Up in Flames (9 page)

             
Casey had learned more than he had bargained for. But it seemed that Shazia Singh wasn’t finished yet. ‘Of course,’ she went on. ‘It used to be the custom that widows committed sati — immolated themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre. A Hindu widow is one of the “living dead”, you see, so it was better for all concerned that she should
be
dead. Cheaper, too, as far as any inheritance goes. Apart from that, a widow’s immolation on her husband’s funeral pyre freed his family from the cycle of birth and rebirth. Her sacrifice guaranteed that a woman, her husband and seven generations of the family after her will have a direct passport to heaven.’ Shazia paused. ‘You can see how a woman would find it difficult to resist doing her ‘duty’. But when the British outlawed sati, instead of a quick death and glorification they gave widows a long lingering one and vilification. Many Indian widows don’t think it was a fair exchange.’ She gave a sad little smile. It held all the tragedy of India. ‘It is their karma, you see. Something to be accepted with stoicism. And so they do accept it, praying only for death and an end to their earthbound misery.’

             
Casey studied her thoughtfully for a moment before he nodded and turned back in his seat. Unaware of the streets they passed, he sat mute. Shazia Singh had certainly provided them with a few motives for murder. She had even made plain that suicide could indeed be a strong possibility.

             
Was it possible that Chandra had chosen the old custom? He frowned and stared unseeingly ahead. Then, before him, hovered the remembered image of Chandra’s photograph. He took the picture from his pocket and studied it again. And as her bold gaze, with its hint of challenge met his, he shook his head. Even lately, sad as her life had become, he felt a quiet certainty that given a choice, the girl in the photograph would choose life — however grim — over death. Hadn’t Angela Neerey claimed that Chandra had  been trying to plan her future? Besides, the vacuum flask with its petrol dregs which had been discarded in the alley behind her flat didn’t point to self-immolation. But neither, given that the husband’s funeral pyre would have been the clinical procedure at the local crematorium, did it indicate that she had been persuaded to do her traditional wifely ‘duty’.

             
It was, anyway, possible that the flask with its petrol dregs was nothing more than a coincidence or simply placed near the scene as a cruel joke. But even if the flask was dismissed Andy Simmonds’ remark and the lack of a logical reason for the fire starting where it had still pointed to arson. Confirmation or otherwise of that would have to wait for the forensic team. He hoped they would come up with some firm answers quickly.

             
Beside him, TomCatt, ever the cynic, was still keen to push his own suspicions. As he pulled up at the traffic lights, he glanced at Casey and said, ‘I still think we ought to check out the father’s finances. Discreetly, of course. Maybe they’re not as healthy as that expensive house would indicate. You noticed his car’s several years old?’ Casey nodded. ‘Maybe he couldn’t afford to find another dowry for Chandra and was merely going through the motions to stop his wife nagging him. Could be he decided the old ways with widows were the best for all concerned, himself, his daughter and the bank balance. And then there’s the insurance on the flat. He could have decided to have the place torched to free up some money, believing his daughter and the baby would be out.’

             
Embarrassed that Catt should be so insensitive in front of Shazia Singh, he asked quietly, ‘And did you see anything in the family garage to indicate such a possibility?’ 

             
‘Not a lot,’ Catt admitted as the lights changed and he drove off. ‘But there were what appeared to be petrol stains on the floor. And there were some empty cans stacked in the corner.’

             
‘Hardly conclusive. Maybe he had just stockpiled some cans in case there was another petrol shortage. I did the same. It’s a messy business decanting petrol into a car’s tank without a funnel. My garage floor’s stained, too.’

             
Strangely — for ThomCatt hadn’t gained the feline shortening of his given name by lacking a cat’s sharpness — he had nothing to say regarding the intriguing comment made by Chandra’s sister. What has Chandra done now? she had asked. Casey wondered what Chandra could possibly have done
before
to warrant such a question. However, for the moment he didn’t invite Catt or Shazia to share his speculation. Anyway, it seemed likely that her in-laws would be keen to dish any dirt going. Unless, of course, they did have something to do with Chandra’s death, in which case, he supposed he could expect them to backtrack on any accusations they had made about their daughter-in-law.

