Dead Embers Read online

  From what he could gather Jonathan Turner had little of a social media presence apart from a rarely used Twitter handle. Maxine Berry appeared to be more active, with a Facebook and Instagram account in addition to her Twitter handle. Nothing seemed to link them online, so he decided to try another tack.

  Again he returned to how the bodies were arranged on the sofa. Although he now understood they were already dead at this stage, the image still troubled him. It was as if they were welcoming their fate, linked together waiting for the embrace of death. It made him think of them as suicide victims. He began accessing websites which dealt with the issue of suicide.

  Lambert had come across such sites before, working on other cases. In Lambert’s experience, people visited them for many reasons. Some users had terminal illnesses, others were manic-depressives or suffered from uncontrollable grief. Amongst such tragedy, Lambert had discovered great compassion. People reached out for one another, understood the extent of despair which led to thoughts of suicide. On the sites he’d visited, Lambert rarely encountered people being judgmental. Visitors were neither encouraged nor discouraged from their wishes, only prompted to fully explore every possible remedy to their circumstances.

  Lambert had briefly considered ending his life following his daughter’s death. He’d been in a bad way both physically and mentally. Grief could do terrible things to the mind, especially when coupled with guilt. For months following Chloe’s death, he’d struggled with the idea that he could live his life without her in it. Too many nights he’d sat alone on the top floor of his house, a loaded gun by his side. Even now, those same thoughts occasionally returned to haunt him. He would never recover from what had happened to his little girl, and at times like that he had to remind himself why he had never pulled the trigger. Sometimes, a dark part of him would tell him he was a coward and that was the only reason he was alive. Whilst he accepted the truth of that, he realised the only way to fully honour Chloe, to accept his part in her death, was to carry the burden for the rest of his life.

  He was onto his third site when he got the hit he was searching for. Maxine Berry’s Twitter handle was MissMaisy, and sure enough it appeared on the site in the main forums. Lambert called in Croft and Bickland and told them about his discovery.

  ‘We need full access to that website. Our arsonist friend either knew Berry or Turner, possibly both, or found their details on this website. I’m hoping there is some kind of forum where they started talking. Trawl everything you can. I have an appointment.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The car park was full so Lambert manoeuvred the car into a corner space, ignoring the double yellow lines and the no parking sign. He gazed out of the windscreen as rain descended onto the glass, the water fierce and incessant. The building was a thirty-second dash across the tarmac.

  He jumped from the car and opened the boot of the estate car, swearing when he realised there was no umbrella within. He sheltered beneath the boot, rain splashing onto his trousers, contemplating the damage thirty seconds of falling water could cause.

  Thirty seconds later he found out. He stood in the reception area of the building, his hair matted to his scalp. He’d managed to run through numerous puddles on the short journey. His trousers clung to him like skin and even his shirt was damp, his wool overcoat proving little defence from the torrential downfall.

  Lambert could see the receptionist was trying not to laugh as she asked him how she could help. ‘I’m here to see Dr Samantha Beresford,’ said Lambert, dragging a hand through his hair which released droplets of water onto his back.

  ‘Second room on the right,’ said the receptionist, pointing up the stairs.

  A woman was waiting outside the room. ‘DCI Lambert?’

  ‘A wetter than normal version, yes,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Sam Beresford, do come in. Can I get you a towel?’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘OK, try not to drip anywhere,’ said the woman, pointing to a seat.

  Lambert smirked and took off his coat. ‘Thanks for taking the time to see me.’

  Beresford was a consultant psychiatrist whose specialities included pyromania. ‘My pleasure. The case made for fascinating reading,’ she said. As she spoke, her face lit up. Lambert had seen the look many times before, a person consumed by their passion.

  ‘You must have seen this sort of thing before?’

  Beresford leant forward on her desk, and stared intently at Lambert. ‘Nothing quite like this. From the fire report, it seems whoever was responsible was obsessed with John Orr. I’ve seen mimics before but from what I can ascertain, this was extremely methodical and well planned. As for the victims, and that poor girl, well…’

  Lambert held his hand up. Beresford talked as if she only had seconds to explain everything, one sentence running into the other with no pause for breath. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. You say you’ve seen mimics before?’

  Beresford sat back in her chair. ‘Sorry, I get ahead of myself sometimes. I imagine you’ve read about Orr before. His mode of setting fires was quite a simple one. One that can be readily copied, unfortunately with some success.’

  ‘So there has been a copycat incident before.’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite call it copycat. Orr doesn’t really have copyright on his mode of arson. It existed long before he did it. I guess it worked for him as he could set the fire before escaping. Nothing original in that. What made Orr so infamous was the number of fires he set, and the length of time he got away with it. Not to mention his job title.’

  Lambert pictured Finch, the awkward fire investigator from the NCA, and wondered if he harboured any such fantasies. ‘So you think our arsonist has some obsession with Orr?’

  ‘Hard to tell, Mr Lambert. He’s probably aware of him, and obviously knows his work, but it may simply be that Orr’s method was best suited to the job in hand.’

