Where There's Smoke

CHAPTER 17

The crematorium chapel was modern and austere. The walls were a dull, mustard yellow, with clear glass windows set high up near the ceiling. The pews were a pale oak, functional and straight-lined, like park benches. Hung on the wall at the far end, the bare wooden crucifix looked geometric and stark without the effigy of the pain-racked figure fixed to it.

Kate slipped into an empty pew at the very back. Most of those in front of her were full, lines of dark-clothed figures facing the plain pulpit that stood on a low dais.

She thought of Miss Willoughby’s funeral, where there had been only herself and a bored solicitor. To one side of the dais lay the coffin, surrounded on three sides by dark blue curtains. No one looked round as she quietly took her seat.

A Bob Marley track was playing through the wall-mounted speakers, helping to cover the echoing rustles and coughs. It faded as the white-surpliced vicar mounted the pulpit. He was a plump, youngish man with prematurely greying hair. He stood with his arms held loosely by his sides, waiting until the last strains of the music had died before speaking.

“We’re gathered here today to celebrate the life of Alex Turner.” His voice carried clearly in the bleak room. A choked sob came from a young woman in the front row. An older woman sat beside her, an arm around her shoulders.

“I know all of you here will have come with your grief, and your anger, at the manner of his passing. It is never easy when someone we love dies, and it is even less so when they are taken from us as Alex was, suddenly, and with violence. It is natural to feel shocked and bewildered. And it is easy to let those emotions give way to hate for the person who took Alex’s life. But today, I want you to put those feelings aside. We should remember that Alex dedicated his life to helping others. For him to lose his life in doing so is a cause for sorrow, but Alex himself would have been the first to urge us not to condemn. But to try to understand.”

The young woman sat with her head bowed. Kate could see her shoulders shaking. Further along on the same pew, an elderly man blew his nose and dabbed at his eyes.

“It is not always easy. We have lost a friend. A son. A husband. And a father, because the child that Kay, Alex’s wife, is carrying will now never know him.”

For an instant Kate thought he had said her own name. She looked again at the young woman in the front row.

“One of the tragedies is that neither will Alex see his child when it’s born, a child that he and Kay have long wanted. For them to be finally blessed, only to have their happiness snatched away in a senseless act of violence seems especially cruel. Yet to give way to thoughts of bitterness, of anger and revenge would be an even greater waste. Because to do that is not only to dishonour Alex’s memory. It is also to refute everything he lived, worked, and ultimately died for.”

A draught of cold air brushed the back of Kate’s neck as the chapel door was opened. She looked around to see a man wearing a thick waxed coat easing it shut behind him. His shoes squeaked on the floor as he went to the end of Kate’s pew and sat down. A bulky camera was slung around his neck. Kate looked away as he began to fiddle with it.

“I was privileged to know Alex through the work we both did in the community, and I can truthfully say I found him to be a patient and kind man, who genuinely cared for the people who came to him for help. So, as we pray now for Alex, I would like us also to pray for the tortured young man who took him from us so suddenly. And also for each other, so we can find the strength within ourselves to forgive him.”

Abruptly, Kate’s eyes filled. She hung her head, letting the tears drop directly onto her coat, where they quickly soaked into the rain-damp fabric. In the general shuffling as the congregation prepared itself to pray, she took a tissue from her pocket and quietly blew her nose.

A noise from the end of the pew distracted her. Glancing up, she saw that the photographer was also bent over, but only to change the lens on his camera. He had a bag open on the seat next to him, and as he took one from it, he knocked another onto the floor. She heard its thin rattle, and the man’s muttered, “Shit,” over the vicar’s resonant voice.

The prayer ended. The vicar continued, but now Kate’s attention was divided between what he was saying and the photographer’s preparations.

The service was short. There was no hymn. Instead, they sat in silence as Elgar’s cello concerto was played through the PA system. At the end of it Kate would have slipped out, but the photographer blocked the end of the pew.

“It is our hope and belief that Alex’s spirit will not have died, that the Alex we knew and loved still continues, apart from us, but still whole,” the vicar continued. “But Alex remains with us in other ways. He will always be a part of our hearts, always be in our memories. And he will continue in the child that Kay gives birth to, a living reminder of the Alex Turner whom we knew and loved, and to whom we now bid goodbye.”

The curtains closed over the coffin with a jerky rustle. As they swayed to a standstill, the vicar stepped down from the pulpit without another word. Kate looked over at the photographer again. He was poised on the edge of his seat, camera at the ready. She turned away, wondering if she could squeeze out at the other end but the pew was pushed up against the wall.