             
Catt had voiced no further argument by the time they arrived back in Ainsley Terrace. As he got out, Casey told him to drive WPC Singh back to the station and, in a quiet undertone, he agreed that Catt could begin to check out the father’s finances and any inheritance that Chandra might have been left by her husband. While he was at it, he could arrange for them to see Chandra’s in-laws, the Bansis.

             
After giving his instructions, Casey headed back to the flat to have another word with the team. He hoped they would have made some progress. He needed some speedy answers on this case or it wouldn’t be long before there were others besides Catt raising ugly suspicions on little or no evidence. He was already starting to do so himself.

It was now nearly 7 pm. Dr Merriman had long since departed, but the forensic boys were still hard at work. When Casey returned to Chandra’s flat they had the floorboards up and were carefully packing what they found
— charred wood, carpet, paper.— that had fallen through the cracks.

             
‘How are you doing?’ Casey asked Andy Simmonds. ‘Found anything else yet to indicate arson?’

             
‘Not yet. Trouble is, when accelerants like petrol or kerosene evaporate they produce hydrocarbons. And hydrocarbons have a low molecular weight.’

             
‘And that’s bad?’

             
Andy nodded. ‘Hydrocarbons are very volatile, you see, which means evidence of accelerant use is hard to find.’

             
‘So you have no conclusive proof that this was arson?’

             
Simmonds shook his head. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

             
‘So what now? Is there any hope that you’ll find something?’

             
‘There’s always hope, Inspector.’ Andy nodded towards the raised floorboards and told him, ‘It just means we have to try harder. That’s why we’re looking under floorboards and rugs, in corners and so on, in the hope that not all the accelerant has evaporated and that some, at least, of the liquid, hasn’t burned off. With luck, it may have soaked into surfaces which can then be treated in the lab.’ He hefted one of the containers he had been using. ‘Here’s where we’ll find any evidence of the use of an accelerant, like petrol. These little beauties prevent vaporisation so we can get fibres back to the lab for testing. Then we get the gas chromatograph to work on them and it’ll separate out the individual traces on these fibres. All we need is an infinitesimal amount of accelerant and we’ll have confirmation that this was arson. Then we might nail whoever did this.’

             
Casey could only hope he was right. It was late, but the day still held another duty before he could go home. Superintendent Brown-Smith had stayed behind specially and awaited Casey’s return and his report.

             
And as he knocked and entered Brown-Smith’s office, he braced himself.

Casey had been too busy all day to see a newspaper, so when Superintendent Brown-Smith thumped a copy of the local evening rag on his desk, Casey was shocked to see the headline ‘Suttee in Suburbia?’ glare out at him from the front page.

             
He sighed quietly. Their local newspaper was owned and edited by Gwyn Owen, an independently wealthy hothead, who was, if possible, even less politically-correct than Thomas Catt. With such a headline on the first day of the case he knew what to expect from the super. His usual mixed metaphors when upset would go into overdrive.

             
‘I’ll have him for this,’ the super threatened. ‘I’ve already spoken to Anthony Lorn about it.’

             
Tony Lorn was their local Labour MP, one of the super’s many PC acquaintances. Casey thought it unlikely that even a red-hot PC barrister like Lorn would find a charge on the Statute Book that would hold water. He doubted Superintendent Brown-Smith believed it and was just venting his spleen. Besides, the editor was merely putting forward a possibility — one which Casey was also considering.

             
Still, it was unfortunate timing. Obviously the case would be picked up in the next day’s nationals, but Casey was confident that Superintendent Brown-Smith would have made sure they wouldn’t repeat the local editor’s speculation. Casey would have talked to the editor, tried to reason with him so that he refrained from further conjecture along similar lines, but from the thunderous expression opposite he suspected such an intervention would not only be pointless but come too late as Brown-Smith’s next words confirmed.

