A Burning Question, page 1
A BURNING QUESTION
RACHEL AMPHLETT
A Burning Question © 2022 Rachel Amphlett
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About the Author
FOREWORD
The Detective Kay Hunter series is enthralling murder mystery readers with its fast-paced and entertaining storylines that provide a modern twist to the police procedural genre.
The full-length novels are available through all major retailers and local libraries in eBook, print and audiobook.
These short stories follow Kay Hunter’s early years as a probationary detective constable and can be read in any order. The stories form part of the new Case Files series of pocket-sized murder mysteries from USA Today bestselling author Rachel Amphlett.
For more information about this series and more, visit www.rachelamphlett.com.
ONE
Dense smoke cast a pall across Tonbridge at seven o’clock that morning.
It stained the air, wisps tumbling on the breeze and creating a white haze over the jumbled buildings that jostled for space along the main street.
Cars slowed while suit-clad pedestrians shifted black canvas backpacks, handbags or sports holdalls from one shoulder to the other and frowned while they crossed the painted metal bridge spanning the River Medway on their way to the train station at the far end of the road.
A glow rose beyond the high street now, claiming the frigid winter’s day, a portent of destruction that grew with every passing second.
For once, the commuters ignored the bird shit that clung to the railings and forgot to wrinkle their noses in disgust at the flaking paintwork, and instead wondered what was on fire.
Sirens wailed now, drawing closer, and people craned their necks as one in time to see two fire engines tear through the junction at the far end of the road before disappearing, the roar from the engines carrying to where the bystanders gawped at each other, and then the fire-flecked horizon.
A woman in her forties, her razor-sharp tailored suit trouser hems dangling elegantly over ankle boots with three-inch spike heels, squinted through the smoke to the far reaches of the winding river and placed her hand on her companion’s arm.
‘Is that the boatyard?’
He looked up from his phone, shook his floppy fringe from his eyes and squinted to where she pointed. ‘God, I hope not. The whole bloody lot could go up, and my sister’s house is down there.’
Their pace slowed while they stared, the sound of a third set of sirens streaming towards them.
Then it was gone, dashing between the houses to reach its target.
The couple checked their watches, he shrugged and then gave her an apologetic smile.
‘We’ll be late.’
‘We should be going.’
A cyclist zipped along the concrete path alongside the river towards the street, his luminescent lycra top at odds with the sombre weather and tainted sky. He zig-zagged between a pair of middle-aged joggers before reaching the pavement and expertly unclipped from his pedals while waiting for the pedestrian lights to change in his favour.
He caught the eye of the woman, jerked his head over his shoulder and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
‘There’s a boat on fire, down near the sports field.’
Her eyebrows shot upwards. ‘What happened?’
The cyclist shrugged, the catastrophe already old news as he contemplated the queue outside the franchised coffee shop a couple of hundred metres away. ‘Don’t know. I expect it’ll be online later.’
They parted ways, him resting his shoes on the pedals while he glided down the slight incline towards the café and the couple reluctantly turning away from the spectacle to hustle past the closed restaurants, determined to catch the seven-thirty service to London Bridge.
And find a seat for the journey, if they were quick.
Detective Constable Kay Hunter watched them go, then pulled up the collar of her padded coat and shoved her hands in her pockets despite the pale blue sky that penetrated the burgeoning smoke in places.
A stiff wind lifted her fringe, and she buried her lips within the soft woollen scarf that was bundled around her neck before turning at the sound of footsteps.
‘Hell of a way to start a shift.’
‘Hell of a way to start a morning, especially for that boat owner.’ She fell into step beside DC Richard Christie, easily matching his long stride. ‘How was your weekend?’
‘Quiet. Not that I’m complaining. Sadie’s parents had the kids over on Saturday night.’ He sidestepped an older couple with a small rat-like dog with a nod of recognition, then gave Kay a rueful smile. ‘We were planning on going out for a romantic dinner but by six o’clock we decided a night in front of the TV with a takeaway pizza sounded more fun. Am I officially old now?’
‘Not yet. Did you ask her?’
Colour rose to his cheeks. ‘I chickened out.’
‘Richard…’
‘I know. I will ask her. I just have to wait for the right moment, and that’s not while we’re watching a bad movie with lukewarm pizza.’
Kay laughed, then spotted a familiar figure a few hundred metres ahead and her good mood quickly dissipated. ‘There’s the guv.’
Detective Sergeant Devon Sharp held up a hand to the driver of a luxury four-by-four who braked to a standstill, then jogged across two lanes of traffic to join them, his brow furrowing when he saw Kay. ‘You didn’t drive?’
‘In this, Sarge?’ Kay snorted, indicating the nose-to-tail traffic clogging the street. ‘Not likely. Besides, I only live twenty minutes away. I was on my way out the door when you called.’
