After the Fire (11 page)

‘Yeah,’ Carl said, giving her a wary look. ‘Nina Bellew. Becky, my daughter – she’s seven – and Nathan. Nathan’s ten.’

At the sound of his name the boy’s eyelids flickered but he didn’t really come out of his stupor.

‘Anyone else?’ Derwent asked.

‘Debbie, my wife.’

‘No, she wasn’t there. She’d gone out, remember? Down to the shops. She wasn’t there at the time of the fire. That’s what he asked. Not who lives in the flat. Who was there at the time of the fire.’ Nina Bellew reminded me of a crow, with her harsh voice and staccato delivery. The words rattled out of her like machine-gun fire.

‘Yeah, all right, Mum. Debbie had gone out.’

‘Did she go to the shops on the estate?’ I asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘So she hadn’t been gone for long.’

‘No. Ten, twenty minutes?’

‘The bloody lift was broken again, wasn’t it? She had to walk all the way down and all the way back up again. Takes bloody ages.’ Nina sniffed. ‘She’s not one to hurry herself, is she?’

If Nina was waiting for her on her return, I was inclined to feel Debbie had every right to dawdle.

Before Derwent could ask his next question the simmering tension between the two small girls boiled over. Twin screams of rage tore through the air. It was all I could do to stop myself from putting my hands over my ears. Nina looked disgusted. Nathan drew his knees up and tried to curl into a ball on the chair, like an armadillo. He pulled his hoodie over his head and tightened the strings so his face was hidden.

‘Lola, stop it. Tansy, you too.’ The fair-haired woman spoke in a high, wispy voice, her words barely audible from where I was standing.

‘Come on, Louise, can’t you keep them quiet for five minutes?’ Rocco demanded.

‘I’m trying,’ Louise whispered. ‘It ain’t easy. They’ve got the hump because we’ve been stuck in here all day.’

‘Supporting my family in their hour of need.’

‘That doesn’t matter to
her
,’ Nina said venomously. ‘She’d see us on the street sooner than offer to take us in.’

‘That’s not true.’ Louise looked wounded. ‘I’d never leave you with nowhere to go.’

Derwent had obviously judged that the family squabbling could go on all day. He raised his voice so he could be heard. ‘Where is Debbie?’

‘She’s with Becky,’ Carl said.

‘No, she’s not,’ Nina snapped. To us, she said, ‘She wanted to stay with her but she’s not allowed. They let her wait in the hall, by Becky’s room.’

‘We’ll go and speak to her in a minute.’

Nina snorted. ‘She won’t be able to tell you anything. Never pays any attention to what’s going on around her. She’s in a dream half the time.’

‘You never know. Sometimes people see things or hear things that don’t seem significant at the time but they’re important for us to know,’ I said. ‘And on that point, did any of you see anything suspicious yesterday? Or hear anything?’

Carl and Nina shook their heads in unison. Nathan was invisible.

‘Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to harm you or anyone in your family?’ Derwent’s tone was matter-of-fact and the question was routine but the effect on Carl Bellew was striking. He went pale and started opening and closing his mouth like a recently landed fish.

‘Course not.’ Nina shot a look at her son. ‘There’s no reason, is there, Carl?’

‘No.’ He shook his head again, this time so violently that his jowls rasped on the collar of his shirt.

‘Why are you making out this was something to do with us?’ Rocco leaned forward, his hands balled into massive fists that he braced on his thighs. ‘We’ve done nothing to bother anyone.’

‘We have to ask,’ I said smoothly. ‘You’d be surprised. Anyone can get into a fight, can’t they?’

‘People don’t fight with us,’ Nina Bellew said.

‘Not if they know what’s good for them.’ Rocco said it in a mutter but I heard it, and Nina heard it. She turned and treated her other son to the look she’d given his brother.

‘What’s your date of birth, Carl?’ Derwent asked.

‘Seven, seven, seventy.’

‘The seventh of July, 1970.’ Derwent was writing it down.

‘That’s what I said.’

‘And what do you do for a living?’ I asked.

‘Handyman,’ Carl muttered. Louise couldn’t quite keep the look of surprise off her face, I noticed. She bent her head over one of her daughters so I couldn’t see her expression any more.

‘You must be doing well,’ Derwent said pleasantly. ‘You bought your flat, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ He looked shifty. ‘It was a right-to-buy type of thing. The council was selling so we bought it.’

‘We?’

‘Me and Mum.’

