Home Fires Burn: A page-turning crime thriller

Dedicated to the memory of Jack Dolan.

Cé nár casadh ar a chéile muid, tá tú liom i mo chroí.

Prologue

They’d told her to take some time; in fact it had been an order. She had been burned out, exhausted, ill. Close to breaking down altogether.

The first month had passed in a daze as the medication kicked in and her body began to work with it. She spent most of the time in pyjamas, or jogging bottoms and a T-shirt if she was having a better day. She tried to read, dragging from her bookshelf all the books she’d promised herself she’d devour when she had the time. After staring at the text until it merged into one black blur, she would give up, replace the book, open another. She never read more than a chapter. The words made no sense, either individually or in a sentence. She couldn’t bear noise, even music. She drank tea and stared at nothing, wondering if she’d ever feel right again.

She had visitors who came and went, smiling, kind and concerned. Frightened for her. Whispered conversations about her health in the hallway, questions asked too brightly, the desperate desire to help grating against her nerves.

Sometimes home could be its own kind of prison.

But Isla did help. She sat quietly, saying nothing, her presence, her warmth, a comfort. Sometimes Catherine clung to her, unable to find any words, but with Isla, there was no need. Everything they needed to say was already in the room with them.

And Jonathan Knight helped. He too was unobtrusive, undemanding, walking into the room with his shy smile and his quiet concern for her. He talked softly about what was happening at work, and didn’t ask how she was feeling because it was obvious.

The second month was clearer. She went to the supermarket with Isla, and though it was too busy, too bright, too loud, Catherine was glad she had gone. The world was still out there; she just needed to wait until she was ready for it.

And by the end of the third month, she was. No longer cocooned in do-nothing clothes and a blanket, able to read, to chat on the phone. To be herself again, just about. Two weeks’ holiday in the sun tacked onto her sick leave, and she felt as though she’d been put back together. Well enough, anyway. Ready to be a police officer again.

1

He never meant to hit her.

Sometimes he cried afterwards, begging her to forgive him. Swore he’d change, promising their lives would improve.

It had happened again that morning. He’d arrived home at six, tired after working all night, resenting her for being there at all. He’d wanted a cooked breakfast, and a few hours on the PlayStation before bed. She’d spent the last of the money on nappies and when he’d realised, he’d gone berserk. Her fault they had no money, her fault they had two kids, a tiny house and a shit relationship.

As if he’d had nothing to do with any of it.

Now, she stood in the bathroom again, her hands shaking as she held a cold flannel to her cheek. She’d bathed it a couple of times, hoping it wouldn’t bruise.

He was getting careless.

He’d shoved her the first few times, pushing her away as if trying to eject her from his life altogether. She’d made excuses, but when the first slap landed, she knew she had to act. She had promised herself if he hit her again, she would call the police.

Why hadn’t she?

At least he’d stormed out, gone to McDonald’s for a breakfast with his last few quid. Hopefully he’d have calmed down by the time he came home. Hollie had taken the kids around to her mate Lucy’s house, just in case. She didn’t want them in the house if Andy went off on one again.

Lucy was always up early with her baby and she’d helped out before. For thirty quid, she would have them all day, understanding when Hollie asked if she could wait for the money. Also, Lucy could be trusted to keep her mouth shut. The last thing Hollie needed was people talking.

She soaked the flannel again under the cold tap, explored her cheek with her fingertips before pressing it to the skin. It wasn’t too bad. If there was a mark she couldn’t cover with make-up, she’d have to come up with some excuse to stay inside for a few days. She’d done it before because she couldn’t let her mum and dad see. If her brother found out… She shuddered. No, best to text them, say she had a cold. Couldn’t say it was a stomach bug – they’d assume she was pregnant and it’d be like last time, all fake smiles, and rolled eyes behind her back talking about her, how thick she was. Take a pill once a day, Hollie, it’s not difficult. Use a condom. Laughing at her, at him. At them. They might as well wear T-shirts saying: ‘Told you so’. And they had over, and over. Leave him, come home. Bring the kids, poor little sods. Not their fault. Her choices, her life.

