In Cold Daylight (13 page)

‘Yes, I’ll be there.’ I rang off and almost instantly my phone rang again. This time it was Brookfield. At last.

‘Adam, I’m sorry but the incident reports you want aren’t available. They’ve been taken away for data entry; the system is being computerised.’

How bloody convenient, I thought, trying to stem my disappointment
.
Of course it was a lie and if it was a lie then was it Brookfield who was lying or was some power higher up pulling the strings? If that were so then this thing was bigger than even I had guessed at.

I stared down at the scrapbook. Someone was going to a great deal of trouble to keep a secret, and one that had cost lives and was still costing them. I knew I couldn’t give up. Even if it meant my death, I had to continue. I was surprised to find that the thought exhilarated me rather than frightened or depressed me.

‘Here’s to you, Jack,’ I said quietly, tossing back the remainder of my drink. I thought I almost heard him answer.

It was almost 8.30am the next morning when I called at the fire station.

‘Ian’s gone sick. His doctor’s put him on anti depressants and signed him off for a fortnight,’

Motcombe, the gangly fireman, said in answer to my enquiry.

Blast. ‘Could you give me his address; I’d like to talk to him about Jack.’

‘Not sure that’s a good idea, Adam. He’s pretty cut up.’

‘Perhaps it will help him to talk,’ I suggested.

Motcombe didn’t seem convinced.

‘What do you want to know? Perhaps I or one of the others can help.’

I didn’t blame him for being protective towards one of his colleague. I knew from Jack that there was a strong mutual bond of support between the fire fighters. ‘Why did Jack swap with Ian?’

‘No particular reason. We do that sometimes.

Why do you want to know?’

How much should I tell him? It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, just that I thought the fewer people who knew about my investigations the fewer I would put in danger. I erred on the side of caution. ‘I’m just trying to make some sense of Jack’s death, I suppose.’

Motcombe looked sympathetic. ‘It’s hard I know. There is no reason for it, Adam. It was just one of those things.’

‘You’re right of course.’ After a moment I said more brightly, ‘There is another reason for my visit; it’s to do with my painting. I wondered if you could show me around the station so I can get a feel for the place?’

‘Of course.’

We ended the tour in the appliance room. The wide doors that led on to the rear yard were open.

The watch was getting ready to change over. My eyes caught sight of a board to my right. ‘What’s that?’

‘The manning board.’

I crossed to look at the coloured tallies hanging on the small hooks, each tally was engraved with the name of a fire fighter.

Motcombe explained. ‘The board shows which watch is on duty, the tallies are colour co-ordinated to match the watch: red for Red Watch, green for Green Watch and so on. The red tallies are on the manning board at the moment because we’re on duty but they’ll shortly be changing over to Green Watch for the day duty.’

At the top of each of the four columns on the board was a set of initials. ‘What do those mean?’

‘Wrl means water tender ladder, Wrt is the water tender, TL stands for turntable ladder and SEU

stands for special equipment unit. The fire fighter’s tally is then hung on the relevant hook to indicate which appliance he or she has been assigned to.’

‘So where would Jack’s tally have been on the day he died?’

‘Here, to show he was on the water tender ladder, riding in the back, wearing breathing apparatus.’ Motcombe indicated the appropriate spot on the board.

‘And it would have been there after he swapped with Ian?’

‘Yes. Initially the manning sheet would have shown Jack driving the water tender and Ian wearing breathing apparatus. I seem to remember that they swapped after Dave read out the duty roster that morning and then the tallies were changed over.’

So, if they knew where to look, someone could easily have slipped into the station when these doors were opened and seen that Jack was on the water tender and wearing breathing apparatus, which meant he’d be first into a fire.

I thanked Motcombe and headed for my interview with Honeyman’s solicitor. He told me nothing. I left his office fuming as his brittle voice echoed in my head: ‘That is confidential, Mr Greene.’ He’d uttered it after my every question.

Damn him. I hoped all his clients would sue him.

I called Steve Langton to tell him what Brookfield had said about the fire reports not being available.

‘Snap,’ he replied. ‘I got the same response.’

So it wasn’t Brookfield who was lying, unless of course he had also lied to the police.

