The Burning (5 page)

‘I’m sure that’s something my inquiry will examine,’ Jenny said, remembering now that, even though he had been a young man at the time of his daughter’s
disappearance, Philip Ashton had always employed an acid eloquence when dealing with questioners.

‘Was she cheating on him?’ Clare Ashton asked. ‘I know she’s a very beautiful woman, but since being with Ed I got the impression she’d settled down.’

‘I know nothing about her, Mrs Ashton. Not yet.’

Clare’s eyes darted warily towards her husband’s. Jenny sensed there was something she wanted to share.

‘I’ll probably have to ask you for a statement in due course,’ Jenny said, ‘the same with all the neighbours. But if there’s anything you’d like to tell me
that you think might prove useful?’

Another glance passed between them. Philip Ashton gave a slight shrug as if to say that if Clare wanted to speak it was up to her.

‘Kelly cleans for us once a week. She has done for years. I wouldn’t say I knew everything about her, but I always got the impression she and Ed were close. She said he was good with
the daughters, especially Layla – she’d been behaving quite badly lately. Fourteen going on twenty.’ Clare smiled faintly. ‘According to Kelly, he hardly ever raised his
voice, even when Layla was being impossible.’

‘I’m not in any position to draw inferences,’ Jenny said, ‘but in these cases a man’s violent behaviour can sometimes appear completely out of character.’

‘Yes, but – ’ Clare’s eyes seemed to lose their focus. Her body stiffened. ‘Sorry, I’m feeling a little discomfort.’ She reached under her cardigan to
what Jenny assumed was a morphine pump.

‘I should go,’ Jenny said tactfully.

As she rose from her chair, Clare said, ‘Philip, tell her about Darren Brooks.’

‘What about him?’

‘Their history.’

‘I don’t think repeating village gossip—’

‘Please,’ Clare said sharply. ‘And it’s hardly gossip.’

Jenny remained standing while Philip relayed his information in clipped, staccato sentences.

‘Darren Brooks is a local builder. He lives around the corner at The Forge – the place that looks like a gypsy encampment. He and Kelly were together years ago, then when she met Ed
she moved him out – or rather, as I recall, had him ejected. He’s had other relationships since, several possibly, but those who claim to know hold that his affections continued to lie
with Kelly. He also has a fourteen-year-old daughter named Nicky, by his former wife, though I think they may be together again – I lose track – but you get the idea.’

‘Tell her about last night,’ Clare croaked.

Philip Ashton gave a tight-lipped nod. ‘I was among a number of people who came out of our homes when we saw the house had caught fire. It had clearly taken hold very quickly. You
wouldn’t have thought anyone inside could possibly still be alive, but Darren Brooks . . . well, he ran towards the flames. I don’t know quite what he hoped to achieve. I think I heard
him call Kelly’s name. Then came the explosion – the gas tank. He was thrown off his feet and quite badly burned. His clothing caught light. Fortunately for me it was just my hands. I
must have used them to shield my face.’

‘I see,’ Jenny said. ‘So Mr Brooks was prepared to run into a burning building for her.’

‘He made an attempt to get inside, but I couldn’t comment on his precise motivation.’

‘My husband teaches maths and physics,’ Clare said. ‘He doesn’t like to form opinions without evidence.’

‘My wife trained as a journalist and has always made up for my reluctance to speculate.’ He touched Clare’s shoulder with his bandaged hand. ‘You’ll understand
we’ve endured a decade of false dawns, Mrs Cooper. We have remained living in this village in the hope that if anyone does know what happened to our daughter, our constant presence will one
day prompt their conscience. We learned long ago to be patient, so you mustn’t feel under any obligation to us. I’m sure your job will be hard enough without any extraneous
pressures.’

Jenny glanced into Clare Ashton’s eyes and saw she had no strength left to fight her corner. Her husband’s will had triumphed and drawn the life out of her. Jenny felt certain that
it was he who had purged the house of visual reminders of their daughter and stifled any thought of having another child. Photographs aged people and placed them and events in the past, where they
belonged; new lives displaced old realities as surely as dawn dissolved the night. It was plain to see: Philip Ashton wouldn’t move an inch until he had his answer, and if possible, his
revenge.

