Alan felt a rising surge of panic as he drove Brutus aggressively through what passed for rush hour traffic in the Fens: mud-splattered gang buses driven hard and fast, their passengers asleep or nodding-off in the back; tractors everywhere and small go-faster cars driven by young men with cropped heads and sticky-out ears. Two times he nearly smashed into gang buses that wouldn’t pull over, their teenage drivers scared of the deep water-filled dykes alongside them.
As he drove, he thought about the bungalow he once called home. He didn’t have many valuables. His laptop was nearly ten years old; his stereo system was a robust ghetto-blaster from his student days and what could only loosely be called his wardrobe were old jeans and second-hand shirts from local charity shops and could fit into a suitcase. But his library was another matter. Alan’s extensive reference books ranged from Teach Yourself Archaeology, which his father gave him on his eleventh birthday, to the latest green hardback volume of the Danebury project, on research at Windy Dido, Cholderton, Hampshire. Alan loved all the scientific work which is such an important part of modern prehistory. Science was bringing the Neolithic and Bronze Age to life in a way that would have been impossible, even when he was a student. No, the thought of those books and that knowledge going up in flames was unbearable.
Most of the slush and mud that had melted during the day had vanished from the better travelled roads, but as soon as he turned off the main Boston–Spalding route, he found the smaller lanes were still very treacherous. A frost was making things worse and as he turned into Tubney it started to snow. He had expected to see blue lights flashing, but there were none. The roof of his bungalow had completely fallen in, the windows were broken and the front door smashed. There were a few thin wisps of steamy smoke still coming from deep inside the building. Alan leapt out of Brutus and was striding over to the shell of the house when he was intercepted by a uniformed fire officer with a clipboard.
‘Are you Mr Cadbury?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I’m Chief Officer Clark. I’m afraid I can’t let you inside, sir.’
‘You don’t understand. My books…’
Clark gently but firmly held Alan back.
‘The structure is unsound. We’ll be sending in a team to secure it and retrieve what they can first thing tomorrow. I’ll ensure that they prioritise the library.’
Alan looked up at this kindly bear of a man. He must have been in his sixties, at a guess. There was genuine sympathy and concern in his eyes.
Suddenly the enormity of the situation hit him. His home, which smelt like it oozed petrol from the walls, was – had been – a deathtrap. It would have taken the smallest electrical fault to set the fire off. If Paul hadn’t called the meeting today, if he hadn’t stayed on late chatting with Harriet. If whatever had caused this had happened on any other day, or in the middle of the night…
Alan felt his legs go weak.
Clark gently steadied him.
‘Looks like you could do with a drink, sir,’ he said as he guided Alan through the falling snow and into the Hat and Feathers.
As they entered the pub a couple of the regulars rose to their feet and patted Alan on the back. Four older men, who had remained at their table playing dominoes, raised their glasses to him.
They sat down at a round table in the bay window. Sandy the landlord came over and placed a large tumbler of whisky in front of Alan with a gentle, ‘It’s on the house.’ Alan took a sturdy gulp and felt the back of his throat burn.
Clark took out a pen and noted the time on his clipboard.
‘I’ll try to keep this as short and painless as possible.’
Alan managed a weak smile.
‘Firstly, the landlord here tells me that they can provide you with a room whilst you sort things out.’
To Alan’s surprise, he felt his eyes prick with tears. Such a simple act of kindness. Clark looked down at his clipboard, allowing Alan a moment to compose himself before he asked his next question.
‘I must ask, do you have any urgent medical needs?’
‘I think the whisky’s taken care of that.’
Clark gave him a brief smile and pressed on.
‘So no prescription drugs went up in the fire?’
Alan hadn’t thought of that.
‘No.’
‘And was the house insured?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘That’s good, sir. You’ll need to inform your broker as soon as we’re finished.’
Alan nodded, and gestured to Clark to continue.
‘Now to the fire itself. We’ve isolated the cause to your electricity meter at the back of the property. A connection had worked loose and had ignited what looked like rodent nest-litter in the cavity, behind the plasterboard. It spread into the building through an enlarged cable feed access in the house wall. At that point flame damage was very extensive. Do you have any idea why that hole would have been enlarged?’
Alan had indeed noticed the hole because mice had used it to find their way into the house earlier, in the autumn.
‘I assume the previous occupants of the house had drilled it through, probably because they needed a three-phase supply for their business…’
‘Which they conducted on the premises?’
‘Yes. They were scrap-metal merchants.’
Alan could see Clark’s lips frame the words ‘Bloody Dids’, but no sound escaped.
‘So do you think they did some of their work dismantling, and that sort of thing, in the house?’
