9
Haunted by images of blood and mangled flesh, Daniels and Gormley left the crash site to continue their journey. They had done what any police officers would in similar circumstances, given assistance to the living before attending to the dead, remained at the crash scene until the incident management team had everything under control and they were no longer required.
Gormley glanced at his watch. It was just gone five.
‘You think the dash-and-splash will still be there at this hour?’
His pet name for the fire department was an attempt to lift Daniels’ mood. But it would take more than that, the way she was feeling. She gave a shrug, driving a little slower than usual tonight. Turning left, she entered Ralph Street where the alleged arson had taken place. A hundred metres ahead, a large white tent had been erected around the front door of a terraced house to keep prying eyes out. A fire engine was standing by, as well as a number of panda cars and Forensic vans. She drove towards the scene, steeling herself for more misery to come.
They got out of the Toyota and stood for a moment viewing the scene. There was a media scrum behind police tape: reporters, photographers and local television crews all jockeying for position, capturing what they could through telephoto lenses. Some elderly neighbours were in the street too, offering tea to their unexpected guests. Just then a man in a forensic suit emerged from the crime tent to greet them. He ushered them inside so they could talk freely without fear of being quoted chapter and verse on breakfast news.
Fire Department Investigator Geoff Abbott was a man they knew well, a professional highly regarded in his field of expertise, as serious about his job as they were theirs. That didn’t stop him going tit for tat with Gormley over their poor response time.
‘Take the scenic route, did you?’ he said.
Gormley gave him a wry smile. ‘Don’t tell me you’re complaining about the ovies hitting your pay packet this month. Rumour has it your lot spend most of your service in bed. Why shouldn’t we? Figured we’d stop off for coffee and croissants on the way. The boss was feeling a bit peckish.’
Daniels was feeling anything but. The accident had sickened her and food was the last thing on her mind. She turned to Abbott. ‘What’s the story here, Geoff?’
‘Control room got a 999 call at one-o-four. We received a Persons on Premises call seconds later. Officers attending found two dead: believed to be Jamie Reid, ten months, and his father, Mark Reid. The house is leased by the boy’s mother, Margaret Reid. She’d been out for the evening, leaving her ex to babysit. The building was well alight when she came home.’
‘She called it in?’
‘Yep. And there are no other witnesses – at least none that have come forward since I got here. I’ll check with my lads. Call me a suspicious old git, but that sounds iffy to me. According to elderly neighbours, that way –’ Abbott pointed to his left – ‘the couple are still married. They get on fairly well, despite no longer living together since the baby was born. Reid kept in regular contact though, so I’m guessing the child was his. As far as the neighbours are concerned there was no animosity between them.’
‘Reason for their split?’
‘Same old, same old. Extra-marital is the word on the grapevine.’
‘His affair or hers?’ Gormley asked.
‘Didn’t say, didn’t ask. That’s your remit, not mine.’ Abbott eyeballed Gormley, his expression hard. ‘Don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes after what happened in December, do I?’
The venom in his voice was not lost on Daniels. In a previous arson case, inaccurate information provided by fire crews had been acted upon by a Murder Investigation Team – thankfully not hers – causing red faces all round. Inter-agency cooperation was all well and good, but intelligence still had to be checked out. It was as much the fault of the police for not covering the bases. It happened sometimes in the heat of the moment when resources were stretched. Nothing to fall out about.
Gormley eyeballed him. ‘No one blamed you, Geoff.’
Abbott bristled, holding his gaze. ‘That’s not what I heard—’
‘Hey, you two, cut it out!’ Daniels shot them both a look. ‘I’m in no mood for a punch-up. It’s old news. For God’s sake, move on!’ They didn’t need telling twice. She glanced towards the house. ‘Appreciate what you’ve given us, Geoff. Can we take a look?’
‘Be my guest. But I have to tell you it’s not pretty. You’ll be pleased to hear the young ’un’s been taken away already, recovered from his cot upstairs by officers first at the scene. They tried to revive him but . . .’
He broke off. Daniels could tell from his expression that he’d witnessed the rescue attempt and she was relieved to have escaped the immediate trauma of seeing the child herself. She had no kids of her own, or any intention of ever having any, but she got on with children and hated to see them hurt. The gruesome post-mortem would come later. Her promise to Detective Constable Lisa Carmichael that the next PM was hers would have to be broken. Lisa would have to wait a while longer. This one would be far too distressing.
Unzipping the holdall she’d brought with her from the car, Daniels noticed a heavy medical bag at the entrance to the premises, the initials TWS engraved on the side. It belonged to Home Office Pathologist, Tim Stanton. She wondered how he’d got there. His Range Rover wasn’t parked outside.
‘Kit off, Hank,’ she said.
Gormley’s shoulders fell. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’
Daniels was already down to her underwear. ‘Come on, don’t be shy.’
Gormley dropped his pants. He was wearing a pair of Union Jack shreddies his wife had bought him – his lucky World Cup shorts she called them – an infrequent gesture of affection these days. He’d felt obliged to put them on. It was either that or face more argy-bargy from Julie when he got home. He hadn’t figured he’d be sharing the spectacle with his female boss and the fire investigator.
‘Where’s that camera?’ Abbott laughed. ‘Got to get this for The Burning Issue.’
Daniels grinned at his reference to the fire and rescue bimonthly magazine.
‘Move and you’re dead meat,’ Gormley warned.