‘How? How was it done?’
‘The way I see it, they were tied with those restraints, hand and foot, the conservatory cushions were brought in here and ignited with petrol. It’s the simplest accelerant of all, and that’s what the dogs scented. I’ve looked at the soot on the walls. It tells me that the material was old, and not flame resistant at all. It would have been lethal. As I see it, Mr and Mrs Gerulaitis were shut in here, hog-tied and helpless. The area would have filled with smoke in seconds and they’d have died within minutes. When they were, the room was opened. They were dragged out, the cuffs were cut off them and left where I found them. The victims were then carried upstairs, placed by the locked door and the main fire was started, in the way I’ve described. Meanwhile down in the cellar, the original fire was left to burn, to make us think, as we did until you questioned it, that there was only one seat, upstairs. To make absolutely sure, they should have left the door open at the top of the stairs, but maybe they couldn’t, maybe there was too much smoke, so they took a chance that the floor would burn through, as it did, although not completely.’
‘How did they get out?’
‘I’d suggest that they locked the door behind them and went out through the conservatory. We’ve only found one key, and we’ve looked all through the house.’
‘Jesus. How many people are we talking about?’ McGuire asked
‘Given that there were two victims,’ the investigator replied, ‘you’d normally assume that there were at least two of them as well, but I suppose it’s conceivable that one determined person could have done it. One thing’s certain, though; however many there were, one of them had to have been an expert. The fire upstairs was started in exactly the way I described this morning, by a damp towel placed on exposed wiring. No layman could improvise that. You’re probably looking for someone with a degree, or a qualification in electrical engineering, and with a knowledge of chemical reactions as well, given how they were killed.’ She paused. ‘Or maybe you’re looking for a fireman.’
‘Any suggestions?’
She smiled. ‘None that I know.’
‘That’s brilliant, Frances,’ said McGuire. ‘Would it stand up in court?’
‘Ah, that I don’t know for sure. We can’t put the dogs in the witness box, and we can’t prove that those plastic ties were used on the victims, but we can identify that smoke in their lungs, and show where it came from. Some of it did come up through the floorboards, though; I’ve established that too.’
‘But can you rule out accident?’
‘In my own mind, yes. In the minds of a majority on a jury. . I’d have to wait and see.’
Fifty-six
The last thing that George Regan wanted was a call-out at five o’clock. He had spent the day in the CID office in Haddington completing an itemised list of goods stolen from the Witches’ Hill pro shop in the second robbery, and had just submitted it for circulation to police forces throughout the country. He knew what would be coming his way once it hit the intelligence network: wisecracks and innuendo from all over Scotland. Not that they were needed. None of his senior officers seemed to be blaming him for not anticipating a possible return visit by the thieves. . a fresh tyre track matching one left the previous day had been found at the scene that morning. . but he was, for sure. The presence of the Marquis and of Proud Jimmy had made for one of the most embarrassing moments of his professional life, and all he wanted to do was go home to his wife and, whether she was up for it or not, insist that she spruce herself up so that they could take the train to Edinburgh for a meal in his favourite Chinese, the Kweilin in Dundas Street, with a nice bottle of Chablis, or maybe two if he could persuade Jen to share them with him, and afterwards. .
Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the notion of getting your wife drunk in the hope of sex was just too pathetic, repugnant even. Maybe instead he’d ask Lisa McDermid if she was up for a night out; sometimes he thought he saw a look in her eye that suggested she might be. Then again, maybe he’d take the easy option; go down to the Longniddry Inn and get quietly blootered. But that wouldn’t get his end away, though, would it?
‘Hey, Lisa,’ he began.
She looked across their facing desks and smiled. He wondered if she had been reading his mind, or if. . Christ, he hadn’t been thinking aloud, had he? ‘Yes, George,’ she replied. . and that was when the phone rang.
He snatched it up, annoyed at the shattering of the moment. ‘Yes,’ he snapped.
‘If that’s what it’s going to be like, I might as well not bother,’ said Marty White, the station inspector.
‘Not bother with what?’ Regan said, more gently.
‘Asking you and Lisa if you’d do me a big favour, one that’s going to be a real pain in the arse for you.’
‘No, maybe you shouldn’t. But go ahead anyway; what is it?’
‘I’ve just had the communications centre on the blower. They’ve had a call from a member of the public who says he’s found a car off the road up behind Garvald, with a guy in it he says is dead. My problem is that all my vehicles are committed elsewhere, and I can’t get one from Midlothian or Edinburgh for upwards of forty-five minutes. It’ll be well dark before they can get there. I don’t have an available uniform. You’re my only hope, Obi-Wan Kenobi.’
Regan smiled, for the first time that day. ‘You got lucky, Marty; you picked my favourite movie. Hold on while I have a word with Princess Leia here.’ He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Lisa, are you up for helping uniform out of a jam? It could be messy, mind.’
‘Why not?’ she replied. ‘Better than watching you sat there scowling.’
‘OK,’ said the DI to White. ‘You’re on. Where is it? How do we get there?’
‘Bloody incomers,’ sighed the East Lothian native. ‘Head south, over the Tyne, towards Gifford at first, but you’ll see the sign for Garvald soon. It’s only about five miles away. When you get there, head up the hill out of the village, past Nunraw Abbey and on towards the White Castle. Don’t go looking for a castle, though; it’s an old hill fort, that’s all. A bit past that and you’ll find it. On you go now, before you run out of daylight.’
The two detectives headed out to Regan’s car, parked at the back of the station. The inspector’s directions were easy to follow, and the road was quiet once they were out of Haddington. They reached Garvald in less than ten minutes, and drove through, as directed. ‘That’s the White Castle,’ McDermid pointed out as they passed a Historic Scotland sign by the roadside. The DI glanced to his left, but saw nothing, other than a flat hilltop.
‘Wow,’ he replied, poker-faced.
They had gone no further than a few hundred yards when he had to brake, hard. A truck sat ahead of them, pulled as far up on to the verge as its driver had been able. He stood beside it, a countryman dressed in blue overalls and muddy boots, of middle height and age, slim, and bald, with a narrow moustache. Regan took a torch from the dashboard compartment and switched on his emergency warning lights as they stepped out. ‘Are you the polis?’ the man asked. ‘I’m Joe Leghorn; Ah’m the grieve at the farm just up the road. Some business this. Poor bugger’s doon there.’
He stepped aside and the detectives saw that the fence behind him was shattered. Beyond it the ground sloped away for a few feet and then disappeared. ‘It’s a wee cliff, ken,’ Leghorn told them, as he led them to the edge. ‘The road’s muddy, like, after the thaw the day, but he must have been doing a hoor of a speed tae have gone off like that.’
The DI peered over the edge and saw, in the fading light, the underside of a car; one of its wheels was turning slowly.