Her fuck-ups.

She squeezed the water out of the flannel, dropped it into the basket which held their dirty washing, shitloads of it. How was she supposed to get it dry? The weather had been crap lately. She’d had a wire clothes horse, but he’d booted it across the living room one day when his favourite shirt had been too damp to wear when he wanted, and that had been the end of it.

Sometimes, he’d bring her flowers. Picked from someone’s garden in the right season, then wrapped in a few sheets of newspaper. Daffodils, chrysanths. Whatever was cheapest, if he had to buy them. He knew how to make her feel special all right.

She’d loved him once. When they’d first met, four years ago now. In a pub in town, she, pissed on cheap cocktails, he, watching her over his pint of lager. A wad of notes in his pocket. They’d dried up quicker than his affection had. Now he was stuck here. She’d trapped him, like a fly in a spider’s web. She was a pathetic bitch, a useless cow. Fucking nothing.

Nothing.

Hollie turned away from the mirror and her own stupid face. His words, not hers. She went down to the kitchen and filled the kettle.

Then the front door slammed, and she turned to face him again. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His eyes flicked to her cheek, but Hollie could see he wasn’t going to apologise. She risked a smile.

‘All right?’ she said.

‘Where are the kids?’ He spoke quietly, but she wasn’t fooled. Her mouth was dry, and she felt sick. She hated the power he had over her.

‘They’re with Lucy.’

Andy nodded but didn’t move, just watched her take a step towards him. As she halted, her hands fluttering by her sides because she didn’t know what to do with them, he smirked. ‘Saw a mate of yours while I was out.’

Hollie licked her lips, suspecting a trap. ‘Did you? Who?’

‘Emma Gibbs.’ He was watching her face, and Hollie knew she couldn’t allow her expression to change, couldn’t give him the excuse he was looking for. Not this time.

‘Yeah? How is she?’

‘Fine. Looking good, you know?’ His smile widened, and he slid his hands from his pockets, folding his arms across his chest. ‘She told me she’d seen you.’

Hollie swallowed. Here it came. ‘Yeah, I bumped into her in the supermarket a few days ago.’

‘You never said.’

‘Well, I…’ I don’t have to report back to you every time I leave the house. She didn’t say the words, wouldn’t dare, but he guessed what she was thinking. His face darkened.

‘Who else did you see?’ he demanded.

‘What? No one.’

‘No one? You went into town, all around Tesco, and you saw no one?’

‘Come on, you know what I mean. No one I talked to.’

He pursed his lips, tilted his head, making a show of thinking about what she’d said. ‘Sure? Because Emma says differently. Emma says there’s a bloke in Tesco you seemed very friendly with. Joe Hudson? From school?’

Hollie gulped, watching his hands. ‘Yeah, I said hello to him, but that’s all.’

‘And what did he say to you?’

‘Nothing, I swear. Just asked how I was, what I’d been up to. You know, friendly.’

‘Friendly?’

Then he was beside her, grabbing her hair in his fist. He yanked her head back, and Hollie fought to keep from crying out. Don’t, she told herself. Don’t make it worse.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t find out?’ His mouth was next to her ear, his saliva spraying over her cheek as he yelled at her. ‘You don’t talk to anyone, understand? From now on, I do the shopping, you get that?’ He wrenched her around, shoved her so she fell to the floor. ‘Fucking chatting blokes up in Tesco, laughing at me behind my back. Who the fuck do you think you are?’

Hollie scrambled onto her knees, scrubbed at her eyes. Get away, she told herself. Find your phone. It was on the worktop, and she pushed herself to her feet, holding up her hands in front of her as she took a few backwards steps. ‘Listen, please, it wasn’t like that, I promise. I spoke to him in passing, but that’s all. You’ve got to believe me—’

His nostrils flared as he lurched towards her, grabbing her forearm. ‘Got to? You telling me what to do now?’

‘No, of course not, I’m…’ With her free hand, Hollie scrabbled on the worktop, found the phone and held it up, breathing hard. ‘Let go of me, or I’m calling the police.’

