Хилари Боннер - Wheel of Fire

‘Yes, like you said, there could be intruders dead in there as well as the two victims we know about,’ said Vogel. ‘And you can’t search the place yet?’

‘No way,’ said Bob Parsons. ‘The house is still burning as you can see, and the few bits of it that remain standing are likely to collapse at any moment. All we can do is pour water on it. But, bizarrely, because of the size of the explosion, the speed with which the fire took hold and its ferocity, we may be able to put the fire out sufficiently to gain entry more quickly than is often the case when a big old place like this goes up—’

Parsons was interrupted by a fire officer calling out from closer to the house.

‘Bob, sorry, but you’re needed round the back.’

‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ said Parsons to Vogel.

‘Of course, you get on,’ Vogel responded. ‘Thank you for your time.’

Parsons began to walk towards the house. After a few steps he stopped and turned back to face Vogel.

‘Just one more thing I should tell you,’ he said. ‘Do you know about this gardener, odd-job-man, driver chap?’

‘I was going to ask about him,’ replied Vogel. ‘George something, isn’t it? All I know is that he’s the one who apparently started this armed intruder business. Obviously, we need to speak to him. Is he here?’

‘Not any more. We and the medics found him outside the house when we were finally allowed through. Armed response had already helped him to relative safety and made him as comfortable as they could, but he was in quite a state. Bleeding from wounds to his shoulder and one leg. Couldn’t stop sobbing, either. Kept saying this wasn’t meant to happen.’

‘I see,’ said Vogel. ‘Do you know how he sustained his injuries? Was he caught up in the fire? Was he burned? I thought nobody else was supposed to be in the house.’

‘That’s quite right,’ said Bob Parsons. ‘Though Grey claimed he tried to get into the house, but was too late. No. He said he’d been attacked by the armed men he’d alerted Sir John and his nurse to. Didn’t look like anything to do with the fire, actually. Not burns anyway. More like stab wounds, though I was too busy tackling the fire to take a lot of notice. You’ll have to ask the medics. They’ve taken him to hospital, the Musgrove in Taunton.’

‘Well, that complicates the issue a bit doesn’t it,’ murmured Vogel.

He shivered. It really was a horrible morning. His feet were like blocks of ice. He looked down. His suede slip-ons were sodden already and caked in mud. He had a penchant for Hush Puppies, and this, he suspected, would be the ruination of yet another pair. His wife, Mary, would not be pleased. He did now possess a pair of wellington boots — purchased for him by Mary, of course, within the first few weeks of his transfer to the Avon and Somerset Constabulary — but he had a terrible habit of forgetting to take them with him. After all, he was a police officer, not a farm worker. Although sometimes nowadays he was beginning to wonder.

He turned up the collar of his honourable old corduroy jacket and wrapped his arms around his body. He was aware of Saslow shaking her head, almost imperceptibly. And probably disapprovingly. Rather like Mary. She was always trying to get him into all-weather gear, or at least to persuade him to buy himself a heavy-duty country coat. Something suitable for the rural areas and moorland which covered a hefty slice of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s territory.

Vogel sniffed. He hoped he wasn’t catching another cold. And if he were, he would get little sympathy from Mary. She seemed to think he developed them deliberately since moving out of the capital, as if to demonstrate how unsuited he was to life away from inner-city London — even though he’d been absolutely in agreement with his wife that it was worth making such a move, for the sake of their daughter. Vogel would do anything for Rosamund.

‘Sir, would you like my scarf?’ asked Saslow, interrupting his thoughts.

Vogel blinked rapidly behind his thick spectacles. This was extremely embarrassing. Was the DC taking the mickey? Or had he reached the stage in life where a young woman offered him part of her clothing merely to keep him warm? Vogel had never been a lady’s man, there’d not really been anyone in his life other than Mary. But he did have his pride.

‘No thank you, Saslow,’ he said, his manner mild, as usual, and his voice giving nothing away. He hoped.

‘I don’t need it, sir,’ said Saslow.

She didn’t either. Her coat was a hooded puffer jacket of some sort, or Vogel thought that’s what they were called, and she’d changed out of her shoes upon arrival at Blackdown Manor into the wellington boots she somehow always seemed to manage to have with her. Unlike Vogel.

‘It’s fine, Saslow,’ said Vogel, trying to look as if it was.

He was rescued somewhat by the arrival at his side of a tall lean man, with thinning grey-brown hair, who swiftly introduced himself as Detective Constable Ted Dawson from Taunton nick.

‘Sorry sir, I was on the phone to my sarge when you arrived,’ Dawson apologised.

Vogel muttered a good morning and shook the man’s hand.

‘Fill me in then, Dawson,’ he said. ‘If the fire boys are right, and my guess is they probably are, then we might have a case of arson here.’

‘Looks like it, sir,’ replied Dawson.

‘And at least two people have died,’ Vogel continued. ‘So, if it is arson we are looking at double murder. Question is, did the arsonist intend to kill?’

‘Well, whether he did or not, he made a pretty good job of it, didn’t he, sir?’ commented Dawson.

‘You could say that, Dawson. I’ve just been hearing about this driver gardener character. George something?’

‘Yes sir. George Grey. Lives in The Gatehouse with his wife.’

‘Did you see him before he was carted off to hospital?’ asked Vogel.

‘No sir, the paramedics took him away as soon as they were allowed through. I only got here an hour or so before you. Sounds like he’d have been in no condition to talk, anyway. They called me out to assist you with local knowledge, boss. I live in Wellington, you see. That’s the market town ten miles or so away.’

Vogel nodded.

‘I know,’ he said confidently.

Although, in fact, the only knowledge he had of this part of the world had come from going online that morning.

‘We’re expecting a fire investigator later today, and CSI are here, boss, if you want to talk to them,’ Dawson continued. ‘They’ve had a snoop around the grounds, I understand, but, of course, they haven’t been able to get near the house, and it’s going to be a while before it’s cooled down enough for anybody to do much. The structure will need checking, too.’

Vogel nodded. He had noticed a Crime Scene Investigators van parked just back from the fire appliances and a few officers milling around, a couple leaning against the van smoking.

‘What about pathology?’

‘Karen Crow was called first thing and arrived about half an hour before you, boss,’ said Dawson, referring to the District Home Office Pathologist, a woman Vogel had already worked with several times since his move to the West Country.

‘It was really just protocol at this stage, though. She left pretty much straightaway when she had ascertained that there was nothing she could do yet. And to tell the truth, it’s doubtful she will be able to do an awful lot at any stage. You know how hard it is with fire cases, certainly a blaze as major as this. You’re lucky to find anything much at all resembling a human body.’

Vogel tried not to visibly wince.

‘Yes, of course,’ he muttered thoughtfully.

Dawson was also appropriately dressed, in a cap, Barbour jacket, and the obligatory wellington boots. But then he would be. Vogel had guessed at once, just from his appearance and his manner, that this was the sort of career DC you didn’t come across much anymore; approaching retirement, diligent, but content with his lot and unwilling to seek promotion, as that would mean change. Almost certainly Dawson had rarely allowed his police career to get in the way of his lifestyle. And so he had stayed put in the place where he’d been born and brought up, choosing a settled family life over career prospects.