‘Arson?’
‘Yes. . or fire-setting as it’s known in Canada and the United States. . but the inquiry eventually focused on a deliberate attempt to start the fire by one of the children, but which one?’ Rebecca James opened her palm.
‘I think I can guess.’
‘Yes, I think we both can. So she was with me for a few weeks. I didn’t give in easily, as a matter of pride, but eventually I realized that not only could I not do anything for her, but she was a danger to the other children and to the building. It was a large, rambling wooden building, sealed against the rain by pitch as are many houses in Canada. Fire would have engulfed it very quickly and if she set one fire she could set another.’
‘Yes, indeed. Where did she go when she left you?’
‘St Saviours.’
‘A convent?’
‘Yes, a very strict order of nuns. Her situation was conferenced wherein it was deemed she needed that form of close supervision and tight control and that was the last I heard of Heather Ossetti until you mentioned her name this morning. She did not come to visit me, for which I am extremely grateful. Another of my girls went there also, a girl called Edith Lecointe. She lost her life a few years ago. . I read it. . died in the snow one winter. Dare say they helped each other through St Saviours.’
The recording light glowed red, the twin cassettes spun slowly, silently.
‘The place is interview room number three at Micklegate Bar Police Station, York. The time is nine fifteen hours on Monday the thirtieth of March. I am Detective Sergeant Fiona Rivers of the Vale of York Police Female and Child Abuse Unit. I am now going to ask the other people in the room to identify themselves.’
‘Detective Constable Tracy Banks of the Vale of York Police Female and Child Abuse Unit.’
‘Rivers and Banks,’ the man sneered, ‘how quaint.’
‘Just your name, sir,’ Rivers replied sternly.
‘Sigsworth. Noel Sigsworth.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector George Hennessey of the Vale of York Police at Micklegate Bar.’
‘Alexander Milner of Milner, Rhodes and Ferrie, Solicitors, of St Leonard’s Place, York.’
‘Mr Sigsworth, you have been arrested and cautioned in connection with the assault on your ex-wife, Matilda Sigsworth, also known as Matilda or “Tilly” Pakenham.’ Fiona Rivers delivered an ice cold introduction.
‘Wife,’ Sigsworth replied smugly. ‘We are still married.’
‘Very well, correction is noted, though you are estranged.’
‘Is that the case,’ Milner turned to Sigsworth, ‘about being cautioned?’
‘Yes. It was done by the book.’ Sigsworth wore a dark suit with highly polished shoes and he reeked of aftershave.
‘We will be charging you with Grievous Bodily Harm,’ Rivers explained.
‘A tiff. . nothing more.’
‘A tiff which left her with six broken ribs and extensive facial bruising.’
‘You have no proof and she won’t press charges, she never does.’
‘So this is a regular occurrence?’
Sigsworth shrugged. ‘What marriage does not have its difficult periods?’
‘This time is different,’ Hennessey growled. ‘This time she has made a complaint and we have your DNA. She managed to scratch you somewhere. . such as your hand. .’
Sigsworth lifted up his left hand and glanced at the sticking plaster on the back of it. ‘An accident,’ he said.
‘But it’s your DNA. . from your blood, under her fingernails, that’s all the proof we need.’
Sigsworth’s smile was suddenly replaced by a cold hard glare and Hennessey saw the man who allegedly once said, ‘I’m only nice to you if you buy something from me’. It was all Hennessey and the two FCAU officers needed to see. The case against Sigsworth was watertight although he could still charm a jury into returning a not guilty verdict. Such ‘perverse judgements’ are not unknown and men like Sigsworth are adept at jury manipulation. It was a chance the police would have to take.
‘My job. . my career. .’ Sigsworth snarled. ‘I’ll kill the bitch. . she’s dead. .’
Hennessey glanced at the tapes turning silently in the recording machine and then looked at Sigsworth as the colour drained from the man’s face.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ he rapidly recovered his charm. ‘You must know I would never really harm her.’
‘But you said it,’ Hennessey said. ‘It’s now a matter of record. We don’t destroy these tapes.’
‘So if some harm does befall Ms Pakenham,’ DS Rivers added, ‘we’ll know who to look for, won’t we?’
‘And we’ll be asking for an injunction to stop you going anywhere near her or making any form of contact with her whatsoever.’ Hennessey advised in a soft, matter-of-fact manner.
Marianne Auphan stepped out of the shower wrapped in a black towel which Ventnor thought could be fairly described as being about the size of a small country. He propped himself up on his elbows in her bed as he watched her dress. Marianne Auphan occupied what Ventnor thought an ideal home for a single person. Rented, it had a built-in garage on the ground floor with an electronically operated roll-up door. From the garage a small door led into the utility area of the property where there was a gas heater, a washing/drying area, a downstairs toilet and plentiful storage space. Stairs covered with a fawn coloured fitted carpet led up to the front door of the property and turned again and led up to the living area on the first floor where there was a large kitchen, a dining area and a sitting area. The first floor was similarly carpeted and had pine furniture, within it a hi-fi system and also a sensibly sized television. It was, in addition, richly adorned with plants. Marianne Auphan, Ventnor decided, clearly enjoyed caring for living things. Above the living area was a bathroom/shower unit with a second toilet and two bedrooms. The property had an angled roof and access to the loft space was obtained from within a large walk-in cupboard off the larger of the two bedrooms. The rear of the property looked out across a ‘deck’ or elevated wooden patio to an area of open ground, then still snow covered, and industrial units about a quarter of a mile distant, the skyline being interrupted by a circular concrete water tower with the name ‘Barrie’ written large in blue upon a white background. The front of the property looked out across a car park to identical properties being part of the same development. Marianne Auphan’s home could have been in the UK were it not for Canadian idiosyncrasies which Ventnor discovered with interest, such as the light switches which pushed upwards for ‘on’ rather than downwards as in Britain. The whistling kettle on the electric cooker he also thought particularly North American. For unlike the whistling kettles in the UK which make a shrill, high-pitched homely sound, similar to the whistles of British steam locomotives, when it boiled, Marianne Auphan’s kettle made a low, mournful, soulful sound similar, in fact, to the whistles of American steam locomotives. He cared not at all for it.
‘I’ll drive you to the terminal,’ she said, in a quiet but authoritative tone, combing her hair. ‘Then you must take a bus in. I want to be discreet about this.’
‘Agreed.’ Ventnor levered himself out of bed.
‘Take the thirteen bus out to Cundles East and get off at Zehrs. It’s a flat fare but you’ll need the exact money in coins, already.’
Ventnor walked across the carpet to the shower.
‘I don’t eat breakfast, already,’ she called after him, ‘but if you want I can maybe do you an egg on toast. . or something quick like that?’
‘No. . no. .’ Ventnor replied as the hot water drove into the sweat clogged pores of his flesh, ‘whatever you do normally is good with me.’
Later, whilst waiting for the number thirteen bus at the Maple Avenue bus stop, Ventnor was amused to watch a group of young boys play soccer in blazing sunshine, dressed in tee shirt and shorts, in the road between two massive and stubborn snowdrifts, Canada in the spring. Later still he sat opposite Marianne Auphan as she pressed a mug of hot coffee into his hands and held up a manila folder. ‘Nathan Fisco,’ she said. ‘Do you want to read it, or shall I give you the gist of it, already?’
‘Oh. . the gist, please.’ Ventnor sipped lovingly on the coffee.
‘OK. . but listen, within these four walls we’re on the clock now, so we’re cops. . and nothing else. . understood?’
‘Clear as a bell, and agreed.’
‘OK, good. So, Nathan Fisco, he died in a house fire about seven years ago.’
‘Seven.’
