The Circle

23

The first Hen Mallin knew of it was at six thirty, when she stepped out of the shower. She could never hear the phone when the water was going. Didn't want to. She grabbed a towel and her mobile. I don't need this, she thought.

'Another?. . Vicars Close? That's. . Oh God. And is she. .? I'll be there shortly.'

Grim-faced as she drove from Bognor, she tried to get a grip on what had happened and what it meant. A third death by fire in Chichester. Another of the writers' circle murdered, and by night, the victim at home, in bed, at her most vulnerable. This would panic the rest of them. And give the press a field day. Proof positive that a serial killer was at work. She could hear the questions already. Why hadn't the police given twenty-four-hour protection to the members of the circle? How many more fatal fires would have to take place before the arsonist was caught?

Pick a number, she thought from the depths of her despair.

Fire engines, two of them, were drawn up in Canon Lane, on the south side of the cathedral, the closest they could get to the fire. A mass of pipes snaked up the narrow lane that fronted the terrace. There was barely room to put her feet down. But at least Vicars Close was cordoned off at each end, barring the gawpers.

Wisps of smoke still rose from the smashed windows of the burnt-out, saturated house. The fire had been contained in the one dwelling. The rest of the nicely maintained row appeared to have escaped, even the adjacent houses. White fronts and cared-for gardens made the contrast more poignant.

Hen lit a cigar and took a fortifying drag.

Stella Gregson was standing in a bed of purple irises in the trampled remains of the garden. 'Seems to have happened around four thirty this morning, guv, just like the others.'

'Witnesses — or is that too much to hope?'

'None so far. Uniform are knocking on doors.'

'Who reported it?'

'A shop window-cleaner, name of Meredith. He saw the smoke from South Street and came to investigate. That was just before six. The fire had ripped through the place by that time.'

Hen stepped over some of the hoses to speak to the senior fire officer. 'Any conclusions yet?'

'It was started at the front, I can tell you that.'

'Like the others. Petrol through the letterbox?'

He hedged a little. 'The investigation team hasn't been through yet.'

'But you have.'

'All I can give you is a personal observation.'

'Like I said, petrol through the letterbox?'

He smiled in a way that confirmed it.

'You took the decision to remove the dead woman?'

'We had to. The floor was starting to go. It's a wonder we contained it to the one house. These old buildings had solid walls. Fifteenth century.'

'Is there much left of her?'

'It's not pretty, but she isn't ash, like the last one.'

'Just the one victim?'

'Please God, yes. That's all we found. She lived alone, according to the neighbours.'

'That's our information, too.'

He scratched his unshaven face. 'Do you think the point of this was to kill? Who'd want to-'

'Thanks,' Hen cut him off. Speculation had its purpose, but not now. 'Appreciate your help.'

She returned to Stella. 'Not much we can do here until it cools off, Stell. We've got to move fast on this. I want to know where each member of the circle spent the last twelve hours. See if anyone spoke to Jessie late yesterday, in person or by phone. Look for signs of guilt, examine their hands, ask to see their shoes, clothes, vehicles, garages, outbuildings. Check for fuel, evidence of it, the smell of it.'

'We'll need warrants for all that, guv.'

'Sod that. They owe us their cooperation. If they refuse, we know who to focus on, and they'll be aware of that. Get the team working on it pronto, will you, before the press start badgering them.'

'The entire circle?'

'The whole boiling lot of them. Even the ones we think are in the clear. This is an inside job, Stell. We've met the killer, so we're ahead of the game. We don't know why the bugger is doing this, but we've got to nick him before he does another.'

'Him, guv? You said "him".'

'I take it back. Him or her. While you attend to that, I'm calling a press conference. They'll be screaming for a statement and they can have one, so at least I'll know they're sitting in front of me while you guys are doing the business.'

She was right about the media interest. She called the conference for ten thirty and it was standing room only. Some of the nationals — papers, TV and radio — were represented. From this point on, the pressure would be intense.

She was good at this and she handled their probing without once losing her grip. The questions were predictable, fishing for the quote that she refused to give, the admission that she was at a loss. On the contrary, she told them, a number of promising leads were being followed up.

Then she did four television interviews. As if that wasn't enough, she was summoned immediately after by the assistant chief constable and asked — in a roundabout way — if she was up to it. This time she did snap back. She told him she knew what was being hinted at and, no, she didn't need the Regional Crime Squad muscling in, and what was more she took it as insulting that it was even being considered. Her clear-up rate was second to none in West Sussex and she looked to her superiors for support in the shape of a generous overtime budget.

