Destruction of Evidence (4 page)

‘The fire escape…’ Ken began.

‘Is off limits. It’s red-hot.’

‘Could whoever I saw have fallen from it?’

‘If he’d landed in the yard we would have found him, or her. Do you know where the Pitchers sleep?’ the officer asked.

‘Alun and Gillian’s bedroom is on the second floor from this level, third from the back of the house,’ Ken answered.

‘Front or back windows?’ the fireman pressed.

‘Alun and his wife sleep at the front. Left-hand window, one of the boys is in the room to the right, another has the two rooms at the back, but I don’t know which son sleeps where, other than the eldest. Lee Pitcher has a room in the attic.’

The fireman ran back shouting orders. A few minutes later a hydraulic platform was raised level with the second floor windows.

‘Alun’s sensible,’ Frank murmured. ‘Once he realised the house was on fire and the stairs impassable, he would have led Gillian and the boys up to the attic.’

‘It was on fire,’ Ken reminded him.

‘You only saw fire at the back of the building. The front is filled with smoke but it’s not blazing. There are skylights in the attic, aren’t there? The Pitchers are probably sitting on the roof right now wondering why it’s taking the firemen so long to reach them,’ Tim’s voice was sharp

‘The firemen at the back of the house should have seen the person I saw… unless…’ Ken faltered. He recalled the force of the explosion that had shattered the kitchen window. The fire escape was at the side of the house but it was within blast distance of the windows and the fireman had said it was “red hot”. Had another window blown out when he’d been walking back to town? Had the force thrown whoever he’d seen off the escape and a rush of air somehow sucked him back into the flames? He shuddered at the thought.

Another fireman approached them. ‘You have evacuated the pub, Tim? All of your rented rooms and self-catering cottages?’

‘Been evacuated along with the whole street,’ Frank confirmed for the landlord. ‘The only bugger we couldn’t move is May Williams. She’s sitting above us in her window now, enjoying her grandstand view.’

‘She should be moved…’

‘She’s an invalid and a cantankerous one. You want to move her, you try.’ Frank folded his arms across his chest.

‘I spoke to one of the senior fire officers. He agreed the wind’s blowing away from this side of the street. Frank and his fellow police officers are monitoring the situation. If there’s a threat to Mrs Williams’s house we’ll try again to move her,’ Dr Edwards interposed.

‘You don’t think the fire’s going to spread to the pub, do you?’ Tim asked, suddenly concerned when a shower of sparks rocketed high into the night sky. ‘The accountant’s office is in between…’

‘All depends on what combustible materials are in the buildings. The wall the accountant’s shares with the Pitchers’ is hotter than hell. We got the keys from the manager and the boys have been in to check. I’ll get someone up on the roof of the accountant’s to check the Pitchers’ roof in case they made it up there.’

‘See, I told you that’s what Alun would do.’ Tim seized on the conjecture.

‘Alun wouldn’t go up there if the fire escape was all right…’

‘But it’s not, is it?’ Tim interrupted Ken.

‘Now. It was when I first saw the fire.’ Sure of his facts Ken was more insistent than he had been earlier.

‘No one could stand on the escape at the moment without full protective gear, that’s for sure.’ The fireman returned to his colleagues.

Ken watched the firemen on the platform adjust their breathing apparatus before axing their way through the window into Alun and Gillian’s bedroom.

Frank moved between Tim and Ken. ‘There’s nothing you two can do here, so how about setting up a rest centre in your pub kitchen for the fire officers, Tim? It’s time some of them took a break and your kitchen is at the furthest point from the accountant’s before crossing the yard, so it should be safe enough.’

‘If you want me to.’ Tim was clearly reluctant to leave the scene. ‘You’ll let me know…’

‘The minute I have any news on the Pitchers,’ Frank promised.

‘Do you want to come with me, Ken, or do you want to look in on Phyllis in the church hall?’ Tim asked drily.

‘I’ll come with you.’ Ken tugged on Mars’s lead.

