You must think about people's reactions to afire in terms of
the three basic stages of making sense of what's going on,
preparing to act and then acting.
Professor David Canter, quoted by Nicholas Faith in
Blaze
(1999)
A
nd it was well alight, flames and sparks leaping high into the night sky.
It couldn't get any worse than this. Now there was a helpless man about to be incinerated.
She told Stella to call the fire service. Then she raced across the drive with the rest of them to see what they could do.
Not much. The door to the sauna stood open and the fire had ripped through the ventilated area where you were supposed to cool off. Chalybeate's only chance of survival was that the closed inner room of the sauna was insulated to hold in the heat. But it was all made of timber and would soon be ablaze.
'No way we can reach him,'Johnny said. 'Can't get through that lot to the inner room.'
'Then we'll force our way in through the walls.' Hen looked around for something to use. There wasn't much at the front of the house.
The sauna had a solid look. Chalybeate didn't go in for flimsy building. This wasn't a job for shoulders. Or boots.
She stared across the drive.
'Can someone start the car, please?'
'The Porsche?' Johnny said.
Hen didn't answer. There was only one car in view.
'Duncan?'
DC Shilling knew about cars. First he opened the door of the Porsche and checked that the key wasn't inside. Then he released the bonnet lid and started loosening the leads to make a contact. The ignition fired and the engine started. He slammed down the lid.
'Go on, then!' Hen said.
Shilling got in, revved the engine like a racing driver on the grid and drove the Porsche straight at the sauna. Some of the wood splintered and some of the car buckled and there was glass everywhere, but the meeting of metal and wood wasn't a total success. He reversed and tried again. This time there was a definite splitting of the tongue-and-groove facia of the building, not to mention a concertina effect in the Porsche. It must have been well designed because it still responded when Shilling went into reverse. At the third attempt most of the bonnet burst through the structure. With a rending and scraping, Shilling backed away. A hole the size and shape of the knee-space under a desk was left. And out of it crawled a naked man.
'Is he all right?' Hen said.
Stella and Johnny got to Chalybeate together and helped him upright. He was wide-eyed and shocked, but unhurt. They hustled him away from the burning building with little time to spare. A sheet of flame ripped through the space he'd come from.
Kate the housekeeper came running from the house with a white bathrobe. Speechless, Chalybeate drew it round his shoulders. Whether it was the near-death experience, or the destruction of his sauna, or his Porsche, it was all too much.
'Where's the boss going?' Stella said.
Hen was haring away into the darkness.
If you want to write fiction, the best thing you can do is take
two aspirins, lie down in a dark room, and wait for the feeling
to pass. If it persists, you probably ought to write a novel.
Lawrence Block,
Writing the Novel: from Plot to Print
(1979)
All I needed was a steady table and a typewriter.
Agatha Christie,
An Autobiography
(1977)
S
o what had caused Hen to run? In the last minutes the clouds had parted over a large section of the sky and areas of the garden were now moonlit. She had good night vision and near the limit of her range she'd spotted a movement. Something or someone was running at speed across the lawn towards the main gate.
On impulse she set off in pursuit. She was no sprinter, and not athletic in any way. Determination powered her. She ought to have sent someone else, but the time it would take to tell them was too long. The quarry was already swallowed by the darkness. She let her short legs carry her at the best speed she could manage across the turf. And somehow she got the figure in sight again, saw that it was human for sure, dressed mostly in dark clothes.
She felt certain this was the arsonist. She'd read somewhere, some time, that the sickos who do this stuff like to remain at the scene to watch the result of their crime, deriving satisfaction that was as good as sex. This one, though, was a killer first, an arsonist second. The psychology didn't necessarily apply.
Her legs started to ache and her throat had gone dry, but she ran on. She wasn't closing the seventy metre gap and she couldn't think how she would, but at least she had the killer in sight. She guessed there was a parked car or a bike nearby, even though the team hadn't located it. This was where the chase was heading. The first target was the main gate.
The running movement interfered with her vision in this faint light. She couldn't make out much more than the flash of white socks or trainers. At this distance there was no chance of identifying the person or what else they were wearing.
Then she had her first piece of luck all day: the fire engine moving fast along the road. She saw the pulsing blue light before she heard the siren.
The person ahead saw it, too, and veered sharp left, so as not to be sighted by the fire team. Helpful to Hen. She cut the angle and reduced the distance between them. Better still, as the fire engine reached the gate, the arsonist stopped and crouched at the foot of a tree.
Hen ran on, realising with an upsurge of adrenalin that she hadn't been spotted yet. I'm going to get there, she thought, without any conception of how she'd cope. She got to within twenty metres before she was seen.
And now it was down to whose legs moved faster. The arsonist was up, but not away yet. Hen, so near now, raised her strength for a last surge of speed. She could hear the breathing coming in gasps and thought, this bastard is feeling worse than I am.
