Unforgotten (19 page)

He drank two cups, but it was the gnawing sense of lost time that did most to recharge his flagging energy. Going into the dining room where he had set up a temporary office, he found
a phone number for the fire brigade headquarters and called to find out if Ellis was based there, little imagining the switchboard would put him straight through. At the sound of Ellis’s voice he rang off abruptly, fearing a rebuff if he made his request over the phone.

Before leaving the house he laboured over a text message to Charlie.
Great idea to search computer. Back about 7. Much love, Dad.
This, like so many of his communications with Charlie, seemed inadequate, but it was the best he could do, though that didn’t prevent him from fretting over how it could have been improved.

When he called upstairs to tell Lou he was going out, she leant over the banisters and listened to his story about needing to go into the office with the same faintly troubled expression as before, so that for the second time that day he felt he had managed to disappoint her in some crucial way.

The rain had eased off and he drove towards the city through a light drizzle that seemed to infiltrate the car, misting the screen. He fiddled with the ventilation controls, but either there was too little air or it was too cold, because suddenly the screen fogged completely. Almost blind, he slowed down and rubbed at the glass with the palm of his hand. Pushing at the ventilation controls again, he was finally rewarded with a blast of air and looked up to see a red light with a mother and child walking across. He stopped in time, there was never any danger, but his nerves were so taut, his dread so acute that he felt cold suddenly, he gave an involuntary shiver.

He parked in his allocated place beneath the Dimmock Marsh office and walked the four blocks to fire brigade headquarters.

‘Mr Ellis is away from his desk at the moment,’ the receptionist announced after speaking into the phone. ‘He’s expecting you, is he?’

‘I was hoping so,’ Hugh said.

She wrote his name down and gave him a professional smile, bright but detached. ‘If you’d care to wait?’

The fire brigade obviously had a better class of visitor than
the police: the waiting area was open plan, the seats comfortable, the windows large and unbarred. There were stands containing leaflets with such titles as
Fire Safety in the Outdoors
,
Caring for your Smoke Alarms
and
Candle Safety
. He picked up
Candle Safety
and read it through twice. His eye kept returning to a caution halfway down the list: ‘Keep candles out of draughts and away from furnishings and clothing.’ Had it really been that simple after all? Had she put a lighted candle on her desk then gone to the kitchen to make some supper and forgotten about it? That much was just about possible. But she’d still have gone back to turn off her computer. When it came to saving energy she was a proselytising green; she liked to quote the fact that machines left on standby overnight burn enough energy to light two large cities. Unless there had been something to distract her. Ranging through the possibilities, he gave her a bad headache and saw her taking an aspirin and lying down, intending to close her eyes for just a minute or two, only to fall into a deep sleep. He gave her food poisoning, so virulent that she could get no further than the bathroom before collapsing into bed. He saw her getting uncharacteristically frustrated with her work and finding comfort in another few glasses of wine. But no matter which scenario he chose he couldn’t see her abandoning their deeply ingrained night-time ritual of turning off all the lights and checking the doors and windows. Even with the lights on she could hardly have failed to notice a candle burning: candles were brighter than you thought; the Victorians had read by them after all.

He had just started on a leaflet entitled
Close that Door!
when the receptionist called him over. ‘Mr Ellis says he wasn’t expecting you.’

‘Oh?’ Hugh made a show of mild surprise. ‘Could he spare me a few minutes anyway?’

She went back to the phone and relayed the message. ‘He’ll be right down.’

In a short while Ellis appeared through a swing door,
looking wary. ‘Mr Gwynne,’ he said with a taut nod, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘I was wondering if we could have a quick word.’

‘Concerning what exactly?’ He was more than wary, he was defensive.

‘A couple of things I wasn’t clear about.’ Sensing that Ellis was about to turn him down, Hugh added quickly, ‘Just small details.’

‘Mr Gwynne, I’m sorry but I’m unable to enlarge on my report or discuss any issues relating to my report. If you want further information then you’ll have to apply to the coroner’s office.’

Aware of the receptionist a few feet away, Hugh dropped his voice a little. ‘Off the record?’

Ellis said under his breath, ‘Your idea of being off the record doesn’t appear to be the same as mine, Mr Gwynne.’ The note of injury was unmistakable.

‘Oh.’

‘I understand you’ve made a complaint as to the quality of the investigation.’

Hugh thought: I’m getting slow, I should have realised the police were bound to tell him. ‘My complaint was with the police.’

