Up in Flames Page 9

  There was a stunned silence at this. But Casey had already had this gruesome possibility explained to him once and he collected himself more quickly than Shazia Singh and asked, ‘And that’s what happened here? The cracking, I mean, not … ’

  Dr Merriman nodded. ‘The damage to the skull was caused by an epidural haemorrhage, just under the skin, rather than a subdural haemorrhage. It was caused after death and by the fire itself. I’ve taken blood samples to test for the presence of carbon monoxide, but you can take it from me that the fumes and the fire between them killed her rather than an assailant with a blunt instrument.’ He asked his assistant to turn the body on to its front and he pointed to the small area of unscarred skin on the back. It was a bright, cherry pink. ‘As I believe I have explained to you before, the colour is typical of carbon monoxide poisoning. There are also particles of what looks like carbon — soot — in the air passages and lungs. I’ll have those tested as well. The victim was female, not a teenager, but not old. Early twenties would be my estimate. She was Asian and had certainly borne one child. As to her identity, I’ve had a dental x-ray taken and sent to the forensic orthodontist. When he compares it to the dental x-ray of the presumed victim, we will, hopefully get a match and a confirmed ID.’

  Casey looked at the emptied shell of the body, at the hollow head and inside out scalp. The opened out thing on the table had no identity. How to reconcile this with the laughing eyed and beautiful young woman in the photograph? The comparison jarred his senses and built up an anger, a determination to catch whoever was responsible for such an ugly metamorphosis.

  But the PM ordeal wasn’t finished yet. As the table bearing Chandra Bansi’s remains was wheeled away and replaced with another, Casey steeled himself for the next PM, that on the baby. Beautiful, bawling, Leela, Chandra’s infant daughter.

  The post mortem was over. Thankfully, Casey let himself out into the afternoon air, cool now after the warmth earlier in the day. He breathed deeply, wanting to rid his lungs, his clothes, his mind, of the stench of death and its clinical dismemberment. Merriman’s conclusions on the cause of the baby’s death had been the same as for her mother. He could only hope the fumes had killed them both quickly. The image conjured when he thought of the baby, those small limbs contorting as the baby burned, was more than he could stomach.

  His mobile rang and he reached in his jacket and flipped it open. ‘Casey. You have? Where are they? Good work. We’re on our way in.’

  Relief washed over him as he returned the mobile to his jacket pocket. He hadn’t realised how high this investigation had stoked the tension. The relief left him feeling extraordinarily tired, but the thought of conducting the interviews with the two youths responsible sent the adrenalin surging through his system and quickly re-energised him.

  He told Catt and Shazia, who had followed him out, ‘The casualty department of the local hospital turned up trumps. Although they haven’t treated any burns victims today, they’ve at last come up with the information we asked for. Their records show two young white males received treatment for burns just after the first two cases of arson. Must be getting better at their fire-setting as they didn’t pay another visit to Casualty after this latest fire.’

  ‘Practise makes perfect,’ Catt commented.

  As an image of the two bodies in the mortuary flashed before him, Casey said, ‘Come on. After what we’ve just witnessed I’m keen to take a look at the two johnnies responsible. Can you believe one of them’s actually boasting about torching Chandra’s flat?’

  Hurrying after him, Catt and Shazia tried and failed to match the taller Casey’s long and determined strides.

  Chapter Eight

  Fortunately, the two suspected arsonists had been picked up separately and kept apart, so had had no opportunity to regret earlier boasts and concoct alibis. And although, as it turned out, only one of the two youths had actually so far admitted to being responsible for the Bansi deaths, according to Sergeant Wright in the Charge Room even the more silent of the two hadn’t denied their guilt.

  Viewed through the hatches of their cell doors, Wayne Gough and Dean Linklater were like identikit pictures of the more thuggish young British male. From the ‘No 1’ haircuts to the tattoos, from the expensive trainers to the sleeveless T-shirts and the Mr Macho muscular arms. Needless to say, they had both been in trouble before; for drunkenness, affray, general nastiness.