Steve said, ‘I was going to call you.’

‘You’ve got something to tell me about the investigation?’ I felt my heartbeat quicken.

‘I’ll meet you in the Wayside Café in ten minutes. Do you know it?’

I did. It was only about a half mile from the solicitors.

I arrived before Steve and took my coffee to a table the furthest away from the window. Then I got to thinking. Perhaps Steve was going to tell me something about Ben’s death, which had nothing to do with Jack’s investigation. Had the police found new evidence that connected me to it? Had the old lady reported me? If she had, I reasoned, Steve would hardly ask to meet me, and in a café, unless he wanted to warn me. I’d find out soon enough.

I was shocked to see how tired and worried he looked. There was a deep frown line creasing his forehead that hadn’t been there last week and his shoulders seemed more hunched than usual as if the heavy workload had suddenly become a strain for him. Steve had always seemed to thrive on it before.

‘You’re working too hard,’ I said after he sat down with his coffee.

‘Try telling the Super that!’

He stared at me with an expression that made me feel uncomfortable. It was as if he was trying to see inside my mind.

‘I wasn’t involved in Ben’s death,’ I said quietly.

‘I know.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. He believed me.

‘How did he die, Steve? Inspector Staples was reluctant to tell me he thought I already knew.’

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this. Drugs overdose.’

‘That’s what the newspaper article said.’

‘Yes, but what it didn’t say was that Ben Harrow wasn’t a regular user.’

It took a moment for his words to sink in.

‘You’re saying someone administered it?’

‘I’ll get crucified if anyone finds out I’ve told you this.’

‘You haven’t,’ I said quickly, wondering why he
was
telling me.

‘He was shot full of heroin and there was nothing to indicate he had even used the substance before.’

‘Not a nice way to kill yourself, which means it must have been…’

‘He could have got some on the street, didn’t know how much to use being new to it…’

‘Yeah and my middle name is Rembrandt.

Apart from me was there anyone else seen with Ben? Where did he go that morning? Who did he meet? The old lady with the poodle said she heard him talking to someone.’

‘You’ve spoken to her? For God’s sake, Adam!’

‘I think he was killed to set me up. No, listen.

I’ve been asking questions about Jack’s death –’

‘Stop there. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.’

Steve studied me. The tune of a familiar Christmas song floated through the steamy atmosphere of the café. After a moment he sighed heavily, shifted in his seat and ran a hand through his hair before speaking. ‘Do you still think there was something funny about that breakin at Jack’s?’

Eagerly I said, ‘Yes, and there’s more. I’ve been to the fire station and –’

Steve held his hand up to staunch me.

‘Whatever it is, Adam, forget it.’

‘I can’t do that,’ I replied flatly.

‘You might after you hear what I’ve got to say.

This morning I got hauled up in front of the Super. He wanted to know all about you and our relationship.’

A chill ran down my spine. I was beginning to understand why Steve looked so worried.

‘He ordered me to drop both cases. In precisely twenty minutes time I’m off for a short secondment to Basingstoke.’

‘Did he say why?’ I asked, my heart and mind racing.

‘No. It’s clear though someone wants me out of the way for a while. Whoever it is doesn’t want me mixing with you and they don’t want me, or you, poking around and asking questions about Jack’s death.’

I knew it. If ever I wanted confirmation here it was. ‘Then Jack’s death wasn’t an accident.’

Steve urged, ‘Adam, you don’t want to know about it and neither do I. I’ve got a wife and three boys to support.’

‘I can’t leave it, not now.’

‘You must. If I’m being pushed away that can only mean one thing, another agency is involved: National Crime Squad, Special Branch, MI5?

Take your pick.’

‘Why would they be involved?’

Steve leant forward and lowered his voice even though there was no one near us in the café and the music was loud enough to drown out our conversation. ‘Because whatever Jack was investigating must have national ramifications.’

‘You mean a scandal involving someone high up in government?’ Why did William Bransbury automatically spring to my mind?

‘Either that or a national operation involving government secrets. It could be terrorism, international fraud, drugs…’

‘People have died, Steve.’ I said quietly.