‘That’s not what they told me.’

‘Well, they told you wrong. I never complained about the quality of your investigation, only its scope, and I laid the blame for that firmly at their door, not yours.’

‘Scope?’ he queried touchily.

‘The fact that they didn’t treat the house as a crime scene. Didn’t bring in a whole team of experts to go through everything with a fine-tooth comb.’

Ellis’s expression relented a little, but he wasn’t quite ready to abandon his sense of injury. ‘They’d need good reasons to do that.’

‘That was my point – there
were
good reasons.’

Ellis exhaled slowly. ‘Look, Mr Gwynne, while I have every
sympathy for you at this difficult time, I regret that it’s impossible for me to be of any further assistance. I’ve made my report, and that’s as far as I can go.’

‘I loved my wife, Peter.’

The declaration and the use of his first name caught Ellis off-balance. He shot Hugh an awkward glance.

‘I feel I owe her this one last thing – to try and find out what happened. I realise there may be nothing to find. But I have to try.’

Ellis began to shake his head.

‘Just a couple of questions.’

‘Listen, Mr Gwynne, when we make a report we offer an
opinion
as to the cause of a fire, that’s all. We offer it in good faith, to the best of our knowledge. But the way the world is now, people try to sue us. It’s got so bad that the lawyers have told us not to discuss our findings with anyone, and that includes people like yourself . . . relatives, loved ones. So you see—’

‘I won’t sue. I give you my solemn promise.’

Ellis’s round face betrayed his indecision. ‘But telling the police you knew about my report – it landed me right in it.’

‘I apologise if I betrayed a confidence,’ Hugh said humbly. ‘It was unintentional. It won’t happen again, I promise.’

When Ellis gave in, it was with a small sigh, as though he was still going against his better judgement. With half a glance towards the receptionist, he led Hugh closer to the window. He said, ‘Nothing gets quoted, officially or unofficially, to anyone under any circumstances?’

‘Absolutely.’

Another sigh. ‘Go ahead.’

‘The window,’ Hugh began. ‘You said a window had been left open?’

Ellis frowned with concentration. ‘One downstairs. A second upstairs.’

‘The one downstairs was where?’

‘In the lounge, about a metre from the sofa where the fire started.’

‘Opposite the door then.’

Ellis thought about that. ‘On the other side of the room, certainly.’

‘And which upstairs window was open?’

‘In the en suite bathroom.’

‘The one in the bedroom was closed?’

‘Yes.’

Hugh nodded, as if this tallied with his existing knowledge. ‘The window in the living room, was it open very far?’

‘Depends what you mean by far. It was on the stay.’

‘The stay . . . ?’

Ellis mimed a push–pull action. ‘The long handle at the bottom of the window that fits over the pin and stops it banging about.’

‘Of course, yes. Yes . . . So what are we talking about? A few inches?’

‘The fire officer observed that the window was open. It’s beyond his remit to take measurements.’

‘I just wanted to be clear that the window wasn’t on the vent setting. There was a second groove –
slot
, do I mean? – on the main latch so you could open the window just a crack but still leave it secure.’

‘According to the lads it was on the stay.’

The stay. A new word for his window vocabulary. ‘And the living-room door had been left open?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the bedroom door?’

Ellis hesitated, as if he could see where these questions were leading and didn’t want to be implicated in the conclusions. ‘Yes.’

‘And the window in the bathroom, how far open was that?’

‘A couple of inches, no more.’

Hugh suppressed the picture of choking darkness that
threatened to engulf his imagination. ‘What about the smoke alarms?’ he asked. ‘Were they working?’

‘Couldn’t be sure about the one in the entrance hall, it was too badly damaged. But the one on the first-floor landing was operating.’

‘It had gone off?’

‘It was sounding all right when the firemen got into the house. But the battery was almost flat.’

‘Why didn’t she hear it?’ Hugh murmured as much to himself as Ellis.

Ellis shrugged. ‘Often these battery-powered alarms aren’t so loud as mains-powered.’

‘But it would have been loud enough to be heard before the battery went flat?’ Hugh made a baffled gesture, inviting ideas, but if Ellis had any more thoughts on the subject he wasn’t forthcoming.

Struck by new uncertainties, it was a moment before Hugh managed to get his thoughts back into some sort of order. ‘The smoke,’ he said at last. ‘How is it that people don’t wake up? Why don’t they cough or choke?’