  According to Sergeant Wright, Wayne Gough had immediately demanded to see a solicitor. This loud demand had obviously been overheard by his pal, Linklater, in a cell two doors down, as it had been immediately repeated by him, as had further demands for a drink, food and cigarettes. ‘Little Sir Echo’ as Sergeant Wright called Linklater. ‘Doesn’t seem to have a thought to call his own.’

  The demand for the brief at least had apparently only been for show, to make it clear they knew their rights. Because when the brief, who unfortunately happened to be Asian, arrived, and Casey and Catt led him and his first client to one of the interview rooms, Wayne Gough gave him one, sneering glance and then ignored him, told him, to ‘shut it,’ when he advised his unruly client to say nothing. Wayne wasn’t going to be deprived of his moment of glory, certainly not by one of the ‘enemy’.

  Although Gough had already been cautioned, Casey cautioned him again for the benefit of the running tape. But it was evident that ‘caution’ wasn’t a word in Wayne Gough’s limited vocabulary. It quickly became clear that Gough was keen to boast of his brave deeds.

  ‘Done ‘em all, didn’t we?’ He sat back, stared contemptuously at his brief from eyes of indeterminate colour, before he folded his arms across his brawny chest, and transferred his gaze to Casey. His eyes were empty of any emotion, though it was clear from the smug look that settled on his unshaven face that he felt he had done a good day’s work. Gough’s folded arms now concealed the abundant collection of showy rings that Casey had noticed earlier. They would serve admirably as a set of knuckle-dusters; the sizeable signet ring on his left ring finger being particularly eye-catching in both meanings of the phrase.

  With a sneer, Gough rocked his chair on to its back legs and said, ‘Paki bastards. Torch ‘em out. Only way they’ll go, innit?’

  Casey wasn’t a violent man, but he felt like punching Gough in his sneering thin-lipped mouth. He breathed calmly, deeply, before he said, ‘Let me get this clear. You’re admitting you set fires at—’ Casey paused, glanced at his notebook and reeled off four addresses, including Chandra Bansi‘s.

  Gough’s brow wrinkled for a second as if he had trouble remembering— or reading — road names. Probably drunk at the time, Casey concluded. He was none too sober now he realised as waves of beer fumes wafted towards him from across the table.

  Gough’s brow cleared. He grinned and said, ‘Yeah. That’s right. Done ‘em all. Quite a score.’

  ‘The last one certainly was. You’re a real hero, Wayne. We found the bodies of a young Asian woman and her nine-month old baby in the last fire. Both died at the scene.’

  He pulled the photograph of Chandra and her baby from his pocket. It had already been copied and circulated to the media. ‘These are your victims.’ He thrust the photograph under Gough’s nose and told him, ‘take a good look. These are the human beings destroyed by your handiwork. Do you still feel proud of yourself?’

  Gough directed one sneering glance at the photograph. But as Casey watched, the sneer disappeared and was replaced by bemusement. ‘Hey, that’s that bird-’ he began before he broke off, sat back again and grinned smugly at them. ‘Told the lads we did that one. Maybe now they’ll believe us.’

  Carefully, Casey returned the photograph to his pocket. Painstakingly, he took Gough through the arsons, extracting descriptions of the places torched, methods used and timings. Gough was confident enough about the earlier arson attacks and seemed to recall their circumstances pretty clearly. But when it came to the fire at Chandra’s flat, he faltered, stumbling over his descriptions in a way t
hat suggested he was now suffering after alcoholic over-indulgence at lunchtime, which, from the beer-tainted smell of his breath, seemed only too likely.

  ‘Tell me again, Wayne,’ Casey insisted. ‘What accelerant did you use on the arson at Ainslee Terrace? How did you set it? At what time? Describe the street. Talk me through it.’

  Gough crashed his chair back on all four of its legs and gazed belligerently at him. ‘How many more times? You’re giving me a bleedin’ headache. I’ve told you we done it. What do you want me to go through all this rigmarole for?’

  ‘You’re the one keen to display his macho credentials, Wayne. All I want is to be sure your statement is an honest account of your claims and not simply conjured up to impress your mates.’

