Remains to be Seen (8 page)

‘Indeed I will, sir. He should go far, in due course. Being black and reliable and good at his job. If he was only female and lesbian he'd go even further, but that would be a difficult transition for a six-foot-three hard bugger, wouldn't it, sir?'

Tucker, who seemed quite unconscious of his own prejudices against women and ethnic minorities, winced at such political incorrectness in his DCI. ‘When I advised you to keep a close eye on DC Northcott, I meant that one of his background would need—'

‘Good to know that you're aware of his progress and his potential, sir. Could be a candidate for the Masons, before he's finished, our Clyde!' Percy chortled delightedly at the notion.

Peach's chortle was a frightening thing. Tucker shuddered and decided to relinquish the subject of DC Northcott. ‘Anyway, the main thing is that we did well last night. Our preliminary planning session was well worth while. That's the secret of success, you know, Peach. Forward planning.'

Percy was not aware that his chief had made any contribution at all to the planning of last night's activities, but he shrugged his broad shoulders philosophically. ‘I'll make sure the CID section as a whole understands exactly how much your overview and your grasp of strategy contributed to last night's success, sir.'

Tommy Bloody Tucker tried to catch his man's eye with an admonitory glare, but found that Peach's glassy stare was now fixed as usual on the wall above his head. He searched his mind feverishly for something which would take this bantam cock of a chief inspector down a peg or two. ‘I understand that the operation was not a complete success. That as well as the casualty we have already discussed, a fire occurred, despite the very substantial police presence.'

‘No, sir.'

‘What do you mean, “No, sir”? The report I have in front of me speaks of very substantial fire damage in a row of terraced dwellings at Marton Towers. Further details to follow, it says, but clearly very substantial damage. So it's really rather silly to try to pretend that—'

‘Fire certainly occurred, sir. Substantial damage, as you say. But it wasn't part of our operation, sir. Very probably had no connection at all with it. The fire did not start, or at any rate was certainly not apparent, until some time after the last police officer had left the scene, sir.'

Tucker leaned forward and made a note on the pad in front of him, frowning as if he were digesting and recording a complex abstract idea. ‘I'll make that clear if any of these journos try to raise the matter of the fire at my media conference. Good point that, Peach. No fire until after the last police officer had left the scene. I'll remember.'

‘Yes, sir. Pity about the damage: it's the part of the house which used to be the stables, in Victorian and Edwardian days. No impairment of the main house where we snatched the drug villains, fortunately. I'll be able to let you know how extensive the destruction of the cottages and offices is, in due course.'

‘Oh, there's no need for you to get involved, Peach. Leave it to the fire-service boys: just make it clear that the fire was nothing to do with us, and keep away, is my advice.'

‘Can't do that, sir.'

‘Really, Peach, I think I must insist—'

‘Further details have just come in, sir. As you said they would, when you mentioned the fire. I'll liaise with the fire-service personnel, but it seems there might be a need for police involvement, after all.'

‘If this fire was nothing to do with the raid last night, there really seems little point in—'

‘There's a body up there, sir.'

‘A body?'

‘A corpse, sir.' Peach chose monosyllables wherever possible, and spoke as if he was spelling out the idea to a slow-learning child. ‘Found this morning, in one of the cottages, sir. Very little of it left, sir, it seems. I'm going out there to see exactly how much now.' He looked into the wide-eyed countenance of his superior officer and allowed himself a grim smile. ‘Remains to be seen, as you might say, sir.'

Marton Towers had an estate of just under a hundred acres. That was modest by comparison with the great English estates, which had originated in medieval days and then been extended by judicious marriages and by supporting the winning sides in national upheavals. But it was large for the first half of the nineteenth century, when this impressive and rather grandiose residence had been built.

