Up in Flames (12 page)

             
Casey stared speculatively at Farrell. Because it wasn’t only women scorned who reacted with rage. The media coverage of rejected male suitors who turned into obsessive stalkers was lengthy and depressing. Was it possible Mark Farrell was one such?

             
Casey resolved to have another word with Angela Neerey, Chandra’s neighbour. If anyone was able to enlighten them further as to Mark Farrell’s position in Chandra’s life, she was the one.

             
But before they did that, they had another pressing engagement.

These post-mortems were going to be rough, Casey knew. The victims’ bodies had looked pathetic and sad enough in the flat. Here, under the harsh lights, there would be no aspect of the charred flesh left to a more kindly imagination.

             
He and Catt stood silently as the mortuary assistant expertly positioned the body of the adult fire victim for the photographs before Dr Merriman began his preliminary examination. It would already have been weighed and x-rayed. Then, he made the classic ‘Y’-shaped incision across the breast from shoulder to shoulder then down the abdomen to the pubis. The saw buzzed through the ribs and cartilage, exposing the internal organs.

             
Dr Merriman bent over the body and began to murmur a few asides into the microphone for his report; ‘healthy,’ he noted, as he let his gaze rest briefly on the most unhealthy looking remains Casey had ever seen. ‘No signs of disease.’

             
One by one, the organs were removed, various samples taken. Dr Merriman rotated the pelvis, where the flesh had burned away and he did a quick measurement, lowering his head to speak into his chest microphone. ‘The diameter of the femoral head is small, indicating that the body is that of a female. The long bones have a small diameter, muscle attachments smooth; also indicative of a female.’ He cleared some of the charred flesh and examined the pelvis again. ‘Pubic bones wide... gently recurved.’ He murmured a few words to the mortuary assistant and briefly, the saw buzzed again. ‘Scarring ... victim has given birth.’

             
Time wore on. After what seemed an age, the pathologist turned his attention to the victim’s skull. Casey winced as the buzz of the saw cut into the top of Chandra’s once beautiful head. He blinked, and what remained of her face disappeared like a conjuring trick as the skin and stubble of hair were peeled down over the face, exposing the brain.

             
Casey swallowed and gazed away as he heard the attendant scoop the brain out and into a dish.

             
‘Molar roots completed ... Bone has honeycombing and no indications of recent fusion of the growth cap. Adult. Sharp orbital borders, small brow ridges, bone smooth. Female.’ Merriman shone a torch into the ear. ‘Asian ... epidural haemorrhage ... no sign of bruising ... typical indications of carbon monoxide poisoning in the blood and the unburned areas of skin.’

             
Casey’s ears pricked up at this. ‘It was a combination of the fire and fumes that killed her then? She wasn’t killed by a blow on the head?’

             
Arthur Merriman raised his head. He eased his back and switched off his microphone as he stood back from the table. ‘No.’ He closed his eyes briefly, as though to gather his thoughts, then explained, ‘Fire has an immense destructive power, Chief Inspector.’ He gestured down at the body. ‘As I explained to you at the scene, it tightens and tears the skin like a knife wound. The brain has a large amount of water which boils and expands when exposed to fire and sets up hydrostatic pressure inside the head which causes the cranial vault to crack. As I believe I said to you before, with enough heat, it may even explode.’

             
There was a stunned silence at this. But Casey had already had this gruesome possibility explained to him once and he collected himself more quickly than Shazia Singh and asked, ‘And that’s what happened here? The cracking, I mean, not … ’

             
Dr Merriman nodded. ‘The damage to the skull was caused by an epidural haemorrhage, just under the skin, rather than a subdural haemorrhage. It was caused after death and by the fire itself. I’ve taken blood samples to test for the presence of carbon monoxide, but you can take it from me that the fumes and the fire between them killed her rather than an assailant with a blunt instrument.’ He asked his assistant to turn the body on to its front and he pointed to the small area of unscarred skin on the back. It was a bright, cherry pink. ‘As I believe I have explained to you before, the colour is typical of carbon monoxide poisoning. There are also particles of what looks like carbon — soot — in the air passages and lungs. I’ll have those tested as well. The victim was female, not a teenager, but not old. Early twenties would be my estimate. She was Asian and had certainly borne one child. As to her identity, I’ve had a dental x-ray taken and sent to the forensic orthodontist. When he compares it to the dental x-ray of the presumed victim, we will, hopefully get a match and a confirmed ID.’