  ‘Can you offer any insight into the placement of the bodies in the living room? Or the girl being left in the burning building?’

  Beresford sighed, as if reliving the memory of the fire. ‘I’m afraid I can only hypothesise at this juncture. People start fires for many reasons. I’m sure you are as aware of people’s motives as I am. My experience is more related to why people commit arson – why they kill people is more your line.’

  ‘Then why would this man choose to set a fire in this way?’

  ‘You’re presuming it’s a man?’

  ‘Not necessarily, though it usually is, and some extra information we have suggests the arsonist would have been particularly strong – so that’s a starting point.’

  ‘OK. So why would he set a fire? The million-dollar question, Mr Lambert. I presume in your line of work you’ve come across murderers and rapists?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what percentage of those do you think were inherently…’ Beresford sighed,‘for want of a better word, evil. In other words, inherently prone to committing murder or rape.’

  ‘Not my line really, Mrs Beresford. When you’re confronted with such people, the murderers, rapists, paedophiles of this world, it’s hard to dwell on the reasons for the way they are. When you see what these people are capable of, giving them a reason for behaving the way they do is like giving them an excuse. That said, I get the point you’re trying to make. People are shaped into behaviours. The majority at least.’

  ‘Yes. I’m not trying to excuse anyone’s behaviour. I simply want to make it clear that an interest in setting fires is rarely something one is born with. In my experience, I would go so far as to say that it never is. True pyromania, if there is such a thing, is an impulse control disorder.’

  For all her talk, the psychiatrist wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. ‘So what would trigger such behaviour?’

  ‘If we don’t consider the other psychotic behaviours in this particular case, perhaps the desire for power, the need to control, then there could be numerous reasons why he cho
se to set the fire. It could be something as simple as being excited by the sight of fire, though this sounds a little different. It’s possible this particular arsonist may have a more complex relationship with fire. I’m sorry I can’t be more certain, but there is a chance that you are looking at someone who is psychotic and/or paranoid, and obsessed with the sensory aspects of fire setting.’

  ‘Is this common?’

  ‘Not really, no. Research suggests that like most things, such obsessions are often related to childhood. Often a serial arsonist would have shown other conduct disorders as a child.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The usual. General aggression, cruelty to animals, a disregard for authority, that sort of thing. There are, of course, other pathological reasons for continued pyromania. It’s often a cry for help, especially in younger adults and children. Occasionally it can be the result of something more innocuous. It can be triggered by the experience of a fire during a time of high grief such as a death in the family or divorce, perhaps even abuse. For example, the memory of a parent burning waste at the end of the garden during a divorce can lead to a fixation on fire. Or perhaps, the memory of a shared bonfire night with a parent is the last happy memory of the child. Perhaps the parent dies, or becomes abusive. This can become the trigger for the desire to return to happier times. The child, or child within, identifies fire – the sight, the sound, and the smell – with happier times. They set fires to recapture that feeling.’

  ‘There must be more to it than that.’

  ‘Of course, that’s just a starting point. Picture a child surviving a fire, particularly where a loved one has perished. Like the poor girl in your case. Such experience can drive an obsession with fire, unsurprisingly an unhealthy one. I’ve dealt with patients whose behaviour has been triggered from witnessing an accident at a firework display. I have one case where a boy saw his father stub out a cigarette on his sister. He self-harms, and has tried on numerous occasions to set fire to himself.’

  Lambert considered what he was being told. ‘Anything in your files more specific to this type of thing?’

  ‘Plenty. Retribution by fire? Have you read the Bible?’

  ‘Let’s narrow it down, shall we?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible, and obviously I have client confidentiality issues. From what I’ve read about this case, this was obviously not the arsonist’s first attempt. He would most likely have started on a much smaller scale. Chances are he’s faced prosecution at one time or another.’

  Lambert stood. ‘Thank you, Dr Beresford.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I’ll let you know if I can think of anything more specific, and please send me any more details as they become apparent.’

  * * *

  Tillman met him close to Beresford’s office. The rain had relented and Lambert was able to make his way without receiving a second soaking.

  ‘You’re sharp today, sir,’ said Lambert, noticing his superior’s new suit.

  ‘Yes, and everyone’s a fucking comedian,’ said Tillman, obviously having heard the remark more than once that day.

  Lambert updated him on the identity of the two bodies.

  ‘Suicides? Did they have some kind of fire fetish?’

  ‘Not that we can ascertain.’

  ‘Good luck with that one, Lambert. You met Barnes again this morning?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘Interesting. I think he’s running his own investigation.’

  Tillman drew in breath. ‘Of course he is, so?’

  ‘He’s withholding something.’

  ‘I repeat. Of course he is. This is a bloody travesty for him, could lose him his job. He will try and pass the buck – and that buck will probably be passed to us. Or more specifically, you.’

  Lambert couldn’t help but laugh. ‘We’ve a missing officer. Shouldn’t we be more concerned with that than assigning blame?’

  ‘We should be, yes, but you need to be forewarned.’

  ‘I truly couldn’t care less, Glenn. There was no presumption beyond what was logical. No way we could tell those bodies weren’t the Jardines until the post-mortem.’