‘Carbon monoxide makes people sleepy, so if they’re deeply asleep already . . .’ He turned his mouth down.

‘That’s what’s meant by toxicity, is it? Carbon monoxide?’

‘And a whole range of other gases. Each fire’s different, depending on the amount and type of toxic materials.’

‘Is a house very toxic?’

‘Can be. Old foam cushions are the worst offenders.’

Old foam cushions
hung in the air like an accusation: the crime of having failed to succumb to the craze for refurbishment.

Once again Hugh struggled to find his thread. ‘So it’s not unusual for people to sleep through smoke?’

‘It’s all too common, unfortunately.’

‘Hence the campaign to install smoke alarms. Battery operated or otherwise.’

Not sure how to take this remark, Ellis let it pass.

‘The front door,’ Hugh went on. ‘It was locked? They had to break it down?’ He knew the answer already but he wanted to hear it from Ellis.

‘Yes.’

‘Any record of whether the mortice lock was engaged?’

‘No.’

Such information had been too much to hope for. Hugh gazed out of the window at a rain-streaked concrete wall across the street. ‘Last question,’ he said pensively. ‘What was my wife wearing when they rescued her from the building?’

Ellis was uneasy again. ‘Not something we put in our reports.’

‘No . . . But you could find out?’

Ellis hesitated unhappily.

‘I’d be very grateful.’

A last hesitation, then Ellis gave a reluctant nod. ‘But no promises.’

At a quarter to five Bristow’s was almost deserted, a few shoppers dawdling over their coffee, a lone drinker hunched over a newspaper, the staff polishing tables and stocking the bar in preparation for the onslaught of thirsty office workers, usually well represented by the staff of Dimmock Marsh, located twenty yards down the street.

Isabel was waiting for Hugh at a corner table. She stood up, her eyes very grave, and said rather formally, ‘I’m so very sorry, Hugh.’

‘Thanks.’

She sat down rapidly, as if to get on to business, and passed him a batch of envelopes. ‘Cards from the staff. They don’t expect a reply. And these’ – she reached for a folder – ‘are letters from clients and associates. There’s a lovely letter from Desmond. And another from Sanjay. I don’t know what you
want to do about them . . . if you’d like to draft a standard reply which I could send out for you? I’ve kept a note of all the names and addresses.’

He had no idea what he wanted to do. The protocol of bereavement, the need to make decisions of this sort, was beyond him. ‘Thanks. I’ll probably draft something in the next day or so.’

‘People have been asking if there’s a date for the funeral.’

‘It’s not decided yet. But . . . well, we’re thinking of a small affair. Just family and close friends. Perhaps you could explain?’

‘Would flowers be all right? A joint wreath from everyone?’

‘I . . . Yes, of course.’ He could see his hope of a simple, austere funeral with a single wreath of white flowers slipping away.

Guessing something of this, Isabel said, ‘But let me know nearer the time.’

‘Yes.’ Then, unable to hold back any longer, he asked, ‘It’s all set for tomorrow then?’

‘Yes. David Slater will be at the house by ten to ten thirty, depending on the traffic. I’ve got his mobile number’ – she handed him a slip of paper – ‘and I’ve given him yours in case he’s delayed.’

‘And he’s the best?’

‘Well, he’s registered with two of the top forensic advisory services, and when I double-checked with their senior staff they all said he was highly respected. And when I Googled him, he came up straight away. He’s written several papers on fire investigation and appeared as an expert witness in some high-profile legal cases. I found the names of some other consultants on the Web, but Slater seemed to be the most experienced. And of course he was available.’

‘You told him a bit about the job?’

‘As much as I could.’

‘He sounded confident?’

‘He was a bit concerned about how long it’d been since the
fire. And he wanted to know if the roof had been damaged and whether any rain had got in.’

‘He thought the delay might be a problem?’

‘He didn’t actually say so. He just asked how long it had been.’

‘Anything else that worried him?’

‘Whether the site had been kept secure. I said I thought it had. And whether there were limits on the budget. I said there weren’t. I hope that was okay.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘He’s bringing a team, he said. And they might need to be there for several hours.’

‘Good.’ Hugh added impulsively, ‘How about a glass of something?’

‘No, thanks. A bit early for me.’

