Scared to Live (14 page)

Now the scene was filling up with personnel. Scientific Support had allocated a couple of SOCOs, who'd waited for Downie to arrive from the lab at Chorley. And the two civilians she could see approaching the outer cordon looked as though they might be the insurance assessors. Great. Fry tried to look on the bright side. This would make a good impression on her next personal development review. It was real team work.

Brian Mullen's hands were still bandaged, and he fumbled a bit taking off the radio headphones when he saw his visitor coming. From the look on his face, Fry thought he was going to leap out of bed and make a run for it. The ward sister had said yesterday that he'd been so frightened he'd fought against being kept in hospital. But what was he frightened of? Not her, surely. 'How are you getting on, Mr Mullen?' she asked, pulling a chair up to the side of his bed. 'Oh, not too bad,' he said warily. 'You're the police, are you?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Everyone's been very good to me. A vicar came round. And there was a counsellor, to see if I needed help.' Now the pinkness in his cheeks had subsided, Mullen looked very pale. He had the sort of narrow, angular face and waxy skin that she'd only ever seen in Englishmen and some Scandinavians. His voice sounded hoarse from the effects of smoke inhalation, and he reached for a glass of water standing on the bedside cabinet. He had to hold the glass carefully between the tips of his fingers because the bandages got in the way. 'I hope the hospital have managed to keep the press away, sir,' said Fry. 'The press? I never even thought about them.' Mullen looked suddenly panicked. 'You've got to talk to the doctors.

Tell them they have to let me go home. I need to get out of here.' 'You're much better here for now, sir. You'll be able to leave when you're fit. Meanwhile, we need to talk to you about what happened at your house.' 'I've already given a statement, you know.' 'An initial statement, yes. But that was only the start of our enquiries. There are a lot more questions to be asked.' Mullen lay back on his pillows and sighed. 'Oh God, I suppose it's necessary.' 'If we're going to find out what happened, it is.' 'Tell me something, though - is Luanne all right?' 'Your daughter, sir?' 'Yes. Is she safe?' 'She's with your in-laws. There's no need to worry about her. Why shouldn't she be safe?' 'I don't know. She's only eighteen months old.' 'A family liaison officer has been assigned. There'll be support from Social Services, too, if it's needed.' 'Right.' Fry watched his bandaged hands twitching, his eyes roving anxiously around the room. She was puzzled by his reactions. But Brian Mullen was a victim right now, a bereaved relative. Protocol called for politeness and consideration. Perhaps she ought to have brought him some grapes. 'Your daughter wasn't in the house at the time of the fire, was she?' 'No. Henry and Moira had been looking after her for a few days, to give us a bit of respite. Luanne wasn't sleeping, you see. She was having us out of bed every couple of hours.' 'I don't have children myself, but isn't eighteen months quite old to be still having that problem?' 'It varies.' 'Did your wife take anything to help her sleep, Mr Mullen?' 'Well, she couldn't when Luanne was in the house, obviously.'

'But on Sunday?' 'Yes, I think she might have done. A couple of pills, maybe.' 'Any idea what she took?' He shook his head, and Fry decided to leave it for a while. She could easily get the information from Lindsay's GP - or even from her bedside drawer. 'As for you, I believe you'd been out for the evening?' 'I won't ever be able to forgive myself for that. I should have been there with my family. I could have saved them, couldn't I?' 'Probably not, Mr Mullen. You could have ended up a fatality yourself.' 'I've been lying here thinking it would have been better if I had died with them. To have survived seems . . . well, it seems like a punishment somehow.' Fry nodded cautiously. Statements like this always sounded false to her. She couldn't help thinking that Brian Mullen had been rehearsing the phrases in his head for maximum effect. But her instinct was sometimes wrong - there were people who had difficulty expressing the most genuine emotions in a convincing way. On the other hand, Mullen had also tried to divert her from her line of questioning. 'Who were you out with that night, sir?' 'Just some mates.' 'Anyone in particular?' 'Oh, my mate from work, Jed - Jed Skinner.' 'And you arrived home at about one thirty a.m. Is that right?' 'Yes, I got the taxi driver to drop me off at the corner of Darwin Street. I'd already paid him off before I noticed anything wrong, and I didn't realize what was happening at first. I saw the flashing lights from the fire engines. There weren't really any flames then, you know. Just a lot of smoke. An awful lot of smoke.' 'When did you realize it was your own house on fire?'