Flecks of snow were slanting from a moonless sky as Jenny left the Ashtons’ cottage and picked her way across the common. The police vehicles had left and the bulldozer
stood silent, its folded arm partially illuminated by the single street lamp to the left of the razed house. She could see the lights of ten or so nearby houses, yet somehow their occupants felt
distant and indifferent. Whether it was an accident of geography or something in the landscape’s soul, she felt in her gut that Blackstone Ley was and always had been a private and a lonely
place.

Eager to reach her car, she drew her arms tightly across her chest and quickened her step. As she walked the final yards, an uneasy sensation – she attributed it to drawing closer to the
ruin – caused her to glance along the margin of the woods on the far side of the road. For a fleeting second she thought she saw movement: a human silhouette against the hedgerow. Feeling
suddenly vulnerable, she fumbled for her keys with cold, clumsy fingers and hastily let herself into the Land Rover. She locked the doors and started the engine, telling herself her mind was
playing tricks. But as she turned her car around and her headlights picked out the tree trunks behind the pile of rubble, she was sure she saw it again: a figure vanishing into the trees.

T
HE RAW EASTERLY THAT HAD
picked up in the late afternoon had blown away the fog but brought thickening snow flurries that by the time Jenny reached the
Severn Bridge were becoming a swirling blizzard. The few drivers foolhardy enough to make the crossing into Wales crawled slowly along the single open lane, uncertain of reaching their
destinations. A winter that had started early and bitterly in mid-November was biting deeper.

Jenny tried to concentrate on the road ahead, but her thoughts kept returning to the village she had left behind. It was the story Clare and Philip Ashton had told her about Kelly’s former
lover, Darren Brooks, that was weighing most heavily on her mind. As the gossips would have it, when Kelly left Darren for Ed, Darren had continued to live in a house set back from the opposite
side of the common, and remained a rival for her affections. Jenny could see perfectly how that might happen. Country people born and raised in the same place weren’t inclined to move out and
move on. They’d sit and brood on the same hurt feelings for decades, and if they remained unresolved, even take them to the grave. She would have to find out the truth about the graffiti and
whether Kelly had been trying to move house. Perhaps Brooks had made a pass? Maybe Kelly had responded, or Ed thought she had. One thing of which she could be certain was that ten years of sexual
jealousy between three people could lead to anything, and would almost certainly have led to something.

The storm grew heavier as Jenny left the estuary behind and struck out alone on the valley road. Driving as fast as she dared, she travelled six winding miles without seeing a single vehicle,
making the first tracks through snow that was already lying inches deep. It grew thicker still as she turned off the main road at Tintern and headed up the lane to Melin Bach. Even with four-wheel
drive the Land Rover struggled against the steep gradient. Pitching from side to side, with her foot pressed to the floor, Jenny wondered if she really was a little mad to live out here by herself.
What sort of woman chose to live by herself in a cottage in the woods? Faced with a long evening alone, the thought of a sleek harbour-side apartment five minutes’ walk from the office became
more attractive by the moment. But then she caught a glimpse of lights up ahead, and sliding around the final bend before home she saw that they were coming from the windows of her cottage. A
steady stream of white smoke was rising from the chimney. For a moment she allowed herself to believe that Ross might have come home early to pay her a surprise visit, but then she reminded herself
that she had never known him do anything as practical as light a fire on his own initiative. She was right. Drawing closer, she made out the familiar shape of Michael’s elderly Saab under a
covering of snow.

It had been weeks. He had better have a good explanation.

‘Can I come in?’

‘What if I said no?’

Michael nudged through the bathroom door carrying two large glasses of red wine.

‘What do you say now?’

‘Hmm.’ Jenny wrestled with conflicting emotions. ‘All right. You win.’

He sat on the edge of the roll-top bath and handed her a glass, pretending not to glance down at her breasts, which were only partially hidden beneath the foam. Jenny felt she ought to have
mounted at least a small display of anger for his abandoning her over Christmas, but lying neck-deep in the hot, rose-scented water she could no longer summon the energy. Life felt too short.

‘I tried to get leave, Jenny, but there’s only a couple of us the Swiss clients truly trust in this weather.’