He huffed and muttered things about headquarters, and Hen came out knowing she was on limited time, but she knew that already.

She drove to the mortuary for a look at the body, a necessary duty, however distasteful. Fire is a great concealer. The possibility always had to be kept open that injuries had been inflicted first.

Just before the sheet was drawn back she reminded herself that the likely cause of Jessie Warmington-Smith's death was smoke inhalation. She would not have felt the flames. Horrific as the flesh injuries were, they were postmortem burns.

Standing beside the body she reflected on the irony that the killer is never forced to view his victim on a mortuary slab, as the investigator must. You would need to be callous indeed not to be affected by the spectacle of the fire-damaged corpse in those clinical surroundings. The nearest a murdering arsonist comes to the consequence of his crime is a glance at the photographs in court.

She saw enough to confirm Jessie's identity, then went in search of fresh air and a smoke.

In theory it was lunchtime, but she wouldn't be able to face food for a long while. She called the team to the incident room for a briefing and began by sharing the sparse information she had. The fire fitted the pattern of the others. It had started in the front hallway, by the door. There were no signs of a break-in, so concealing a theft wasn't the reason for the fire, as is sometimes the case. The victim had died in bed, probably from smoke inhalation. The fire chief was suggesting a likely time of origin between four and five in the morning. No witnesses had yet been traced, for all the door-to-door enquiries.

'So run it past me,' she told her team. 'What did you discover?'

Silence. No one wanted to go first.

Then Stella said, 'Do you want a summary from me, guv? There are ten surviving members of the circle and we've talked to nine of them this morning. The odd one out is Bob Naylor, and he left home early for work. He's a Parcel Force driver and he's on a long-haul job to Bristol. We've made contact and I'm seeing him tonight. Of the others, we had good cooperation from everyone.'

'But nothing helpful?'

'I didn't say that'

'Get to it, then,' Hen said. 'Who are you talking about?'

'Naomi Green admits she went out during the night, she thinks at about three a.m.'

An avalanche of new possibilities crashed into Hen's brain. 'What on earth for?'

Stella turned to Andy Humphreys. "You'd better explain.'

He pulled out his notes. 'I interviewed them both — the Greens, I mean. They'd heard about the fire on local radio, so it didn't come as a surprise to them. I spoke to Naomi first and she was very straightforward in her answers.'

'Was Basil present?'

'No, guv. He went out to do something in the garden.'

Johnny Cherry said, 'Like disposing of an empty petrol can?'

Typical bloody Johnny.

Hen said without even a glance in his direction, 'Andy, tell us what Naomi had to say to you.'

'The first time round she didn't admit to anything. She claimed she was working at her computer, entering stuff on her website until well after midnight. She keeps late hours apparently'

'Website?'

'It's some kind of diary she and Zach are writing.'

'An insider's view. We know.'

'Only Zach isn't pulling his weight, so it's all down to her, she says.'

Johnny said, 'He's shagging Sharon instead.'

'Shut up, Johnny. Naomi was working till late, you said?'

'Basil went off to bed about one a.m. and she went — I'm quoting her — "some time after". They don't sleep together.'

'Yes, we established that before. She didn't say precisely when she got to bed? You asked, I take it?'

'She wasn't sure. Didn't check the time.'

'Unlikely, but go on. Did you look at her hands, shoes and so on?'

'She showed me them without any fuss. I thought I was doing well, getting so much cooperation out of her. I didn't pick up any petrol smell. At that stage she had the all clear as far as I was concerned. Then I interviewed Basil.'

'Alone?'

He nodded. 'Naomi went off to do some more writing. Basil confirmed he got to bed around one, like Naomi said, while she was still using the computer.'

'And?'

'I asked him if he would have heard Naomi going to bed and he said no.' Humphreys put in a personal observation. 'They're a funny couple. If they were in this together they could give each other alibis easily.'

'But they don't,' Hen said, 'so we assume they aren't.'

'Then he added something that really dropped her in it. He said he heard the front door go when she went out. He said this in a matter-of-fact way as if we both knew all about it. I said, "She went out?" And he said, "Yes, doing research." I asked what time it was and he said it must have been between two and three. He said he knew she was going because she'd told him not to lock up.'