She looked back in time to see the photographer bob up to take a couple of shots as the young woman rose to her feet. He slid out of the pew and went to the door. Kate stood up to leave also, but by then the people from the front were already coming down the central aisle.

She sat down again, head averted. From the corner of her eye she could see the young woman draw level with the end of the pew. An elderly couple supported her at either side, while behind her followed the man Kate had seen wiping his eyes earlier. The young woman walked slowly, like an invalid, and Kate had time to see the heavy belly under the black coat, the pale and tear-blotched face.

Then they were behind her, making their slow progress to the door. Kate kept her head down. She could hear the young woman’s stifled sobs as the unsteady footsteps came closer. She ducked her head further, waiting for them to stop, tensing for the cry of recognition, of accusation.

The door creaked open. The footsteps diminished, and were drowned by the shuffling tread of the other mourners as they filed past.

Kate didn’t move. She kept her eyes on her hands, clasped tightly on her lap, as the procession dragged on. Finally, she could hear that it was coming to an end. The rest of the chapel was quiet as the stragglers made their way behind her to the door, and Kate prepared to leave.

“Hello, Miss Powell.”

She jumped at the sound of the voice. She looked up at the man standing over her unable to think who he was. Then the bristly grey hair, the faintly mournful eyes under thick black brows slotted into place and she recognised the Detective Inspector. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said.

The last of the mourners had disappeared through the door. They had the chapel to themselves.

“I wanted to come.” Kate looked over to where the coffin was hidden by the closed drapes. “I thought it was the least I could do.”

A mechanical, whirring sound came from behind the curtains. They swayed slightly.

“We’d better go,” Collins said. “There’s another funeral scheduled.”

Kate made her way along the pew. Collins waited for her. He was wearing the brown suit and tweed overcoat that he always seemed to have on. He held the door open for her, and they went along the short corridor to the main doors.

Outside, the air was cold and sharp. The mourners were clustered in loose groups on the wide tarmac drive around the young woman. The elderly couple stood near, still supporting her as people waited their turn to speak a few brief words, occasionally to embrace her. The second elderly man stood close by, but slightly to one side, not quite a part of their group.

“That’s Turner’s father,” Collins said. “His mother couldn’t come. She’s in hospital, dying of cancer.”

The man had a slightly dazed expression as he nodded and shook hands with the people who approached him. Kate looked away.

“I’d better go.”

Collins regarded her. “If you want to hang on a second I’ll give you a lift.”

“No, it’s all right. Thanks.” She was suddenly in a hurry to get away.

“I’d like a word with you anyway. I won’t be a minute.”

Without waiting for her to reply, he went over to where the young woman stood, surrounded now by a group of weeping women. He waited on the edge, his bulk towering over them, then stepped forward. Kate saw him speak to Turner’s widow, taking both her hands in his. The young woman nodded, and then Collins moved on to shake hands with the man and woman on either side of her, and lastly the man he had pointed out as Turner’s father. He came back towards Kate.

“The car’s parked at the other side.”

They moved around the mourners towards a line of parked cars. Then Collins stopped. She felt his hand on her arm, restraining her, and looked up to see him staring ahead at the photographer who had been in the chapel. The man’s attention was on the central group around the widow. Kate could hear the click-whir of his camera motor as he took shots.

“Let’s go this way,” Collins said, taking her arm and leading her back the way they had come. They went around the back of the chapel, coming out behind the photographer, so he was facing away from them.

“Why didn’t you want him to see you?” Kate asked.

He glanced at her, then away again. “It was more you I didn’t want him to see. We’ve kept you out of it so far. I don’t want the press to start sniffing around now over some ‘mystery woman’ at the funeral.”

The murder of a psychologist by one of his patients had made national news, but none of the reports had made any mention of Kate’s involvement. She was surprised by the Inspector’s consideration. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. The press coverage was bad enough when they thought it was just another failure of Care in the Community. They’ve lost interest now, but if they find out why Ellis killed him we’ll have every tabloid in the country breathing down our necks. It’ll turn into a three-ring circus, and that sort of thing doesn’t help anybody.”

They reached the line of waiting cars. Collins went to a grey Ford. The sergeant who had been with him the first time he had visited Kate’s office was in the driver’s seat, reading a newspaper. He quickly folded it.

“We’re giving Miss Powell a lift,” Collins told him, opening the rear door for her.

The sergeant grinned at Kate, then seemed to think that might be too familiar and looked more serious. He cast a glance at the Inspector, as Collins eased his bulk onto the back seat next to her. “Where to?”

“The nearest tube station’s fine,” Kate said.

The sergeant started the car. Others from the line were already pulling onto the drive.

