The Burning (14 page)

‘And did you discover any evidence?’ Jenny asked.

‘Nothing concrete,’ Clare said. ‘I know it’s only hearsay, but nevertheless . . .’

‘These people you’ve mentioned—’

‘Both gone,’ Clare said. ‘They were old at the time. Proper village folk – born and bred here.’

‘Not always the most reliable witnesses of fact,’ Jenny said, ‘but I think you were aware of that.’

‘I was more than aware of how people gossiped, of course. Things get amplified in a place like this. Stories take on lives of their own.’ She opened a second notebook, turning to a
page she had flagged. ‘The trick is distinguishing all that from the grains of truth.’ She handed it to Jenny.

The entry was headed ‘
19 April, D+21
’.

Jenny continued staring at the page, trying to imagine how Clare must have felt as she wrote those words.

‘Did anything come of this line of inquiry?’

‘No evidence emerged. Although DS Abbott did assure us they had interviewed every known offender they could find who might have inside knowledge. There was a lot of money on offer for
information, if you remember.’

‘I do.’ Jenny had a hazy recollection of the Ashtons posing with a businessman who had offered a six-figure reward. ‘Can I assume you felt there was something in that line of
inquiry?’

‘I did. I still do.’ Clare’s voice seemed to gain in strength. There was a steeliness in her expression which paid no regard to the weakness of her body. ‘Everything
I’ve read about this type of abduction – and believe me, I have read everything – confirms that the impulsive criminal leaves a trail of evidence in his wake. Only those who have
planned meticulously manage to escape detection.’

‘And you think Ed Morgan was involved?’

‘When the police failed to discover any evidence, I admit I came round to the view that Ed wasn’t connected and that Susie may well have been taken by a complete stranger. In fact,
that became my settled view and remained so until about six months ago.’ Clare glanced off out of the kitchen window at a snow-covered cherry tree. ‘I’m sorry.’ She cleared
her throat, raising an unsteady fist to her lips. ‘Kelly said Layla was falling behind at school. Philip offered to coach her. She came here three times, then Philip said he was too busy with
other commitments. It was a little embarrassing, really – I had arranged it and Kelly was disappointed. But looking back, I think something must have happened to make him recoil. He’s
usually so professional.’

‘Such as?’

‘There was no doubting Layla was sexualized. Provocative, even. And at only fourteen. I think she must have made Philip uncomfortable. As a teacher, he’s highly sensitive to these
things.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted to worry me, and he certainly wouldn’t have said anything to Kelly or Ed in case it prompted a reaction. Teachers
are all guilty until proven innocent in these situations.’

‘You think Layla Hart behaved inappropriately towards your husband when he was teaching her?’

‘I’m sure of it. And a girl of her age would only behave like that towards a middle-aged man if it was a learned behaviour. It’s a classic indicator of sexual abuse.’

‘Wouldn’t your husband have taken steps, contacted social services?’

‘I think perhaps he now wishes he had.’ Clare Ashton’s face creased in anguish. ‘He hasn’t said a word to me, but I can tell – he’s been deeply
disturbed since the fire. It’s almost as if—’ She checked herself, but then continued: ‘No, he’s my husband, I should know. I think he feels responsible.’

Jenny tried to place what Clare had told her into a logical sequence. Everything she had said about Layla and her husband was pure guesswork, but a wife’s instincts were powerful. A woman
might know her partner better than he knew himself.

‘I think what you’re telling me, Mrs Ashton, is that you think Ed Morgan might have abused his stepdaughter and that your husband suspected the same.’

‘Yes. I suppose I am.’

‘Can I ask why you’re raising this with me, and not first with him?’

‘I was afraid of weakening if I consulted Philip. I’m so dependent on him, but I wanted to do the right thing.’

Jenny nodded. ‘Of course. But have you any reason to think it was Ed? Do you know if there were other men who had regular access to Layla?’

‘I wasn’t aware of them having many visitors. I’ve seen Bob Bream visiting a few times.’

‘I’ve met him.’

‘He was very good to us. He and his wife organized a rota for people to cook for us in the weeks after Susie went. I shan’t forget that. Kindness comes from unexpected places.’
Clare looked suddenly distressed. ‘I forgot to offer you any coffee, Mrs Cooper. What was I thinking?’

‘I’m fine.’ Jenny stopped her from struggling out of her chair. ‘I should probably be going.’ She glanced at the notebooks. ‘Unless there’s anything
else you think I should know?’

Clare shook her head. During the course of their conversation, she had grown steadily more tired. Her face was the colour of old parchment. It felt inhuman to put more pressure on a woman so
close to the end of her life, but Jenny had no option.

‘Given what you’ve told me, I’ll probably have to ask your husband to give evidence at my inquest. And one way or another, he’s bound to know you’ve spoken to
me.’

‘I appreciate that, Mrs Cooper.’ Somehow she managed to smile. ‘And I’m really not quite as feeble as I look.’

As Jenny left Clare’s cottage, snow had once again started to fall from a low, heavy sky. She scanned the common but saw no sign of Michael. Arriving at the Land Rover,
she searched her coat pockets, then realized he must still have the keys. She checked her phone – a single bar of reception. She dialled his number. It was engaged. Faintly annoyed and
getting colder by the second, she tried again. It was still busy. She couldn’t stand still in the freezing wind, so for want of a better alternative, set off at a brisk walk towards the
church, which stood some thirty yards away, at the far end of the common.

