Vogel nodded.
‘I know,’ he said confidently.
Although, in fact, the only knowledge he had of this part of the world had come from going online that morning.
‘We’re expecting a fire investigator later today, and CSI are here, boss, if you want to talk to them,’ Dawson continued. ‘They’ve had a snoop around the grounds, I understand, but, of course, they haven’t been able to get near the house, and it’s going to be a while before it’s cooled down enough for anybody to do much. The structure will need checking, too.’
Vogel nodded. He had noticed a Crime Scene Investigators van parked just back from the fire appliances and a few officers milling around, a couple leaning against the van smoking.
‘What about pathology?’
‘Karen Crow was called first thing and arrived about half an hour before you, boss,’ said Dawson, referring to the District Home Office Pathologist, a woman Vogel had already worked with several times since his move to the West Country.
‘It was really just protocol at this stage, though. She left pretty much straightaway when she had ascertained that there was nothing she could do yet. And to tell the truth, it’s doubtful she will be able to do an awful lot at any stage. You know how hard it is with fire cases, certainly a blaze as major as this. You’re lucky to find anything much at all resembling a human body.’
Vogel tried not to visibly wince.
‘Yes, of course,’ he muttered thoughtfully.
Dawson was also appropriately dressed, in a cap, Barbour jacket, and the obligatory wellington boots. But then he would be. Vogel had guessed at once, just from his appearance and his manner, that this was the sort of career DC you didn’t come across much anymore; approaching retirement, diligent, but content with his lot and unwilling to seek promotion, as that would mean change. Almost certainly Dawson had rarely allowed his police career to get in the way of his lifestyle. And so he had stayed put in the place where he’d been born and brought up, choosing a settled family life over career prospects.
Vogel didn’t know any of that, of course. It was just guesswork. All he really knew was that Dawson had been co-opted to work with MCIT because of his local knowledge. He decided to make the most of it.
‘All right, DC Dawson, I’m going to pick your brains,’ he said. ‘Any idea who might want to kill Sir John Fairbrother? I’ve done a bit of homework this morning. Surprisingly little about him online. Nothing derogatory. A rumour that he might have been unwell, which seems to have now been backed up by the 999 calls from a woman who said she was his nurse, a woman who appears to have died with him. One or two question marks about how well the family bank is doing, but that would almost be expected in the present climate, I should imagine. He was a bit of a philanthropist too, wasn’t he? Known for helping with local causes around here? Is that right?’
‘Well yes, he put up the rest of the money last year so that the restoration of the Wellington Monument could begin.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Vogel. ‘I saw an item on the regional news a while back. Been fenced off amid rumours it might have to come down for safety reasons for years, hasn’t it?’
Dawson nodded, and, although it was clear the question was rhetorical, replied.
‘Yes. Work is now supposed to start next year. Though I’ll believe it when I see it myself.’
Dawson smiled wryly.
A cynic, eh, thought Vogel. But he didn’t object to that in a police officer, because it generally indicated a questioning mind.
‘So, do I assume that Sir John was popular locally, then?’
‘Well, he certainly used to be,’ said Dawson in a non-committal sort of way.
‘Come on, Dawson, is there any background you can give me that Google doesn’t know?’ Vogel persisted. ‘That’s what I want.’
‘I can tell you what they say down the Culm Valley and up the Blue Ball, boss. I doubt Google’s ever reached those two boozers.’
Dawson smiled.
So, the DC also showed signs, however limp, of a sense of humour. That was promising. Vogel and Saslow had been through a lot together the last year or so. The need for a copper who took his work seriously but not himself was greater than ever.
‘Born and bred in the place, there’s not much goes on in this neck of the woods I don’t know about,’ Dawson continued chattily, just as Vogel had already surmised.
‘Right, spit it out then, man,’ said Vogel.
‘Well, boss, one of Sir John’s ancestors, Edwin Fairbrother, acquired the place in seventeen something or other. He allegedly won it in a game of cards. Quite a swashbuckler, it seems. Not quite what you expect from a banker. But I suppose banking was different in those days. It’s been the principal Fairbrother home ever since, and the family have always considered themselves to be proper Somerset people, involved in the community and so on. Sir John was known for that, even when he was away in London most of the time.
‘Anything going on locally, particularly the Wellesley Theatre in Wellington, and even the little panto they put on in Culmstock every year, Sir John would turn up now and again. There was always a big donation for any local charitable cause, and he was a fair employer locally. Used to boast about always employing local people. The Kivel family, from over Wrangway, they were in his employ for generations. Jack and Martha lived in. Or in The Gatehouse to be precise, where the Greys were put. They looked after the whole manor, Martha was housekeeper; Jack was Sir John’s right-hand man, did the garden and drove Sir John everywhere. Sir John used local builders and other tradesmen when he needed any work done. Simon Crockett always did the roofing, said it was like the flippin’ Forth Bridge. Half of Wellie was in and out of Blackdown Manor doing jobs. Big old house. Lot of work.
‘Then about a year ago everything changed. Sir John seemed to step back from everything locally. He’d had racehorses in training with the Pipes up at Nicholashayne for decades; out of the blue, David Pipe was told to sell the lot of ’em. The tradesmen Sir John had always relied on stopped getting called out. He no longer wanted goose eggs from Barry Byrant and Colin Sully; gardening help from Rob and David Crow; and suddenly he was never in for neighbours he had always made welcome, like John McCarten, the Childs or the Flahertys. He just didn’t seem to be around much, or even very interested in the manor any more. Or so it was said. Then Jack and Martha were given notice to quit. Just like that after nearly thirty years. And not personally, either. Sir John’s solicitor did the deed, apparently. Word is severance pay was typically generous. But that was all that was typical. Sir John was away somewhere when the Kivels were sacked, and neither Jack nor Martha ever saw him again, they say. That upset the whole Kivel clan. They’d thought of themselves as extended family, and believed that Sir John felt the same. So the whole thing was a terrible shock. Especially when almost immediately Sir John brought in George and Janice Grey from London and installed them in The Gatehouse to take over the roles of Jack and Martha.’
Vogel thought for a moment, considering what Ted Dawson had said. Then he swung on his heels to face the older man.
‘Do you have any theories about what may have caused John Fairbrother to have changed so dramatically, sacked all his local staff and so on? You must have, surely. C’mon man. Not much happens around these parts that you don’t know about, you said.’
‘There’s been a lot of talk, but probably not a lot of substance. More about Sir John’s health than anything else—’
‘We know pretty much for certain that the man wasn’t well,’ Vogel interrupted. ‘He employed a nurse. At least one nurse. Possibly more. Do you have any idea what was wrong with him?’