pulled up near the Mullens’ house, she found just one miserable-looking uniformed officer standing outside the gate. He had his hands folded behind his back, and he was bouncing slightly on his toes, as if auditioning for a part in The Pirates of Penzance. At any moment, he might burst into ‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one …’
‘Where’s the fire officer?’ she asked, when Murfin emerged from the house.
‘He’s nipped off to get a bit of something for a late breakfast, lucky bugger. He said to tell you he wouldn’t be long.’
‘SOCOs here yet?’
‘There’s someone on the way, I’m told.’
Fry looked around at her available resources. One Gilbert and Sullivan extra, and Gavin Murfin. There was nothing like trying to do things on your own, was there?
Coming up behind the same tractor one more time, Bernie Wilding had to slow down on the road between Foxlow and Bonsall. But the tractor driver pulled over into a lay-by to let him pass, and the postman saw that it was Neville Cross, who owned Yew Tree Farm. His land ran right up to the garden of Rose Shepherd’s property.
Bernie slowed to a halt alongside the tractor and tapped his horn to get the farmer’s attention.
‘Morning,’ said Cross.
‘Just thought I’d mention – I couldn’t get any answer at Bain House earlier on. You know, Miss Shepherd’s place? I wondered if you’ve seen her about at all?’
‘Can’t say I have. We don’t see her in the village much.’
‘No, I know. I thought it was a bit funny, though. Her post was still in the box from yesterday, too.’
The farmer nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘I’ll keep an eye out.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
Bernie waved and drove off, watching the tractor pull into the road again as soon as he’d passed. He’d probably get behind it again when he reached Bonsall. Sometimes he thought these farmers drove around the lanes all day just for the sake of it. They loved being a bloody nuisance with their tractors, and their trailers full of slurry. Now and then, Bernie wished he could put a bomb under one of them.
Lindsay Mullen’s parents lived on the hillside above Darley Dale, a couple of miles north of Matlock. Following the directions she’d been given, Fry watched out for the Shalimar Restaurant, then turned left into Northwood Lane and climbed the hill. The Lowthers’ address was near the top, a large bungalow with its rear windows looking down on the A6 from Bakewell.
She and Murfin had to walk a long way up a garden path to reach the front door. This was a garden that seemed to be mostly gravel and stone flags, apart from the obligatory water feature, and dozens of terracotta pots that didn’t contain very much.
‘I like this sort of garden. No plants.’
And Gavin was right. There was a birdbath, a sundial, a statue of an angel in ornamental stone. And so much furniture, too – a patio set on the terrace under a green parasol, a wooden bench in the shade of an arbour, and a garden barbecue on timber decking at a lower level. In the last few yards, they found themselves walking on cast-iron stepping stones in the shape of flattened tortoises, between solar lights like Edwardian gas lamps. Near the door stood a cast-iron chiminea with a mesh door, its surface just starting to rust.
A few minutes later, they were sitting with Henry Lowther in a conservatory, on either side of an oak coffee table that matched the flooring.
‘Sorry to bring you in here,’ he said, ‘but Luanne is asleep, and we don’t want to disturb her. It’s going to be stressful enough for the child in the next few weeks, poor thing.’
‘Luanne is your youngest grandchild, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did she come to be here with you last night?’
‘We’ve been looking after her for a few days. Luanne hasn’t been sleeping through the night, you see. Poor Lindsay wasn’t getting much rest, so we offered to give her a break for a bit.’
‘I see. And are you coping all right yourselves? Talk to your family liaison officer if you need any help, won’t you?’
‘No, we’re fine,’ said Lowther. ‘Luanne needs us, and it’s best to have something to concentrate on. You know what I mean …’
Lindsay Mullen’s parents seemed to be quiet people – no sign of hysterics, or outbursts of anger. But Fry hardly caught a glimpse of Mrs Lowther before she disappeared, clearly on the verge of tears, her eyes already red from previous bouts of weeping.
‘My wife isn’t up to talking about it yet,’ said her husband. ‘I hope you understand.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have to bother you with questions, sir.’
‘It’s something you have to do.’
It was much too warm for Fry in the conservatory. Looking around, she saw that the central heating radiator had an individual thermostat control. She wondered whether Mr Lowther would notice if she surreptitiously turned it down. But he was watching her too expectantly, the way people did sometimes after a sudden death, as if they thought she might be able to bring their loved ones magically back to life.
‘Could you tell me when you first heard about the fire, sir?’
‘Yes. Brian phoned to tell us. That’s our son-in-law.’
‘Brian did? What time was that?’
‘Good heavens, I’m not sure. It was in the early hours of the morning. I was too shocked to check the time. Well, I might have looked at the clock, but I didn’t take it in. Brian said he was phoning from the hospital – I remember that. At first, I thought it was him that had been in an accident, and I didn’t understand what he was trying to tell me. I suppose I was still half asleep.’
The conservatory was probably so warm because it was full of plants – fuchsia, tree ferns, bougainvillea. In the kitchen, Fry had noticed cacti and tradescantia, and a wooden herb wheel on the window sill. She might be ignorant of what grew in the countryside, but she was familiar with house plants. During a spell with a foster family who’d run a small-scale plant nursery in Halesowen, her job had been to write out the labels for the pots – and God help her if she got one wrong through not recognizing a species.
There would be spiders and small insects crawling among these plants, too. She’d tried to sit in the middle of the two-seater cane settee to keep away from the jungle, forcing Murfin to take one of the chairs.
‘How did Brian describe what had happened?’
‘Describe it? Well, he said he’d arrived home and found the house on fire. I gather he’d been out for the evening. Brian was very distressed, you know – understandably. And he’d suffered some injuries trying to get into the house. In the circumstances I’m surprised he had the presence of mind to call us at all. But I’m