             
‘Do you know what Owen had the cheek to tell me when I spoke to him?’

             
Casey shook his head.

             
‘That I was the racist — only I was racially prejudiced against my own people. Can you believe it?’

             
Wisely, Casey kept silent. Not that the super really expected an answer, certainly not one that agreed with the editor’s opinion. But it was a view ThomCatt certainly shared  and had frequently expressed. There was more than an element of truth in it, too. Unfortunately, ThomCatt had a way of speaking his mind without thought for who might be listening. He would have to speak to him about it and about his ‘attitude’ before someone else did.

             
‘After seeing that - that rag,’ the super didn’t trouble to name the offending local organ as he went on, ‘You’ll understand me when I say I want you to tread very warily on this investigation. The last thing we want is a repeat of the Stephen Lawrence fiasco and its subsequent media witch-hunt. I want the media to have not one single aspect of this case to criticise. Tread softly when speaking to the ethnic community. Kid gloves are what’s needed here. Do I make myself clear?’

             
Casey nodded, aware that with the super in this mood, it was pointless to try to reason with him, he let much of the predictable politically correct platitudes wash over him. But as he took in the first mixed metaphor and briefly wondered whether the superintendent expected him to be shod in kid gloves during any conversation about the deaths with one of the ethnic community, other, more pressing questions occurred to him. They would earn him no brownie points, but he voiced them anyway. ‘And what if, during the course of this investigation, it becomes clear that a member of the ethnic community –   even a member of the victims’ own family – killed them?’ The tiniest tinge of irony coloured Casey’s voice as he added, ‘I presume charging them will be permitted?’

             
Superintendent Brown-Smith shot him a venomous look. Casey swallowed a sigh, aware he had spoken the unspeakable. It was clear the prospect of meting out justice in such an eventuality appalled the superintendent. Determinedly on the way up the career ladder these murders really were the case from hell for the superintendent. As the super’s wall clock — a much-cherished family heirloom — loudly ticked away the seconds, Casey became convinced that should such an unwelcome conclusion become unavoidable, he was about to be urged to stage a discreet cover-up.

             
But even Superintendent Brown-Smith in full pursuit of the politically correct and expedient wouldn’t be that foolhardy. Although he got himself under control, his voice was harsh from the realisation that here was his own
annus
horribilis
. ‘Obviously, if you reach such a point that no other conclusion is possible I shall require you to confer with me first, before you make any arrests. I want no precipitate action. In fact, I shall want you to give me a full briefing at the end of each day. Less than one hundred per cent certainty of guilt in this case is not an option.’

             
Casey couldn’t help but wonder if the superintendent would apply the same demanding criteria should white arsonists turn out to be the culprits.                             A tic started up at the  corner of the superintendent’s left eye as he added. ‘Jobs could be on the line here, Casey.’

             
Casey’s stomach essayed a tortured spasmodic accompaniment to Superintendent Brown-Smith’s tic, as if in acknowledgement that he was probably being lined up to be the fall guy if—- when — such a scapegoat should be required.

             
‘Obviously, you’ll need a team high on diplomacy and understanding of racial sensitivities — you have been on a recent racial awareness course, haven’t you Casey?’

             
‘Last month, sir.’

             
‘Mmm.’ The superintendent frowned. ‘You usually work with Sergeant Catt, do you not?’

             
Casey nodded. He suspected he could guess what was coming. Thomas Catt had been on two racial awareness courses. Casey had reason to suspect that had only been because ThomCatt had not shown a sufficient grasp of the importance of ethnic sensitivities the first time round, something which the superintendent seemed only too aware of as he went on.

             
‘I think, in the circumstances, owing to the various delicate aspects inherent in this investigation, I would prefer that Sergeant Catt worked on something else. Catt can be a little tactless, can he not?’