In modern east Lancashire, when twelve houses and more were crowded on to each precious acre, a hundred-acre estate was huge. It was enclosed by a seven-foot-high stone wall, which would in itself have cost as much as a small row of terraced houses to build. The lane which provided the only vehicular access to the Towers ran alongside the wall for a quarter of a mile before it reached the front gates. At the rear, where the boundary of the estate climbed gently up the lower slopes of a hill, the wall was just as well maintained, but rarely troubled by a human presence.

Sometimes the odd adventurous hiker would scale the low ridge behind the house, but no footpath was marked on even the large-scale Ordnance Survey maps, and the sheep who were pastured on this rolling and sparsely wooded ground were normally undisturbed.

On this Thursday morning, a solitary pair of eyes gazed down from the shelter of a group of beeches on to the rear view of Marton Towers. The pale March sun of the earlier part of the week had deserted Lancashire; the day was dank and chill, with the threat of a little drizzle or even sleet before nightfall. From behind the smooth trunk of a mature tree, the man watched the thin column of black smoke, which rose slow and straight into the still air. Then he took a small pair of binoculars from the pocket of his anorak and studied the site of the fire, which had so ravaged this particular section of the estate on the previous evening.

The single long line of what had been a pleasingly symmetrical appendage to the main house was now broken. There was an ugly gap towards one end, where thirty yards of what had originally been the slated roof of the stables had disappeared completely. On each side of this, partly ruined walls projected irregularly, like broken and blackened teeth.

On the other side of the scene, where there was access from the road, there were no doubt vehicles and activity, but from this man's viewpoint on the hill, the ravaged scene looked almost deserted. He had seen a red fire engine leave ten minutes ago. Even from eight hundred yards away he could catch the acrid smell that always hangs about a scene when ancient mortar and dampened wood have been consumed by fire and then doused by foam and water.

He knew where he was going to scale the wall. Stone walls weren't difficult, unless they had been exceptionally well maintained. Seven feet of smooth brick could give you problems, but in stone it was normally easy to find foot and hand holds.

He was over the wall in five seconds, dropping with simian agility to the grass within and moving swiftly to the cover of a clump of rhododendrons, which were heavy with buds. He moved cautiously nearer and nearer to the site of last night's conflagration, until he could see at first hand the blackened and splintered beams he had studied through the binoculars from half a mile away.

No one looked out to the rear of the ravaged masonry, even when he moved to within twenty yards of it, even when he could hear the sound of voices from within, even when he could catch the odd word of what was being said. And from here, he could see what he had not been able to see from the hillside.

There were long blue-and-white plastic strips stretched between newly erected posts at the front of the place, on the side of the gap which was nearer to the main house. They enclosed a rough rectangle which he thought was probably thirty yards by twenty, which began at the rear wall of the terrace which was now so near to him and extended for perhaps ten or fifteen yards out beyond the front wall.

The man knew what this denoted well enough. The police were here, as well as the firemen. These plastic strips were marking out a scene-of-crime area.

He moved swiftly but with no real haste back to the rhododendrons. He had thought he would escape undetected from the scene, but when he was almost back at the spot where he had scaled the wall, there was a shout from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a uniformed constable, stepping over the blackened rubble and commanding him to stop. It was an order he was never going to heed.

He was back over the wall as swiftly and easily as he had entered, his trainers and his hands slipping swiftly into the crannies which gave him leverage. Then he was away up the hillside, gaining height efficiently over ground he knew well. The sheep started away in groups from the route chosen by this unfamiliar intruder, but no hunters pursued him.

When he looked back, the police constable had vanished. The man did not linger on the hillside. He had seen all that he needed to see.

D
CI Peach felt entitled to a ritual police grumble as he settled himself into the passenger seat of the Mondeo. ‘The police surgeon confirmed death at ten o'clock this morning. A formality, as usual. A waste of public money, when we're perpetually told how much policing costs.'

‘You mean the local forensic physician. That's what we call them nowadays.' Lucy Blake corrected him with some satisfaction, whilst giving her full attention to the town-centre traffic.