“I’ve been in touch with the Wynguard Clinic,” Collins said, as they passed through the crematorium gates. “Not that they were able to help much.” A trace of a smile touched his lips. “Your Dr Janson’s a worried woman. It seems the clinic never chased up the check with Ellis’s GP. They didn’t seem to think there was any real need, because he was a ‘known donor’. Is that the right term?”

Kate nodded.

“Anyway, that’s between you and them, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d got a case for negligence. I doubt that Ellis knew who the real Alex Turner’s doctor was, so if the clinic had tried to get hold of his medical records they’d have known something was wrong straight away. I’m not sure how the law stands on that but it might be worth you taking legal advice.”

She shook her head. “I can’t blame them.”

Collins let the matter drop. “The other thing I wanted to tell you is that Paul Sutherland’s been released,” he went on. “He still claims he can’t remember where he was on the night your office was broken into, but from what the officers who arrested him said, that’s pretty easy to believe. Apparently it was a while before he was sober enough to talk any sense at all. But they’ve managed to account for at least some of his movements, and it doesn’t look as though it was him.”

The car smelt of cigarettes. Kate wound down the window a little to let some air in. “I never thought it was.” The breeze was cold on her face.

“No luck with fingerprints, either, I’m afraid.” Collins’s knees pressed into the back of the seat in front. Sitting next to him, Kate felt like a little girl. “Looks as though whoever did it wore gloves. So they either knew what they were doing, or they’d got cold hands.”

“What about the matches?”

Collins turned down his mouth and shook his head. “Doesn’t prove it was Ellis, if that’s what you mean.”

“So you don’t think it was.”

“I don’t think a box of matches proves anything, one way or another. It could just have been a burglar who smoked. We’ll keep an eye on your office as well as your flat, but I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

Kate gazed out of the window. “Did you find out where he called from?” She had dialled 1471 after Ellis had phoned her. His number had been logged on the caller-return system, and she had passed it to Collins. But she could see from his expression that it had been a wasted effort.

“He used a public phone box near Oxford Circus tube station. Nobody can remember seeing him.” The Inspector sounded disgruntled by the admission. “Somebody like that’s not going to be able to keep out of sight for very long, though. He’ll turn up sooner or later.”

The sergeant pulled into the kerb. “This okay? There’s a tube station on the other side of the road.”

Kate said it was and got out. The tobacco smell seemed to follow her, caught on her clothes. Collins climbed out as well. The car sank down slightly as he eased into the front seat. As it pulled away, Kate looked to see if the road was clear to cross. Outlined against the grey clouds, the thin column of the crematorium chimney was poised like a rebuking finger.

That night she cooked herself a cheese and ham omelette, with Brussels sprouts and two slices of wholemeal bread. Sprouts weren’t her favourite vegetable, but they were rich in folic acid, which was important in pregnancy. Even though she had no appetite, there was an incentive to make an effort.

Part of her noted the irony that, now she was able to eat as much as she liked without feeling guilty or running to the gym, she wasn’t able to enjoy it.

Kate found that she had moved to an acceptance of being pregnant without really being aware of it. The thrill she had expected to feel seemed to have been subsumed in the larger emotional turmoil. At odd moments the knowledge would hit her, and there would be a vertiginous plunge that was almost terror. But even that was already growing rarer.

She forced herself to eat the omelette and helped down the final breadcrust with a glass of milk. Taking her plate and glass into the kitchen, she washed and dried them.

When she had put them away she looked at her watch. It was eight o’clock. She went back into the lounge and stared at the television until it was ten o’clock and she felt she could reasonably go to bed.

Sleep came hard. Often it was little more than a restless, half-awake state that would last until the early hours, leaving her feeling grainy and listless when it was time to get up. It was like that now. Kate groped for the clock as the insistent beep of the alarm dragged her towards consciousness. She fumbled to turn it off before realising that the noise was coming from outside her room.

She sat up. It was still dark, without even the subtle lightening that indicates dawn. Still hazy with sleep, it took her several seconds to understand what had woken her.

It was the smoke alarm. She threw back the covers and ran into the hall. The yammer of the alarm was immediately louder, and now she could smell the smoke that had triggered it. She switched on the hall light and blinked against the sudden brightness.

There was a faint grey haze in the air, but no fire.

Kate ran to the lounge. It was as she had left it, dark and quiet. The smell of smoke was fainter. She hurried out to check the kitchen, noticing that the smoke in the hallway was already thicker. As she passed the top of the stairwell a noise made her look down.

Smoke was oozing from around the door at the bottom. The foot of the stairs was in shadow, but a bright glow came from the translucent cat flap. It was bumping inwards as though blown by a wind, nudged by the heat on the other side. The plastic was already beginning to bubble.

