‘Superintendent Lorimer, do come in. Sorry I didn’t come down sooner. On a call.’ Tannock was suddenly there in the vast doorway, ushering Lorimer into his house.
‘My housekeeper’s away down to the village for some shopping, ’ Tannock explained. ‘Do come through to the kitchen and we’ll have a cup of something. Eh?’
Lorimer tried not to stare at the huge reception hall as he followed. There was a highly polished table, bigger than his dining table at home, on which stood an immense floral display. The oak-panelled walls were adorned with paintings in gilded frames and the art historian in Lorimer was provoked to wonder at their provenance. He badly wanted to examine these oils to find a signature. And that wasn’t really a Rubens, hanging over on that wall, was it?
‘In here,’ Tannock called and the detective lengthened his stride to follow the man into a surprisingly old-fashioned kitchen from which music was playing. It looked, to Lorimer, like his idea of a perfect farm kitchen with its long, scrubbed pine table and chairs fitted with bright patchwork cushions. They were slightly faded and the stitching was a little frayed in places but for some reason Tannock had kept them. Had they been painstakingly stitched by the hand of Mrs Tannock, his ex-wife? Or were they from a more distant past? Lorimer let his eyes rove around the kitchen, enjoying what he saw. A cream-coloured Aga and a Welsh dresser full of blue and white china added to the picture. All it needed, he thought, was a cat sleeping somewhere to complete this vision of domestic bliss. As if his thought had conjured it up, a black and white moggy rose from its place on one of the chairs, stretching its back in a furry arc.
Tannock stroked its fur. ‘This is Monty,’ he said, then looked quizzically up at Lorimer. ‘You’re all right with cats? Some folk can’t stand them, others are allergic.’
‘Fine, fine,’ Lorimer told him, strolling over to tickle the cat under its chin. ‘We’ve got one at home.’
Tannock grinned suddenly. ‘Good. Knew we had something in common. Cat people.’ He stopped, listening suddenly to the classical version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ coming from the radio in the corner. ‘Freddie Mercury was a cat lover. Did you know that?’ he asked, one eyebrow arching.
Lorimer nodded. The late Queen star’s fondness for the animals was legendary.
‘Tea or coffee?’ Grosset asked, kettle in hand.
‘Tea, please. Just plain old tea, nothing fancy. And milk, no sugar,’ he added, stretching out his long legs under the table.
It was the first time in a long time Lorimer had felt so relaxed, sitting here in this warm, comfortable place, Monty purring between them. He had liked Hugh Tannock from their first meeting and now he found himself enjoying being here with the man once more. Nice as it was, it made it harder to ask difficult questions; it would be almost unmannerly to bring up the subject that was uppermost in his mind. But, Lorimer reminded himself, he was here to do a job, not to be beguiled by this affable man and his gracious hospitality.
But when Tannock had set down the mugs and a plate of chocolate biscuits, his face took on a serious expression.
‘I have the feeling you’re not here on a social visit, Superintendent. I take it you bring news of an unpleasant sort,’ he added gravely.
Lorimer took a sip of the tea before replying. The biscuit plate remained untouched.
‘Lady Pauline,’ he began and looked the man straight in the eyes.
‘Ah.’ Tannock sighed and gave a nod. ‘I wondered how long that would take you.’
‘You should have told me about your relationship with her,’ Lorimer rebuked him gently.
Tannock raised his eyebrows and gave a shrug. ‘But why? It wasn’t in any way relevant to your inquiries.’
‘I think that’s a matter for me to decide, sir,’ Lorimer told him.
‘Well, I can’t see what bearing our…’ He stopped as if the word affair was too distasteful to utter aloud. ‘Our friendship,’ he said at last. ‘How can it be important to their deaths?’
Lorimer was silent for a moment. This was the question he had been struggling with. There was one possibility that he had considered based on another high-profile house fire.
‘Did Sir Ian know about you and Pauline?’
Tannock frowned. ‘I honestly didn’t think so. But what if he did?’
Lorimer pushed the mug of tea away. ‘There was a case a few years back where a house was deliberately set on fire, its occupants killed in the process. That fire was started by the owner who died alongside his wife and child.’
Tannock nodded, stunned by the memory of a tragic case that had made newspaper headlines for weeks. ‘I remember the one you mean. But he’d been in a terrible financial situation, hadn’t he? Jackson Tannock Technology is a thriving business and Ian had nothing like that to worry him.’
Lorimer let the silence between them deepen. Then the man before him groaned, his hands covering his face as the implication of his own words sank in. Had Ian Jackson taken his own life and that of his wife in a fit of jealousy? It was a question that Lorimer did not need to ask. It was there in the room, a horrible possibility that might never be proved this side of eternity. Suddenly the warmth from the Aga was stifling and the ticking clock on the wall above it seemed unnaturally loud. Monty, he noticed, had slipped off Tannock’s knee and disappeared out of the room.
‘The accelerant?’ Tannock asked hopefully. ‘Wasn’t it put there by someone else?’
‘Traces were found in and around the house and a chip pan had been deliberately left to burn. It was right underneath their bedroom. If it was done by an intruder then he had easy access to the house.’ Lorimer watched the man closely, seeing the doubt in his eyes change to despair.
‘It’s not something that I can put in a report since it’s only a theory. If forensic evidence comes to light to corroborate this idea, though…’ Lorimer shrugged to show what might happen in that scenario. ‘But there is something else I think you ought to know, Mr Tannock.’ Lorimer watched the man’s face carefully as he continued. ‘Sir Ian was dying of cancer.’
All the colour seemed to drain from Hugh Tannock’s face as he took in the detective’s words. ‘Are you sure?’ he whispered at last.
Lorimer nodded. ‘I’ve just spoken with his doctor. Sir Ian had insisted that his condition be kept secret from his family. But it does create a different sort of scenario now, doesn’t it? A man with a reason to kill himself, and perhaps to destroy everything he loved.’
‘Oh, Pauline, what have I done to you?’ Tannock whispered, stumbling from the table. He groped his way towards the Belfast sink, holding on to its edge for support. Then he turned his gaze to a picture beside the windowsill. Picking it up, he held to his chest, shoulders heaving in silent sobs.
It should have been a private moment, a signal for Lorimer to leave, but something made him stop. He had seen that image before, hadn’t he?
‘Excuse me, sir, may I have a look at that picture?’
Tannock turned his ruddy face streaked with tears. ‘It’s all I’ve got left of her. Last photo she ever gave me.’ He gulped, handing it over.
Lorimer took it carefully. It was a copy of the one that he had seen in Daniel Jackson’s flat.
His heart quickened.
‘Where was this taken?’ he looked across at Tannock.
‘On the landing. Outside their bedroom.’
‘And how long before the fire was the photograph taken?’
Tannock must have caught the new note of excitement in Lorimer’s voice for his eyes glittered with hope.
‘Just a few days, as I recall. Why?’
Lorimer smiled suddenly. ‘May I take this? I promise it will be returned to you. But I can tell you something, Mr Tannock. Looking at this photograph, I think we may have jumped to the wrong conclusion. I don’t think that fire was started by Sir Ian after all.’