‘Without a doubt. The place stank of petrol and diesel when I took it over. And I could never get the smell out of the phone. It would probably still stink, if you could find it under all the rubble.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. I’ve been doing this job for over forty years and those travellers, they’re always causing problems. Start no end of fires.’
‘What, deliberately?’
‘No, usually by accident. Incompetence. Burning insulation off pinched cables, or setting cars and lorries alight when they’re cutting them up. Mark you, it’s not the real Gypsies who do it. They’re fine. Good people. No, it’s those travellers – Irish mostly.’
Alan had heard people say this dozens of times. He reckoned it went back to the 1840s when Irish labourers sought work in England, after the potato famine. Presumably, he thought, stories like this will be circulating about Poles, Latvians and Estonians in 2150.
Clark was referring to his notes again.
‘It says here that the enlarged cable access through the wall had been blocked with painted wood, which burnt and allowed the flames into the kitchen. Can you throw any light on that, sir?’
Alan smiled.
‘Yes, I can. I blocked the hole when mice broke in last September. Used a bit of old window frame I found in the shed. Oh yes, and plenty of filler. Not a very professional job, I’m afraid, but it worked. Until today, that is.’
‘I don’t think you could have anticipated what was to happen, sir. I’d have probably done something similar myself.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We were very surprised at the speed with which the flames spread through the property and my young assistant investigator made certain observations – none of them conclusive, mind – which might indicate that they had been encouraged in some way.’
‘Are you suggesting I might have done it as an insurance scam?’
‘My assistant investigating officer suggested that some flammable material might somehow have been introduced.’
‘From outside? What are you suggesting – arson? I was up in Lincolnshire at the time. Lots of people can vouch for that.’
‘Oh no, sir, I’m not suggesting that for one minute. But you know what these college courses are like: my assistant had just been on one and his head was full of all sorts of clever ideas. I think this was one of them.’
‘Yes, you’re right: it doesn’t make any sense at all, does it? Why would anyone in their right mind want to burn down a grotty bungalow in a remote Fen village?’
‘Don’t worry, sir, I won’t even mention it in my report. Best not cause any problems the loss adjusters might seize on. You know what they’re like…’
The landlord appeared from behind the bar with a large basket of logs. He tossed a couple onto the fire and headed back. Alan rose to his feet.
‘I know you’re not allowed to drink on duty, but it’s a horrible night. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to join me in something from the bar? The beer’s excellent here and Sandy stocks a fine selection of malts.’
‘I know I shouldn’t, sir, but it’s my retirement party in two days’ time, so I think we can allow ourselves to bend the rules on this occasion. And as you say, it’s a very cold night. So yes, I’d love to join you in a nice peaty malt.’
Alan took his time at the bar. The shock of the moment was passing, but Clark’s words were echoing through his mind. Arson? That would require a motive. A bloody serious motive, at that.
He returned to the table with a tumbler of water and two doubles of ten-year-old Lagavulan. He couldn’t afford it, but what the hell. They touched glasses.
‘To a happy retirement!’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir. Cheers!’
They both sniffed and sipped. Gorgeous. Clark was the first to speak:
‘My own view,’ he was now sounding very official, ‘which you have confirmed beyond any doubt, and which will appear in the report, is that the spread of the flames was enhanced by petrol, fuel oil and diesel that appears to have been stored on the premises by the previous occupants. It probably soaked into floors, window and door frames. Possibly into the roof joists too, if they also made use of the attic.’
Alan took his time to respond. His reply seemed to come from miles away:
‘Yes… Yes… That all makes sense.’
The fireman ignored him. He had found a hobby horse.
‘Between ourselves, sir, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they didn’t also have a nice little sideline pinching diesel and fuel oil from farms in the area. Many of the smaller farmers are only now starting to fit locks to their tanks. A few years ago there were easy pickings for light-fingered people, in many remote yards out in the fen.’
But Alan needed to discover more. He leant forward and asked confidentially:
‘Between ourselves, what did you learn from your assistant investigating officer? The thing is, I work with many students and in my experience universities and colleges put so much trendy rubbish into their heads, they often can’t think clearly. They can’t spot the obvious, even if it’s jumping around and about to bite them on the nose.’
As Alan had hoped, he had raised a subject dear to the fireman’s heart.
‘Oh, tell me about it! College courses! Loads of clever science, but not an ounce of good old-fashioned common sense. Frankly, it makes me sick. Those lecturers all draw fat salaries, but none of them could extinguish so much as a baby’s night light. ’
‘That’s a relief,’ Alan said. It was time to add more fuel to the discussion.
‘I thought the theoretical garbage was confined to archaeology alone…’
While he was saying this, Alan could see that Clark was sitting back in his seat, looking hard at him. Then he raised his hand. Alan knew what he was about to hear.
