Scared to Live

In Foxlow, a police patrol arrived outside the gates of Bain House at about a quarter past one that afternoon. Thirteen sixteen hours, according to the incident log. PC Andy Myers pressed the intercom button on the gatepost a few times, but got no response.

‘Maybe it’s not working,’ said his partner.

‘I can hear it buzzing.’

‘Well, Control can’t give us a phone number for her.’

‘She must be ex-directory.’

‘So what do we do, then?’

Myers looked at the wrought-iron gates and the stone pillars on either side. ‘One of us has to get his arse over these gates. There should be a release on the other side. Mind the spikes when you get on top, Phil. They look lethal.’

‘Oh, thanks a lot. Don’t strain yourself, will you?’

‘I’m the driver. I have to stay with the car.’

Myers watched his partner struggle over the gates, grumbling all the way as he tried to avoid ripping his uniform or impaling his hand on a spike. Finally, his boots crunched down on to gravel at the other side and he found the release button to open the gates.

‘The bloke who phoned in was a farmer name of Cross,’ said Myers from the window of the car. ‘He says there’s a bedroom window open round the back somewhere, and a light on.’

‘Why didn’t he climb over the bloody gate, then?’

‘Him? He’ll be long gone, ploughing his sheep or something.’

‘You don’t get out into the country much, do you, Andy?’

The two officers went up to the front door and knocked. They still got no reply. Myers began to walk round the side of the house.

‘Yes, I can see the open window,’ he called. ‘I’m trying the back door.’

‘Anything?’

‘No.’

‘Nor here, either. Think we ought to go in?’

‘I don’t like this open window,’ said Myers. ‘There’s a burglar alarm – you can see the box up there on the wall. And security lights, too. She’s not some careless householder who’d leave her property insecure.’

‘I’ll call in and let Control know what we’re doing.’

‘OK, Phil. Then you’ll have to find a window to get through on the ground floor. I wouldn’t give much for your chances of reaching that open one.’

‘Hey, wait a minute –’

When Fry and Murfin arrived in Darwin Street, a man was standing in the garden of number 34. He seemed to have appointed himself some kind of supervisor, checking that everyone attending the fire scene did their job properly. He was holding a small digital camera and squinting through the viewfinder at a SOCO in a scene suit carrying two bulging plastic bags towards a van.

‘Hoping to sell some photos to the press, sir?’ asked Fry.

He glowered at her. ‘No such luck. They’ve all been here and done their own pictures, TV cameras and all. These are for my records.’

‘Records?’

‘I’m in Neighbourhood Watch. This’ll come up at the next meeting, you can bet. I was right here from the start, you know. In fact, it was me that rang 999.’

‘Would you be Mr Wade?’

‘That’s me: Keith Wade.’

He was either overweight or so bundled up in sweaters that it was impossible to judge his shape. He was sweating a little, but whether that was from excitement or exertion, she couldn’t tell. Keith Wade looked like a man who’d spent all his life in the driver’s seat of a lorry, eating egg and chips at truck stops and gradually turning pear-shaped.

‘Did you happen to take any photographs during the fire, sir?’ she asked.

‘’Course I did. Look –’

He turned the camera round and held it up as he fingered the controls. A picture appeared on the LED screen. It was very dark – almost black, but for a dull, reddish glow. Only the faint outline of a roof and chimney stack could be made out at the top of the picture.

‘Are they all like that?’

‘I followed the progress of the fire, and recorded how quickly the emergency services arrived. I took some with the flash when the firemen were here, but all I got was a lot of glare off the reflective strips on their jackets.’

‘We’d like copies of any shots you took during the fire.’

Wade looked pleased, then his face fell. ‘I haven’t got a colour printer.’

‘That’s all right. Have you got internet access? You can email them to us.’

‘Yes, I can do that.’

Fry gave him her card, and he fingered it happily.

‘Detective, are you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is that usual?’

‘What?’ said Fry, ready to react to some sexist remark.

‘Sending a detective to a fire.’

‘When there are fatalities, yes.’

‘Fatalities, right. The two kids were killed, weren’t they? Never stood a chance, they reckon.’

‘And their mother, of course.’

He nodded. ‘Tragic. I knew Lindsay and Brian pretty well. We’ve been neighbours for six years.’