‘For me too, but what the hell.’ He had been advised by the doctor that after a bereavement it was best not to drink for at least two weeks. Five days struck him as a fair compromise. He decided on a Scotch for rapid effect and wasn’t disappointed. As the warmth curled around his stomach he felt his anxiety, if not fading exactly, then pleasantly blunted.

‘You must put your time down to me, Isabel,’ he said. ‘Don’t want Ray on your back for failing to keep an accurate time sheet.’

She waved this aside. ‘Before I forget – Raymond’s been trying to get hold of you. Something about the house insurance.’

Hugh couldn’t think what it could be. ‘I thought I was dealing with that. Did he say if it was urgent?’

‘You know how it is with Raymond.’

He knew. When Ray wanted an answer to something it was always urgent, no matter how trivial the question.

‘I’ll call him later. But tell me about the Deacon case, Isabel, and what happened with Tom.’

Isabel blinked rapidly, as if she had been preparing for what
was always going to be a difficult moment. ‘I had to make a couple of decisions that I need to square with you.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘The first was about our little difficulty with Tom, about him coming clean or us having to resign. Well, I wasn’t sure what to do. In the end I decided I wasn’t in a position to take action without proper authority. Authority from you, I mean. So I did nothing. I didn’t say anything to Tom. I didn’t tell him I knew about the problem, I didn’t ask him for a decision or anything like that. I just ignored it. It was only afterwards that I wondered if I should have referred it to one of the other partners.’

‘Christ, no. That would really have blown it. No, you did the right thing, Isabel. And Tom didn’t mention anything, I suppose?’

‘No.’

‘He was probably relieved that I wasn’t there to put him on the spot.’

‘That’s the other thing,’ Isabel said. ‘On Thursday morning when Raymond called and told me about the fire, I wasn’t sure what to do. Whether to tell everyone. Everyone in the team, I mean. But then – well, I realised . . .’

Hugh breathed, ‘Tom.’

She nodded vehemently. ‘He was already in a state when he arrived at court. Nervous. Shaking and sweating. I thought if I went and told him he’d just freak out, which wasn’t going to help anyone. And then I thought it wouldn’t help to tell Desmond either, not just then, not when he was about to start Tom’s re-examination. So I just told everyone you had a family emergency. Then when court rose for the day, Tom rushed away before I had the chance to tell him. And he didn’t turn up at all on Friday. I tried his mobile all through Friday and the weekend, and today as well, messages and texts, but he hasn’t answered, so I still don’t know if he’s heard.’

How strange, Hugh thought, that he should have missed the obvious, that in his shock and confusion, in the closing of his mind to everything but the impossible task of coming to
terms with Lizzie’s death, it hadn’t struck him until this moment that he and Tom now shared an extraordinary and terrible bond, that their greatest common experience was not after all to be the law case but the loss of a loved one to fire. The thought gave him no comfort; rather, it touched him with a nameless anxiety.

Into the long silence Isabel dropped a soft, ‘Hugh?’

Hugh emerged from his thoughts with an effort. ‘Yes, it was the right thing, Isabel. Yes . . . So, tell me about Tom’s evidence. Tell me what happened.’

‘Well, he was amazing.’ Isabel shook her head in wonder. ‘After all that sweating and shaking I thought he’d fall to pieces, but once he got into the witness box he was calm as could be. No, not calm –
focused
. He kept his answers short and simple, like Desmond had told him. But he was really moving as well. So sad and sort of
dignified
. You felt he was telling it from the heart. It really got to you. And it wasn’t just me that thought so,’ she added, as if her own judgement had been a bit suspect. ‘Desmond did too. And Sanjay. Anyway, Desmond took him through everything, all of Price’s evidence, how he’d never known Price that well, how Price used to tag along, how Tom never had mental problems as a result of his army service, only worries about his marriage and the strain of being away so much. And how he felt he was doing health-wise, whether his hopes for the future had changed at all. When it came to the cross-examination I thought he might lose it – Bavistock launched in with some fairly aggressive questions – but he stayed totally cool. If anything he just got more and more – well,
dignified
. The judge seemed impressed. He made a big thing of thanking Tom anyway. Said he hoped it hadn’t been too much of a strain, that kind of thing. So . . .’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘It looks like he went and pulled it off.’

Hugh breathed, ‘Good old Tom.’

‘But he’ll still have to face the music, won’t he? I mean, the whole thing’s still going to come out?’

Hugh drained the last of his whisky. ‘Who knows? The
way his luck’s going at the moment he’ll probably get away with it.’