‘And you could be next in line if you’re not careful,’ he snapped.

‘You’re not suggesting that one of these government agencies would kill me!’ I said incredulously.

‘Why not? It’s happened before. It could have happened to Jack.’ Steve sat back.

I thought for a moment. Then, ‘Can you find out which agency is involved?’

‘No I bloody can’t.’ Steve shouted. Then more quietly, ‘Go on holiday, Adam. Go sailing, forget it.’

But I couldn’t do that. Maybe Steve saw the determination in my face because he frowned at me and said, ‘I didn’t know you were so bloody stubborn.’

And scared, I thought. I said, ‘Someone has to pay for the deaths.’

‘It might just be you.’

‘Get off to Basingstoke, Steve.’ I was on my own.

I returned home and went straight to switch on the computer. While I waited for it to load I looked around my studio: the canvasses, the brushes, the rags, the palettes and pots of paint, they were all still here as they had always been, but it wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same anymore. And yet, despite being half scared to death, I didn’t want to go back to how my life had been less than a month ago – with one exception: I wished Jack were still alive.

I watched the spam programme on the e-mail roll down until I had one message left in my inbox out of the fifty-five that had come through.

It was the one I’d hoped for but it didn’t contain the information I wanted. The Marine Accident Investigations Board reported no ship fire in 1994

in or around Portsmouth or anywhere in the Solent. I felt the disappointment keenly. I had been so convinced I was right. I telephoned the Maritime and Coastguard Agency and after a short while, which to me seemed like an age, they confirmed the same. Dead end. So if it wasn’t on a ship the fire had to be either where Honeyman had lived or stayed. Could it be that hotel?

I pulled out Vic Rushmere’s scrapbook and re-read the report on the hotel fire but it revealed nothing and it seemed highly unlikely that anything inside the hotel could have caused cancer. Perhaps Sam Frensham could enlighten me I thought with little hope. If Jack, Des Brookfield, and Sandy Ditton couldn’t recall it what hope had I of Sam Frensham doing so?

Rosie had given me the location of Sam’s hotel as being just outside Stow on the Wold, in the Cotswolds. I found the details of it on the Internet and arranged to see him that afternoon.

It would only take me an hour and a half to get there on the bike.

It was just gone three when I rode up the long gravel driveway to the old Manor House, which looked old enough to have accommodated King Charles I. I was shown into an office just behind the main reception by Sam who proved to be a jovial man, in his mid fifties with a balding head and twinkling blue eyes. I liked him immediately.

‘You said on the telephone this is about Jack Bartholomew.’ He waved me to a seat by a modern desk, which was in sharp contrast to the rest of the hotel. On the desk sat the latest state of the art computer. ‘Good man, Jack, one of the best.’ His blue eyes looked sad for a moment. ‘I remember him coming on watch as a probationer. He was slightly older than the usual recruit because of his navy service. Joined when he was in his late twenties. I think I was in my late thirties then. There was about ten years between us. Good fireman. Loved the job. Never wanted promotion though he was good enough and clever enough to get it, but sitting behind a desk wouldn’t have suited Jack. He was a real action man.’ He smiled as the memories flooded back. Then he shook his head. ‘Bloody shame. I don’t suppose they’ve caught the little bastards who put that gas cylinder inside the building?’

‘It wasn’t kids and it wasn’t an accident.’

Sam looked surprised.

‘It’s my belief that gas cylinder was placed there deliberately and the building flashed up in order to kill Jack.’ Sam was eyeing me as if I’d gone mad. ‘It’s a long story.’ I wasn’t sure if I should take him into my confidence and if so how much I should tell him. I liked his easy manner, his genuine concern, his kind words about Jack, his unquestioning hospitality at a very busy time of year, and I could tell that his staff liked him by their manner towards him.

Sam said, ‘If there’s anything I can do to help you only have to ask. Jack was my buddy. He and Rosie stayed here a few times.’

I told him as much as I dared, leaving out the attempt on my life, Ben’s death and my arrest.

At times Sam stared at me with an incredulous expression on his face, at others he scowled; several times he sat back and ran a hand over his bald head, seemed about to say something, then stopped himself.