‘Remember to serve coffee not beer, Tim.’ Frank shouted after them. ‘The men are on duty.’

‘Once a copper always a copper.’

‘You should know,’ Frank called back.

Tim eyed the dripping, bulging plastic bag Ken was carrying. ‘You struck lucky?’

‘A few trout. Your lodger’s left.’

‘Lodger?’ Tim looked at him quizzically.

‘Larry Jones,’ Ken indicated the archway where they’d dumped him. The only sign that anyone had been there was a pool of vomit and another of liquid.

‘No doubt those are his calling cards, filthy beggar.’

A fireman shouted. A blood curdling cry that cut through the hot, smoke laden air. Ken froze before running back in time to see one officer drag another out of Alun’s bedroom window and on to the hydraulic platform. Tearing their masks from their faces, both officers leaned forward and retched.

Superintendent Regina “Reggie” Moore stepped out of her car, locked it, dropped her keys into the pocket of her lightweight coat and walked briskly towards Frank Howell. He waited for her in front of the safety barriers that had been erected around the burning house.

‘Update me, Sergeant Howell?’

Frank knew better than to give Superintendent Moore anything other than a factual reply. But he cautiously incorporated an element of doubt. ‘Too early to pinpoint cause, but arson can’t be ruled out, Super.’

‘It can’t?’ She raised one finely plucked eyebrow.

A senior officer joined them. ‘Superintendent Moore.’

‘Chief Fire Officer Thomas.’

Frank knew that his Super and Huw Thomas were friends who moved in the same circles but no one would have guessed from the formal approach they adopted on the rare occasions their professional lives crossed.

‘We’ve found one body, Superintendent, and, in accordance with the directives for deaths in suspicious circumstances left it in situ. I’ve called the pathologist but fires are still burning in the cellar, attic and kitchen areas of the building. Even when they’re brought under control – and that could take some time – the shell will be too unstable to admit anyone intent on carrying out an investigative search without securing and shoring.’ Huw Thomas led Regina out of earshot of Frank Howell and the rest of the officers.

She looked enquiringly at him.

‘Two officers saw a corpse on the floor in the doorway of one of the bedrooms. Burned, but not so badly burned they couldn’t see the skull had been shattered.’

‘Are you telling me it was murder?’

‘The room was full of smoke. But the only fires in the room were in a heap of furniture that had been piled at the side of the bed and on the corpse.’

‘The body had been set alight?’

‘All I have are the descriptions given by the officers who went in. You’ll need to send for forensic teams.’

‘I’ll get Frank on to it right away.’

‘You can use our investigative officers as well. But no one will be able to go in until the fire is out and the building has cooled enough for us to secure it. A rough estimate is twenty-four to thirty-six hours.’

‘Can’t you do better than that?’

‘I thought you’d know better than to ask that question.’

‘Any survivors?’

‘None we’ve seen. Officers have checked every room they can access. But that’s not many at present.’

‘How many were inside the building when it went up?’

‘As you know, Alun and Gillian Pitcher and their three sons live there. But so far we’ve only found one corpse. Tim Pryce and Ken Lloyd saw the youngest son, Michael leave the house with his fiancée, Alison, around midnight. They said they intended to spend the night at Bryn Lodge. So we’re presuming four adults.’

‘Where was the seat of the fire?’

‘Ken Lloyd…’

‘The retired meter reader?’ Reggie interrupted.

‘That’s him. He telephoned the emergency services on his mobile from the river bank. And, before you ask, he has a fishing licence.’

‘I don’t have to ask. I’ve met his wife. If I was married to her I’d spend my nights out of the house.’ Reggie showed a rare flash of humour.

‘He saw flames in the attic and moments later a fire in the kitchen that was fierce enough to blow out a window.’

‘Two seats to the fire,’ she mused. ‘Then it’s arson.’

‘Not officially. Not yet,’ the chief warned.