             
Casey looked at the emptied shell of the body, at the hollow head and inside out scalp. The opened out thing on the table had no identity. How to reconcile this with the laughing eyed and beautiful young woman in the photograph? The comparison jarred his senses and built up an anger, a determination to catch whoever was responsible for such an ugly metamorphosis.

             
But the PM ordeal wasn’t finished yet. As the table bearing Chandra Bansi’s remains was wheeled away and replaced with another, Casey steeled himself for the next PM, that on the baby. Beautiful, bawling, Leela, Chandra’s infant daughter.

The post mortem was over. Thankfully, Casey let himself out into the afternoon air, cool now after the warmth earlier in the day. He breathed deeply, wanting to rid his lungs, his clothes, his mind, of the stench of death and its clinical dismemberment. Merriman’s conclusions on the cause of the baby’s death had been the same as for her mother. He could only hope the fumes had killed them both quickly. The image conjured when he thought of the baby, those small limbs contorting as the baby burned, was more than he could stomach.

             
His mobile rang and he reached in his jacket and flipped it open. ‘Casey. You have? Where are they? Good work. We’re on our way in.’

             
Relief washed over him as he returned the mobile to his jacket pocket. He hadn’t realised how high this investigation had stoked the tension. The relief left him feeling extraordinarily tired, but the thought of conducting the interviews with the two youths responsible sent the adrenalin surging through his system and quickly re-energised him.

             
He told Catt and Shazia, who had followed him out, ‘The casualty department of the local hospital turned up trumps. Although they haven’t treated any burns victims today, they’ve at last come up with the information we asked for. Their records show two young white males received treatment for burns just after the first two cases of arson. Must be getting better at their fire-setting as they didn’t pay another visit to Casualty after this latest fire.’

             
‘Practise makes perfect,’ Catt commented.

             
As an image of the two bodies in the mortuary flashed before him, Casey said, ‘Come on. After what we’ve just witnessed I’m keen to take a look at the two johnnies responsible. Can you believe one of them’s actually
boasting
about torching Chandra’s flat?’

             
Hurrying after him, Catt and Shazia tried and failed to match the taller Casey’s long and determined strides.

Fortunately, the two suspected arsonists had been picked up separately and kept apart, so had had no opportunity to regret earlier boasts and concoct alibis. And although, as it turned out, only one of the two youths had actually so far admitted to being responsible for the Bansi deaths, according to Sergeant Wright in the Charge Room even the more silent of the two hadn’t denied their guilt.

              Viewed through the hatches of their cell doors, Wayne Gough and Dean Linklater were like identikit pictures of the more thuggish young British male. From the ‘No 1’ haircuts to the tattoos, from the expensive trainers to the sleeveless T-shirts and the Mr Macho muscular arms. Needless to say, they had both been in trouble before; for drunkenness, affray, general nastiness.

             
According to Sergeant Wright, Wayne Gough had immediately demanded to see a solicitor. This loud demand had obviously been overheard by his pal, Linklater, in a cell two doors down, as it had been immediately repeated by him, as had further demands for a drink, food and cigarettes. ‘Little Sir Echo’ as Sergeant Wright called Linklater. ‘Doesn’t seem to have a thought to call his own.’

