Scared to Live

Wade’s house was so close to the Mullens’ that the smoke had stained his walls, too. Pools of water lay in his garden, and someone had trampled a flower bed on their way to the fire.

‘Mr Wade, has anyone been around in the last few weeks asking questions about the Mullens?’

‘Asking questions? Other than you lot, you mean?’

‘It’s a serious enquiry, sir.’

‘Sorry. No, there hasn’t been anyone.’

‘Think carefully, please. It might have been someone who appeared perfectly innocent at the time. A market researcher calling at the door, then dropping in a casual question about your next-door neighbours?’

‘No, I’d remember that.’

‘What about your wife? She might remember someone being around while you were out.’ Seeing Wade hesitate, she probed further. ‘I’m sorry. Are you married, sir?’

‘I’m divorced,’ he said.

‘OK. Tell me again what made you first notice the fire.’

‘Well, I think I smelled the smoke. I suppose the smell of it must have been strong enough to wake me up. At first, I reckoned it must be someone’s bonfire that had been set alight. Kids do that around here, you know – they think it’s fun to see the fire engines arrive. But when I got out of bed, I saw a funny light on the bedroom curtains. It was sort of flickering, like someone was watching a huge TV screen outside. Do you know what I mean?’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I put some clothes on, went outside to have a look, then made the emergency call.’

Yes, and that sweater was probably the first thing he’d put on. It looked as though he’d been wearing it for months. The thing was brown and shaggy, with little threads of wool springing out everywhere.

‘Did you see anyone outside at that time, Mr Wade?’

‘No, not a soul. But I wasn’t looking up and down the street, just at the fire. It had broken the sitting-room window by then, and there were flames going up the wall. Come to think of it, I suppose it might have been the sound of the window breaking that woke me up, not the smell of the smoke.’

‘Why do you think that, sir?’

‘Well, like I said, I’m in Neighbourhood Watch. I’ve sort of trained myself to hear the sound of breaking glass at night. We’ve had some burglaries round here, as I suppose you know. So I have to be on the alert.’

‘I see. But you don’t actually remember hearing glass breaking last night?’

Wade looked disappointed. ‘No, not really.’

He was so transparent. Fry imagined he was a bit of a nuisance at Neighbourhood Watch meetings, always claiming to have seen something that he hadn’t, to make himself more interesting. She wondered whether Wade was a member of other organizations, too. The Police Liaison Committee, the Keep Edendale Tidy Group – anything that would let him stick his nose into other people’s lives.

‘What about traffic, Mr Wade? Were there any cars going by when you first saw the fire?’

‘Not that I noticed,’ he said. ‘Just a minute.’

He raised his camera to his face and focused on something past Fry. She turned to see a liveried police car pull up outside number 32, and the driver spoke to a uniformed officer on duty outside.

‘Would it be all right if I took your photograph as well?’ asked Wade. ‘I don’t think I’ve got a detective.’

‘No, it wouldn’t be all right.’

He sighed. ‘Fair enough.’

‘Mr Wade, did you make any attempt to get into your neighbour’s house when you saw the fire? Or were you too busy taking photographs?’

He looked hurt. ‘Of course I tried to get in. After I’d made the call, I ran back out and went over the fence to their house. But there were already flames coming out of the windows, and I couldn’t see a thing for the smoke.’

‘You must have seen Brian Mullen arrive home later.’

He shoved the camera away in a pocket and wiped the palms of his hands on his sweater.

‘Yes, poor bugger. He was going out of his mind. Is Brian all right, do you know?’

‘His injuries are only minor.’

‘That’s something, anyway.’

Even out here, the smell of smoke and charring was very strong. Mr Wade himself seemed to reek of burning, like a smoked kipper. If he’d stood in his garden wearing that same sweater while the fire was burning, it was probably impregnated with the smell: smouldering wood and singed flesh.

‘Are you normally at home during the day, Mr Wade?’

‘Sometimes I work late shifts,’ he said. ‘I make deliveries for the supermarkets.’

‘I see.’

‘I ought to be in bed now. But I couldn’t sleep with all this excitement going on.’

Fry looked across the fence at number 32. The SOCOs had erected a crime-scene tent over the doorway, so it was impossible to see inside the house now, except for a vague shape moving past a blackened window now and then. The bodies of the victims had long since been removed, and the firefighters had finished damping down, leaving nothing but a few streams of muddy water running into the gutter.

‘Yes. Riveting, isn’t it?’

By the time she got back to E Division headquarters in West Street, Fry had a headache. She looked in her desk for some Paracetamol, but found only an empty box, not even a broken foil strip. She glared angrily around the CID room. Light-fingered bastards. She never let herself run out of Paracetamol, so someone in the office had been nicking them from her drawer without asking. In this place, they’d steal your fillings if you left your mouth open too long.

She took a few deep breaths instead and drank a cup of water. She had to be fit and on the ball. This wasn’t a time to screw up; it was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate her ability. Had she done everything that needed to be done right now?

She’d left Gavin Murfin at Darwin Street to liaise with the fire investigator and chase up the SOCOs. She’d also asked for a search team to examine the vicinity of the house. What she needed was some indication of malicious intent, so she could go to the DI with a view on the case. That would show she could deal with a challenge.

The pain tightened across her forehead. She ought to have asked Cooper to bring her a new supply of Paracetamol from the supermarket. The day was about to begin in earnest, and there were bound to be more problems coming her way before long. It was going to be one of those weeks, all right.

The dead body lay at an awkward angle, half on a rug by the bed. It had been a nice sheepskin rug once, soft and white – until it soaked up most of Rose Shepherd’s blood. Now it was stained dark red and caked into stiff clumps. When Miss Shepherd died, she’d been wearing her nightdress, a cotton one designed for comfort rather than style, with enough folds to conceal the source of the blood.

PC Myers raised a hand to the light switch, but remembered the light was already on. His partner stood in the doorway, tugging at his radio.

‘What do you think she’s done to herself?’

‘Can’t tell,’ said Myers. ‘She’s dead, though.’

‘Back off, then. Don’t touch her.’