The Burning Man Page 2

  The victim, with his arms across his chest and fists clenched, looked like he was trying to protect himself. Carter noticed the hands. This might be useful he thought. Carter knew that by forming a fist, it can sometimes preserve the skin on the inside, stopping it from being entirely destroyed. He remembered a case where the fire victim was identified by prising open their hands and taking their fingerprints.

  Broadbent was right, thought Carter. He is beyond recognition. It was hard to tell if the corpse had skin It had no hair or lips. Both ears and the nose had gone. Carter bent down and studied the body more closely. He couldn’t work out if it were the remains of his clothes that had fused to him or just burnt skin.

  Lynch turned away, nauseated. All the colour drained from his face, and his stomach heaved as his nostrils took in the smell of burnt flesh. He turned, walked quickly back outside and leaned against the soot-blackened wall, pulled down his hood and mask, then vomited.

  The CFO, seeing him, walked over. ‘Here, lad, drink some of this. It might help to take some taste from your mouth.’ He handed Lynch a bottle of water. Lynch took a big swallow and gave it back without a word.

  ‘It’s not nice, is it?’ said Saunders, looking into the barn. ‘First one, is it?’ Lynch slowly nodded.

  ‘I’ll never forget my first one as long as I live. I’ve seen quite a few of those in my time, but I can still remember that first one. I’d only been in the job a week. An old lady died in a house fire. Christmas day it was and freezing cold. Paraffin heater downstairs started it. She was in bed when we found her. The smoke got her first. They reckoned her dog knocked it over. The dog was the only survivor.’ He looked at Lynch and. thinking his needs were greater, said, ‘Here, lad, you keep it.’ He handed back the bottle, turned and walked off. Kirby came out of the barn, followed a few seconds later by Carter. She came over and stood by Lynch.

  She pulled off her mask and, in a sympathetic voice, said, ‘Don’t worry, Dave, you’re not alone. I came near to puking myself.’ He held out the water to her. She shook her head. ‘Feeling better?’ He nodded.

  Kirby directed her question at Carter. ‘You know I asked about who called it in. It was because something was puzzling me.’

  ‘What was that?’ he queried.

  ‘Take a look around you. What do you see? Or should I say, what don’t you see?’ Kirby looked at Lynch. Some colour had started to return to his cheeks.

  ‘This place is in a valley. There’s only the one road in and out. The property has a high wall all around it. It’s not overlooked. The nearest house is about two miles away. We came past it on the way here.’ She pointed, indicating the surrounding hills. ‘You’d have to be right up there in on the hill by those trees to see this fire.’

  ‘Poacher, maybe?’ suggested Lynch.

  ‘Yes. Good point, Marcia. We’ll check that one out later. Right now, let’s get over to the farmhouse and see if we can find out who this poor sod was.’

  Chapter 3

  As Marcia Kirby crossed the bedroom floor, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the chest of drawers. She ran her hands down the side of her pantsuit trousers. Kirby thought about seeing Dave Penrose again at the weekend, and it filled her with anticipation and delight. She recalled the last time they went strolling hand in hand along the clifftops at Dover, and then later how they stopped off at that little pub down by the beach for lunch and then back to his flat on the beachfront. Kirby started to recall that very first evening when his hands, soft and warm, had explored and caressed her body, and the smell of his hair as his head lay on her breast. Smiling, she turned away from the mirror and walked from the room.

  She spent some time searching through the other two bedrooms, then walked along to the end of the landing and turned right. Directly in front of her was the bathroom. Above her head, she noticed a ceiling hatch. Going to the bathroom door, she pushed it open with her gloved finger. She went in and looked around. The contents of the laundry basket had been emptied out on the floor. After checking through the wall cabinet, she turned to leave and then saw the hooked pole that was used to open the ceiling hatch, standing in the corner. Picking it up, she went out onto the landing and pulled down the loft ladder.

  Going carefully up the ladder, she poked her head up inside and looked around the roof space. She found a pull switch and turned on the light. It was plain to see, by all the cobwebs and dust, that the roof space hadn’t been used in years. After one last look around, she turned off the light and came back down the ladder, closed it up, then headed down the stairs in search of Carter and Lynch.

