Unforgotten (27 page)

Hugh operated the coded padlock fitted by the home security people and let himself in. As he peered into the gloom, the keen wind sent a dry leaf scurrying past him to settle on the fire debris which had been compressed into a hard patchy layer, like worn lino. The house was fusty with mould and damp and stagnant air, and he opened windows in the kitchen and dining room to create a through draught. Then, because he was early, he began a search of the kitchen drawers and cupboards.

The previous evening he had eaten little, drunk more than he’d meant to, and slept fitfully if at all, disturbed by vivid nightmares which drove him out of bed before six to reread some of Lizzie’s notebooks and make toast and coffee and wait for the first glimmer of dawn. When at last the trees had begun to separate themselves from the sky, he had bathed and shaved and put on warm clothes. Downstairs again, he had drunk more coffee while he packed his briefcase with a notebook, Lou’s digital camera, his memo recorder and two of Lizzie’s water-damaged notebooks whose pages were melded together. Restless, with two more hours to kill, he had driven down to the village and bought a newspaper, more coffee and a bar of chocolate, and sat in the car skimming the news and working his way through the chocolate while he waited for his drink to cool. He had read three pages before he realised he had taken nothing in.

And so he had come to Meadowcroft early and begun to search drawers and shelves he’d searched before, knowing there was nothing to find, but driven to look all the same. The
drawer beneath the kitchen phone yielded a clutter of bills, receipts, promotional leaflets, and numerous slips of paper torn from the jotter pad, with suppliers’ names and phone numbers in Lizzie’s slanted handwriting. One marked ‘Labrador breeder’ must have dated from the time four or five years ago when they’d thought of getting a replacement for their much-loved Buster, parentage unknown but probably a mixture of Labrador and Doberman, who had died at thirteen. In the end they’d decided against another dog because the children were older and they themselves were getting too busy. Remembering Buster’s last summer, his determination to keep up on walks as the arthritis locked his joints, Hugh saw that it was the end of the untroubled years, the time before Charlie took to drugs, before Hugh’s parents died, before the intense pace set by Dimmock’s merger with Marsh & Co, before Lizzie got embroiled in campaigns against injustice. If they’d had worries Hugh couldn’t remember what they were. His father’s heart condition, certainly. Money, possibly, though not in any serious way. Most likely their greatest preoccupation had been whether to go skiing or save up for a more ambitious summer holiday.

Coming across a petrol receipt, he wondered if Lizzie had ever bothered to claim a mileage allowance from the Citizens Advice, and if so whether she had specified the clients she was visiting. He slid the receipt into his notebook and scribbled a reminder to check with Angela Parfitt.

He went into his study and sat at his desk, alert but directionless, and leafed perfunctorily through some old letters and bank statements. Once, when Lizzie was beginning to take on more work, he’d suggested they swap study areas, but she’d insisted there was no need, she had room enough. By the time her little desk in the living room was overflowing with papers and the floor lined with printers and scanners, she was too deeply ensconced there, in no mood for upheaval.

The restlessness took him into the dining room to open a drawer at random, knowing perfectly well it contained cutlery. Wandering out again, he finally surrendered to the pull of the
living room, though he managed to stay away from Lizzie’s desk for a good ten minutes while he went through a chest of drawers containing family memorabilia. The numerous photo albums, neatly arranged by date, seemed to have escaped the worst of the smoke damage, though they gave off an ominous hint of mould. The children’s school reports were more obviously damp, the covers stained and curling, while their kindergarten paintings were soggy along the edges. Finally, he went and stood in front of Lizzie’s desk. He’d searched it thoroughly and removed everything of interest, but this didn’t prevent him from taking a last look. All that was left was stationery and a collection of brochures, theatre programmes, postcards, business cards and old year-books. He went through them, flicking through the pages that weren’t stuck together. In a pigeonhole, wedged between some envelopes, he found a leaflet he’d missed before. It was damp and when he tried to prise the leaves apart they threatened to disintegrate in his hands. By starting from the marginally drier top corner and taking it slowly, however, he managed to unglue the leaves by a couple of inches to reveal a schematic map of the Carstairs Estate with a jotting in Lizzie’s handwriting giving the name ‘James’ and a block and flat number. He wrote down the address on the basis that he wrote down all information concerning the parts of Lizzie’s life he hadn’t shared, that, useful or not, it added to his bank of knowledge. The lower half of the leaflet was noticeably damper, the leaves stuck more resolutely together, and when he tried to separate them they began to fall apart. He was contemplating another attempt when he heard the sound of a car and abandoned the leaflet to the desk flap.

He arrived at the front door to see DS Reynolds climbing out of a grey car, a cigarette clamped between his lips. Spotting Hugh, he dropped the cigarette onto the ground and stepped on it. DI Steadman emerged from the passenger side and, with a glance over the house and garden, went to the rear door to extract his raincoat, which he pulled on before coming across the gravel.

Steadman gave a solemn nod of greeting. ‘Mr Gwynne.’ Then, as if to get on with the business in hand, he strode past Hugh into the house with Reynolds in his wake.

‘Slater’s coming from London,’ Hugh told them. ‘He might be held up.’

Steadman was staring at the remains of the hall ceiling. ‘But he’s in no doubt, you say?’

‘None. He says it’s definitely arson.’ Recalling Slater’s words on the phone, the barely suppressed excitement in his voice, Hugh relived his own shock at having been proved right, the vindication and the anguish.

‘Did he indicate what sort of evidence he’d found?’

‘He said it was best explained in person. But I imagine the evidence is strong. For him to be so sure.’

Steadman gave a slight nod. Noticing his hair again, how immaculately combed and blow-dried it was, how unnaturally dark it was against his face, Hugh tried not to hold his vanity against him.