Kate sprinted into the kitchen. She turned on both taps full to fill the washing-up bowl and then, leaving them running, dashed to the phone. Her hands were shaking as she dialled 999.

“Emergency, which service do you require?”

“fire. My flat’s on fire.”

A second later another operator came on the line. Kate tried to keep her voice level, but couldn’t stop the tremor as she gave the details. The smoke alarm continued to shrill in the background.

“Is there anyone else in the property?” the operator, a woman, asked.

“No.”

Miss Willoughby’s flat had remained vainly for sale ever since the old lady had died. Kate was thankful now that it was empty.

“Can you go outside?”

“No, the exit’s on fire, for God’s sake!”

She heard the panic in her voice, but the operator remained calm as she told Kate to go to a room facing the street, close the door and open the window. “Stay by the window so they can see you,” the operator said. “And hang a towel or something out of it as a marker.”

The smoke was already thicker, given a toxic bite from the melting plastic of the cat flap. Coughing, Kate hung up and ran back to the kitchen. The washing-up bowl was overflowing and, without turning off the taps, she picked it up and staggered out with it. Water sloshed onto the T-shirt she wore to sleep in as she reached the top of the stairs and heaved the entire bowl towards the bottom. Without waiting to see what effect it had, she stumbled back down the hallway and into the lounge.

The air in there was clearer, and it wasn’t until she had closed the door that it occurred to her that the room was directly above the fire. Belatedly, she wondered if the bathroom would be safer. But she balked at the thought of going back out into the smoke.

Leaving the room dark, she crossed to the window. It was a sash, and years of paint had stuck it together. Every summer since she had been in the flat Kate had meant to repair it, but never had. It slid open easily for six inches and then jammed. She struggled with it for a few seconds and then gave up. A bar of cold air breezed against her midriff. She had forgotten to grab a towel, so she stripped the cover off a cushion and draped that through the gap instead. Resting her head against the cold glass, she looked out. The street was empty, with no sign of the police patrols Collins had promised. The path in front of the front door was lit by a moving, multi-coloured light. Flickering patches of blue, red and orange danced on the garden as the flames shone through the stained-glass facets. A faint tinkling came to Kate as, one by one, they shattered, until the harlequin glow was a uniform yellow.

There was a movement in the shadows. She peered into them and saw Dougal sitting on the garden wall. The cat’s eyes gleamed with reflected light as he watched the fire.

Kate’s breath misted the window, and when she wiped it clear Dougal had gone. Dimly, in the distance she heard the wail of a siren.

Water dropped from the ceiling. A sooty pool of it scummed the floor, covering the cracked ceramic dies. The walls and ceiling were blackened, the woodwork of the doors and doorframes charred and blistered. Miss Willoughby’s welcome mat lay where it had been pushed into a corner by the pressure of the hose, a shrunken black square.

Hanging over everything was the tickling, charcoal reek of dead fire.

The fire officer straightened. Behind him other uniformed men were coiling the hose and packing it away. Glass crunched under his feet. The bulb in the ceiling had shattered, but enough light came from the stairs to see by.

“We’ll have to wait for the forensic results, but I don’t think there’s much doubt,” he said. He was a stocky, middle-aged man. His hair had been flattened by the yellow helmet he now held under one arm.

He nodded down at the cat flap at the base of the door. It had melted and congealed like candle-wax, a surreal twin to the one set in the inside door.

“They poured petrol through the outside flap, then stuck a piece of cloth through and set fire to it.”

He nudged with his foot at a charred fragment that could have been fabric.

“Whoever did it knew enough not to get their fingers burned by sticking their hand through with a match. You’re lucky it was only in the entrance area. There’s nothing much in here to burn. Not until it got into one of the flats, anyway. Our friend either didn’t know that, or expected it to be contained. Not that that’s any excuse. It could still have been nasty if you hadn’t got a smoke alarm.”

He looked at the stubs of smoky glass in the top half of the front door and shook his head. “Any idea who might have done it?”

Kate hugged her bathrobe more tightly around her. The porch was cold from the water dripping from every surface. “He’s … uh, the police are already looking for him.” Her teeth chattered, from reaction as much as cold.

The fire officer waited for her to say more, then looked around as a white patrol car pulled up in front of the red engine. “I’ll need to make out a report, but I’ll leave you to tell them, then.”

He stepped down onto the path. His boots splashed in the grimy puddles.

“One thing, though. I wouldn’t have another cat flap when you have the new door fitted. Whoever it was might make a more serious try next time. All it would take would be a length of pipe and they could pour the petrol straight into your flat.”

He stared at her, to make sure his words had registered, then winked. Puss’ll just have to wait until you let him in.”