  As she walked along the hallway and drew level with the living room, she heard noises coming from the room opposite — the kitchen. She put her head around the door. All the wall cupboards were open, and many of the drawers had their contents tipped out onto the floor. Dave Lynch had the oven door open and was peering inside.

  ‘Dave, we’re meant to be searching, not cleaning ovens.’

  He rose to his full height and said, ‘You’d be surprised what people hide in these things.’

  ‘Yes, like roast beef,’ she said. ‘I’d have thought you would have seen enough of that for one day.’

  ‘You and Broadbent make a good pair. A right bunch of bleeding comics.’

  Kirby smiled and continued on down the hall, where she discovered Carter in a small room that appeared to have been turned into an office. The filing cabinet was open, and the contents strewn across the floor. He was sitting in a swivel chair in front of a roll-top desk, sorting through papers. He looked up as she entered. ‘Anything, Marcia?’

  ‘Three bedrooms. Only one is being used. The bed hasn’t been slept in. All the wardrobes have been turned out and searched. Somebody has been through this place with a fine-tooth comb. I wonder what the hell they were looking for. Whatever it was, it must have been important.’

  Carter swivelled around in the chair to face her.

  ‘Wonder what they were after?’ she said again.

  ‘Saunders said they got here at three and it was well alight then. Give it an hour to get going. That would make it about two when it started. So, our man must have been in that barn long before then. Marcia. Find out what time that call was made?’

  She took the phone from her shoulder bag, turned, walked to the door, turned back and said, ‘Have you found out who he is yet?’

  He held out some papers for her to see. ‘I’ve found a few tax statements, utility bills, and council tax plus some other bits. They're all in the name of Richard Eades. Bank statements not so good. Hardly any cash in there. Three thousand quid. Better check on his phone records; see who he’s been in contact with. There may be a next of kin there. I’ve found some baby pictures of him here on a rug when he was one week old.’ He turned it over and read from the back. ‘Richard, age seven days. Born 15th June 1966, Manchester General Hospital. Parents June and Christian Eades. There are a few more photos of him in the lounge. There’s some of him in the army. Royal Marine Commandos by the look of it.

  ‘I think it’s pretty safe to say, he’s our man. I did find a gun safe in the cupboard under the stairs. It's locked. I haven’t come across any keys yet. Might be a good idea to get a locksmith in, if we can’t find one.’ He handed her some papers. ‘There’s also a lot of this kind of paperwork from Customs and Excise. Seems our Mr Eades was an importer of exotic timbers. Logs and planks. Teak, Bolivian Rosewood, Indian Ebony and Indian sandalwood and roots. It’s quite a list. It must have been this stuff that he had stored in the barn. Wonder what they use the roots for?’

  ‘Oils,’ answered Kirby casually. ‘The roots of the sandalwood are the most valuable part of the tree. The oil they produce from them is bloody expensive. You’re looking at about ten quid for a few drops. In parts of India, the trees are protected by state law.’

  ‘Is that right?’ he said, recalling the open container out in the yard. ‘So, that was what it was — sandalwood?’ How could I forget that? Carter curse
d himself for not remembering and momentarily tried to picture her face.

  For a few seconds, he let his mind push back the years. June, his wife, used sandalwood for the meditation classes she used to run just after they were first married. He remembered her saying how it calmed the mind, enhanced mental clarity, and aided in the opening of the Third Eye. He had tried to get into it himself, but after a while, he gave it up. It was just not his thing. As he often told her, ‘I’m quite happy with the two eyes.’

  Returning to the present, he started leafing through more of the paperwork. He set a few aside. ‘There're some invoices here, made out to furniture and cabinet makers. They’ve got an email address and phone numbers on them. We might need to check out his online activities later. I wonder where his laptop is,’ he said, looking at the Wi-Fi modem perched on top of the desk. ‘I haven’t come across one. Did you see any sign of one upstairs?’

