‘I wonder how it started.’
Amelia came running up unnoticed by all except Francesca who was holding on to her father’s trousers. Amelia’s face looked hot and streaked as though she’d been crying. But this time Francesca decided not to risk her wrath and said nothing.
‘What happened?’ screeched Amelia over the roar and crackle of destruction.
Stanforth shrugged. ‘I wish I knew, love.’ He turned back to his wife, a look of confusion on his face. ‘Have you left something in the oven, Mother?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I can smell roasting meat.’
‘The oven’s off, Bert.’
Stanforth processed the information before snapping his head back towards the flames, a look of horror on his face. ‘Oh, my God. . .’
At the same time, Charlotte Dilkes looked away from the blaze, her eyes darting across the gallery of gleaming, excited faces, their eyes gorging, hypnotised by the flames as the shed hummed and spat.
‘Where’s Billy?’ she wondered aloud.
Three
Monday, 23 December 1963
The sun was absent from the leaden sky when DCI Samuel Bannon reached Kirk Langley ten minutes after setting off from his Derby home. He turned off the A52 on to Moor Lane and had no difficulty finding the scene. He pulled across to the kerb in his smart Jaguar and parked behind the line of police vehicles.
Before pulling the door handle, Bannon extracted a flask from his pocket and spun off the cap. With a furtive look round, he took a long swallow of the fiery liquid before returning the flask to his overcoat pocket. As a final act of courage, he kissed his fingers and then touched the grainy snap of his recently deceased wife taped to the dashboard.
The acrid smell of wood smoke and burnt chemicals greeted his nostrils as he stepped from the car and walked along the path to the house. Resisting eye contact, he nodded briefly at various uniformed officers standing around looking for something to do, while the crowd they were there to control slept in their warm beds. A couple of interested dog walkers had briefly watched proceedings from the lane but with nothing to see, they’d soon lost interest and drifted away to alert their neighbours.
Bannon walked round the house to the back garden, where there was more purposeful activity. He spotted Detective Constables Walter Laird and Graham Bell chatting to a fire brigade officer and automatically reached for his packet of Capstan Full Strength cigarettes, pausing to light one with a strong hand cupped around the match. DC Graham Bell nudged Laird who turned and, after muttering something unheard to his colleague, waved a greeting.
Bannon didn’t need to hear the muttering to know the gist of what was said.
You shouldn’t be here, boss. Not yet. Not until you’re over it
.
Instinctively he reached towards the flask of whisky in his overcoat but managed to stay his hand. Maybe they were right.
He approximated a return smile, the packet of cigarettes still in his hand. As Laird and Bell approached, he glanced across at the smouldering heap of blackened ash barely peeping above ground level. ‘I hope you’ve not dragged me out of bed on a Sunday morning for an illegal bonfire, Wally.’
Laird’s laugh was forced, a gesture of normality intended for every eye watching Bannon for signs of grief and turmoil. Laird could already smell the drink. His grieving boss hadn’t yet recovered from the death of his wife while giving birth to their first child a couple of months before. There’d been complications; Bannon’s wife had never made it out of theatre, never held her newborn daughter. To be honest, Laird wasn’t sure if Bannon had either.
‘Didn’t expect you, boss,’ said Laird amiably. ‘Not with a new baby at home.’
Bannon’s expression soured. ‘My sister. . .’ He waved a hand to explain away his neglect.
‘How is little Rosie?’ asked DC Bell.
As Bannon looked away, tight-lipped, Laird was able to fire a warning glance at Bell.
Too soon, Graham
.
‘Oh,
she’s
fine,’ snapped Bannon.
Laird’s eye drifted down towards the pack of cigarettes in Bannon’s hand, spotting a chance to move away from awkward subjects. ‘Can I borrow a gasper, boss? Mine are in my—’
‘Other coat,’ finished Bannon, happy to accept the offer of well-grooved banter. He tossed the brown pack at him. ‘I don’t know how you can afford so many coats on your take-home.’
A grinning Laird pulled out a cigarette and lit up. ‘Funny.’
‘So,’ said Bannon, feeling the need to announce his participation. ‘What have we got?’ He struck out towards the blackened ground, Laird and Bell falling in step beside him and flicking open notebooks.
‘William Stanforth burned to death in the garden shed. He was thirteen years old yesterday and they were throwing a birthday party for him.’
‘Many happy returns,’ said DC Bell.
Bannon flicked a contemptuous glance at Bell. ‘Keep it down, soldier. What happened, Wally?’