‘Same here.’ Christie turned and led the way down a side street that curled around towards the river, then called over his shoulder. ‘So, what do you think, Sarge? Have we got an arsonist on our hands?’
Sharp’s face turned grim, his pace quickening. ‘Three boats in six weeks? Hell of a coincidence.’
‘No such thing as coincidence,’ Kay murmured.
‘Exactly, Hunter. Exactly.’
TWO
A pungent stink of rotting vegetation clung to the riverbank, redolent of autumnal debris and seasons past.
Smoke shrouded the muddy footpath that was cluttered with snaking hoses and other fire-fighting equipment, shouts carrying across to where Kay and her colleagues waited, mindful to stay out of the way until the all-clear was called.
She glanced over her shoulder to the boatyard farther along the towpath and exhaled.
At least the fire hadn’t taken hold on any of the vessels lining the path at that end. The result would have been apocalyptic with the right mooring arrangements there.
Murky water rippled around the hulls of the boats beside her. There was a steady flow to the river and the level high after the weekend’s deluge while green mould clung to the paintwork of the nearest cabin cruiser, the curtains drawn and yellowing with age. An old fishing rod and a tackle box were the only items on the deck, and Kay wondered how many of the boats along here were habitable on a long-term basis.
Turning back to the source of the acrid stink swirling in the air, she saw two uniformed constables standing beside a patrol car beyond a pair of lowered steel bollards at the far end of the lane abutting the river. Their heads were bowed while they listened to a woman swaddled in a woollen blanket, one of them with a notebook in his hand.
Photographs fluttered and tumbled on the breeze as a probationary constable did her best to gather them up, and another junior officer shoved the meagre clothing that had been salvaged from the blaze into a black plastic bin liner.
‘Thank god she got out,’ Kay murmured. She cast her gaze over the hodgepodge of personal belongings strewn over the bank beside the smoking remains of a forty-foot narrowboat.
‘So did the cat,’ said Sharp, nodding at a sleek tabby that scrambled out from the blanket wrapped around the woman and landed on the soaking grass.
The cat gave the three detectives a beleaguered glare, then turned and marched off to one of the other boats moored farther downstream, where it promptly skipped on board and sat with its back to them.
‘And that’s why I’d always have a dog,’ said Christie.
‘Got a minute?’
They turned at the shout to see a senior fire officer heading towards them, his already bulky frame ballooned by hi-vis protective clothing.
Stomping across the grass in heavy boots, he removed his helmet and ran a hand over sweat-drenched hair. Nodding to Kay and Christie, he turned his attention to the DS. ‘Thought you’d want to know as soon as possible – the forensics lot will confirm it in time – but it looks like an accelerant was used.’
‘Petrol?’ Sharp said, craning his neck to see past the fireman to where the man’s colleagues were starting to clear away the equipment.
‘Certainly smells like it.’ The man thrust out his hand. ‘Wayne Matthews.’
‘Detective Sergeant Devon Sharp.’
‘So, do you think this is the same as the other fires?’
The DS pursed his lips and squinted through the hazy air as the narrowboat’s skeleton emitted a sickening groan before dropping several inches into the silty riverbed. ‘It’s too early to say whether the three fires are connected.’
Kay turned away from the two men, gauging Sharp’s cagey response.
They couldn’t risk anyone alerting the media to a serial arsonist, not when their investigation was at such a critical stage.
Until this morning, when the call had come through and Sharp had scrambled his team to reach the scene of the fire, nobody in the tiny incident room at Tonbridge had ventured the suggestion that the fires were connected.
Until then, the first fire six weeks ago had been treated as a vengeance attack and the second three and a half weeks ago as an accident.
Until now…
‘They’ll be baying for us,’ Christie muttered beside her. ‘And asking why we didn’t do something sooner.’
Kay glanced over her shoulder to where Sharp and Matthews were speaking in lowered voices then flapped her stiffening hands from her coat pockets and cupped her fingers to her mouth, blowing hot air across them in a vain attempt to warm up. ‘Glad it’s not me who’s going to be dealing with the media.’
‘All right, you two – we’ve got the all-clear.’ The DS beckoned to them. ‘Let’s take a look, and then you can speak to the owner while I head back to the incident room.’
Following a demarcated path and lifting a fluorescent plastic tape cordoning off the immediate area beside the stricken vessel, Kay trudged behind her colleagues.
A woman in her forties stood beside the boat owner, squeezed her arm and then made her way towards them, pausing at a gate cut into a garden fence next to the towpath.
Sharp aimed a glance over his shoulder to Christie, who paused and let the detective sergeant walk on alone.