'Did he hear her come in?'

'No, he fell asleep. This morning they both got up late.'

'I'm not surprised. So you spoke to Naomi again?'

'I did, and she didn't turn a hair when I said she'd not told me the whole truth. She said she hadn't lied. She just didn't think it was important.'

'Oh, that old applesauce. Did you ask what she was up to?'

'She said she was' — Humphreys quoted from his notes — '"getting a sense of what it must be like on the streets at night". She's trying to get into the mind of the arsonist, she says. I said she'd better come up with something better than that and she turned quite stroppy. She said I was incapable of understanding how a serious writer worked and a lot of stuff like that.'

'So how did you handle it?'

'I asked where she went and what sort of research she did.'

'Good.'

'She took the van and drove into town and parked in North Street in one of those spaces at the top end.'

Hen pictured North Street: the paved walkway ended halfway up, north of the red-brick Council House, and traffic could approach through St Peter's and park at the side. 'Did she say why?'

'Research.'

'I know. Researching what?'

'She didn't explain, guv.'

'And you didn't press her?'

Stella came to his aid. 'You know who lives in North Street, above the building society? Tudor.'

'So he does,' Hen said. 'Did she mention Tudor?'

Humphreys said, 'No, guv.'

'What happened, then?'

'Nothing, according to her. It was all about atmosphere — the city at night.'

'Atmosphere, huh? The action was in Vicars Close. Are you sure she didn't go there?'

'She was very clear about that, guv. She stayed where she was.'

'Imbibing the atmosphere?'

'I suppose.'

'How long for?'

'About an hour. Then she reckoned she'd got what she wanted and drove back home and went to bed.'

'She says.' Hen was silent for a while, brooding on what she'd heard. 'I wonder what else wasn't important enough to mention. It's all right, Andy. I'm not taking a swipe at you. You did good, lad.' She turned back to Stella. 'And what else did we glean? Were the rest of our beauties all tucked up in their little beds by three a.m.?'

'Pretty much, guv. Some went later than others. Anton was online on his computer, and can prove it. Tudor was writing a new chapter of his life story until late, but reckons he was in bed by two.'

'Anyone away from home?'

'Not this time.'

'And that's the sum of this morning's interviews?'

'The bits worth mentioning.'

'Statements on my desk before you leave tonight. Wait.' Hen put up a restraining hand. 'I haven't finished. I want to pick your brains. Here we are with a third death by arson. One rather unpopular man and two inoffensive women. We had a few theories as to why Edgar Blacker was murdered. Fewer for Miss Snow. And I can't think of any reason at all why Jessie had to go. Can you?'

'She was an easy target,' DC Shilling suggested. 'Like Miss Snow.'

'Lived alone, you mean?'

'And in the centre of town.'

'That's risky, surely?'

'Plenty of escape routes, plenty of cover.'

'Fair enough, but you seem to be assuming they were killed for no other reason than convenience.'

Shilling gave a shrug. 'If the idea is to pick off members of the circle one by one, it makes sense to start with the easy ones.'

Johnny Cherry said as if to a child, 'Blacker was the first to go, and he wasn't in the circle.'

'All I'm saying,' Shilling said, 'is that the two women were sitting ducks.'

'No, you said the idea was to pick off members of the circle and I'm challenging that assumption.'

Hen sensed that there was more behind Cherry's remark. The man was still a peevish, grudging presence at meetings, unable to get over his displeasure that the investigation had been taken from him. But if he had something to contribute she wanted to hear it. 'What's your take on this, Johnny?'

'I reckon more than one person is involved.' He paused to watch them all sit up, and it certainly created interest.

'Go on. We're listening.'

'As you know, I nicked Maurice McDade, the chairman, for the murder of Blacker, and I still think the case would stand up in court. Okay, someone else must have started the fire at Miss Snow's, but McDade could have been behind that, too.'

Frowning, Hen said, 'That's unlikely, isn't it? Miss Snow was a friend of his.'

Johnny was enjoying this, spacing his words for maximum effect. 'She was the one who knew about his past, his jail term. And she betrayed him. She told someone else. Who did she tell? Naylor, the new man. And who nearly died in a fire at the boat house? Naylor.' He looked around for approval, and there were certainly some eyebrows raised. 'Then Miss Snow herself was killed.'

'Who are you suggesting did this?'

'McDade's partner, Fran.'

Shilling gave a long, low whistle. Everyone else was dumbstruck.