He stared at her, began to laugh. ‘The police? Yeah, sure you will.’

She lifted her chin, pressed trembling lips together. ‘I will. Hurt me, and they’ll take you away.’

‘Away? It’s you who’ll be going away, you crazy bitch.’ He snatched the phone from her hand, hurled to the floor and stamped on it. ‘Who are you going to ring now?’

She screeched, her eyes wild, hand still searching the worktop behind her for a weapon. He came for her again, froze when he saw what was in her hand.

‘Now, what are you doing with that?’ He raised his hands, opened his arms. ‘Listen, I’m sorry, all right? Come on, let’s talk. We’ll watch a film, cuddle up on the sofa. Put it down, Hollie, before someone gets hurt.’

She was beyond listening, her gaze fixed on the blade. He stepped back, hands still in the air in a gesture of submission. She stumbled towards him, the knife in her fist.

‘You want to talk?’ she hissed. ‘Want me to listen?’

He took a step backwards.

‘Of course I do. I love you.’

‘Love?’ She gave a scornful laugh.

‘I do, I swear I do.’

He watched uncertainty bloom in her eyes, saw the blade dip, and sprang for her.

2

Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop slouched low in the passenger seat. ‘Why are we here again?’

Beside her, PC Natalie Roberts drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘You know why.’

‘Because we were expecting someone to show up. Well, he hasn’t.’

‘Not yet. We’ve only been here half an hour.’ Roberts leaned over Catherine’s legs and opened the glove box. She rummaged around, brought out two Mars bars. ‘Here, this’ll cheer you up.’

They were parked on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Northolme, a market town twenty miles from Lincoln. Catherine had been based there since joining the force after university. There had been rumours and muttering about the Northolme station being closed, or at least no longer having a CID presence, but so far, it hadn’t happened. Catherine knew it might only be a matter of time before she had to think about a transfer. For now, she was part of a surveillance operation that so far had proved fruitless. Tearing open the wrapper, she bit into the chocolate.

‘This is ridiculous, you know,’ she mumbled. ‘Why would he come here?’

Roberts gestured towards the windscreen, waving her Mars bar in the direction of several dustbin lorries parked across the road. ‘These are the kind of places he’s been targeting. This garage services all the council vehicles, so there’s always plenty of trucks and vans around. He’d probably think sending a bin lorry up in flames would be a good laugh.’

Catherine kept chewing. ‘You reckon?’

‘Last night, he torched a Transit and a couple of trucks. Over a hundred grand’s worth of damage, one of the firefighters told me.’ Roberts smirked. ‘We had a good chat, actually. I asked for his number in the end.’

‘You’re picking men up at crime scenes now? Smooth.’

‘What can I say?’ Roberts pretended to preen. ‘Not sure if it’s the hat they find attractive, or the stab vest.’

Catherine finished her Mars bar, scrunched up the wrapper and pushed it into her trouser pocket. ‘I need a drink now.’ She looked again at the vehicles, trying to imagine herself sneaking up to them, smashing the windscreens, chucking some petrol and a match inside and making a run for it. ‘I don’t see what he’s getting out of it.’

‘Who?’

‘The arsonist. Any arsonist really. Power?’

‘Dunno.’ Roberts stuffed the last of her chocolate into her mouth. ‘They reckon it’s sexual, don’t they?’

Catherine squinted at her. ‘What is?’

‘Arson. Gives the person with the matches a thrill they’re not getting anywhere else, if you know what I mean.’ Roberts favoured Catherine with a leer. ‘Not a problem you’re having these days, Sarge, so I’ve been told.’

Blushing, Catherine laughed. ‘Mind your own business.’

‘Whatever you say. About that drink – garage down the road’s still open if you fancy a stroll.’ Roberts held out a few pound coins. ‘Get us a coffee, would you, please? They’ve got a machine.’

Catherine screwed up her face. ‘Why do I have to go? I’m the sergeant here.’

‘And I’m the driver, got to stay with the car. You know how it is.’