‘Clever little sod, aren't you, at times?' Peach glanced sideways at his driver, studying without embarrassment the dark-red hair, the faint freckling where it met the forehead, the clear aquamarine eyes studying the road ahead, the tilt of the small chin, the rounding of the left breast beneath the blue sweater, the thighs which moved so smoothly and efficiently as his DS changed gear.

‘Finished your survey, have you?' said Lucy acidly. You couldn't do much about it when you were driving, but you might as well let him know that you were conscious of his appraisal.

‘Just like to make sure that police personnel are in good working order. I don't get enough chances to study you in profile.' He observed the passing scene as they reached the suburbs of Brunton, waved cheerfully to an old lady coming out of the post office. You got to know a great number of the citizens, worthy and unworthy, when you worked for ten years in a town with a population of under a hundred thousand.

‘I don't like being appraised like a prize pig,' DS Blake said primly.

‘Like the Empress of Blandings,' said Percy, recalling a memory of P. G. Wodehouse from somewhere deep in his subconscious. He smiled, in fond reminiscence of a more innocent time in his own life, watched the hedgerows which were beginning to appear, and said, ‘You're still resentful about last night's operation, aren't you?'

‘It was a very efficiently conducted snatch, from what I hear. My only point is that I should have been involved.' Lucy was aware that she was beginning to sound petty, and was immediately annoyed with herself. ‘But I've already made my views clear on that.'

‘Indeed you have, DS Blake. Abundantly clear. But I'm sure your mum will be delighted that I didn't subject you to the danger of being shot to pieces. That the sweet body I've just been checking on is still in prime condition.' Percy smiled contentedly as they turned off the main road, on to the lane which would eventually take them to Marton Towers.

‘Don't you dare discuss such things with my mum! She already thinks I should be stuck at home washing nappies.'

‘Ah, the wisdom of age. If only our society would imitate others and acknowledge that the passing years bring a wisdom which is denied to the young!' Percy shook his head sadly. ‘Anyway, there isn't much washing of nappies nowadays,' he pointed out in his mildest voice.

‘I'm talking the way she talks,' said Lucy with irritation. ‘Kindly leave the subject, please.'

‘All right. Let's just point out that you may have missed last night's little excitements, but you're now on your way to the investigation of a suspicious death.'

‘You think this is more than just a victim of the fire?'

Peach adopted an excruciatingly over-the-top Hollywood accent. ‘I gotta hunch, doll. I gotta hunch, kid. And in this game, you gotta play your hunches, babe.'

Lucy shuddered histrionically. ‘Don't give up the day job.'

The high gates of Marton Towers stood open and the gatehouse seemed to be untenanted. Peach gave it scarcely a glance as they passed, fearing obscurely that even an unspoken recollection of the previous night's action might provoke his DS into renewed recriminations.

They put on the paper suits, slipped the plastic bags over their feet and made their way cautiously between the plastic strips which denoted the designated path marked out by the scene-of-crime team. This one was still directed by a police officer rather than the civilian who was becoming increasingly common.

Sergeant Jack Chadwick was an old colleague of Peach's. He had been forced to leave CID for this job after a serious injury suffered whilst apprehending armed villains conducting a bank raid. He greeted Percy like the old friend he was, nodded at Lucy Blake and said, ‘It's a grim one, this. But you'll have a better stomach for it than your boss.'

In the strange argot of the police service, this was a compliment. It meant not only that he knew Lucy Blake but that he rated her as a copper. She wasn't some shrinking violet of a woman who was likely to keel over at the sight of blood or a particularly horrid corpse, but a valued colleague. The notion was silly, out of date, understated and perfectly understood by all the parties involved.

Peach said, ‘Where do we go, Jack?'

Chadwick gave him a grim smile. ‘There are two scene-of-crime areas here. Overlapping and perhaps connected. There's the spot where the fire started, and there's a body, within a few yards or so of that spot. It's still quite possible, of course, that neither will be the scene of a crime. That we are investigating an accidental fire and an accidental death.' His tones indicated that he felt that unlikely.