When You Are Mine(91)

‘This was the ignition point,’ says Fairbairn, pointing to the bed.

The mattress is so badly burned that I can see the inner springs and melted foam that has solidified into coal-black clumps.

‘He was handcuffed to the bed.’

‘Police-issue handcuffs?’

‘Yes. One wrist. His right one.’

‘What was the accelerant?’

‘Lighter fluid.’

Fairbairn steps onto the duckboards. I follow tentatively, my arms tightly folded, as though frightened of touching anything.

‘A neighbour who lives across the road heard the sound of breaking glass and looked out her window. She saw the flames in the upstairs window.’

‘Did she see anyone leaving?’

‘A figure dressed in dark clothing and white sports shoes.’

‘Male? Female?’

‘She couldn’t tell. Goodall had company last night. We found a half-finished bottle of wine downstairs and two glasses.’

‘Fingerprints?’

‘Wiped clean.’

‘That suggests he knew his killer.’

The whiff of burnt flesh catches in my throat again and my stomach spasms.

‘He must have been gagged,’ I say, glancing at the bed.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘You said the neighbour heard the sound of breaking glass, but nothing about anyone screaming. Goodall would have been yelling the house down if he was burning.’

‘He had something stuffed in his mouth.’

‘What?’

Fairbairn seems reluctant to tell me. ‘Women’s underwear. We’re hoping to get DNA from them.’

‘That’s unlikely.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Anyone who went to the effort of wiping down a wine glass wouldn’t make a rookie mistake like leaving her DNA on underwear.’ I nod towards the dressing table. ‘Could have come from the drawer.’

‘How do you know that’s where Mrs Goodall kept her underwear?’

‘It’s the obvious place.’

‘You think it was a woman?’

‘Don’t you?’

Fairbairn makes a mumbling sound deep in his chest, and I silently admonish myself for offering too many thoughts.

‘Where was Alison last night?’ I ask.

‘At her parents’ house. Her little boy was awake most of the night with an ear infection. She took him to the doctor first thing.’

I glance at the walk-in wardrobe, remembering the suitcase and Imogen Croker’s sapphire ring.

‘Has anything been removed?’ I ask.

‘No. It’s exactly as we found it.’

Stepping between duckboards, I edge closer to the wardrobe and glance inside. The door must have been closed when the fire took hold because less soot covers the shelves and hanging clothes.

‘Did Alison tell you about the suitcase?’ I ask.

‘What suitcase?’

‘When she was leaving, she packed her things in two suitcases, but had to leave one of them behind.’

‘Is that important?’

‘I showed her a photograph of a sapphire ring that Imogen Croker was wearing on the day she died. She told me Goodall had given her a similar-looking ring.’ I step into the walk-in wardrobe and glance behind the door. The suitcase is still there.

‘It was in a jewellery pouch.’

Fairbairn grunts dismissively. ‘Goodall wasn’t murdered over a piece of jewellery that went missing eight years ago.’ I want to argue, but he’s still talking. ‘This is payback for something more recent.’

I think of the woman he was with three nights ago. I didn’t see her face but she sounded like someone who was new to the house. A first-timer. A date.

Fairbairn is still talking. ‘Someone tampered with the alarm system. They forced the lock and unhooked the leads, which doesn’t fit with the bottle of wine and the wine glasses.’

‘It could be unrelated,’ I say.

‘Or the killer had an accomplice who broke in earlier and was waiting in the house.’

‘You think two people did this?’

Fairbairn rubs at his cheek as though removing his freckles. Again, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

‘Explain to me again your relationship with Darren Goodall.’

‘We didn’t have a relationship. He was stalking Tempe Brown. Sending her threatening messages. He vandalised my car with acid. He painted insults on her front door.’

‘Did either of you call the police?’

‘I was the police, remember?’ The comment is too glib and cursory.

‘When you say vandalised … ?’

‘With acid. I took photographs.’ I reach for my phone and remember. ‘I lost my phone last night,’ I say, aware of how lame that sounds.

‘Where?’

‘At a nightclub, I think, or maybe in an Uber on the way home.’

‘That’s unfortunate. Perhaps we can track it down for you.’

He doesn’t believe me.

‘Where is your car now?’ he asks.

‘I’m having it resprayed.’

Fairbairn sighs in frustration.

I was wrong to come here. I should have refused and clammed up, told him nothing about myself, or my impressions of the crime scene. Clearly, I’m a person of interest, peripheral or otherwise, and this is a fishing expedition.