Roberts flashed a winning smile, and Catherine shook her head as she opened the car door. It was a mild April night, but she was glad of her jacket as a cool breeze whipped past her. She pulled out her phone as she walked, made a call.

‘Anna?’

‘Sarge? Anything happening?’

‘Apart from Nat sending me out for coffee, no. You’re at the bus depot?’

‘Yeah, parked up nearby with Emily. Everything’s locked up though; I don’t see how he could get to any of the buses.’

Catherine pursed her lips. ‘Me neither, but you know how it is. We need to be seen doing something, even if we’re achieving nothing.’

Anna laughed. ‘Thanks for the pep talk.’

‘Any time.’ Smiling, Catherine ended the call as she pushed through the glass door of the petrol station.

She was walking back towards Roberts and the warmth of the car when her phone began to ring in her pocket. In the distance, somewhere over the other side of town, she could hear sirens.

‘Bloody hell.’ She was holding a cardboard cup in each hand and was forced to put one down on the pavement so she could wrestle the handset out of her pocket. As usual, Detective Chief Inspector Keith Kendrick didn’t bother with pleasantries. She might have been out of action for more than three months, but she could rely on Kendrick not to have changed.

‘Catherine, there’s a shitstorm brewing on our favourite housing estate,’ he said. ‘Can you get over there?’

‘The Meadowflower? What’s going on?’

Police officers were summoned to the warren of streets and blocks of flats almost daily, wrestling with public disturbances, theft, brawling or drug dealing. Every town had its trouble spots, and the Meadowflower was one of theirs.

Kendrick was still talking. ‘A neighbour heard a baby crying. After it had been going on for a several hours, disturbing their evening in front of the TV, they finally decided to report it.’ He paused, and Catherine imagined him sitting in his office, phone under his chin, his huge brogues up on the desk. ‘But as we know, there’s more community service than community spirit around the Meadowflower. I shouldn’t be surprised. On second thoughts, I’ll pick you up myself and send someone else to keep PC Roberts out of mischief.’

Catherine frowned. ‘I don’t see—’

‘Why we need a CID presence up there?’ Another pause. ‘The parents are in the house, but they’re in no state to care for their children.’

‘You mean they’re out of it? Drugs?’

‘No, Sergeant. I mean they’re both dead.’

3

Slowing the car as he guided it over one of the Meadowflower Estate’s many speed bumps, Kendrick sneezed, fumbling to pull a wad of tissue from his trouser pocket. ‘I’d like to know who’s given me this bloody cold.’

Catherine turned to look out of the window beside her, hoping his germs wouldn’t make their way around the car.

‘Sounds as though you should be in bed,’ she told him.

He blew his nose with one hand, while the other held the steering wheel.

‘Believe me, I’d love to be at home with a Lemsip and the football on.’ He flicked on the indicator and turned the wheel. ‘But we need to see what’s been going on here before I can even think about it.’

‘What do we know so far?’

‘Our officers arrived, heard the children bawling as reported but couldn’t gain access. After they’d booted the door in, they found the bodies. Mum lying in the kitchen, dad on the bathroom floor.’

Catherine closed her eyes for a second.

‘Where were the children?’ she asked.

‘Their bedroom. The baby’s only a few months old, her brother a toddler. Hopefully they’ll be too young to have known much about what went on, even if they might have been able to help us had they been older.’

She knew she had to push the thoughts of the children, alone and no doubt terrified, out of her mind. At least they were safe, even if their parents were beyond help.

‘Do we have a cause of death?’

Kendrick wagged a finger.

‘Come on, you know better than that. Jo Webber’s on her way.’ He leaned forward, peering through the windscreen. Further down the road, a crowd was gathering. ‘Seems word’s already out. Look at this lot.’

Catherine could hear them. Fifty or so people standing at a junction, craning their necks, talking, speculating.

Kendrick tutted. ‘Beats a night in front of the TV, I suppose. Two dead bodies found on your doorstep – they probably think it’s some kind of reality show.’

He bumped the wheels up the kerb and turned off the engine. Catherine climbed out, tucking her hair behind her ears as the wind whipped it around her face. Kendrick was already shouldering his way through the crowd, and she hurried after him.