  ‘No, nothing up there,’ Kirby replied.

  He stood up, stretched and rolled his shoulders. ‘Okay, Marcia. I think we have all we need from here. I’m going to grab a quick bite on the way back to Kent Street. On your way back, I want you and Dave to check out that farmhouse further down the road — the one we passed coming in. See if they saw or heard anything last night. Also, bag up any toothbrushes and hair combs for DNA and hand them over to Tim. When you’ve done that, get back and see what you can find out about our Mr Eades. I can’t find any personal stuff in this lot about any family.’

  ‘He must be single. There are no signs of any women’s clothes in any of the rooms,’ she said.

  ‘While you at it, get someone onto Manchester. See if they have an address for the parents, June and Christian Eades. They’ll need to be notified. I’ll leave Cotton and Ambrose here until the fire crew has finished up. They can secure the place. I was also wondering just what Eades used for transport. I haven’t seen any signs of a motor about. Check that out as well, will you?’ added Carter.

  ‘Guv,’ yelled out Lynch from down the hallway. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In here, Dave,’ called Kirby, putting her head out of the door and into the hallway.

  Lynch came into the room, looked straight at Kirby and, with a smug look on his face, said, ‘There’s a compartment at the bottom of the oven to keep the plates warm. And guess what was in there?’ In his hand, he held a package.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’ said Carter, taking a close look.

  ‘Cocaine, if I’m not mistaken,’ he said, handing it to Carter.

  ‘Bloody hell. By the weight of it, I’d say this must have a street value of at least a quarter of a million.’

  ‘There’s seven more where this came from.’

  ‘Holy shit. What the hell made you look in there in the first place?’ queried Carter.

  ‘Natural curiosity, guv… just natural curiosity.’

  ‘Well, well. This certainly puts our Eades in a new light, that’s for sure. This would explain why the whole place has been turned over!’

  ****

  Carter parked in the Memorial car park across the road from the Corner Café, got out of the car and locked it. The chilly autumn wind rustled the leaves of the large chestnut trees that stood guard either side of the Kent Street Memorial Park gates. The gates commemorated those from Kingsport who served in World War One.

  Above the distant hills, a watery sun struggled hard to push through the overcast. After a while, it seemed to give up and retreat back behind the safety of the dark clouds. At the base of the hills, well-established cherry orchards and hop gardens grew. Shrouded by the early morning mist, they now lay invisible.

  Kingsport, with its population of just under forty thousand, sat in the Weald of Kent. Scratch the surface and history ran all through it, deep like the chalk that lay beneath the surrounding hills. The town lay sandwiched between the A 2 and the M 2 motorway. These two main arteries linked the seaports of Dover and Folkestone to the city of London. Over at the park, a few mothers had braved the morning chill and are out pushing baby strollers around the duck pond. Close to it, stood the old bandstand. At the far end of the park, just a little way along Kent Street, stood an old Victorian building. This was Carter's second home, the Kingsport police station. The second floor of the grey granite building held the CID offices. On this gloomy overcast morning, light spilt from every window.

  Carter turned and faced the Corner Café which stood between the National Westminster Bank on the High Street and the post office on Market Street.

  Nearly a year had gone by since he’d first met the owner of the café, Christine Wilcox. Their relationship had progressed to the point where she recently suggested he move in with her at her cottage on the outskirts of town. The prospects scared him slightly. He had given it a lot of thought over the last few weeks, but was reluctant to part with the place that he had lived in for so many years. His home, near Ospringe, held many good memories for him. There were also bad ones. Seven years ago, his wife June and his childhood sweetheart, was taken from him by cancer.

  Kingsport's High Street had started to fill with early morning traffic as commuters made their way to work. He waited for the bus that was heading down to the Market Square to go past, then hurried across the road. He pushed open the door of the café and went in. The half a dozen customers, seated at their tables, glanced up as the door swung open, allowing a blast of cold air to enter. Unlike the outside, the interior of the café was warm and cosy with bright lights and colourful walls covered in holiday posters. The customers returned to their conversations as the door swung closed behind the new entrant, the cold breeze quickly forgotten.