It was far harder going than she had anticipated. The snow was calf-deep and in the unsheltered expanse of the common the wind cut through her with a cruel sense of purpose. Jenny glanced over
to where the burned-out house had stood and saw that since her first visit the site had been completely cleared. All the rubble and even the surrounding fences had been carted away and the entire
plot levelled. The only sign that a home had stood there was a rectangle of bare earth that was fast disappearing under a thickening shroud of white. Soon there would be no trace left at all. The
absence upset her. There seemed something indecent about the complete erasing of a family’s life in so short a time.

Jenny carried her disquiet through the porch of the Norman church of St Mary and All Souls, unlatched the heavy iron-studded door, and entered its silent interior. It was a small building, no
more than fifty feet from end to end, with plain stone pillars either side of the nave. At its eastern end stood a simple stone altar carved with a Celtic cross. The sandstone flags had been worn
into hollows by centuries of human traffic and the rounded corners of the rough-hewn pews were rubbed smooth by generations of hands. Moving along the nave, she saw that the candles flickering in a
small alcove in the chancel were illuminating a wooden Madonna and child. The craftsmanship was primitive, chisel marks showing through the flaking, centuries-old paint, but despite its crudeness
and simplicity, the wood carver had managed to capture the enfolding softness of a nursing mother.

Jenny turned at the sound of footsteps and saw Helen Medway emerging from the open doorway to the vestry at the back of the church.

‘Hello again, Mrs Cooper. I thought I saw your car.’

‘I knew someone would.’

She came forward to join her, dressed well for a priest in the depths of winter, Jenny thought: knee-length leather boots over well-fitting jeans and an elegant belt buckled outside a
waist-length, moss-green jumper.

‘Not bad for six hundred, is she?’ Helen said, nodding towards the statue. ‘Somehow she survived Henry the Eighth and the Civil War. Twenty murderous Roundheads hacked at the
font and the altar, defaced all the male saints, but didn’t lay a finger on her. I suppose it must tell you something about the male psyche, though I’m not sure what.’

‘I don’t think I’d dare touch her either,’ Jenny said.

‘I always think she’s part Christian, part pagan,’ Helen said, looking at the figure with a more detached eye than Jenny had managed, ‘as much a fertility symbol as a
religious one.’

‘Do you think she approves of you?’ Jenny said, half jokingly.

‘She does make me feel a little inadequate at times, I have to say. I never quite got round to motherhood, and then for some reason the fates pitched me into this parish.’ She
glanced at Jenny with a look that seemed to express several layers of bafflement. A sigh escaped her lips. ‘I’m sure there’s a reason.’

They stood gazing at the carved figure for a short while, Jenny feeling both comforted and challenged by the simple vision of perfection she presented.

‘There’s a leaflet at the back if you’re interested,’ Helen Medway said, abruptly retreating from her brief meditation, ‘unless there’s anything I can help
you with.’

Jenny’s mind, still preoccupied with thoughts of her own maternal failings, went temporarily blank, and it was only when Helen was halfway along the nave that a thought occurred to
her.

‘Sorry, if you have got a moment – ’ She went after her. ‘Your house – is it the one closest to where Kelly’s stood?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you hear anything on the night of the fire? I mean, before it started.’

‘It’s hard to say. My husband and I were getting ready for bed. I think there was a series of bangs, then it seemed like only moments later there were voices outside on the common
and the house was on fire.’

‘How many bangs?’

‘Two or three.’

‘No more?’

‘Not as far as I recall. Spaced out a little, though. My husband thought it was an engine backfiring – Layla had friends round with cars and motorbikes; they’d often mess about
late at night. Made us feel like terrible old curmudgeons for grumbling about it.’ An anxious look crossed her face. ‘Is it significant? Should we have done something?’

‘No. There was nothing you could have done.’ Jenny hesitated, instinctively cautious of revealing evidence ahead of her inquest, but deciding she could trust a priest. ‘A
shotgun was fired inside the house, though I’d be grateful if you’d keep that information to yourself.’

Now Helen Medway looked puzzled. ‘Inside? No, what we heard was definitely outside, no doubt about it. These were loud, sharp bangs, not muffled. You say they were gunshots?’

‘Possibly. I don’t know,’ Jenny answered truthfully, at the same time wondering who Ed Morgan could have been firing at
outside
the house? Could he have shot the girls
in the open air and dragged their bodies back in before starting the fire?

‘Ed Morgan shot the girls?’ Helen Medway was incredulous.

‘Are you sure you didn’t hear voices?’ Jenny pressed. ‘Or screams?’

‘No.’ The priest shook her head emphatically. ‘Nothing like that at all.’ She looked at Jenny in disbelief. ‘But he can’t have done.’ Her expression
turned to one of incredulity. ‘Why?’

It wasn’t a question to which she expected an answer, and in any case Jenny couldn’t have given one she believed to be truthful. ‘I’ll have to leave that question for my
inquest. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask both you and your husband to provide statements.’

‘Of course,’ Helen Medway answered, her face blanched with shock.

‘Thank you.’

Jenny had made her way out of the church and was most of the way back along the path and nearly at the lane when Medway emerged from the church door and called after her.

‘Mrs Cooper – hold on.’

Jenny halted under the bowed roof of the lychgate and sheltered from the worst of the wind. While she waited for her to catch up, she glanced out across the common, expecting to see Michael in
the car, but there was still no sign of him. She hoped he hadn’t got lost; in his current state of mind she wasn’t sure he would be completely safe by himself.