Hen's stomach gave a lurch and her self-confidence plummeted. She'd forgotten Fran. All this concentration on the circle members had clouded her judgement. It was a whopping oversight, and she'd been shown up in front of the team. She grappled with the concept for some seconds. Johnny, sod him, was right. Fran was well placed to know what was going on and had a motive. Digging deep for a scrap of credibility, she said, 'She's rather elderly to be a fire-raiser, isn't she?'

Johnny dismissed that with a sneer. 'Is there an upper age limit for arsonists? As far as I know, Fran isn't disabled. She's devoted to McDade. Maybe she acted with his encouragement, maybe not. Let's not forget she was married to one of the Richardson gang.' He leaned back in his chair, savouring the impact he'd made. 'If it was up to me. . But of course it isn't'

'If it was up to you, what?'

'I'd find out where she was on the nights of each of the fires.'

Hen said, 'We can do that, but before we get too excited how does the latest fire fit into this hypothesis?'

'We don't know until we question Fran. Jessie Warmington-Smith was one of the founders of the circle, wasn't she? It could be that she, too, knew about McDade's past form.'

He'd obviously thought this through. Hen hadn't looked outside the circle because it seemed that the crimes required inside knowledge. His theory had to be tested. Hen said she would follow it up.

'You can send me,' he offered.

'I'll do it,' she said. There were limits.

No one pointed out that if Johnny's theory was right, Hen had made a fatal mistake in releasing Maurice McDade. No one needed to point it out. They all knew Jessie Warrnington-Smith might still be alive.

She made another effort to claw back some respect. 'I'm still giving high priority to Naomi Green. I want a printout of everything on this website of hers. Duncan, will you see to it?'

'No problem,' Shilling said.

'And we'll demand the same from anyone else who has been writing about the case. Tudor, for example. Who interviewed Tudor?'

Stella raised her hand.

'Why the long face, Stell?'

'He's not going to like this.'

'He'll be flattered,' Hen said. 'They're writers, these people. They want to be read.'

She wound up the meeting. Johnny Cherry had a grin as wide as a grand piano. His intervention had rocked the team's confidence in her. Divided loyalties threatened.

DC Shilling was the last to leave, and for one humbling moment Hen feared he was going to offer sympathy. But it was something else. 'I've got a scrap of information for you, guv. Don't know if it helps. It's about that photo of Blacker and his unknown friend. You asked me to find out where he was working at Christmas, nineteen eighty-two, the year it was taken.'

'And?'

'He was with a magazine group called Lanarkshire Press.'

'Up in Scotland?'

'The name's misleading. It operated from a trading estate in Tilbury. You know Tilbury? Thames estuary.'

'I know Tilbury. Go on.'

'They specialised in men's magazines, soft porn.'

'I remember someone saying Blacker had done a bit of that.'

'None of them were big sellers. They kept trying different titles, producing a couple of issues and then thinking of something else. Like Headlights made a big thing of boobs and Hot Buns was mainly bottoms.'

'Okay, I get the drift,' Hen said.

'Well, towards the end of eighty-two, they had this idea of a mag with pictures of girls who were supposed to be amateurs and first-timers. Some men prefer them to professional models.'

'Like "Readers' Wives".'

'Same idea, except that the title they came up with was "Innocents".'

'Was it indeed?' she said, her spirits lifting a little. 'So the writing on the back of the photo wasn't what we thought at all. It wasn't a comment on the two blokes, it was a porno mag and they were at the Christmas party. Nice work, Duncan. That's a mystery solved. A small one, but who knows how useful it may be?'

'No problem, guv.'

'Good. Now you can impress me even more by finding out who the other guy was.'

Inside the hour she was doing penance, sitting on the chintz sofa opposite the Swiss mountain scene in Fran's front room in Lavant, a tray of tea and fruitcake in front of her. She hadn't dismissed the idea of Fran as the arsonist, but she had to stretch her brain to picture this silver-haired old lady patrolling the streets in the small hours with a can of petrol and a bundle of oily rags. The thing that made her hesitate was the voice. Tough, hard, resolute.

'I'm surprised you have the gall to come back,' Fran said as she poured the tea, making it clear from the start that she was no pushover.

'I'm the one who released Maurice,' Hen said. 'When I took over he was already in custody.'

'What's this about, then?'

'Like I said on the doorstep, it's more about you than Maurice.'