Steadman indicated the living room. ‘This is where the fire started, is it?’

‘That’s right.’

He swung his gaze towards the kitchen and dining room. ‘And no signs of a break-in?’

‘No.’

‘And your wife wasn’t expecting anyone that evening?’

Hugh said tightly, ‘We’ve been through this before.’

Steadman shaped his mouth into an understanding smile. ‘I appreciate that, Mr Gwynne, but in view of developments I’m afraid it’s going to be necessary to go through certain aspects again.’

‘The facts haven’t changed since Monday.’

‘It’s a question of establishing the details.’

It might have been the amount of coffee he’d drunk or a sugar-rush from the chocolate or the suspicion that Steadman hadn’t bothered to read Reynolds’ notes, but Hugh was shaken by a small rage. Only with an effort did he keep his voice
steady. ‘Well, I’m not prepared to go through the whole thing again unless it’s to make a proper statement.’

Steadman’s steady gaze betrayed nothing. ‘As you wish, Mr Gwynne. Perhaps you could take us through the house then?’

Destined, it seemed, to reopen his wounds on a daily basis, Hugh started on the familiar tour. Like a well-trained guide he set the scene with care, describing the location and appearance of the absent sofa, the state of the windows and door, the work Lizzie had been doing on her computer, the time she had closed the last file, before leading his visitors along the track of the fire, directing them to points of interest, pausing now and again to let Reynolds catch up with his note taking. Unlike a well-trained guide, however, he deserted his visitors at the final attraction. With no stomach to watch the two men casting their cold inquisitive gaze over the unmade bed, he hung back on the landing. Once, Reynolds came out and asked a question about the window. Otherwise Hugh paced slowly back and forth, listening to the men murmuring to each other as they moved about the room. Despite the cold, he had sweated through his shirt; his stomach felt nauseous.

Steadman reappeared, wiping his hands on a large cotton handkerchief. ‘Nothing been moved or altered since the fire?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Just a routine question.’ Steadman went on wiping his hands, as if he’d come into contact with something nasty he couldn’t shift.

Hugh said, ‘The bed’s in such a mess because the firemen were searching for other victims.’
Other victims?
He had caught the plague of official-speak. He corrected himself. ‘Searching for
me
.’

‘I see,’ Steadman said impassively. ‘You mentioned the clothes on the chair, the way they were folded.’

‘Yes – my wife would never have left her clothes like that.’

‘Could you be more specific?’

‘Well, she never folded them. Ever. Any clothes she was going to wear the next day she draped over the back of the
chair. And she always,
always
, put her underwear straight into the laundry basket, never left it out. And she wore a nightdress except in hot weather, and when she was found she was naked.’

Steadman waited for Reynolds to finish writing this up.

‘And the clothes haven’t been touched since the night of the fire?’

Hugh hesitated. ‘I looked at them once, just to see what was there. But I replaced them exactly as they were. And we were careful to take photographs beforehand. Slater was, rather. He took pictures of everything.’

‘So . . . that would have been two days ago?’

The implication was clear: it was too long after the event to count. ‘But absolutely nothing was touched before then,’ Hugh said firmly. ‘No one’s been allowed into this room, not even the family. I knew there’d have to be a proper investigation. I knew nothing must be touched.’ Sensing that Steadman remained unpersuaded, Hugh added, ‘And Ellis’s photographs must show the clothes.’

‘Ellis?’

‘The fire brigade investigator.’

Absorbing this with a slow nod, Steadman cast an eye around the landing and up at the ceiling. ‘I’m not clear about one thing, Mr Gwynne. You say your wife was alone in the house and no one was expected.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But your son arrived sometime that evening.’

‘He arrived late. After the fire started.’

Reynolds looked up from his notepad. ‘Your son’s name, Mr Gwynne?’

‘Charlie.’

‘Is that Charles?’

‘No. Charlie.’

Steadman said, ‘And you weren’t aware he was coming?’

‘His mother knew. He phoned her earlier that evening.’

‘Ah. And how would he have got here?’

‘Sorry?’

‘What transport would he have used?’

‘Well . . . coach from Birmingham. Then a bus. Except it might’ve been a taxi because it was so late. But what’s that got to do with anything?’ Realising this had sounded rather abrupt, Hugh added a conciliatory shrug.

Steadman paused, as if deciding whether to break with his normal practice and reveal his thinking. ‘If your wife was expecting him, she might have answered the door rather more readily than otherwise.’

‘But she knew he was going to get here late – at eleven or twelve. And he would have let himself in.’

Steadman’s gaze turned inward, as if Hugh’s reply had confirmed the foolishness of entering into discussions with civilians. With a glance towards Reynolds, he said, ‘Thank you, Mr Gwynne, I think that’s everything up here.’

When they reached the hall Reynolds said, ‘The wine glasses, they’re still in situ, are they, Mr Gwynne?’

They trooped into the kitchen and stared at the glasses standing upside down on the draining board, their surfaces tarnished with a faint film of soot. Hugh explained how Lizzie always used the dishwasher for glasses because she believed it cleaned them better.

Reynolds referred to his notebook. ‘Previously you said she might have used two glasses in one evening.’

Hugh could see where this was leading. He said, ‘It’s possible, yes.’

‘But you’re suggesting someone else washed them up?’

‘All I know is Lizzie wouldn’t have washed them up by hand.’

It was Steadman who voiced the obvious. ‘The second glass could have been for an unexpected guest.’

But not a lover
, Hugh thought with a warning glare. But if Steadman’s mind was journeying down that route, he didn’t say anything.

‘Have the glasses been touched?’ Steadman asked.

‘No.’

Steadman’s gaze settled thoughtfully on the bay window before coming back to Hugh. ‘Anyone have a grudge against your wife, Mr Gwynne?’