  Casey’s deliberate slur earned him a mouthful of colourful epithets. But it had the desired effect as Gough, reminded of his desire to impress his friends, tried harder. ‘We used petrol, I suppose, like we usually do. Deano got it. It was lunchtime. We’d been in the pub and had a skinful and decided we’d have a laugh and do another one.’

  Catt prodded. ‘So why did you choose those particular victims? Did you know the victim, Mrs Bansi?’

  ‘Course not. Why would I know her?’

  ‘I think what the sergeant is trying to understand is how you knew an Asian woman lived in the flat.’

  ‘Oh that. We saw her, didn’t we? Coupla days earlier. Gave us a load of lip. Saucy cow. So when we decided to do another one we settled on her. She got her comeuppance. Straight, she did.’

  Casey began to experience some doubts that Gough was telling him the complete truth. Gough’s earlier bemusement when he saw the picture of Chandra didn’t indicate a pre-knowledge of the victim’s identity. Yet now he was claiming she had been selected because of pre-knowledge. It made no sense. ‘Mrs Bansi mentioned to her father that a couple of young men had harassed her a few days before her death. Are you saying that was you and Linklater?’

  ‘Yeah. All we did was tell her to go back where she came from. Bitch told us we should go back to school and learn some manners. Bleedin’ cheek. We taught her all right.’

  ‘So how did you set the fire?’

  Gough frowned, but the effort was too great. ‘Can’t remember. You’re doin’ my bleedin’ head in with all these questions. Probably through the letterbox. That’s how we done the other ones. You know, the old Indian rope trick. Soak some string in petrol, pour more through the letterbox, drop the other end of the string through and whoosh, up it goes.’ He grinned.

  Gough’s solicitor, who had repeatedly tried to restrain his client, butted in again and got another mouthful of abuse for his trouble. Gough sat back, looking very pleased with himself.

  When he recalled the recent scenes at the mortuary, Casey had to fight the lingering desire to punch the grin from Wayne’s face. Instead, ignoring the frisson of doubt increased by Gough’s faulty recollections of Chandra’s flat, he told him, ‘You’re going down for a long stretch, Wayne. I doubt you’ll find your fellow prisoners quite as easy to intimidate as your victims.’

  Wayne’s bravado didn’t falter. He was still on an adrenaline and alcohol-fuelled high. And although they continued to press him to supply details, his memory grew more hazy rather than less. Finally, he clammed up and refused to answer any more of their questions. Casey told the attending uniformed officer to take him away and bring up his fellow suspect.

  Alone for the moment as the duty solicitor had followed his client out, and as they waited for Dean Linklater to be brought up from the cells, Catt said, ‘We’d better be sure he did all of them. Don’t want him wriggling out and retracting his confession. He seemed pretty hazy on details of the Chandra arson.’

  Casey gave a grim nod. There were other aspects, too, to Gough’s confession that jarred. All the previous arsons amongst the Asian community had occurred at night, in the early hours. Typical after pub hours mindless violence. But the fire at Chandra Bansi‘s flat had happened at lunchtime in the middle of a bright summer’s day. There was the additional difference that the previous fires had been set via the letterboxes rather than by gaining entry. And although the fire centre of the latest arson was in the back living room, Gough had seemed unaware of that nor had he been able to furnish them with any details or descriptions of the flat as he’d been able to do with the earlier cases. Gough’s lack of knowledge bothered him.

  ‘We need to be absolutely watertight on this one,’ Casey commented. ‘If we get them to court and they get off on some technicality I’ll never forgive myself. I promised Chandra’s father I’d get the perpetrators. I mean to keep that promise.’ As he heard the sounds of the other prisoner and his escort approaching along the corridor, Casey lowered his voice and added, ‘We’ll have another go at Gough later. Maybe when he’s finished sobering up he’ll remember a few more facts about it. If he’s intent on incriminating himself, I want him to do a thorough job of it.’

  In spite of his confident words, Casey couldn’t shake off the shiver of doubt. Drunk or not, Gough’s statement had been clear enough on the earlier arsons. Why should his memory of those be so much brighter than it was on the more recent one at Chandra’s flat? It didn’t make sense. He could only hope that Dean Linklater’s memory proved more reliable.

