In Cold Daylight (6 page)

‘So you’re not going to do anything.’

‘I’ll talk to the officers who attended the breakin.’

I could see that was the best I was going to get, but I wasn’t prepared to give up trying yet. ‘Any further news on the fire that killed Jack?’

‘No. It was just after four o’clock when it happened and dark. The old Labour club is tucked away behind the social security office. It’s a bit off the beaten track for passers-by.’

‘Perhaps someone working in the social security office saw something. Have you questioned them?’

‘No, and we’re not going to. I haven’t got the manpower, Adam,’ Langton added hastily. ‘We put a flyer up on the staff notice board asking for anyone who saw anything to come forward but so far nothing and the media coverage didn’t flush them out. It was probably kids.’

‘And if it wasn’t and Jack was the intended victim?’ I said tersely.

‘That just doesn’t add up. How would the killer know that Jack would be the first into that building? Are you suggesting that one of his colleagues killed him?’

Steve was looking at me as if I should be carted off to the nearest lunatic asylum. He was right, that was unthinkable. I said, ‘Someone could have gained access to the fire station.’

‘I know death is hard to come to terms with especially when it is someone close to us. We often look for someone to blame, but it was one of the hazards of his job.’

I could see that I wasn’t going to convince him otherwise. I made one last attempt. ‘And this code?’

‘I’ll check out the fire reports for 1994,’ he said wearily.

I’d won an extra concession, but I was going to do that anyway, once Red Watch were back on duty, which was tomorrow.

I spent a restless night mulling over the message that Jack had left me before rising early the next morning. I recognised the fire fighter who answered the door to me from the wake.

He was a tall, gangly man who resembled a giraffe with his long neck and rather prominent ears.

He introduced himself as Pete Motcombe and took me upstairs to the kitchen where the fire fighters were seated around the large table taking a break before beginning the tasks and exercises of the day. As I looked at their solemn faces I understood what Steve Langton had meant. I felt ashamed for even thinking that one of them could have had something to do with Jack’s death.

‘Is it true that Jack’s house was broken into on the day of the funeral?’ Motcombe asked.

‘Yes.’

A few expletives rumbled around the table.

‘Was there much taken?’ Motcombe asked.

‘No, but I can’t find Jack’s diary or computer back-up disks. Would he have left them on the station?’

‘They weren’t in his locker. I haven’t seen them.’

‘It should have been me, not him.’

We all turned to stare at the owner of the anguished voice. He was in his late twenties with close-cropped hair and startling blue eyes that were filled with a sadness that tore at my heart.

‘I was riding BA. I should have gone in first.’

Another man spoke, his voice gentle, ‘Ian, you’re not to blame. You mustn’t torment yourself with that. It could have been any one of us.’

‘I shouldn’t have let him do it.’

‘It was his job, Ian. He knew the risks just like you do, like all of us know it.’

‘But I swapped with him. Jack should have been pump man not me.’

‘It was Jack who asked you to swap,’ a female fire fighter I knew was called Sally said gently, pushing her fingers through her short blonde hair. ‘You weren’t to know what was going to happen.’

‘When did you swap with Jack?’ I asked Ian.

Why hadn’t Steve told me about this? Did he know? Was it important? Something in my gut told me it was.

‘When he came on duty that morning. It was Jack …’

He didn’t get any further. The bells went down and suddenly I was left in the room alone with Motcombe who explained he was duty man.

‘Ian’s really cut up. Shouldn’t be on duty,’

Motcombe said. ‘I’ve told him to see the doctor and get a sick note but he insists on being here.

Why did you want to know about him swapping with Jack?’

I didn’t want to give my real reason. I didn’t see any need to worry these guys who were suffering the loss of their colleague. I said, ‘I guess I’m finding it hard to come to terms with Jack’s death, which is why I’m here really.’ I plunged into the cover story that I’d worked out overnight. ‘I want to paint something as a tribute to Jack.’

With surprise I realised that was exactly what I might do. ‘Jack had three passions in his life: his family, his sailing and his job. Before I paint I like to research as much background as I can, immersing myself either in the period or the location or often both. I’m not sure what I shall paint yet, I just let ideas come to me by looking at everything associated with the subject, tucking things away in my sub conscious, getting a glimmer of an idea from an article, a photograph… I’m looking for some help on fire service background.’