The gap closed to a couple of metres and Hen flung herself forward. As a rugby tackle, it wouldn't have pleased a purist, but it was effective. Her right hand grabbed a shin and held on. The other person tipped forward and toppled over.
Hen scrambled to get a better hold. She needn't have troubled, because the fall had taken any fight from the fugitive.
The stink of petrol was unmistakable.
She took the handcuffs from her back pocket and slammed them on. After catching her breath she managed to say, 'You're nicked.'
Andy Humphreys was the first to get to her, followed by Duncan Shilling and two others.
'Who is it, guv?' Andy said.
Hen was still on the ground beside her capture. 'We haven't met before, and she hasn't spoken yet, but this is Miss Snow. Amelia Snow, supposedly burnt to ashes over a week ago.'
Now that she had her first proper look at the Chichester arsonist, a terrified middle-aged woman, lips quivering as she gasped for air, Hen had to admit to herself that the chase hadn't been quite the physical challenge it had seemed.
'Duncan.'
'Guv?'
'Arrest her for the murder of Edgar Blacker. And give her the caution. We're doing this by the book.'
Overnight, Miss Snow's clothes were taken for forensic examination and there was little doubt what they would confirm. When Hen Mallin and Stella Gregson faced her across the table in Interview Room One next morning, it was apparent that she was ready to tell all. There was that stunned look of capitulation Hen had learned to recognise in first offenders. Miss Snow's first night in a cell had not resulted in much sleep. The red-lidded eyes had been to the abyss and looked over. The hands would not stay still.
She hadn't even tried to tidy her hair.
After Stella had spoken the necessary words for the tape, Hen said, 'I have to give you credit, Miss Snow. You gave us the runaround for longer than I care to admit. It was only in the last twenty-four hours I seriously began to think you might be alive, only when we found the nude shots of you in that sex magazine. But let's deal with this in sequence, shall we? It's a complex case and I'm not sure my colleague believes in it even now.'
Miss Snow gave a despairing shrug that didn't augur well.
Hen hoped she wasn't going to go silent on them. 'It's a matter of record that you posed for those photos. Were you primed with drink? It looks as if you were.'
Now she nodded, but added nothing.
'So you weren't a professional model?'
A faint sigh said enough.
'You were tricked, and you regretted it for the rest of your life?'
She managed an audible, 'Yes.'
Hen had the good sense not to dwell on the humiliation. 'You did everything possible to put the episode behind you, and it seemed you'd succeeded. You got your professional qualifications in accountancy. You had a good career and earned plenty of respect in Chichester, doing charitable work as well as keeping the books for some of the pillars of local society. You joined the writers' circle and became their treasurer and secretary. You had hopes of being published soon. Am I being fair?'
She responded with a firmer, Yes.'
'Well, you're going to have to help me now. We want to hear in your own words about Edgar Blacker.'
Miss Snow shook her head, but in regret rather than denial. She began to speak in a clear, soft tone, articulating every word. 'I didn't know until he turned up at our meeting that he was the man who took those vile pictures.' She hesitated as if to draw on her reserves of strength. 'If you know the sort of person I am, it's incredible that I posed like that. It beggars belief. And I still don't know how it happened.' She dipped her face to avoid eye contact. 'He introduced himself at a party we had for one of the dancers in the show I was appearing in, said he was a photographer and how photogenic I was and how I ought to have a portfolio of pictures. He said he'd seen me dance and I was so much better than the others that I could easily become a solo performer - the kind of flattery you want to believe, and do if you're a stagestruck girl, as I was. Well, the next day I turned up at the house he called his studio. I'd brought a suitcase of costumes as he suggested. I knew it was risky in a way, but I was a showgirl and I'd met men before and kept them at arm's length if I needed to. He took a few pictures of me in costume and then we had lunch. He'd brought in some cold chicken and salad.'
'And drinks?'
'Yes, and he must have added some drug, because I came over very strange soon after, giggly and talkative. When we went back to the photography . . . Do I have to describe this?'
'Please.'
'I have only the haziest memory of what went on. I was changing costumes and he came behind the screen and caught me half naked. He said I was beautiful and I shouldn't be afraid to display myself. He drew me towards the lights. I was dizzy. I couldn't stand up straight, so he sat me on the sofa. Then it's just a blur. I don't know what else he did to me. I feel nauseous talking about it. I'm not denying that the pictures were taken.'
'We can move on, then,' Hen said. 'When did you find out they were in the magazine?'
'When it went on sale, six months later. He sent me a copy from their office in Tilbury suggesting I could earn big amounts of money if I posed again. I can't begin to describe how appalled I was. He hadn't used my real name, but if any of my friends or family saw the pictures, they'd know me. The pictures were in sharp focus, obviously taken in brilliant light. They destroyed my confidence totally ... totally. I dreaded that any man I met would have seen that disgusting magazine and recognise me. I stopped the dancing. Stopped all social contact. Moved house. Applied myself to the bookkeeping course. It took me years and years to recover. Well, I say "recover". I didn't ever recover. I mean it took me all that time to get to the point where I was when he entered my life again.'