             
The demand for the brief at least had apparently only been for show, to make it clear they knew their rights. Because when the brief, who unfortunately happened to be Asian, arrived, and Casey and Catt led him and his first client to one of the interview rooms, Wayne Gough gave him one, sneering glance and then ignored him, told him, to ‘shut it,’ when he advised his unruly client to say nothing. Wayne wasn’t going to be deprived of his moment of glory, certainly not by one of the ‘enemy’.

             
Although Gough had already been cautioned, Casey cautioned him again for the benefit of the running tape. But it was evident that ‘caution’ wasn’t a word in Wayne Gough’s limited vocabulary. It quickly became clear that Gough was keen to boast of his brave deeds.

             
‘Done ‘em all, didn’t we?’ He sat back, stared contemptuously at his brief from eyes of indeterminate colour, before he folded his arms across his brawny chest, and transferred his gaze to Casey. His eyes were empty of any emotion, though it was clear from the smug look that settled on his unshaven face that he felt he had done a good day’s work. Gough’s folded arms now concealed the abundant collection of showy rings that Casey had noticed earlier. They would serve admirably as a set of knuckle-dusters; the sizeable signet ring on his left ring finger being particularly eye-catching in both meanings of the phrase.

             
With a sneer, Gough rocked his chair on to its back legs and said, ‘Paki bastards. Torch ‘em out. Only way they’ll go, innit?’

             
Casey wasn’t a violent man, but he felt like punching Gough in his sneering thin-lipped mouth. He breathed calmly, deeply, before he said, ‘Let me get this clear. You’re admitting you set fires at—’ Casey paused, glanced at his notebook and reeled off four addresses, including Chandra Bansi‘s.

             
Gough’s brow wrinkled for a second as if he had trouble remembering— or reading — road names. Probably drunk at the time, Casey concluded. He was none too sober now he realised as waves of beer fumes wafted towards him from across the table.

             
Gough’s brow cleared. He grinned and said, ‘Yeah. That’s right. Done ‘em all. Quite a score.’

             
‘The last one certainly was. You’re a real hero, Wayne. We found the bodies of a young Asian woman and her nine-month old baby in the last fire. Both died at the scene.’

             
He pulled the photograph of Chandra and her baby from his pocket. It had already been copied and circulated to the media. ‘These are your victims.’ He thrust the photograph under Gough’s nose and told him, ‘take a good look. These are the human beings destroyed by your handiwork. Do you still feel proud of yourself?’

             
Gough directed one sneering glance at the photograph. But as Casey watched, the sneer disappeared and was replaced by bemusement. ‘Hey, that’s that bird-’ he began before he broke off, sat back again and grinned smugly at them. ‘Told the lads we did that one. Maybe now they’ll believe us.’

             
Carefully, Casey returned the photograph to his pocket. Painstakingly, he took Gough through the arsons, extracting descriptions of the places torched, methods used and timings. Gough was confident enough about the earlier arson attacks and seemed to recall their circumstances pretty clearly. But when it came to the fire at Chandra’s flat, he faltered, stumbling over his descriptions in a way that suggested he was now suffering after alcoholic over-indulgence at lunchtime, which, from the beer-tainted smell of his breath, seemed only too likely.

             
‘Tell me again, Wayne,’ Casey insisted. ‘What accelerant did you use on the arson at Ainslee Terrace? How did you set it? At what time? Describe the street. Talk me through it.’

             
Gough crashed his chair back on all four of its legs and gazed belligerently at him. ‘How many more times? You’re giving me a bleedin’ headache. I’ve told you we done it. What do you want me to go through all this rigmarole for?’

             
‘You’re the one keen to display his macho credentials, Wayne. All I want is to be sure your statement is an honest account of your claims and not simply conjured up to impress your mates.’

             
Casey’s deliberate slur earned him a mouthful of colourful epithets. But it had the desired effect as Gough, reminded of his desire to impress his friends, tried harder. ‘We used petrol, I suppose, like we usually do. Deano got it. It was lunchtime. We’d been in the pub and had a skinful and decided we’d have a laugh and do another one.’