Page 69 of The Bodies

SIXTY-FOUR

Wednesday morning, at the hotel, Teri Platini waits until she’s finished her second coffee before switching on her phone. It immediately goes crazy with updates.

There are twenty-six messages from Brittany Moore alone. Teri hasn’t scrolled through more than a handful before the phone trills in her hands.

‘Babe?’ Brittany shrieks. ‘Are you freakin’ kidding me? Where are you?’

‘A hotel outside Crompton.’

‘I’ve been going out of my mind , hon. Why haven’t you been picking up?’

‘I’ve had my phone off.’

‘Your phone off? What are you, insane?’

‘No, I—’

‘Did the police make you do that?’

‘The police?

The line goes silent. A few seconds later, Brittany says, ‘Hon, check your freakin’ DMs. Have you even seen the news?’

Thirty seconds later, Teri is watching shaky amateur footage of Thornecroft, shot at night. The house is ablaze, fire erupting from every window. When part of the roof collapses, bright snakes of flame curl heavenward. The three vehicles Teri saw last night are burning, too.

Emergency workers are everywhere: paramedics hurrying in and out of ambulances; firefighters reeling out hoses; police officers talking on radios. Overhead, a helicopter circles, its searchlight arcing down. The scene is almost too apocalyptic to process.

Teri pushes away from the table, pulling her car keys from her bag. When she reaches Hocombe Hill, she finds its entire length has been sealed off. Thin smoke is still rising above the trees. Emergency vehicles are parked nose to tail. A second helicopter is now hovering above the trees.

Teri gets out of her car and walks to the barrier.

The two police officers stationed there wave her off at first, until she explains who she is and where she lives.

Soon after, she finds herself in a command vehicle, repeating her story to a harassed-looking senior investigating officer.

From there she’s driven to Crompton’s police station, where she gives a full statement.

She’s back at the hotel by late afternoon.

A uniformed officer collects her from the lobby the next morning and drives her to the hospital in neighbouring Shipley.

There, she’s met by two pathologists. They explain that she can’t touch the body she’s about to view: that the post mortem can’t begin until formal identification has been made, that there’s still forensic evidence to be collected.

They warn her the experience will be difficult.

Gabriel Roth is lying beneath a white sheet. Teri’s tears are genuine, borne not of heartbreak but overwhelming relief.

‘That’s him,’ she says. ‘That’s my boyfriend. Angus Roth.’

An hour later, in the hotel bar, she sinks three gin and tonics and calls Saul Faulkner, the solicitor she met two days ago. ‘Angus is dead,’ she says. ‘I just identified him.’

‘You poor, sweet child.’

‘I want to talk about probate.’

‘OK, maybe not so sweet.’

‘Oh, and the house burned down.’

Saul barks out a laugh. ‘That was naughty.’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘Silly question, but are you insured?’

‘We are, but will they pay out on arson?’

‘Not to the arsonist.’

‘I told you it wasn’t me.’

‘In that case, congratulations. You’re about to become a very wealthy girl.’

‘Woman,’ Teri says. ‘Not girl.’