Page 45

45

Wednesday late afternoon

The paramedics were clustered around the entrance to the supermarket.

“Was Megan OK?” Charlie asked Eddy.

“As far as I can gather, she’s not great, but she’s alive. What happened in there?”

“I found Corrine Bailey,” Charlie said with a sigh that hurt his ribs. “And then Patsy found me.” He explained everything that had happened, including his attempt to rescue Corrine. “She wouldn’t let me even try,” he said.

“Look at it,” Eddy said. The office was wreathed in clouds of filthy black smoke. “It’s still burning. I reckon a lungful of that would see you off.”

But inside his head, Charlie could hear Corrine screaming.

Patsy butted in.

“She’d covered herself in patrol and set fire to her clothes. She knew what she was doing.”

Except we still have to prove Corrine murdered the two Joshes. Which would have been much easier if she was alive and able to give us a confession.

A siren and a spinning blue light announced the arrival of the fire brigade. Charlie left Eddy to tell them what to expect and limped across the car park. Megan was now on a trolley, hooked up to some kind of drip, being wheeled towards the waiting ambulance.

“Gonna be touch and go,” one of the paramedics said, as they came past. “Nasty head wound.” He told Charlie which hospital they were taking Megan to, and after a bit of a shuffle, handed him her phone. “Locked, but you can access In Case of Emergency info.”

Charlie thought about all the pieces of bad news he’d delivered this week. Now he could add another. Great. He wondered what it would be like to deliver good news for a change. Corrine must have a family, somewhere. No doubt he’d have to talk to them, too. Corrine’s death might be easier than a trial, but there would be an inquest — no, three inquests — and he’d have to attend them all. A wave of depression rolled over him at the prospect.

Shouting stopped his reveries. Mags was threatening to arrest a man with a TV camera on his shoulder, while his companion, demanded to know if this was another attack on Muslim-run businesses.

Suddenly, the car park was full of uniformed police, and an authoritative voice was telling them to clear the area. “Contact the press office for information; stop harassing my officers,” Mal Kent said. He came over to Charlie and took him gently by the arm. “Quick question,” he said. “Leave the supermarket open, or is it part of the scene?”

Charlie shook his head. “It was just the nearest place to get her — Megan — out of the rain.” He realised the rain had stopped, and when he looked up, the clouds were beginning to clear, leaving tiny patches of blue. His mind reverted to Corrine. “I would have tried to save her,” he said. “I wanted to, but Patsy …”

“You’re gabbling,” Kent said. He beckoned one of the uniformed officers and gave him a couple of ￡20 notes. “Coffee all round, including the firefighters, and some kind of sugary buns for Charlie.” The officer bustled off, counting heads. “Now, take a deep breath, and talk me through it. Calmly.”

“That’s just it, sir. I can’t take a deep breath.” Charlie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He needed to sit down. He needed not to be wet and cold. He needed his crutches, which were probably burned to cinders.

“Then take a shallow one. Just tell me who Corrine Bailey is, why yet another bit of Llanfair is on fire, and whether the firefighters are going to find another body. And don’t forget PC Hargreaves, who I noticed sneaking off behind the shops.”

Charlie did as he was bid, outlining his reasoning for suspecting Corrine, his discovery of her and the unconscious Megan, and Corrine’s confession.

“I was trying to talk her down when Patsy appeared. We got Megan out between us, and then I tried to go back for Corrine. To arrest her. But she … she set herself on fire … and Patsy dragged me away. She’s stronger than she looks.” Charlie could still feel the ache in his groin and the bruise where she had grasped his arm. He shivered, which just made everything hurt more. Sitting down was becoming essential, so he opened the door of Eddy’s car and perched on the side of the seat. It took the pressure off his leg but did nothing for the fatigue rolling over him in waves.

“It sounds to me like Hargreaves did you a favour,” Kent said. “Not that she and I won’t be having a conversation about her behaviour.”

The uniformed officer returned pushing a supermarket trolley full of cardboard cups with lids. “Coffee, milk, sugar,” he said. “And doughnuts.” He looked at Kent and then handed the bag to Charlie. They helped themselves to coffee and watched as the officer trundled away to distribute the rest.

“Jeff Burton, aka Britton, has got himself a solicitor,” Kent said. “I’m not convinced he didn’t set the first fire, though from what you tell me, he’s probably off the hook for the murders. When things here have sorted themselves out a bit, I’d like you to come and question him.”

Charlie nodded, mouth full of doughnut.

Getting things sorted out a bit involved the firefighters putting out the remaining fires, formal statements, scenes of crime investigators and the return of Hector Powell and the mortuary van for Corrine’s remains. At least Charlie was spared the trip to break the news of her death to her parents. They lived in Norwich, on the other side of the UK. A local officer was sent to do the deed. Kent ensured that all the wheels were in motion, then left, telling Charlie to meet him at HQ in an hour. “Spend the hour getting cleaned up,” he said. “Leave all this to Eddy. He can cope.”

So Charlie went home to Tom, who helped him up the stairs to the bathroom, and very gently eased him out of his petrol-soaked clothes and equally gently washed him clean. The bandage was a mess: wet with rain and petrol.

“I’ll redo this,” Tom said, unwinding it.

Charlie didn’t want to look.

“It’s not too bad, considering. No sign of infection,” Tom said, and Charlie risked a glance, then wished he hadn’t.

The clean, dry bandage was an improvement, and so were a set of clean, dry clothes. A painkiller would improve things still further.

Tom made him an omelette stuffed with cheese, and some oven chips to go with it. Charlie sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed every mouthful.

“There would be cake,” Tom said.

“But you ate it?” Charlie asked, though he was past caring. They were all alive and that was enough.

Tom smiled, then his face darkened. “I ate some of it,” he said, “and your friend Patsy ate the rest. This isn’t the first omelette I’ve made today. I don’t think she’s been eating, or sleeping either, come to that. She’s asleep in the living room. Or she was.”

Charlie turned as the kitchen door opened.

“I need to explain,” Patsy said. “I knew you’d find them. The person who killed Unwin. So, I’ve been following you. I wanted to make them pay, you see.”

“Corrine paid,” Charlie said. “Is that why you dragged me away?”

“No. I dragged you away because you were soaked in petrol and the room was on fire.”

Tom went as white as a sheet. “What the …”

“It was fine, Tom,” Patsy said. “I knocked him over and kicked him in the goolies.”

She sounded so matter of fact that Charlie burst out laughing, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. It made his ribs hurt, but he was past caring. Tom and Patsy stared at him, as if he was mad.

“I suppose you also know why Unwin was meeting Corrine in an empty shop?” Charlie asked when the laughter had subsided.

“I have an idea. The estate agents want to sell that shop, and it’s cheap. I think Unwin went to see if we could convert it into flats, one for us to live in, one to sell or rent out. We should check if they made a viewing appointment.”

And she killed him because he was called Josh. He was just the wrong one.

It wasn’t difficult to persuade Tom to drive him to meet Mal Kent at HQ. Or to drop Patsy off at Dylan’s house.

“I want to tell him what happened,” she said.