‘That sounds a great idea. Fire away.’

Motcombe smiled at his pun.

‘I thought I’d take the year 1994. It was when I first met Jack.’ Strange but it hadn’t struck me until then the significance of the date on the postcard. I couldn’t immediately recall Jack talking about a dangerous incident in that year, or even on 4th July. Of course he might have used that date solely to draw me to the message in the New Testament and Psalms. I said, ‘Can you tell me how many fire fighters would have been on the watch then and give me their names? I’d like to talk to them.’

‘Sorry, can’t help you. I wasn’t on the watch and there’s no one else left from that time. Or rather there’s only Brian and he’s convalescing in Devon.’

I was disappointed. I didn’t really want to worry Brian with my enquiries.

Motcombe said, ‘Des Brookfield might help you, though. He’s at headquarters in Southampton.’

I knew that. ‘Perhaps I could see the fire reports for that year. It would help me get a feel for the incidents that Jack attended.’

‘They’re kept at head office.’

I should have known. But at least I could kill two birds with one stone: speak to Brookfield and see the fire reports. I knew I must be following a trail that Jack had already trod. Had he found the report and made notes about it on his computer? Notes that someone had been very keen to erase all trace of. Only one more question to ask, and a delicate one, before heading for Southampton.

‘Did Jack ever talk about a woman called Stella Hardway?’

Motcombe looked surprised. ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell. Why do you ask?’

‘Rosie heard him talking to her and she wondered if anyone knew her address. She wanted to contact her to tell her about Jack, in case she hadn’t heard.’

It was waffle but it seemed to satisfy Motcombe. ‘I can’t recall the name. I’ll ask the others for you, if you like?’

‘Thanks, but don’t say anything to Rosie. She’s got enough to cope with.’

I gave him one of my cards.

Thirty minutes later I was at fire service headquarters, ringing a bell at the deserted reception desk of the 1950s building that had the air of an old fashioned library about it. A few seconds later a woman in her mid fifties with short grey hair and a round figure appeared. I asked to see Brookfield.

‘Adam.’ Brookfield was striding across the parquet floor, a smile on his swarthy face that didn’t touch his eyes and his arm stiffly outstretched. I took his hand returning the pressure, trying not to wince at the grip that was like iron.

‘What brings you here?’

He waved me into a seat and I gave him the same story I’d spun Motcombe. He too was enthusiastic about the painting. When I mentioned that I had decided to focus on 1994

he said: ‘I was on the watch then. Perhaps I can help you.’

If only he could. With a quickening heartbeat, I said, ‘How many men were there on the watch?’

Brookfield’s dark eyes narrowed as he thought back down the years. ‘Fourteen usually, but if I remember correctly we were a couple of men down that year. We made up the numbers with different men on secondments from other stations. I was sub-officer and Stuart Hallington was leading fireman. He emigrated to New Zealand. As well as Jack there was Colin Woodhall, who’s now running his own fire safety business in Turkey and doing very well for himself; Dave Caton lives in France; Sam Frensham has a hotel in the Cotswolds; Brian Clackton, who’s still on the watch, and Sandy Ditton who works in Portsmouth. There was also Vic Rushmere, Scott Burnham, Duggie Leith and Tony Penfold, they’ve all since died of cancer.’

‘Vic Rushmere had cancer?’ He hadn’t been in the bicycle photograph and Rosie hadn’t mentioned him.

‘Yes. Did you know him?’ Brookfield looked surprised. I had to be more careful about my reactions.

‘No.’

‘He was the first one to die, if I remember correctly. Bloody awful disease, cancer. Red Watch has had its fair share of bad luck.’

That was putting it mildly. If I needed convincing I was on the right track this was it.

Five men out of twelve was definitely one man too many according to Simon’s statistics. Even if I counted in the two secondments, it would still be a little over the odds.

‘Do you have the addresses of any of them?’

Brookfield shook his head. ‘No, and I doubt if personnel will give them to you, data protection and all that. Some of the others on Red Watch might know or you could put a notice up in the station.’

That was an idea, using my painting story as a reason for wanting to talk to them. ‘What about Sandy Ditton? You mentioned he worked in Portsmouth.’

‘At the Maritime Museum in the dockyard.’