  ‘Like that matters,’ said Tillman. ‘We find Caroline and it’s no longer a problem.’

  ‘You coming back to the station?’ he asked, as Tillman struggled into his car.

  ‘Things to do, keep me posted. We’re going to have to go public on this soon. Better we release it than it leaks.’

  Lambert imagined the journalist, Mia Helmer, was probably already on the case. ‘I’ll speak to Barnes again and get it processed.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The incident room at the station had expanded, DCI Barnes having pulled in a number of additional recruits to the team. Lambert passed through them, noticing a few of the new additions. The extra bodies created a wave of heat, and he removed his coat as he entered the room. Croft and Bickland barely looked up as he sat down.

  One of the phones rang, and Bickland pressed a button forwarding it the outer office. ‘The press know it’s a missing persons case,’ he said, almost accusatory.

  ‘That doesn’t need to distract us,’ said Lambert.

  Bickland hesitated. ‘Maybe not. Anyway, an update on the site. I’ve only speed read so far, but I think we have a link between Berry and Turner. We believe they first made contact a couple of years ago on the main forum. After a few months they began private messaging one another.’

  ‘I want a transcript of everything, of everyone they ever talked to, basically of everyone who has ever used that site.’

  ‘That leads onto our major problem,’ said Bickland.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Lambert.

  ‘It’s that bloody website. It was taken down thirty minutes ago. We cached the pages we needed but now we can’t access it.’

  ‘Have you located the owner of the site, or the webmaster?’

  ‘Emails and phone calls. No response yet.’

  ‘Shit. OK, where were we up until that point?’

  ‘Tough site to penetrate. We have some tech guys out there,’ said Bickland, pointing to the outer office. ‘Even they struggled to get past the public pages. The site used a self-designed chat room which the tech guys were most impressed with. So impressed, in fact, that they failed to penetrate it.’

  ‘How much do we have on Turner and Berry?’

  ‘Some, on the members’ forum which had little encryption. Very mundane conversations; I’ve read more exciting exchanges on Netmums.’

  ‘Do we have an address for the owner?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Croft, getting off the phone. ‘Just managed to get this off the hosting company.’

  Lambert took the address from her. The site was owned by Peter Boxall. ‘Cornwall?’ he said, noting the address as Bickland and Croft both took a sudden interest in their screens. ‘It’s North Cornwall, not that far,’ he continued, into the silence, knowing at this time of day it would take a good four or five hours to reach the location.

  ‘Talk amongst yourselves,’ he said, spotting Tillman in the outer office.

  ‘I thought you were going back to head office,’ said Lambert, opening the door to a rush of stale, hot air.

  ‘DCI Lambert, a word,’ said Tillman.

  ‘Let’s go through here,’ said Lambert, pointing to an interview room.

  Once the door was shut, he told Tillman about the website.

  ‘You realise the press know that the Jardines have been kidnapped. A leak from within,’ said Tillman.

  ‘It was only a matter of time, and we were about to go public, so I can’t see what the big deal is.’

  ‘Can’t you? Well, I’ve just had that wanker MP, Weaver, on my case for the last thirty minutes. I had to pull the car over so I could fully listen to his wrath.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Glenn, but there’s not much else I can do about it now.’ Lambert knew that Tillman has something else on his mind and was usi
ng the potential leak as a diversion. It was Tillman’s method of working. ‘What do you really want to tell me?’ he finally asked, tired of the game.

  ‘I’m getting tired of this bullshit, Michael. This case is now big news, and I don’t just mean in the press. A missing officer, and the two burnt bodies… it has every fucker talking.’ He sat, as if a dead weight pushed heavy on his shoulders. ‘Everyone is getting involved, and I mean everyone.’

  ‘You just told me the Secretary for the Police was bollocking you, so I kind of gathered,’ said Lambert.

  ‘If you only knew. Some advice, Michael: do not move beyond your current pay grade. If this was ever fun, it stopped being so a long time ago.’

  ‘Jesus, Glenn, I never took you for the melodramatic type before. It can’t be that bad. Are they taking me off the case?’

  Tillman shook his head. ‘No, but they clearly don’t trust either of us. That’s why there’s a room full of new officers in the revamped incident room.’

  ‘I can live with that,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Good. One more thing, though.’

  Lambert smiled, thankful they were finally getting to the point.

  ‘They don’t want you working on your own.’

  ‘Right,’ said Lambert.

  ‘I don’t actually blame them, considering your past,’ said Tillman, his tone lightening. ‘You can be a troublesome little prick at times.’

  Lambert couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I’m not relinquishing the case now, Glenn. I don’t care what those fuckers say.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to relinquish it, but I had to think fast about a partner for you. They wanted a more senior officer but I said that wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Of course not.’ A sinking feeling spread over Lambert. ‘Oh God, they haven’t assigned you to work with me?’

  Tillman pretended to be wounded, clutching his chest in a convincing parody of a heart attack. ‘Of course not,’ he said, snapping back to reality. ‘What do you take me for, Lambert? I don’t do the grunt work.’