  Gough’s accomplice was a similarly tough looking macho man and sported an equally impressive collection of rings, Yet they were both unemployed. And as he wondered how they could afford them, Casey decided it would be a good idea to check out local house burglaries.

  Casey hoped again that Wayne Gough’s faulty memory wasn’t shared by his friend. If just one of the pair could recall significant details of the arson in Ainslee Terrace, he would be content that they had committed the fatal attack and could set about securing their conviction. And as he gazed into Dean Linklater’s suspiciously moist pale blue eyes and gained the impression that, in his case, the toughness was no more than surface deep, Casey’s faltering confidence began to return. Although, at first, Dean Linklater’s bravado was every bit as showy as Gough’s, Casey felt this suspect was the more likely of the two to yield to pressure and tell them the whole truth.

  But in this, he was mistaken. Like Gough, Linklater ignored the caution and the same Asian solicitor and sat back, searching for and retrieving some of his slowly-trickling cockiness. ‘You should’ve seen those bastards when they watched their places go up in smoke,’ he bragged. ‘We hung about so we could watch. Screamin’ and cryin’ and throwin’ their arms about, they were. Right laugh.’

  With difficulty, Casey kept his voice and expression neutral. ‘So you’d think it funny if everything you owned went up in smoke, would you?’ he asked softly. ‘All your clothes with their designer labels, your expensive trainers and your music collection.’

  Dean’s expression narrowed. ‘What you talkin’ about? They’re Pakis. They’re not into stuff like that — wear sandals and saris or suits, don’t they? Gawd knows what they listen to — that wailing stuff probably. Better burnt.’

  ‘The older generation of Asians any more than the older generation of English might not be into modern western fashion and music,’ Casey conceded. ‘But the younger ones are into the same things as you, Dean.’ Casey wondered why he was bothering to try to instil a feeling of shame, of remorse; if he and Gough had deliberately set the fires he was likely to be incapable of either emotion. But he persevered. ‘And your victims were British born Indians, not Pakistanis.’ Not that it made any difference to Linklater and his charmless friend. ‘You’ve got more in common that you think. The young man whose flat you torched last week is in a band.’

  ‘Yeah, right. A wailing band, right?’ Dean sneered.

  ‘The band’s pretty catholic in its taste, I understand. Rock, hip-hop, garage. You should see their stage gear. All slashed leather and chains.’ Casey had been told this by one of his younger colleagues. At the age of thirty-five, he had not only long since given up attending such concerts, he had never started.
‘Luckily, their stage stuff and instruments had been left overnight in their van so it didn’t go up with the young man’s flat. At least he can still earn a living.’

  Dean stared at him, the macho pose suddenly forgotten. ‘What you sayin’? That he plays in a real band. He actually makes a living from gigs?’ Clearly, some, at least, of Dean’s beliefs about the alien nature of the Asian community were being stood on their head. From where Casey was sitting, it looked an uncomfortable experience.

  ‘One of my younger colleagues went to see them play at the local college last month. He raved about them. Said they’re going places.’

  Dean’s mouth hung open. Gobsmacked, Casey concluded. And well he might be. Dean’s mother — the would-be Mr Macho still lived at home — had told uniformed that Dean had musical aspirations himself, though he was apparently finding mastery of the guitar more demanding than fire-setting.

  Once Dean had digested the fact that one of his Asian victims was so far from being alien as to share his musical ambitions, he became subdued. He slumped back in his chair and some of his machismo melted away. Here was something he could relate to, his demeanour said.

  He became even more subdued as they brought the questioning around to the latest, fatal arson and sat hunched and miserable under their questions.

  ‘I suppose Wayne confessed to that one, too?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Casey told him. ‘His solicitor, Mr Asif here, couldn’t get him to shut up. Wayne couldn’t get the words out quickly enough. He also implicated you.’

  Linklater merely nodded as though he had been expecting this. And as it gradually dawned on him what a bleak future awaited him, a look of desperation entered his eyes. He gazed from Casey to Catt, to his solicitor and back again, his gaze flickering from face to face as though searching for a way out. Several times his lips opened as if he was going to speak, maybe even deny his part in the killings, but each time his eyes shadowed and he closed his mouth tightly.