I could at least speak to him. ‘Would it be possible to see the fire reports for 1994?’

‘I expect so but I’d have to get permission from the chief first.’

‘How long do you think that will take?’ I tried not to show my disappointment. I had hoped to look at the records then but I supposed that had been unrealistic.

‘A couple of days. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Do you remember any particularly big fires during that year, or any unusual or nasty ones?’

‘Can’t say that I recall anything out of the ordinary, just more of the same that we usually get: car and bin fires, false alarms, people stuck in lifts, chip pan fires. No, nothing that big, but in 1992 we had a major factory fire.’

‘Do you keep a diary?’ I tried not to sound as if I was clutching at straws but every word Brookfield uttered sent me into further gloom.

I guessed I had been too optimistic to begin with.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

‘No, and I don’t keep a scrapbook either, though I know some of the fire fighters do.’

I’d forgotten about that. Did Jack have a scrapbook? If he did then had that gone missing too?

Brookfield said, ‘I’ve never been one for looking back. Always ahead that’s the only way.

Sandy always kept a diary and he’s got a mind like an elephant. Never forgets dates or events.’

At last someone who might remember, or who at least had kept a record. I brightened up at that.

Brookfield looked pointedly at his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting. Leave it with me, Adam, and I’ll see what I can do about those fire reports. How can I get hold of you?’

Once again a card came out and I handed it to Brookfield.

I telephoned the Maritime Museum and asked to speak to Sandy Ditton only to be told he wasn’t working until Monday afternoon. Directory enquiries said he was ex directory so I had no choice but to wait until then. That left me with Sam Frensham in the Cotswolds as the next nearest former Red Watch fire fighter to talk to.

I called Rosie.

Her first words were, ‘Did you find out anything at the station?’

‘Jack wasn’t having an affair. He must have been talking to someone at the hospital.’

‘Yes, that must have been it.’ I heard the relief in her voice.

I asked her if Jack had kept a scrapbook. She said he hadn’t. ‘I want to get in touch with some of Jack’s old colleagues. Do you know whereabouts in the Cotswolds Sam’s hotel is?’

‘Just outside Stow on the Wold. I can’t remember what it’s called though. It’s ages since Jack and I went there. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry. I can look it up. What about Sandy Ditton’s address?’

‘No. The only one I’ve kept in touch with from those days is Carol Rushmere and that’s because she works as a part time admin officer at the school where I teach.’

At last, a stroke of luck. ‘Can you tell me where she lives?’

‘Why this interest, Adam?’

‘It’s just an idea I have, about doing a painting for Jack. I’d like to talk to Jack’s old colleagues.’

‘Oh, Adam.’ Her voice broke and I felt a heel.

Now I was committed to it, but I didn’t mind. It was a good idea.

Rosie gave me Carol Rushmere’s address. I glanced at my watch. It was just after one o’clock.

Rosie had said Carol worked part time. There was a chance she’d be in and I was going to take it.

Carol Rushmere was a tall, big-boned woman in her late fifties with extra weight around her midriff and hips. She had plump arms, a round face and neatly coiffured bottle blonde hair that seemed stuck in a 1960s time warp. Her wide blue eyes smiled cautiously at me as she offered me tea.

I accepted out of politeness and followed her through the narrow hallway into a small, modern kitchen that faced on to a crazy paved back yard hardly big enough to house the garden shed and washing line. It overlooked another row of small houses built in the 1970s.

‘So you’re a friend of Jack Bartholomew’s. I was sorry to learn of his death. Poor Rosie.’ She switched on the kettle and retrieved two mugs from a wooden mug stand. ‘I’m not sure how I can help you with any painting, Mr Greene.’

‘Jack was a very good friend to me, and I feel I need to paint something as a tribute to him.’

‘I see,’ she said, obviously not seeing, but prepared to humour me. ‘Biscuit?’

‘No thanks.’ I took the mug of tea and followed her swaying hips through to the open plan lounge that ran the length of the house, and faced a busy road junction. They were building new houses in the grounds of the old psychiatric hospital opposite and the headlights from the heavy lorries transporting earth swept the room as they swung right, heading out of the town on to the dual carriageway. To the left of the large, picture window stood a decorated artificial Christmas tree with blinking coloured lights and a handful of wrapped presents underneath.