  Walking up to the counter, he greeted Jenny, who was serving a customer, then headed out the back to the kitchen.

  He looked around for the chef, Helen Walters. There was no sign of her. Carter was surprised to see Christine busy forking through a large frying pan full of crispy, sizzling rashers of bacon. Next to that sat another, full of frying eggs. He walked up to her and kissed her on the cheek.

  He looked around. ‘Where’s Helen?’

  ‘Gone home with the flu.’

  ‘Did you miss me this morning?’ he enquired.

  ‘When I opened my eyes, you were nowhere to be seen. Talk about loving and leaving ‘em. You should be ashamed of yourself, Bob Carter,’ she smiled, waving a spatula at him. ‘My mother told me about men like you.’

  ‘I plead guilty on both counts; I got an early call. You were sound asleep, which I put down to too much loving.’

  ‘You're forgiven.’ She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I never heard you leave.’

  I didn’t want to wake you. I take it, you did see the note I left on the kitchen bench?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  He started to tell her about the fire and not embellishing on it. He left out the part about finding the cocaine.

  She screwed up her nose. ‘Sounds nasty. The poor man. Did he have relatives?’

  ‘We’re still looking into it. I can’t stay long. I’ve just come straight from the farm. I’m on my way over to Kent Street.’

  ‘I take it that you went out this morning with nothing to eat. So, I suppose the reason you’re here now is that you want to be fed?’ Placing her hand on her hips, she said, ‘Silly me. And here was I thinking it was me you came to see.’ She went back to turning over the bacon.

  She forked some onto a plate, added two eggs, a slice of fried bread and two sausages, then called out to Jenny, ‘Table four.’ Jenny quickly came in, picked up the plate, smiled at Carter, then hurried back out.

  ‘If it wasn't for your bacon, I could have envisaged being a vegetarian,’ he said. ‘Those rashers sizzling away in their own fat in that pan, filling the whole place with that smell, had me salivating the moment I walked in through the door. Believe me when I say that the police canteens bacon butties are not a patch on yours.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I got the hint.’

  She buttered two thick slices of brea
d, put one on a plate and watched his hungry eyes as she laid rashers of bacon on one and topped it off with an egg. She laid the other slice of bread on top, sliced the sandwich in half and handed him the plate. Smiling, she said, ‘Here. Now get out of my way. I’ve work to do. There are paying customers waiting for their breakfast.’

  ‘I might just go and see if Jenny has a spare cup of tea to go with it.’ He winked and backed out.

  Chapter 4

  7:45 a.m.

  Kingsport, at that time of the morning, was just starting to come alive, and in the distance, traffic could be heard moving up and down the main street of town.

  On Cobblers Lane, it was so narrow that Detective Constable Luke Hollingsworth had to park his car half on the pavement, just as the fast response car in front of him had done a little while before. The blue flashing light bar in its roof reflected back from the small shop front window.

  If they would have parked on the road, then nothing coming along would have been able to pass. Even now, it would still be a tight squeeze to get through. The driver would’ve had to mount the opposite pavement to get by. It must be a nightmare for the delivery drivers that service these little shops, thought Hollingsworth. He looked in both directions. The majority of the houses in the lane had been converted into flats. As there was no parking, their owners had to park in the street opposite.

  Back in the days of horse-drawn carts, this cobblestone street had boasted a boot maker. This one was the royal bootmaker to Queen Victoria’s Prince Albert. All that had now long gone. The only businesses now were a dress shop, a newsagent and a convenience store run by the Indian known only to the locals as Singh.

  Trying to keep out the chilly wind that was blowing up the lane, Hollingsworth turned up the collar of his raincoat and stood on the pavement, gazing in through the brightly-lit store window. He could clearly see the burly figure of PC Hobson, who, with a notebook in hand, was talking to Singh down by the checkout. Hollingsworth studied the discounts displayed in the window for a few moments longer, then walked around to the glass-fronted door and pushed it open. The bell over the door jangled, heralding his arrival. Stepping inside, he instantly felt warmer.