‘It seems Stanforth went missing some time in the late afternoon/early evening and the alarm was raised when the shed caught fire,’ said Laird. ‘No one knew the lad was inside until it was too late.’
‘No screaming?’
‘Nobody heard it if there was.’
‘How are the parents taking it?’ said Bannon.
Laird shrugged his reply.
‘Sorry, stupid question.’ They arrived at the mound of saturated ashes being carefully probed by a man wearing a white coat, white overalls and a face mask. ‘Where’s the body?’
Laird’s expression betrayed a glimmer of the horror witnessed. ‘What’s left of him has gone to the mortuary. They’ll need to do tests. There were flammables stored in there – petrol, paint thinners. It was all over in minutes.’
‘Tragic.’
‘Tragic, yes,’ said Laird, leading his superior to a canvas sheet. Spots of rain tapped out a rhythm on the canvas. ‘Accidental? We don’t think so.’ The detective constable pointed at the mound of blackened, twisted metal on the ground. ‘That’s the hasp and the padlock.’
Bannon narrowed his eyes, inverting his salt and pepper eyebrows into a wishbone. The padlock was closed through the ring of the hasp. ‘They’re intact.’
‘Exactly.’
‘The kid was locked in from outside?’
‘With a key. No sign of the key,’ added Laird.
‘So it was murder.’
‘At least manslaughter, assuming the culprit is legally chargeable,’ confirmed Laird. ‘It was mostly kids at the party. Mr and Mrs Stanforth were the only adults. They were busy organising party games inside the house for the half-hour leading up to the fire. All the kids confirmed it.’
‘You’ve already spoken to the children?’ inquired Bannon, impressed, if a little put out. ‘What did they say?’
Laird hesitated. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to be at home with your daughter, boss? Graham and me can handle this.’
Bannon glared at him. ‘What did they say?’
Laird shook his head. ‘Nothing relevant. No fingers pointed. No confessions. They were enjoying the party and then they saw the flames. They thought it was a bonfire.’
‘How many kids are we talking about?’
‘Twenty.’
‘And you’ve interviewed the lot?’
‘We thought it best to speak to them all briefly while their memories were fresh.’
‘And?’
‘Like I said.’
‘How hard did you go?’ asked Bannon.
‘Hard enough, boss. They’re young. There were a lot of tears.’
‘How young?’
‘Apart from big sis, between eleven and thirteen. In fact, William and his twin, Francesca, were the oldest.’
‘His twin?’ said Bannon. ‘So it was her party too.’
Laird shrugged. ‘I guess so.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I sent them all home,’ said Laird, producing a list. ‘They’re all local to Kirk Langley and they were all exhausted. I can re-interview if need be.’ Bannon caught his eye. ‘We can,’ Laird corrected.
Bannon nodded. ‘So if
we
buy their collective testimony, the parents are in the clear.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘We’ll need to dig deeper on that. Parents
do
kill their children.’ He paused then added in barely a murmur, ‘And vice versa.’
Laird flipped his notebook closed. ‘And if we clear the Stanforths?’
Bannon shrugged. ‘The best we can hope for is some drifter wandered past, lured Billy into the shed and torched him after doing God knows what.’
‘Let’s hope that’s it,’ said Laird. ‘Kids shouldn’t be killing kids.’
‘Any of them seem wrong to you, Wally?’
‘Wrong, boss?’
‘Kids argue. Kids fight.’ Bannon shrugged as though the rest was obvious.
‘No one stood out,’ answered Laird. ‘And they mostly alibi each other.’
‘Mostly?’
‘One lad, the deceased’s best friend, Edward Mullen, known as Teddy, was the only one alone when the fire started.’
‘Where?’
‘In the house. Or so he says.’
‘Any reason to disbelieve him?’ asked Bannon.
‘Not from the reaction to his friend’s death,’ said Laird. ‘He was beyond distraught, wailing and crying like a girl.’
‘Guilty conscience maybe,’ ventured Bannon.
‘There was talk of an argument between them but it was pretty minor,’ added Laird.
‘It may seem minor to us,’ commented Bannon. ‘Look into it. Any other possibilities?’ He sensed Laird had more to say and was keen to get to it.
‘William Stanforth’s older sister, Amelia. She’s nearly sixteen, though why she’d kill her little brother, God alone knows.’
‘Forget motive, Wally,’ said Bannon. ‘And you can ask God later. What about her alibi?’
‘Also unclear. No one saw her until the fire had started.’
‘Then she’s a suspect.’
‘She doesn’t seem the type, boss.’