'Not until I was almost there. Things looked so different with the lights and the smoke, and the hoses running across the road. It felt as though there ought to be a film crew somewhere. And all the neighbours were standing outside in their nightclothes. I was thinking, "Some poor bugger's got a real problem there," and wondering who it was. It didn't seem possible that it was my house they were all looking at.' 'I suppose you weren't thinking too clearly at the time, either.' 'What do you mean?' 'Well, I expect you'd had a few drinks, hadn't you, Mr Mullen?' The look on his face changed then. His colour went a deeper pink, his mouth twisted into a less relaxed shape. Fry tried her hardest to read his expression as guilt, but it looked more like petulance. 'Yeah, a few.' 'Which club had you been in, by the way?' 'The Broken Wheel. There are only two places that stay open late in Edendale, and the other one is full of kids on drugs.' 'All right. So when you finally realized it was your house on fire . . . ?' 'I looked around for Lindsay and the boys, obviously. There was a crowd of people gawping, and a copper trying to sort out the traffic. I couldn't see my family anywhere.' 'So you ran into the house?' 'Yes . . .' He hesitated. 'No, not straight away. I saw my neighbour, Keith Wade. I asked him where Lindsay was. He said he hadn't seen her, or the boys either. Well, I knew from the way he said it, and the look on his face . . .' 'Knew what?' 'That they were still in there.' Even Fry could detect a frisson of genuine emotion in Brian Mullen as he reached the next part of his story. A physical reaction was evident in the tightening of his mouth, the half-closed

eyes, the sheen of sweat that appeared on his brow. Fear, yes - and a memory of pain, too. But, of course, he had been burned by the fire, as proved by his bandaged hands and the notes on his chart at the end of the bed. His breathing had been affected by smoke inhalation, but that was only evident in the hoarseness of his voice, and perhaps in a peculiar inability to vary the pitch of his speech. That might be why his words sounded almost mechanical and insincere. Just might be. 'The firemen took no notice of me at first,' he said. They were too busy. But I could see some of them getting kitted out in masks and oxygen tanks - all that gear, you know.' 'Breathing apparatus.' 'That's it. But they seemed to be doing everything so slowly. My house was burning, and my kids were in there, but these blokes were fiddling about with tubes and helmets. So I went in.' Mullen stared at her defensively. 'I knew my way about the house a lot better than anyone else. I knew exactly where Lindsay and the boys would be. So it made sense.' 'Perhaps at the time it did,' conceded Fry. He bridled at her tone. 'I couldn't stand there and do nothing.' 'So how far did you get?' 'Only to the stairs.' 'Tell me about it, please.' Mullen subsided, wincing at the memory. 'The stairs are straight off the hallway. I could find them easily, even in the dark. I ran in and got maybe half a dozen steps up. But then the smoke was so thick that I suddenly didn't know which way I was going. It was in my eyes and in my throat, and I was trying to hold my breath, but I couldn't. I started to feel dizzy. I went down on my knees. I wanted to carry on, I really did. But I only managed one more step.' 'And then the firefighters caught up with you and pulled you back out of the house?'

'Yes, that's right.' Fry pointed at his hands. 'What did you burn yourself on, Mr Mullen?' He looked at the bandages and frowned. 'I'm not sure. I think it must have been the banister rail. That would have been the only thing I touched, wouldn't it?' 'With both hands?' He shrugged. 'I suppose so.' She let him think about that for a moment. 'You didn't go into any of the rooms downstairs? The sitting room, for example?' 'No. Why would I? I knew my family would be upstairs, in the bedrooms.' 'How could you be so sure of that, Mr Mullen?' 'For heaven's sake, it was almost twenty to two in the morning. Where else would they be, except in bed?' 'Your wife might have been waiting up for you to come home.' 'No, she never did that.' 'You see, the sitting room is where the fire is believed to have started. It must have been obvious when you entered the house that the smoke was coming from there.' 'So?' 'Well, we agree that you weren't thinking straight at the time, so perhaps your instinct might have been to go to the seat of the blaze and try to put it out. Or you might have feared that your wife was in the sitting room, and had started a fire in there accidentally.' 'None of those things went through my mind,' said Mullen. 'I assumed they were upstairs. I had this picture in my head ' 'Yes, I see. So you're quite sure you didn't go into the sitting room, or touch the door maybe?' 'I'm sure. Look, I can't understand why you're asking me these questions.'

