Линда Ла Плант - Buried

DI Martin Prescott and DCI Simon Ridley had met several years ago on the College of Policing’s Senior Investigating Officers course, and had bonded over polystyrene-tasting coffee and a mutual love of golf. They were chalk and cheese; Prescott was a man’s man who treated colleagues, male and female, like his mates until they proved him wrong — whereas Ridley was more formal in his approach, liking to keep a professional distance. However, when it came to police work, they were both sharp, methodical and rarely wrong. Although these men would never choose to spend their downtime with each other, they shared great mutual respect. Ridley was very grateful to have been brought in on this case at such an early stage.

Prescott walked Ridley and his team round the outside of Rose Cottage and into the back garden, where dozens of uniformed Thames Valley Police officers were scattered about doing a fingertip search of the grounds to make sure they’d not missed anything. Prescott got everyone up to speed as they walked.

‘All the information from ’95, and my recent conversation with Bill Thorn, suggests that this could be the Met’s open train robbery case. All of the evidence we’ve gathered so far is being organised for transfer. We’ll carry on at this end if you like, or do you want to bring your boys in to take over?’

Before Ridley could answer, the dog handler popped up from the other side of a hedge.

‘Sir!’

Amber was sitting to attention, pointing her nose to the ground, tail wagging. Her handler moved the low branches of the hedge to one side and revealed a short piece of garden hose, which was the same colour and design as the garden hose in the back garden of Rose Cottage. In the soil was an intact toe print from what looked like a trainer.

‘Amber’s indicating that this hose smells of petrol.’

‘Could Amber have missed a petrol accelerant inside the cottage?’ Prescott asked.

‘At this scene... yes, sir,’ Amber’s handler explained. ‘The fire had already been burning for a long time when we arrived, so all traces of accelerant could have burnt away. And the smell of the body could have overpowered the scent, too.’

Prescott waved to a SOCO carrying a digital SLR camera as he reassured Ridley.

‘We’ve bagged samples of every piece of debris from inside, so if petrol was used, forensics will tell us. And we’ll get a cast of that toe print.’

As the SOCO took pictures of the cut hose in situ, before bagging it as evidence, Anik was mesmerised by Amber bounding around the neighbouring field with her tongue flapping about from beneath the tennis ball.

Ridley replied to Prescott’s earlier question. ‘I’m more than happy for your men to continue at this end, DI Prescott. Thank you.’

With that, Prescott led the way back round to the front of the cottage. Jack paused, made notes on his mobile and pondered ‘intent’ as he looked at the clearly improvised piece of cut hose. Whatever had happened here, the fire might not have been planned. Something could have just gone very wrong, very quickly.

In the front garden, everyone stood amid the muddy mess of trampled roses and fire-damaged furniture as Prescott continued with his heads-up.

‘After Norma died, a supermarket approached the owner of the cottage within weeks and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. There’s a newish housing estate about a quarter-mile away, built on the land where The Grange used to be, so a supermarket here’ll make a killing. Demolition’s paused now, of course. This place’ll stay exactly as-is till you say otherwise. And the post-mortem’s paused an’ all. I’ll get Abbi’s preliminary findings to you, along with all the evidence and statements we’ve collected so far. Collecting the cash has been a bloody nightmare. Most of it crumbles on contact, but we’re getting video and photographic records of every step we’re taking. ’Ave I missed anything, sir?’

‘Do the witness statements for the fire give us anything?’ Ridley asked.

‘Nah. No direct witnesses. No CCTV. We’ve got dozens of housing estate residents giving you an accurate timeline for when the fire started, though.’

‘Thank you, DI Prescott.’

Ridley looked at the carnage that surrounded him. He dreaded to think what the inside looked like.

Anik frowned over the top of his blue paper face mask as he watched everyone else milling around the now-empty lounge of Rose Cottage. They all wore their blue paper suits well, whereas his was far too big and made him look inflatable.

How come everything police issue never bloody well fits me? he thought to himself.

Ridley, Jack, Laura and Anik had each been given a tablet so they could flick through crime scene photos as they moved. Jack stood in the centre of the room, where the sofa had been, and looked at images of the burnt body melted into the springs. The fire must have raged with real intensity to obliterate the body, down to the bone in places. Jack was overwhelmed by the need to know who this man used to be — was he one of the bad guys or was he an innocent victim? Was he a ‘pervert’, as the faint red paint on the wall suggested? Or was he just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong people? His train of thought was broken by his mobile buzzing in his pocket. His mum had left a second voicemail.

Ridley was across the room listening to Prescott talk inter-station politics. Prescott was explaining that he wasn’t going to get in Ridley’s way, but that he did want to stay close to the investigation; after all, Norma was one of their own and the mystery of a dead body in her old house was definitely something they wanted answers to. Jack took the opportunity to quickly nip out into what used to be the front garden and listen to his mum’s voicemail, as he wouldn’t be able to do it in the car back to London with Ridley.

‘Hello, darling. It’s Mum.’ As though he didn’t know. ‘Can you visit? Soon, I mean. Only me and your dad need to have a little chat with you. Nothing for you to worry about, just... we’d love to see you.’

The words ‘nothing for you to worry about’ clearly told Jack that there was something for him to worry about. Without thinking where he was and who might be listening, he called straight back.

‘What’s up?’ Jack asked quickly, not bothering with any of the usual pleasantries.

Initially he heard nothing in reply, as his mum held her breath on the other end of the phone; then he heard that very distinctive slow exhale that comes with letting overdue tears flow. Jack’s voice was all it took for Penny to be overwhelmed by pent-up emotion.

‘I’m going to come to you as soon as I can. OK, Mum? It might not be today, but I’ll try my best. Is Dad OK?’

Again, Penny didn’t — couldn’t — answer immediately. After what seemed like an age, she managed to whisper, ‘No, sweetheart.’

Jack kept his voice calm. ‘I’ll be there tonight. Don’t worry. I’m coming.’

He hung up, regained his composure and looked at Ridley, who was now lording it amid his temporarily extended team, dishing out his anally retentive orders, checking and double-checking that everyone knew their role.

‘Guv,’ Jack said politely. This wasn’t going to go down well. ‘Could I have a word in private, please?’ He and Ridley stepped away from the bulk of the people. ‘I have a family issue, guv. I’m sorry, I know it’s bad timing.’

‘Now?’

Ridley wanted confirmation before he decided just how disappointed he was going to be with Jack.

‘It’s my dad. I think. I mean, Mum called and... something’s wrong.’

Ridley sighed a long and heavy sigh, making Jack wait for his decision.