A few minutes later, seated on a bench in the Fire Investigation Unit truck, Grace and Branson watched a video replay on a large monitor. And privately, Grace was glad to be watching it here, rather than in situ in the burned room, with all the smells that would accompany it – especially the smell of the body. Like many police officers who’d attended crime scenes or postmortems involving burnt victims, he could no longer stomach barbecued pork.
What was on the video in front of them was the charred shape of a human being, on its stomach, one arm reaching out towards something. As the camera panned round, the two detectives could see that the person had been trying to reach a door but hadn’t made it. The door was hanging at an angle on its hinges.
The camera then did a 360-degree pan of the windowless room. It had clearly been hung with paintings, from the hooks and few skeletal charred frames still remaining on the walls, others lying on the floor. Some charred springs indicated sofas, now destroyed. What looked like a fallen candelabra lay on the remains of one.
The camera returned to the body, closing in, then moving slowly, steadily, along it.
‘Most likely Stuart Piper,’ Grace said. ‘His body shape, but it’s too burnt to tell.’
‘I remember his watch,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘He had a fancy vintage Patek Philippe, can you wind back a few frames?’
Stephens reversed the playback and zoomed in on the blackened timepiece.
Branson studied it with a frown. ‘That could be his watch but it’s too badly damaged to be sure.’
‘Did the housekeeper say if anyone else might have been in the house last night, Terry?’ Grace asked.
‘She said he hadn’t told her he was expecting visitors, although apparently he had the occasional nocturnal young gentlemen visitors, as she politely put it.’
‘So, tell me your reasons for thinking this is suspicious?’
‘The door,’ Stephens responded. ‘It’s made of steel, which doesn’t make sense in a house of this period – all the doors would ordinarily have been made of a hardwood, probably oak. But even more significantly, it appears to have been locked – we had to force entry to the room. It looks to me as if the body was trying to get out. Reaching for the door?’ He looked at the two detectives.
They both nodded. ‘Died trying?’ Branson said and shuddered. ‘What a horrible death. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be burned to death.’
‘If it’s any consolation, most victims die from smoke inhalation before the flames get to them.’
Branson looked at Grace with a faint smile. ‘What was it Norman was saying the other day about smoking not being bad for your health?’
‘I’m just glad it’s us here and not Norman,’ Grace said quietly, thinking of Bella.
‘Yes,’ Branson replied, his smile gone.
‘My officers have had a look round for the key to that door, but haven’t found it so far.’
Grace frowned. ‘So you are telling me the door was definitely locked.’
‘It was definitely locked, we thought initially from the inside – we had to sledgehammer it open. We need to take a longer look, but our initial findings – and I stress this is early doors, pardon the expression – is that the victim was locked in this room. I’ve spoken to the housekeeper, Mrs Coombes, and a couple of other members of the domestic staff who turned up this morning. The housekeeper says that Stuart Piper liked to leave his dalmatians down in the kitchen in their baskets – where they were this morning – before spending the rest of his evening sitting in this room, with the fire and candles lit, smoking a cigar and drinking cognac. She said it’s called the Hidden Salon, for some historic reason.’
‘Are you implying the victim locked himself in this room or that someone locked him in?’ Branson asked.
‘I’m not implying anything at this stage,’ Stephens replied, a little defensively.
Grace stared again at the image of the charred corpse, with an outstretched hand. As if indeed reaching, desperately, for the door.
97
Wednesday, 6 November
Harry, Freya and Tom climbed out of the police car that had driven them home, shortly before 6 p.m. They were all exhausted, from a combination of their lack of sleep the previous night, then hours of questioning by detectives at Sussex Police HQ this afternoon.
As they walked across the drive to the front door, they saw a white envelope jammed in the letterbox. Harry removed it, barely giving it a glance, and unlocked the door. As they went inside they were greeted by Jinx, giving a mournful miaow.
Freya kneeled and stroked him. ‘Hey, Jinx, are you hungry?’
Jinx miaowed again then shot towards the kitchen, his surefire sign that he wanted food.
‘I need a drink,’ Harry said.
‘I’m going up to my room,’ Tom mumbled.
‘We’ll have an early supper, Tom, darling,’ his mother said.
‘Yeah, OK.’
Harry carried the envelope through into the kitchen, put it on the island unit, then went to the fridge. ‘Glass of white?’ he asked Freya.
‘Sounds a good plan,’ she replied and removed a packet of cat food from the cupboard. As she tore it open and tipped the contents into the bowl, nudging Jinx away until she had finished, Harry unscrewed the cap from the bottle of wine in the fridge, poured out a large glass for Freya, then took out a cold beer for himself, opened it and drank a gulp straight from the can, before perching on a bar stool. ‘Jesus, what a grilling. I felt at times like we were suspects, not victims of crime.’
‘They were just trying to jog our minds. As that detective said, they were trying to see what details we could remember that might be helpful.’
‘Jog our minds? It felt like they were trying to prise mine open with a crowbar!’
She sat down next to him and took a sip of her wine, then glanced down at the envelope. ‘Who’s that from?’
‘Probably a bill,’ he said. It was addressed in blue handwriting to Mr & Mrs Kipling and underlined with a flourish. He picked it up, ripped it open with his finger and pulled out a plain sheet of white paper. On it was a brief note in the same, rather artistic handwriting.
Harry, sorry for all the trouble that’s been caused for you and your wife and your lad. And for your loss. If you look in your garden shed, you’ll find a little memento for you to keep. I always make a copy for myself of any works I particularly love. Hope this compensates you just a little. Daniel Hegarty.
He handed it to Freya and she read it quickly. ‘In the shed?’ she queried, frowning. ‘Hope this compensates you just a little. What does that mean? I’ll go and look.’
‘I’ll get something out of the freezer for dinner. Veggie lasagne?’
‘I’m fine with anything. I can do supper if you want?’
‘No, go foraging in the shed!’
Freya returned a few minutes later holding a rectangular parcel, meticulously wrapped in brown paper and bound with Sellotape. Removing a sharp knife from the caddy, she sliced through the tape and removed the paper, to reveal a layer of bubble-wrap packaging beneath. She removed that too, letting it drop to the floor, and held up the framed painting that was revealed.
It was a painting that had become all too familiar. An ornately framed landscape in oil, ten inches wide by twelve, depicting a summer scene. Two beautiful young lovers picnicking together in elegant eighteenth-century dress, the woman holding a pink parasol. It was a woodland setting, with a lake behind.
They looked at each other for some moments. Then Harry shrugged. ‘We have an empty space on the lounge wall, might as well hang it there, don’t you think?’