Read Online Smoke Alarm by Priscilla Masters - Free Book Online Page B

High-ceilinged, unmistakably Victorian but with oak-panelled walls, it had an air of substance, dignity and a reassuring permanence. It was a good place to interview grieving and sometimes angry relatives. It lent gravitas to the situation. But the best feature of the room, in her opinion, was the bay window, floor to ceiling, which gave her a bird’s-eye view of the town. Bayston Hill was, as its name suggested, on an elevation to the south of Shrewsbury. Shrewsbury town itself was on a small hill in an oxbow of the River Severn. This had protected the English town, wealthy from the proceeds of Welsh wool, from the attentions of the hostile and sometimes aggressive Welsh. The geography of Shrewsbury was also the reason why it used to be cut off when the rains washed down heavily from the Welsh mountains, raising the level of the river and making the town, in effect, a fortified island. Shrewsbury (or Scrobbes-byrig, which was its Anglo Saxon name – the Fortress of Scrob) had been susceptible to floods for hundreds of years – right up until the council had installed flood defences. These now protected the town and sent the unwelcome waters shooting downstream. Elsewhere.
    The window gave her a fine view of the town, familiar landmarks fixing its points: the spire of St Mary’s (tragic witness to the first hang gliding fatality), the English Bridge with its elegant Georgian buildings, and the cross at the top of the domed church of St Chad’s with its distinctive round shape. Martha warmed her hands around her coffee mug and still smiled. How many times had she played a trick on friends and relatives? Taken them into the quiet graveyard of St Chad’s and watched them read the tombstone of Ebenezer Scrooge? They always fell for it. ‘He’s a real person, then?’ they’d ask until, laughing, she had to tell them that the town of Shrewsbury had been the setting for the 1984 film of Charles Dickens’s
A Christmas Carol
and that this stone was merely part of a film set which had not been removed when the shooting was over, left to become yet another tourist attraction.
    She looked over the town, feeling a certain pride and affection for it then, reluctantly, turned back to her work. She was not paid to dream around spires but to try and make some sense, truth, logic and justice out of death. She was haunted by the image of Christie Barton fumbling with a locked door, trying to escape the bedroom, her lungs gradually filling with smoke, finally suffocating while the fire raged. And Adelaide Barton, cowering underneath her bedclothes. They were truly awful images. She was not smiling now but frowning. And the old man, she wondered. What part had he played in the drama? Perpetrator? Muddled interferer? Who could know? Would they ever know the full truth?
    Once she had settled down to work the images receded and she quickly lost track of time. She was absorbed in reading reports, checking statistics and taking phone calls, one or two from hospital doctors. Periodically Jericho came in with coffee, sometimes biscuits, and at lunchtime a sandwich nicely set out on a plate with a glass of fruit juice.
    But the back of her mind was still tracking around the fire, considering it from a different angle now. She was thinking about the living, wondering how Jude was and how his father was responding to the tragedy. What was his view on the events of Friday night? she wondered. How was he reacting? Once or twice she glanced at her phone, tempted to ring Alex Randall and ask him how the enquiry was progressing but she resisted the temptation – with difficulty. It was a relief when Jericho buzzed her at four o’clock to say that Detective Inspector Alex Randall was on the phone and had asked to speak to her.
    Randall was brisk. He sounded as though he was having a very busy day. ‘Sorry to interrupt your work, Martha.’ He spoke quickly. ‘I thought you might like to be kept up