‘Excuse me, did you know the victim?’ Christie already had his notebook out, rummaging under his coat for a moment before extracting a plastic ballpoint pen.
The woman gave a slight nod, then wiped at her eyes. ‘After everything she’s been through this year, this happens.’
‘Sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Ellie Greening.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Graphic design. I started up my own freelance business a couple of years ago.’
‘What’s the owner’s name?’
‘Briony Peters.’
‘Does she have any family members we can call?’ Kay asked, her chest aching as she watched the cat trot back towards its owner, its tail high.
‘No. Briony and her husband divorced six years ago, and her daughter refuses to speak to her. She moved down from London last year because the mooring fees were getting so expensive. What with that and trying to get her yoga business established in the local area, I don’t think she’s had much time for making friends yet.’
‘You knew her well, then?’ Christie prompted.
Ellie gave him a rueful smile. ‘We call ourselves “the over-40s and divorced club”. I usually pop over to hers or vice versa a couple of times a week. It depends what we’ve got on.’
‘Does she have anyone she can stay with?’ said Kay.
‘I was just telling her she can have my spare bedroom for as long as she needs it.’ The woman peered across to where Briony was wiping at her eyes and swallowed. ‘I’ll look after her, don’t you worry.’
THREE
Kay paused when she reached the patrol car and took a moment to look at the other houses backing onto the river.
An elderly man peered between net curtains in one of the terraced dwellings, his brow knitted together while he watched the second fire engine make its way towards the road. His mouth downturned, he gave a sad shake of his head when he saw Kay before letting the curtains drop back into place, and she made a mental note to speak to him as soon as she got a chance.
Farther along, a woman with a toddler cradled in her arms hovered behind a sturdy fence, her face pale. Kay wandered over and introduced herself.
‘I thought it was going to spread,’ the woman said in a shaking voice. ‘I even packed a bag, just in case. You should’ve seen the embers in the air before the first fire engine turned up.’
‘How long have you lived here, Mrs…?’
‘Beckett. Joanne Beckett.’ She shifted the little boy to her other hip, the child twisting his neck to see around them to watch the last of the hoses being coiled away, his face rapt. ‘We moved in three years ago, from Crawley. Cormac – my other half – got a job at the hospital in Pembury.’
Kay nodded towards the boat owner. ‘Do you know Briony?’
‘Not really.’ Joanne pulled the toddler’s sweatshirt hood over his hair, then shivered. ‘I’ve seen her around of course, and we wave if we spot each other but the boat owners tend to keep to themselves.’
‘Any trouble recently?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’
‘No raised voices or anything like that?’
The woman shook her head.
‘Have you seen anyone acting suspiciously around the boats any time in the past few weeks?’
‘No, sorry.’ Joanne jiggled the toddler in her arms. ‘This one keeps me too busy to spend time looking out the window.’
‘All right, thanks.’ Kay turned away and set off towards Christie, who was now talking to the boat owner.
He broke off when she approached, beckoning her closer. ‘This is Briony Peters.’
‘Ms Peters? I’m Detective Constable Kay Hunter.’
Briony shrugged the thick blanket up around her neck and peered at her with baleful eyes. ‘More questions?’
‘Just a few, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’ve told your friends over there everything that happened.’ She jerked her chin towards the patrol car that was disappearing between the houses.
‘It helps us to hear it in your own words as well,’ Christie explained gently. ‘If that’s all right?’
‘I suppose so.’ Her top lip curled. ‘It’s not like I’m going anywhere, is it?’
Kay looked beyond her colleague and spotted an old white plastic garden chair that had been tossed over the back fence of one of the properties and now lay upended amongst the weeds verging the river. She strode over, wiped it off with the sleeve of her coat, and then set it down beside Christie. ‘Here, Briony – have a seat. You must be exhausted.’
‘Thanks.’ The woman collapsed into the chair, then wiped at her eyes at the sight of the meagre belongings being put into a cardboard box one of the neighbouring boat owners had brought over. ‘Oh, God. What am I going to do?’
A sob wracked her then, and she dropped her face into her hands, her shoulders heaving.
Kay crouched beside her and dug out a tissue from her bag. ‘Here. Briony, we’re going to do everything we can to find who did this, I promise.’
‘Have you received any threats in the past?’ Christie said, his voice gruff. ‘Has anyone been causing trouble down here lately?’
‘A little while ago, yes. Things like door locks being tampered with, mooring ropes being cut…’
‘Did you report it?’ asked Kay.
Briony shot her a withering look. ‘We gave up after the third time. Your lot weren’t interested, and no-one even bothered to come and take statements that last time.’
Kay blushed.
‘You said “the last time”,’ said Christie, nonplussed. ‘Did the vandalism stop?’