‘They get to choose who flies your planes?’

‘It’s written in the contract – only pilots with military experience or at least 10,000 hours for a passenger airline. Cuts their insurance premium in half.’

‘You didn’t get that suntan flying.’

‘I had a day skiing near Geneva. One of the guys from the office took me out.’

‘You could have emailed.’

‘I should have done. I’m sorry.’

Jenny took a sip of wine and sensed that he meant it. ‘You must have been having a good time.’

‘You know what it’s like – the longer you leave it, the worse you feel.’

‘What did you think I was going to do, dump you like some teenage girl?’

‘I guess.’

‘Honestly, Michael?’

‘I kind of deserve it.’ Changing the subject, he leant over to the window and lifted a corner of the blind. ‘Can you believe it? There must be eight inches of snow out there.
It’s still falling.’

‘Is it worrying you?’

He looked at her, puzzled.

‘The thought of being snowed in with me.’

‘Why would that worry me?’

‘I couldn’t help wondering if you’d been avoiding me – since you started seeing the therapist. I thought maybe it had stirred you up.’

Michael smiled. ‘I’d have been better off taking you out to dinner. Would have been a hell of a lot cheaper and a lot more fun.’

‘You’re not going any more?’

‘I gave it three sessions, then she invited me to her “Men’s Group”. There’s a misnomer for a start. But I had your voice in my head telling me not to be
judgemental, so I swallowed my pride and took myself along. Now bear in mind these were meant to be her worked-out ones, the successes,’ he paused to take a mouthful of wine, enjoying telling
his story, ‘and certainly if your measure of success is the ability to squeeze a middle-aged body into a pair of pink jeans or give the world’s limpest handshake, these guys had made
it.’ He held up his hand, anticipating her protest. ‘And before you tell me I’m being a macho idiot, I was actually fine with all that. The problem was, none of it felt real.
They’d all give you the same placid smile, but there was no one behind it. And they all talked in the same creepy, measured way. There’s “Call me Vicky” busy telling us
we’ve got to be “whole people” – whatever that means – and all the while I’m surrounded by these empty shells whose personalities have gone missing.’

Jenny slid deeper into the water, wriggling her shoulders beneath the warm surface. ‘You do sound a bit of a macho idiot.’

‘We each had to give our definition of perfect mental health. I told them I thought it was being able to live with your own stink.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘It’s true. We’re all messed up to some extent. Healthy people admit it and get on, the others go to Men’s Group.’

Jenny watched him suddenly get lost in his thoughts and stare intently into space.

‘So you’re feeling better now?’ she asked.

‘Hmm?’ He looked at her vacantly.

‘Are you happy?’

‘Much more for seeing you.’ He dipped his fingers into the water and brushed her knee. ‘Do you think you might have room for one more in there?’

‘We’ll see. Let me finish my wine.’

Snug beneath the thick winter duvet, they lay for a long while in peaceful silence, Michael telling her all she needed to hear in the way he gently stroked her hair. She liked
the way he was content just to be with her in these moments. Her ex-husband, David, had always angled for words of reassurance or praise after their rare moments of intimacy, never realizing that
if you had to fish for them, they weren’t worth having. She reached out and touched the back of her hand to Michael’s chest, feeling its slow rise and fall.

‘I’m glad you came,’ she said.

‘So am I.’ He leant over and kissed her softly on the lips. ‘And I’m sorry you were alone at Christmas.’

‘It’s OK. I don’t much like it anyway. I should have copied Ross and taken off to the sun somewhere.’

‘You’re missing him, aren’t you?’ Michael said.

‘I can’t blame him for staying away, especially after one of my cases nearly cost him his life last year. I should just be grateful he survived.’

‘You were only doing your job.’

‘If I were him, I’m not sure I could ever forgive me.’

‘Hey, don’t cry.’

‘I’m not.’

He drew a finger across her cheek and Jenny felt the dampness on her skin. ‘What’s that?’

‘I always wanted to be a good mother. I tried. Honestly, I did. I was never going to be the stay-at-home kind, but I at least thought he might be proud of me one day.’

‘Even if he isn’t now, he will be. Think how much you’ve achieved.’