‘Is it true there’s a body?’ a man shouted as they pushed past. ‘Is it Hollie? What about the kids?’

Ignoring him, Catherine kept moving. A cordon, the blue and white tape stretching from one lamp post to another and guarded by uniformed officers, was preventing anyone from getting any closer to the house they were heading for. Catherine peered down the cul-de-sac, noting the liveried Lincolnshire police cars and white vans belonging to the forensic support parked at the far end. She could see several white-suited figures moving around – forensics were getting started.

Kendrick stopped by the tape, standing hands on hips, glaring at the crowd of rubberneckers.

‘Why the hell are these idiots bothering to wait around? They can’t get near the house.’

Catherine lifted her shoulders, let them fall. It was the same at any crime scene, as Kendrick must know.

‘Won’t stop them trying,’ she said.

‘I’ve asked Anna and Dave to get over here. We need to get the house-to-house started as soon as we know what we’re dealing with. They can get that sorted.’

Catherine nodded. In an area as well populated as this, there might be eyewitnesses who could help them piece together what had happened here. Whether they would be willing to talk was another matter.

Kendrick strode over to the nearest uniform, who straightened his back and stuck out his chest as he saw the DCI approaching.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he began. Kendrick held up a hand.

‘Is DI Knight here yet?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve not seen his car.’

The officer shook his head.

‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

‘All right. Scene of Crime or whatever we’re supposed to call them today are already on site, I see?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘They must have flown here.’

The officer stared at him, uncomprehending.

‘Sir?’

‘They’re based miles away now, in…’ Kendrick shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ He ducked under the cordon. ‘Anyone got a scene log started?’

Another officer hurried forward with a clipboard, and Kendrick took it.

‘Get a car over here so we have a rendezvous point. I assume we have an inner cordon set up too?’

‘Yes, sir. Inspector Dhirwan is around; he put everything in place.’

‘Good.’ Kendrick handed the clipboard to Catherine, and she filled in her name, the date and time.

‘What about a common approach path?’ Kendrick asked the uniform.

‘You’re free to walk down the street, sir, as long as you keep to the designated area. I could get a CSI to come and show you?’ She looked up at Kendrick, eyes wide, keen to help. Catherine tried to place her, but knew she wasn’t from their own station. Had reinforcements been sent in already? From what Kendrick had told her, she had been expecting a nasty domestic, the result of an argument turned violent, maybe a murder/suicide. They were taught not to make assumptions, to go into every case with open eyes, but you also needed to be prepared. What were they going to find at the crime scene?

‘Please do.’ Kendrick watched the young officer take a step back and turn away. He looked at Catherine. ‘Not one of ours, is she?’

‘No.’

Kendrick frowned as he took out his phone. He stabbed at the screen, his thick fingers scrolling.

‘Apparently we’ve been sent a van load of constables from Lincoln. She must be one of them.’ He looked at Catherine. ‘How nice.’

‘How come they were here before us?’

‘Headquarters knew we had most of our officers on the stake-outs tonight. They probably thought we need all the help we can get, and sent them straight over when the initial call came in.’ He pushed his hands into his coat pockets. ‘And, depending on what we find inside, we might do.’

It was Catherine’s turn to frown. What was he talking about?

‘But I thought—’

Kendrick held up a hand as the young officer turned back to them. ‘What’s your name, Constable?’

She smiled. ‘Jenson, sir. Sophie Jenson.’

He nodded. ‘Did you get hold of a CSI?’

‘Yes, sir. The Crime Scene Manager is on his way.’

‘Is it Mick Caffery?’

Kendrick bounced on his toes, and Catherine knew why he was asking the question. They had worked with Caffery many times before, and in a major investigation, having people around who you knew were the best in the business was invaluable.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Jenson. Catherine smiled at her. Kendrick in full flow could be a daunting sight, but the young constable didn’t seem fazed. Kendrick rubbed his hands together, peering over PC Jenson’s shoulder.

‘Here’s Mick now.’