'You bastards never let go, do you?' Fran said with all the bitterness of long experience. 'Just because I made an unfortunate marriage a long time ago, I'm listed as a lowlife for ever. How do I get through to you people that I was never involved in crime?'

'It's not about the past. It's about last night. I expect you heard another woman died in a fire in Chichester.'

'That. It was on the radio.' Not much sympathy there.

'She was one of the circle. You probably knew Mrs Warmington-Smith.'

A shake of the silver curls. 'They're just names to me. The circle is Maurice's baby. I'm not interested in writing.'

You haven't met the members?'

'One came on his own when Maurice was in custody. Bob, he said his name was. I'd never even heard of him. He was back later with a woman, something like Tamsin.'

'Thomasine O'Loughlin.'

'They said they were trying to get Maurice released so I took them at their word. I'm very trusting.'

In trying to assess her character, Hen hadn't thought of 'trusting'. Words like 'canny' and 'hard-nosed' sprang more readily to mind, try as Fran might to cultivate the little old lady look.

'Can we turn to last night, or, rather, early this morning between three and five? We're asking everyone where they were.'

'Here, as usual.'

'Is there any way of proving it?'

'Maurice will tell you.'

'Thanks, but it would count for more if there was some independent proof.'

'That's ridiculous. What do you expect, some neighbour knocking on the door at four in the morning?'

'Point taken,' Hen said. 'Do you drive?'

'Can do, at a pinch. I rely on Maurice mostly.'

'But you keep your hand in? Sensible. What make of car is it?'

'Ford Escort'

'An old model?'

'Depends what you mean. The mileage has gone round the clock.'

'I'd like to see it before I go. Have you used it today?'

'We took a shopping trip into town.' She gave a sharp, impatient sigh. 'Listen, you're wasting your time with me. I've got nothing against the writers. Maurice gets a lot of pleasure from the meetings, and I'm happy for him. There's no earthly reason why I would want to set fire to people's homes.'

'Oh, if we're dealing in earthly reasons, I think there's one you have to face,' Hen said. 'The second victim, Miss Snow, knew about Maurice's past, the prison sentence, and she blabbed about it to Bob Naylor, the man you met. Each of them was attacked by the arsonist — fatally, in the case of Miss Snow, though Naylor escaped. Both incidents happened while Maurice was in custody, which let him off the hook, but not you.'

Her hands formed bony little fists and she leaned forward, glaring. 'Maurice's past is public knowledge. It was in the papers at the time.'

'The Brighton papers, yes, but hardly anyone in this town knew of it. Most of the circle hadn't the faintest idea. They respect him. Miss Snow had the potential to blow away his reputation.'

Fran switched to a more defensive tone. 'Nobody told me Miss Snow was putting this about. I agree it would have angered me. I don't know what my reaction would have been except I wouldn't have torched her house. That's sneaky and detestable. I'd have had it out with her, face to face. Besides, I didn't even know where the Snow woman lived until I read about the fire in the paper.'

'Presumably Maurice has an address list for the circle.'

'If he has, it's in his office upstairs and I don't go in there.'

'But you know where to look.'

'That's unfair.'

'Where is he right now?'

'In Chichester library, I should think. That's where I left him. He'd arranged to meet one or two of the circle there, to talk over this latest fire.'

'So you drove home alone? You do use the car?'

'Just as I said, at a pinch. I may be older than Maurice, but I'm not decrepit, you know'

Anything but, Hen thought. This was a foxy lady with a sharp mind. 'Do you keep a can of petrol here? People sometimes do, as a back-up.'

'You'd have to ask Maurice. He deals with things like that. You haven't had a slice of my cake.'

'I've got no appetite, thanks. Mind if I look at the shoes you were wearing?'

'Wearing when?'

'This morning, when you drove the car.'

'What for?'

'Just to check. It's my job.'

Shaking her head, Fran got up and left the room and presently returned with a pair of flat-heeled brogues. Hen examined them and found no trace of petrol or of burning, but then she wouldn't have expected this with-it old woman to leave anything so obvious.

She asked to see the car and took the opportunity to poke around the garage in search of the spare can of petrol. She didn't find one.

'Are you sure you don't want a specimen of my DNA as well?' Fran said.

The sense of failure still nagged at Hen as she drove back into town. Johnny Cherry, blast him, had touched a raw nerve. No question: Fran was a suspect now and should have been from day one.