‘You’re not on the paperwork, Mrs Bellew,’ Derwent said.

‘I gave him some money. So what? It was a family matter.’ She smiled at her son, revealing shining white dentures that were as even and unsettling as the teeth of a ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘He knows better than to try and kick me out.’

‘I wouldn’t want to even try,’ Carl said. Sweat glinted on his upper lip and across his forehead.

‘Have you lived there long?’ I asked.

‘Only since it was built; 1966, I moved in,’ Nina said. ‘Never lived anywhere else as a married woman. Never wanted to.’

‘And you were all right with your son and his wife living with you?’

‘Course I was. Family’s family. Anyway, he was always my favourite.’

‘Oi!’ Rocco looked genuinely upset. ‘Leave it out, Mum.’

She cackled. ‘I’m only pulling your leg.’

Derwent turned to Carl. ‘Where did you keep your tools? In the flat?’

He looked cagey. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘We’re looking for anything that could have started the fire accidentally. If you had a drill charging or if you had paint or varnish it would help us to know about it.’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘So where do you keep your tools?’ I asked.

‘In a lock-up garage behind Barber House.’

‘That’s one of the other tower blocks,’ I said to Derwent.

‘That’s lucky, isn’t it? You won’t have lost anything.’ Derwent’s tone was deceptively light.

‘Yeah. Of course.’ Carl glanced at his mother, looking for help, and got only withering scorn. ‘Is there any chance we can get back into the flat?’

‘No. It’s too dangerous,’ Derwent said firmly.

‘There’s something I’ve got to get.’

‘If it was in the flat, it’s gone.’ Derwent shook his head. ‘Smoke damage, fire damage, water damage. Whatever it is, it’s had it, mate.’

‘No, I understand that. But it’s of sentimental value, you know.’

‘There really wasn’t anything left,’ I said, thinking of the scorched chandelier hanging over the wreckage in the living room. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘There was a safe. In my room.’ Nina Bellew blinked very rapidly. ‘Behind the bed. Not big. Thirteen inches by ten by ten.’ She sketched out the size with her free hand. The other was still clinging to her handbag. ‘The safe was supposed to be fireproof. There are things in it that I should have.’

‘I can ask the fire crews and scene of crime officers to look out for it,’ I said.

‘They can’t touch it. It’s mine.’

‘Mrs Bellew, they’ll be clearing out the contents of your flat. If they come across anything that can be salvaged, including the safe, it will be returned to you.’

‘They’ll nick it now they know it’s valuable. But it’s not money or jewellery. Nothing like that.’ She blinked again, and I realised it was a sign she was agitated. ‘It’s personal. Sentimental value, like what Carl said.’

‘I promise you, they won’t steal anything,’ I said. ‘They’d get fired immediately if they were caught. It wouldn’t be worth it.’

‘That’s what you think,’ Nina croaked.

‘It’s what I know.’

‘I’ll tell them to look out for it. Whatever they recover, you’re welcome to inspect it. If they find it and the contents have been destroyed, you’ll be able to reassure yourself that the safe was fire-damaged, not emptied.’

‘Listen, missy, I know they can make it look as if it was burned and everything was destroyed. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘When were you born, Mrs Bellew?’ Derwent asked, his pen poised over his notebook.

She looked horrified. ‘That’s not something I tell my nearest and dearest, young man.’

‘Yeah, but I’m not near or dear. I’m a police officer and I’m asking for your date of birth.’

‘Fifteenth of February.’ Her normal rasp was muted to a mumble.

‘Year?’

‘’46.’

‘1946,’ Derwent said clearly. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bellew. And what was your maiden name?’

‘Hayes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Piss off,’ she muttered.

‘What was that, Mrs Bellew?’

‘Nothing. Here, haven’t you asked us enough questions? We’re very upset, you know. We’ve lost our home and our belongings and my little granddaughter is very ill. Can’t you leave us in peace?’

‘Almost done,’ Derwent said with a sympathetic smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I need an address for you in case we need to contact you again.’

‘They’ll be living with me,’ Rocco said, and the two girls sat bolt upright, stricken.

‘What – all of them?’ Louise laughed. ‘Where are we going to put them?’

‘We’ll manage, all right?’ To Derwent, he said, ‘It’s 24 Eastfield Lane.’

‘And a telephone number for each of you.’ Derwent passed his notebook around, turned to a fresh page so they couldn’t see what he’d written down about them. Nina didn’t even glance at it.