‘There’s a type now?’ snapped Bannon. His expression softened at once. ‘Sorry. It’s been. . .’ Bannon shook his head, unable to go on.
‘Forget it, boss. You should go home.’
‘I will,’ nodded Bannon. ‘But I want to be kept in the loop.’ He eyed his detective constable. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
Laird affected reluctance before grinning. ‘Amelia has a boyfriend,’ he answered. ‘Older.’
‘Who?’
Laird smiled suddenly, savouring Bannon’s coming reaction. ‘We’re in Kirk Langley, boss. And it’s a small place.’
Bannon stared at his colleague for a moment before realisation started to work on his face. ‘Not young McCleary?’
Laird grinned again. ‘The very same.
And
he was seen by neighbours standing in the lane before the fire. Apparently he was supposed to be meeting Amelia last evening but she was busy at the party and stood him up.’
‘Which might make someone like him angry,’ reasoned Bannon.
‘Maybe even vengeful,’ added Laird.
Bannon smiled for the first time. ‘I suppose with a father like Malcolm, it was only a matter of time before young Brendan stepped up to the big leagues. Pick him up.’
Malcolm McCleary staggered into the kitchen in his stained long johns, running a hand through his unkempt, greying hair. Barefoot, he was forced to avoid the discarded beer bottles on the sticky floor before slumping on to a chair at the flimsy dining table. The surface was covered in dirty plates and full ashtrays and McCleary poked through the remains of discarded butts for enough stray tobacco to fill a cigarette paper. While doing this he raised a bleary eye towards his son lying on the too-small couch, puffing away on his own roll-up.
‘Give me a cigarette,’ ordered McCleary senior.
‘I got mine where you’re getting yours,’ said Brendan, with barely concealed disdain.
McCleary senior’s grizzled features were deformed by hate. ‘You cheap little bleeder. Can’t even buy some gaspers for your old man after all I’ve done for you? What about breakfast?’
Brendan shook his head slowly, avoiding eye contact. ‘Parlour’s empty.’
‘You ate those two eggs I was saving?’ replied an exasperated McCleary.
‘You had them for your tea last night.’
McCleary senior narrowed his eyes in disbelief. ‘I don’t remember that.’
Brendan raised a sarcastic eyebrow.
That’s not surprising
.
McCleary caught the scorn, adding quietly, ‘Not hungry anyway.’ He continued to root around amongst the dead cigarette butts, emptying singed, stale tobacco on to his rolling paper. ‘Get me a cup of tea.’
‘There’s a fresh pot on the side,’ answered Brendan, concentrating on reviving his own dormant roll-up.
McCleary’s weasel eyes flicked around the debris on the table, before alighting on a teaspoon. He flung it at his son, hitting him on the top of his head and producing a cry more of shock than pain. The spoon glanced off and plopped into the ash-filled grate of a dead coal fire. ‘Then get off your arse and pour me some, you ungrateful little sod.’
Brendan hauled himself off the sofa and poured tea, ignoring the beady eye trained on him. He plonked it sullenly down on the Formica table and tried to withdraw but the old man grabbed him by the wrist with a powerful hand and stood up to swing his other fist at the side of Brendan’s head.
Caught flush on the ear, Brendan staggered back against the gas cooker, dislodging several used pots and pans standing dirty on the hob. Trying his utmost to avoid showing the pain, he gathered himself, keeping his eyes glued to his father, and retreated to the safety of the couch.
‘Of all the bloody nerve,’ muttered an aggrieved McCleary, sitting back down to take a noisy swig of tea. ‘Kids these days don’t know they’re born. No wonder that whore of a mother didn’t take you with her.’
‘She’s not a whore!’ screamed Brendan, jumping to stand square on to his father.
McCleary slammed his chair back with unexpected vigour, sloshing some of his tea on the table. He made no further move, instead raising an arm, his hand stiff and straight. ‘Talk back to me again and there’s more where that came from, my lad,’ he shouted, glancing at the back of his hand.
Brendan glared with hate-filled eyes but said nothing, his chest heaving as he tried to control his rage.
‘Didn’t think so.’ McCleary sat down again, a sneer contorting the stubble on his sagging, wrinkled face. He pulled open a drawer of the table and took out a half bottle of Navy rum. Removing the cork, he poured a large measure into his tea without taking his amused eyes from his son glaring back at him. ‘That’s right,’ he said quietly. ‘You keep thinking it, son. One day your old man will be too old and you’ll be too big and then. . .’ his laugh was more of a snarl. ‘That day’s a long way off, you little guttersnipe, and don’t you forget it while you’re under my roof.’