‘That’s right…’ Clark said slowly, ‘I thought your face was familiar. Haven’t I seen you on History Hunters?’
Alan nodded and smiled.
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I have. I’m a great fan. I never miss an episode and I watch them all again and again on the Past Times Channel.’
Alan was surprised it had taken the best part of a double malt to release the admission, but it was welcome, nonetheless. From now on it would be easier to get to the truth.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I’ve done a few episodes with them.’
He paused to take a sip from his malt. He didn’t want the conversation to be diverted.
‘But I’m interested that colleges seem to be the same everywhere.’ He continued, took another sip, then asked, ‘You mentioned your assistant had been to college recently?’
‘Yes, he was on a two-year sandwich course. It finished a couple of months ago. My boss says he’s going to be fast-tracked to the top. God help us all.’
‘What did he think about the fire?’
‘As I said, he reckoned some accelerant had been added.’
‘Really? But how?’
‘Mostly it’s done from outside, through a broken window, or less commonly under pressure, using an aerosol or sprayer. They generally use petrol pinched from parked cars.’
‘And he said there was evidence for this?’
‘“Slight evidence” were his precise words, which in my view would be best and simplest explained by the earlier occupants storing diesel inside the premises.’
‘But where did he…’ Alan was groping for the right words, ‘Locate, come across, the evidence?’
‘The kitchen. Near and around the cable access from the meter box.’
For Alan that made plenty of sense. But he kept those thoughts to himself.
‘Well doesn’t that simply tell us, that’s where they stored the fuel, stolen or otherwise? People in the pub have told me they didn’t use the kitchen for cooking. They preferred their caravan parked outside.’
‘It’s odd that, isn’t it,’ Clark said, ‘but I’ve heard of it before. Lifelong travellers would rather sleep and eat in a caravan and use the house as a secure store.’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied, now deep in thought, ‘in a strange way it does make sense, doesn’t it? You look after your livelihood. Your ill-gotten gains. Without the money from them you can’t buy any food to eat at all, can you?’
Clark had stood up.
‘No sir, you’re right: it does make some sort of sense. And now I’d better be getting along. It’s been a great pleasure meeting you, Mr Cadbury, and don’t be concerned, my report will say nothing that might trouble you or your insurers.’
No Alan thought, it almost certainly won’t.
But it wasn’t the prospect of meeting the loss adjuster that was troubling him now.
Alan took another large whisky up to his room. He was in no mood for a night in the bar, being quizzed by well-meaning locals. He stood by the window, gazing out at the shell of what had passed for his home. The snow was falling fast now and settling on the exposed beams. The gutted structure was taking on the appearance of a lopsided skeleton. Without thinking he reached into his pocket and pulled out his tobacco and papers. Then his brain registered what his hands were doing and suddenly, staring down at the ruins of his house he resolved to stop smoking. And this time he was determined to succeed. He threw the papers, one by one, out of the window and flushed the tobacco down the toilet. He felt far better now.
The persistent ringing of his mobile phone broke into his thoughts. The screen flashed up the name: Richard Lane. The last thing Alan needed right now was another ear bashing. But he knew what Lane was like – he’d just keep on calling. Alan reluctantly answered.
‘Alan, how are you?’
‘To be honest, Richard, this isn’t the best time.’
‘I know. I was at work when the call came in about the fire. Are you at the scene now?’
Even in his exhausted state, this made Alan smile. Lane was a policeman through and through. He didn’t really do civilian conversation.
‘Not quite. I’m next door. At the pub.’
‘Stay there. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
‘I’m fine. There’s no need…’
‘Mary’s sorting out the spare room as we speak.’
Again, Alan felt the beginning of tears. Again, he blinked them back. It took him a good ten minutes to talk Lane round and explain to him that the pub really was his preferred option for the evening.
When Lane was finally satisfied, Alan switched off his phone and closed the curtains so that he no longer had to look at those ghostly remains of his house. He was overwhelmed by Lane’s simple concern and his generous offer. But it was impossible. Lane would see through him in an instant. He would know that Alan was hiding something, withholding information, the one thing that he had promised not to do. But the facts of the matter were too difficult, too potentially damaging, for Alan to share with anyone, let alone a police detective.
If it was arson, there was only one likely suspect.
He had spelt it out to Ali: the exact location of his home, he’d even bloody well told him about the diesel. He’d handed methods and means to him on a plate.
The question was, if Ali had talked, then who did he tell, and why?
And lurking behind that question was another, almost too disturbing to think about: if Ali was capable of ordering an arson attack, then what kind of man was he? The kind of man who could kill his own sister?