A white-suited figure was making its way towards them. Mick Caffery had removed his face mask, gloves and overshoes, and as he reached them, he held out a hand for Kendrick to shake, then offered it to Catherine.

‘Good to see you both,’ he said. He spoke gravely, and Catherine knew why. The respect they had for Caffery and his approach to his job worked both ways. There were two people lying dead nearby who, under whatever circumstances, had lost their lives unexpectedly. This was not the time for a chat.

‘I’m told we can approach the house?’ Kendrick said.

Caffery nodded.

‘We’ve placed footplates on the pavement. Possibly unnecessary, but we’ve no way of knowing which way our assailant went. Stick to the plates, and you’ll be fine.’ He held out bundles of protective clothing.

As Catherine stepped into the white suit, pulled up the hood and fastened the mask over the lower half of her face, she wondered how many times she had done this before. Too many to count. She pulled on the overshoes and a couple of pairs of blue nitrile gloves, the familiar mix of crawling dread and tingle of anticipation began to course through her. Early in her career, she had felt guilty for the rush of adrenalin she had experienced at crime scenes. Before long though, experience taught her that what she was feeling was not simple excitement or morbid curiosity, but a sense of determination to learn all she could from the victims and their surroundings. She had learnt to compartmentalise the horror, the fury, and her reaction to the events that had already unfolded. She could not give the victims back their lives, but she could play her part in bringing them justice.

‘What can you tell us?’ Kendrick asked Caffery as he led the way, stepping onto the first plastic footplate just beyond the cordon. ‘Good work, Constable,’ he called over his shoulder. PC Jenson straightened her back, still clutching her clipboard, and spoke into the radio clipped to her shoulder. Catherine smiled to herself as she followed Kendrick and Caffery. Jenson had impressed Kendrick – no mean feat.

‘Mick? Anything you can tell us?’ Kendrick repeated as they stepped carefully from plate to plate, making their way quickly down the street. The plates were designed to allow people to move around the area safely, and without disturbing or contaminating evidence.

‘Nothing I’d want to commit to yet.’

Caffery kept walking, didn’t look back at Kendrick as he spoke. Catherine wasn’t surprised and doubted Kendrick had been expecting any other reply. ‘Well, I’ll wait for Jo Webber.’

‘Not clear cut then?’ Catherine asked.

Caffery didn’t reply. They were almost at the end of the cul-de-sac now. The rest of the road consisted of a few pensioner’s bungalows and houses built in blocks of four. Here, at the bottom of the street the houses were built in pairs, standing around a wide area of tarmac as the road became a turning circle. Peering around Kendrick, Catherine saw the red and white tape that signified the inner cordon – the area where the bodies had been found, and the place they could expect to find the most physical evidence. She knew they would have to sign their names again before entering the house, and sure enough, another clipboard appeared under her nose. She listed the protective clothing she wore and checked the time, scribbling the details down.

Waiting for Kendrick to fill in his own details, Catherine was struck by the silence. Most of the houses had a couple of lights on, but there was no one around. No doubt all the residents had been warned to stay inside. There were a couple of uniformed officers standing guard, but she doubted anyone would be daft enough to need shepherding back inside their property. Generally, even in a trouble spot like the Meadowflower Estate, if a police officer gave an instruction, people tended to obey.

Caffery was pulling on a fresh face mask, overshoes and two pairs of gloves.

‘Okay. I’ll take you in,’ he said.

From outside, the house was unremarkable. The blue front door had paint flaking from it, and the glass in it had cracked and then been repaired with brown tape. Catherine wondered how the damage had happened. There was a patch of grass in front of the house and its neighbour, no wall or fence between the two. The grass had been cut but not collected, and it lay in small piles. As Catherine watched, a clump was lifted by the breeze and scattered across the road. The curtains in the front window of the house next door moved slightly, and Catherine imagined the resident standing watching what was happening on their doorstep. Were they afraid? Shocked? Unsurprised? Soon, they would need to find out. Perhaps the neighbours would have some answers, but as yet, they had no idea of the questions they would need to ask them.

Caffery led the way down the path. As they walked, Catherine took a few