'It's for purposes of elimination, Mr Mullen. It will help us to establish the cause of the fire.' 'What? Are you saying it was started deliberately?' 'It's one of the possibilities we have to leave open. We can't rule anything out until it's been confirmed one way or another. That's why it's important to establish your movements, Mr Mullen. If the fire investigators find evidence of someone entering that room during the night of the fire, we'll know it wasn't you, won't we?' Fry smiled at him, but he didn't look reassured. She often found that reaction. Perhaps she ought to work on the smile. 'Yes, that's right. But ' 'Don't worry about it now. You have a lot of things to think about. Let us know if we can be of any assistance. They've offered you counselling . . .?' 'Yes, all of that stuff,' said Mullen impatiently. 'And you do have some family in the area to support you?' 'There's Lindsay's parents. My dad is in Ireland. I don't know when he'll be coming over. He hasn't been well himself, so he might not make it.' 'Is there no one else locally?' Mullen shook his head. 'There's only John.' 'John?' 'John Lowther. My brother-in-law. But Henry and Moira say he's devastated about Lindsay.' Fry stood up. 'Well, take care, sir. We'll keep you informed.' Mullen looked up at her, anxious now that she was leaving. 'I tested that smoke alarm regularly, you know. It was working all right.' 'Yes, well don't worry about that now.' Mullen sank back on to his pillow, as if he'd put a lot of effort into that last statement and was now exhausted. Fry began to move quietly away, but his voice stopped her. 'We promised Luanne we'd take her to see the illuminations in Matlock Bath,' he said, his voice whispering with

hoarseness. 'You know, with the parade of boats on the river, and the fireworks? We were going to take all the kids there, for a treat. The illuminations started a couple of weeks ago, but we were going to wait until half-term. The boys always liked the boats, but it would have been Luanne's first time. We won't be taking them now, will we?' Fry hesitated in the doorway. 'No, sir. I'm sorry.' She walked out of the ward and past the nurses' station, trying to make sense of Brian Mullen. At times, the emotions underlying his responses had been too complicated to pin down. But one thing she was sure of. Despite what Mr Mullen had pretended, the idea that the fire might have been set deliberately had come as no surprise to him at all.

12

Upriver from Matlock Bath, the town of Matlock was going through another of its transformations. In the eighteenth century it had been John Smedley's 'mild water cure' that had changed the place for ever. Nearly thirty hydros had opened to exploit the thermal springs, with vast numbers of infirm visitors pouring in to immerse themselves in warm baths and try out the treatments on offer. On the hillside, Cooper could still see Smedley's Hydro, the biggest of them all. The vast building was now full of local government workers, soaking the public on behalf of Derbyshire County Council. 'It's right at the roundabout and over the bridge,' said Murfin. 'I know the way, Gavin.' 'And watch out for pedestrians on the bridge. Some of them are suicidal.' 'Gavin, I'm not your wife. I don't need you to tell me how to drive.' He followed the A6 out of the town towards Matlock Bath, and drove into the gorge where the River Derwent snaked beneath the face of High Tor. He slowed briefly at the point where the 'box brownie' sign came into view, warning of speed cameras ahead. The roundel gave the speed limit as fifty

miles an hour. Despite the sign, there were no permanent cameras installed here. The safety team's van might be parked by the side of the road occasionally, that was all. And the van hadn't been in this area on Saturday. He'd already checked. Although it seemed to form one continuous promenade along the west bank of the river, Matlock Bath's main street was split into two halves: North Parade and South Parade. In the middle were a couple of three-storey stone villas that had somehow escaped being converted into amusement arcades or fish restaurants. Like so many resorts, this place was biker heaven. Even today, motorbikes were parked against the kerb on South Parade. Kawasakis, Suzukis and Ducatis, all polished and gleaming. Most of the bikers on the pavement seemed to be well past their youth, though. Their leathers bulged in the wrong places, and when they took off their helmets, their hair was grey and straggly, or missing altogether. There didn't seem to be one aged under fifty. 'Hell's Granddads,' said Murfin. 'They don't bother doing the ton any more, they just park up for a cup of tea and a fairy cake.' 'And to show off their bikes to each other, by the looks of it.' 'That's it, Ben. Nothing too strenuous at their age.' But the statistics told a different story, and it wasn't funny. Despite the road being lined with Think Bike signs, a motorcycle rider forming each 'i', a map behind the Pavilion car park kept a record of the rising toll. New markers were added frequently to show where bikers had died in Derbyshire. Last year, two had lost their lives in one day in the Matlock area. That had been in October, too, but on a Sunday. One of the victims had been in his forties, the other in his fifties. In fact, this stretch of the A6 was one of the designated 'hot routes' - the most popular roads among bikers, especially on