* * *

Frank Howell had called in every police officer, irrespective of whether they were on duty to help with the fire, but he hadn’t managed to raise all of them. Dai Smith who’d been on duty until midnight and Grant Williams who’d taken a week’s leave weren’t answering their mobiles or house phones. Erecting barriers, waking and shepherding the Pitchers’ neighbours to safety, closing Main Street and setting up traffic diversions had kept the remainder busy so he’d done what any enterprising Welsh officer would do in his place. Enlisted the help of a respectable local.

He telephoned a consultant surgeon who lived in a Victorian rectory a mile from Bryn Lodge, told him about the fire and asked him to drive Michael into town without giving him any reason beyond a fire in his parents’ house.

Unsurprisingly, Alison accompanied them. When they arrived, Frank took them to the ambulance. As the paramedics were waiting there in case they were needed, it was hardly private but from the way Michael blanched on seeing his home; Frank decided the boy might need their professional services.

Huw Thomas and the Super climbed into the back of the ambulance with Michael, Alison and Henry Clarke, the ENT consultant who had driven them in.

Michael took one look at their grave expressions and feared the worst. ‘Mam, Dad, my brothers…’

Reggie glanced from Huw to Henry Clarke. Neither of them appeared to be prepared to speak, so she took control of the conversation.

‘… Are they all right?’ Michael began to tremble.

‘We need to know how many people were in the house, Michael.’ She spoke gently.

He stared at her.

‘Were both your parents and your two brothers at home when you left the house?’ she pressed.

Alison answered. ‘Mr and Mrs Pitcher were watching television in the drawing room…’

‘Which is where in the house?’ Huw interrupted.

‘On the first floor at the front of the house.’

‘What were they watching?’

‘What bloody difference does that make?’ Michael snapped.

‘It might make a difference if we know the length of the programme, Michael,’ Huw answered quietly.

‘The news. They always watch the midnight news before going to bed.’

‘And your brothers?’ Regina asked.

‘Lee went up to his room after dinner.’

‘Which was when?’ Reggie took a notebook from her pocket.

‘Around nine, maybe half past. I’m not sure of the exact time.’

‘And Lee’s room is in the attic?’ Huw sat forward on the edge of the bench seat.

‘He has a workshop up there as well as his bedroom. He’s a goldsmith. He’s working on an order for an antique shop in Hatton Garden. Restoring an Edwardian emerald and diamond collar, bracelet and earrings.’

‘Was it unusual for him to go up to his room early?’ Regina questioned.

‘Not when he’s working on something he’s interested in. He loses all sense of time. I’ve known him to work around the clock.’

‘Was your other brother in the house?’

‘James was in the kitchen pouring drinks. He and Dad often have a beer before bed. Mam has a G & T.’ Michael’s eyes were dark, anguished. ‘The fire – when did it break out?’

‘A witness saw flames in the attic and kitchen at around three o’clock,’ Huw answered.

Michael glanced instinctively at his wrist but he’d dressed in a hurry and forgotten his watch.

‘It’s half past four,’ Huw told him.

‘And you only told me now,’ he protested bitterly.

‘No one knew where you were until our officers spoke to Tim Pryce. We assumed you were in the house…’ Huw faltered when he realised what he was saying.

‘You haven’t found any of them have you?’ There was a heartfelt plea in Michael’s question. Huw Thomas thought of his men and what they’d seen in the bedroom.

He hated himself for taking away the boy’s last scrap of hope. ‘I’m sorry; we haven’t found anyone alive, Michael.’ He wanted to add “not yet” but he couldn’t bring himself to utter the platitude.

CHAPTER FOUR

Larry Jones was vaguely aware of noise and confusion. People were shouting. The ground beneath him shaking. Were his cellmates Bimmo and Piggy fighting again… couldn’t they let him sleep… what was that droning… the engine of a plane?

Was he on a plane? Going to Malaga or Majorca? He’d been to both. Booze; girls up for unlimited bonking; and a nightlife to make your eyes water. He couldn’t wait. He opened his eyes, tried to move his head and cried out when shooting pains sliced through his skull.