             
Casey, already required to conduct the investigation with both — gloved — hands tied behind his back, dug his heels in at this. He was damned if he was going to be deprived of his right hand man along with everything else. Thomas Catt might be a sad loss to the
corps
diplomatique
and his PC sensitivities might still be a bit suspect, but he was a first rate policeman. Besides, Casey was used to him. The last thing he needed was to have one of the super’s pet blue-eyed fast-track boys foisted on him, dogging his heels and reporting his every utterance back. This case was going to be difficult enough. It would be intolerable with a spy in the camp and no confidant with whom he could speak freely.

             
For the moment, Casey didn’t interrupt as the superintendent expanded on the PC theme, further vilifying Gwyn Owen the local editor for good measure. At least it would get rid of some of his temper and might make him more reasonable.

             
According to Superintendent Brown-Smith, Thomas Catt not only possessed a woeful lack of political correctness he was too independent-minded, too much his own person — a lamentable thing to be in the modern police service. In many ways, so was Casey, only he had taken care to keep his feelings to himself.

             
Like Casey, Thomas Catt believed in justice, equal justice, for all. Their mutual, increasingly unfashionable and uncompromising honesty had bonded them into a solid team. With his children’s home background, Catt had a tendency to suspect everyone and trust no one, least of all the PC thought police. Like Casey, he wondered what was the point of trying to force others to a particular view. People had to come to realisation, to understanding, in their own time. The PC lobby didn’t seem to grasp that views openly expressed could be argued with, reasoned with and ultimately, made for a far healthier society. Telling Johnny — or Mohammed — he was barbaric, or racist or a woman-hater, didn’t make him less so; all it was likely to do was add a simmering resentment to the brew.

             
Casey was not surprised to discover that Catt found it hard to trust even him. He wasn’t great at trusting others himself. He probably even shared some of Catt’s maverick qualities, though he believed he concealed then rather better. Casey’s youth had taught him many things, not least the necessity of developing his own survival techniques. Much like ThomCatt when he left the children’s home at the tender age of sixteen, he had been forced to learn self-sufficiency, self-reliance and responsibility. He had often found these hard-won qualities useful in dealing with Superintendent Brown-Smith.

             
Their early experiences no doubt made both him and Catt less willing to swallow whole and unquestioned the politically correct cant that had flooded the police service in recent years. And now, as he sensed the super running out of both steam and the energy required to produce it, he firmly set out his requirements. ‘If I’m to continue to lead this case’—- he stressed the if , as if he was going to be allowed to give it up — ‘I insist on working with Catt. We work well together.’ Before the superintendent could voice a refusal, Casey added, ‘I’ll make sure he keeps in the background when I’m interviewing any of the Asian community. I’ll get him to take a vow of silence if necessary.’ Casey didn’t give Brown-Smith the opportunity to express his scepticism at this, but added what he believed the superintendent was waiting to hear. ‘I’ll also take full responsibility for him.’

             
Brown-Smith sat back, gave Casey a narrow-eyed stare before he nodded. ‘Very well. Catt’s yours. You can also have WPC Singh for the duration of the case. You’ll need her language skills.’ The unspoken message that Casey had just put his head on a platter hung in the air between them. And as Superintendent Brown-Smith resumed his politically correct exhortations, Casey had ample time for reflection. Disillusionment with the job amongst the lower ranks had steadily increased in recent years and Casey was no exception. He had started seriously to count his savings and to wonder if he would be able to live on them while he found a less stressful job. Unfortunately, whether his arithmetic was off or his figures didn’t compute, his parents’ successive inroads into his savings meant he still had fifteen years remaining on the mortgage he had hoped to pay off early.

             
Casey’s thoughts turned to the still-monologuing Brown-Smith — he’d heard it all before so the occasional nod was all that was required — and he reflected on how much Brown-Smith’s office mirrored the man. Like Brown-Smith himself, the office contained pairings of ordinary things joined together to make them look more important. Brown-Smith had pictures of himself in gown and mortarboard accepting his degree closely abutting pictures of him and his wife at a Palace garden party in happy juxtaposition with the Queen. This picture-pairing, directly behind the desk so you couldn’t fail to see it, had an entire wall to itself.