‘Ain’t got a phone. Don’t like mobiles. The radiation cooks your brain.’

‘You can get hold of Mum through me,’ Carl said. ‘She won’t be far from me.’

‘Or me.’ Rocco scowled at his brother. ‘We’ll be right beside her.’

‘Aren’t I lucky.’ Nina Bellew winked at Derwent and it was impossible to tell if she meant what she was saying, or if we were supposed to understand the exact opposite.

‘I HAVE QUESTIONS.’

‘So do I,’ Derwent said. I followed him down the hospital corridor, struggling slightly to keep up with him. A polished floor and heels did not go together, but I liked wearing heels. I was tall anyway. I never minded being taller still, especially at work. There were men who had decided against causing me trouble, purely because I could look them in the eye.

One of them was walking a stride ahead of me.

‘Why did you ask Mrs Bellew for her date of birth?’ I asked.

‘I want to run her through the box.’ He meant the PNC database.

‘Do you think she has a record?’

‘I’m sure of it. And her sons definitely do.’ Derwent sidestepped a young nurse, then turned to watch her walk away. He gave a soundless whistle. ‘I love hospitals.’

‘You’re a cliché.’

‘Oh, come on. Who doesn’t fancy nurses? Young and pretty, eager to please, nice little uniform …’

‘She was wearing scrubs, which are not exactly designed to be titillating.’

‘Titillating,’ Derwent repeated, grinning. ‘
Tit
illating.’

I ignored him. ‘Just because she’s a nurse that doesn’t mean you can leer at her.’

‘You’re jealous.’

‘I hardly think so.’

There was a police officer on duty outside the intensive care unit where Becky Bellew was being treated. We showed our credentials to her and Derwent checked that nothing had happened since she’d been on duty.

‘No journalists hanging around? No one strange asking questions?’

‘Nothing, sir.’ She sounded definite.

‘Bored yet?’

‘No, sir.’ She was probably in her early twenties but she was the sort of person who seemed to have been born middle-aged, from her sensible haircut to her no-nonsense manner.

‘Keep up the good work,’ Derwent said, and held open the door so I could pass through. I waited until he’d closed it again.

‘What are you, the Queen? “Keep up the good work”?’

He looked defensive. ‘What was I supposed to say to her?’

‘I don’t know. Apparently there’s nothing in your repertoire that isn’t flirting or patronising.’

His expression darkened. ‘There’s intimidating.’

‘Yeah, you’re really scary.’

‘I can be.’

‘Of course you can,’ I said sweetly. ‘You can be anything you want to be if you just believe in yourself.’

‘There was a time you were afraid of me,’ Derwent complained.

‘I got over that.’

‘Don’t tell me.’ That slow grin spread across his face. ‘You’ve been imagining me naked.’

‘I don’t have to imagine that. I’ve seen it.’ In the most unromantic circumstances possible, naturally.

The grin widened. ‘Of course you have.’

‘But don’t worry about that.’

He frowned. ‘Why would I worry?’

‘You were cold and hurt. I’m sure it wasn’t your most impressive showing. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Kerrigan.’

‘Sir.’

He sucked in his cheeks, trying not to laugh, then settled for shaking his head. ‘Back to work.’

‘Yes, sir.’ I headed to the nurses’ station so I could ask where Debbie Bellew might be. An Irish nurse who reminded me of my mother gave us directions.

‘You’ll find her in the corridor outside her daughter’s room. Poor lady. She’s very upset. She hasn’t slept. She won’t eat anything and I only just got her to take a little drink of tea a while ago.’

‘How’s her daughter doing?’ Derwent asked.

‘Ah, you know. We can’t say for sure yet. All we can do is wait.’

Debbie was sitting with her head in her hands, her hair falling down on either side of her face so I couldn’t tell if she was sleeping or crying or just thinking.

‘Mrs Bellew?’

Her head snapped up, anxiety corrugating her brow. ‘What is it? Is it Becky?’

‘We’re police officers, Mrs Bellew. We’re investigating what happened at Murchison House yesterday.’

‘Oh.’ She looked past us, as if she was expecting to see someone else. She looked uncertain, and also – strangely, in the circumstances – guilty. ‘What do you want me to say?’

‘We’d like to ask you some questions about yesterday evening,’ Derwent said. ‘Firstly, you weren’t in the flat at the time the fire broke out. What time did you leave?’

‘Oh …’ She blinked up at us. ‘I don’t know. After five, I suppose.’