so often one of them would call out to the civilian photographer to get a shot of something. Since the spate of local arson attacks Casey was becoming sadly familiar with the routine.

             
Dr Merriman beckoned them forward. Casey and Catt moved gingerly, trying to disturb as little as possible.

             
‘Fierce blaze.’ As usual, the pathologist got straight to the point. He spared little time for social pleasantries. His thin, dry voice revealed no emotion as he added, ‘The adult has sixth degree burns. The infant, from the little I have so far observed, seems to have been burned to a lesser degree.’

             
Casey knew this was the highest category of burn. He could see that the skin tissue and muscles were mostly destroyed with the damage extending to the large blood vessels and bones. And as he stooped over the body on the floor, he noticed the trauma to the skull. ‘Looks like she was bludgeoned.’

             
Dr Merriman, as always, was non-committal. But his voice took on that irritating lecturing tone that Casey knew so well ‘Such injuries can be caused by fire. Intense heat, such as occurred here, can subject the soft tissue to splitting. The skull is particularly vulnerable to such damage as the bone is so closely underlying the skin.’ In an aside presumably not intended to sound macabre but nonetheless managing to make Casey’s skin crawl, he added. ‘I’ve seen corpses where the heat build-up in the head causes the skull to explode.’

             
Casey grimaced. Catt, too, looked a bit green. He pulled a face as they exchanged glances. The pathologist went on to tell them that, as usual, any definitive answers would have to wait till the post mortems.

             
Dr Merriman directed the photographer to take more pictures of the cadaver on the floor. Just then, Casey and Catt were called away by Constable Anderson, one of the uniformed officers he had directed to search for discarded accelerant containers.

             
As he led them through the rear entrance and out of the back gate, Anderson told them, ‘We’ve found a vacuum flask chucked amongst the rubbish in the alleyway. It still contains a small amount of what smells like petrol.’

             
Something positive, thought Casey as he quickened his step. ‘You didn’t touch it?’ he questioned.

             
Anderson shook his head. ‘No, sir. Besides, I had my gloves on.’ The young officer held white-gloved hands in the air as if looking for approval.

             
Casey nodded. ‘Good man. Get a photographer and one of the fingerprint team here.’ As Anderson  hurried away, Casey lowered his head and sniffed the contents of the red vacuum flask where it lay nestled within the open folds of a black, plastic bin liner. His nostrils flared as he caught the distinctive and pungent odour of petrol.

After the flask had been shot and tested for prints, it was bagged and tagged ready to be sent to the lab.

              Casey commented quietly to Catt, ‘With Mrs Neerey’s claim that she smelt petrol shortly before she noticed the fire, plus Andy Simmonds’ conclusions, this is the clincher. Our arsonist is now a double murderer.’

             
Casey told a hovering Anderson to contact Sergeant Imry at the station and get an Incident Room set up. ‘And find a few spare bodies and start a house-to-house. Someone must have seen something.’

             
Casey paused for several seconds after the young officer, speaking into his shoulder radio, had hurried away up the alley. He gazed up at the warm, blue sky with its few cumulus clouds wafted by the soft breeze. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. The light breeze had changed direction and was blowing the smoke from the fire away from them, towards the centre of town. It smelled fresh and clean now, faintly scented with lavender — no doubt from Angela Neerey’s well-stocked garden. He sighed, then asked sadly, ‘What sort of person can set out, on such a day as this, armed with petrol and deliberately, callously, wantonly, destroy two young lives? What kind of creature could decide to kill on a day that should make you think only of the joys of life and its free and simple pleasures?’

             
Catt glanced up at Casey’s set face, noted the sooty-lashed eyes were at their most vivid green and attempted an answer. ‘Somebody mad. Somebody bad. Somebody dangerous to know.’

             
‘Perhaps whoever did this was all three.’ Casey paused for a few seconds to absorb the horror. ‘While we’ve got a minute, tell me. I gather you managed to obtain the details of the victims’ family?’

             
Catt nodded. ‘The father’s name is Mr Rathi Khan. His wife’s Savitri Khan. They live about half-a-mile from here, in Great Langley.’