'When he came to speak to the circle?'
Yes, after nearly twenty-five years. Normally I'd have made the arrangements for a speaker, but this time Maurice did it all, because he knew Blacker personally. So when he walked in I had the most dreadful shock. He was older and had spectacles and his hair was coloured, but the face was the one I'd seen in a thousand nightmares grinning at me from behind a camera.' She paused and bit her lip, reliving the memory. 'I can't describe my feelings. I wanted to dash out of the room, but everyone would have asked why. So I kept my head down, taking the minutes. Even when he talked about my script I didn't speak.'
Hen nodded. 'We've seen the video.'
'Then you'll know what he said towards the end, that his house was filled with photos from years back and he was starting to write his memoirs. I died when he said that. My life ended.'
'He must have photographed scores of girls,' Hen said. 'Why should he pick you out from the rest?'
'He was going to keep coming to the circle, wasn't he? Through his friendship with Maurice he was forging a link with us and he offered to come back and they accepted. They wanted to encourage him, some of them, at least. To have a publisher in their pocket was too good to be true.'
'You could have left the club.'
'Impossible. I was treasurer and secretary, remember. I had all the files at home. Maurice wouldn't have let me drop out. He'd have made it his mission to keep me aboard.'
'You couldn't see any closure?'
'Exactly. I had to do something about that beast and his house full of pictures. It wasn't enough just to get rid of him. The cottage and all its contents had to go as well. So a fire at night seemed the only remedy.'
'You didn't waste much time.'
'I was desperate. I had a spare can of petrol for my old car. I knew his address because it was my job to send him his fee for the meeting. I drove out there the next night and pushed oily rags through the door and poured in some petrol and put a match to it. The place soon caught alight.'
Hen was listening intently. She needed to know why. 'You're a quiet, respectable woman leading a useful life. Couldn't you think of any other way of dealing with it?'
'I thought I'd explained. He'd visited me in my thoughts almost daily for years. I had nightmares. He was my personal demon, leering at me when I was at my most vulnerable. Nothing short of destroying him would do.' Her intensity left no doubt.
'Let's move on,' Hen said. 'The next development is what foxed us all. How on earth did you think of faking your own murder?'
'It was a build-up of events I hadn't planned. I thought I'd got away with the burning of the cottage. Well, I think I had.'
'Just about,' Hen said.
'Then, to my horror, you arrested Maurice and charged him with it'
Stella said, 'That wasn't DCI Mallin. That was DI Cherry.'
The finer points of the chain of command didn't interest Miss Snow. 'And it came out that Maurice had once been sent to prison for some incident involving burning his neighbour's garden fence.'
'And boat,' Stella said.
'It was looking certain that Maurice would be put on trial for my crime. He's a good man, truly good. I couldn't allow that to happen. First of all, I thought of letting it be known that you were wrong about Maurice, that the arsonist was still at liberty. I couldn't just make a phone call to the police station or I'd give myself away. And I couldn't tell anyone. So I decided to demonstrate that the fire-raiser was still at liberty by starting another fire. I made use of our new member, Bob Naylor.'
'With his agreement?'
'No, no. He didn't know what I was doing. How could I confide in anyone? He's a strong man, willing to help. I made up a story telling him someone had offered to hand me the proof that Maurice was innocent. I'd been invited to the boat house early Saturday morning to collect it. I asked Bob to go in my place.'
'And then you nearly killed him.'
'No, that was never going to happen, and it wasn't my intention.' The firmness of the answer gave an insight into Miss Snow's resolve.
Hen started to say, 'He had to break out—'
'Through the roof, yes. I'd been to the boat house before. I often walk along there. I'd looked inside. The boat racks reach right up. Any fit man could climb up and make a hole in the roof. I knew he'd find a way out. He's strong because of the work he does.'
'According to his account, he was lucky to escape.'
'But the fire had to be convincing. Basically I used the same method, except that the petrol and rags were stuffed underneath the boat house. I kept out of sight when he arrived, but as soon as I'd closed the door on him I lit the rags. Then I left, before the fire was obvious.'
'Lovely burn-up, but all to no purpose because it didn't succeed in getting Maurice McDade out of the remand centre.'
Miss Snow's eyes moistened.
Hen could imagine the desperation. 'All right,' she said, 'let me try and see it your way. Everything was going pear-shaped. You had a great affection for Maurice and he was still being blamed for your crime. Bob Naylor and Thomasine had set themselves up as amateur sleuths, going round asking questions. Naomi was doing much the same on her own account. Soon enough someone was going to find out you were the arsonist. It was then that the solution came to you: faking your own death by fire.'