“No, I reckon it’s the studio,” Janssen replied as he clambered out. The wind momentarily altered direction and a gust carried smoke and embers towards them. Even the slight exposure to the fumes left an acrid taste in his mouth. They moved closer only to find their path blocked by a fireman. He took out his warrant card, identifying himself but was still asked to remain well clear. “Is there anyone inside?”
“Not as far as we know. The owners are in the main part of the house.”
Turning, they made their way to the front door. The little used approach path was overgrown, foliage growing between the slabs and encroaching from either side. Reaching the front door, he rapped the knocker loudly several times. The noise from the appliance crew at work in the yard carried around the house to them and Janssen found he had to repeat the process before they got a response.
Jane Francis opened the door. Her expression was one of intense shock, wide-eyed and fearful, and if she was surprised to see them, she didn’t show it. Stepping back, she beckoned them in. They followed her into the main living area. Ken stood with his back to them at the French doors, overlooking the yard, staring at the studio opposite. Upon hearing them enter, he turned. One hand was drawn across his mouth and nose, his skin was pale, colourless, and he was breathing heavily. Janssen wondered if he was having some kind of anxiety attack. Coming closer, he was surprised to see Ken was developing some swelling around the left eye. He wondered if he’d tried to attack the flames himself and fallen. His wife looked nervous now, unwilling to meet Janssen’s eye. She immediately offered to make coffee, an opportunity to busy herself and avoid attention, Janssen thought.
Tamara cleared her throat, coming to stand alongside Ken. “You’re having a rough few days, aren’t you,” she said quietly.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ken Francis turned away from the sight of the firefighters marshalling powerful jets of water as they wrestled to bring the blaze under control. Tamara Greave paid close attention to his demeanour. On previous visits he came across as an amiable man, trying too hard to appear so but nevertheless, pleasant enough. He reminded her of an uncle, long since passed away, who was quite similar. On the surface, when required, he could portray a persona that was expected of him knowing what he should say and how to act. Most of the time, however, with no one else around, the façade would drop away and on those occasions, the real personality would appear. Usually that was in private or in front of immediate family or close friends. She witnessed it only a few times, or at least, she only noticed it then for she was very young.
Now, Ken struck her in the same way. Even making allowances for the brutal destruction of his works of art, not least his livelihood, there was precious little of the man she’d first met. His face was drawn, settling in to what looked very much like his natural resting state. Whereas before he took care to acknowledge their presence, now he appeared disinterested. More so than merely preoccupied with the events unfolding before him.
“How did the fire start?” she asked casually, floating the question. Either the couple were hitting an unfortunate patch of misfortune with the vandalism of the studio and now the fire, or something more sinister was at play. Ken shook his head, pulling out a chair at the breakfast table and sitting down.
“We were out.” It was his wife, Jane, who replied. Tamara glanced in her direction. She was cleaning the coffee machine, preparing it for use but much too fastidiously, in her opinion. Perhaps it was her cynicism, drummed into her by experience, that led her to cast an eye over both of them for signs of anything out of the ordinary.
Their relationship was somewhat strained, that was obvious, but neither were behaving as she might expect in this scenario. Jane was fussing in the kitchen making a show of being a courteous host while her husband’s studio, part of their fabulously renovated home, burned nearby. Ken, on the other hand, sat expressionless, a vacuous shell of a human being. Arguably numb from shock but even so, no emotion, no anger, it was bordering on acceptance.
Jane seemed to notice her interest, appearing flustered and overfilling the filter head with freshly ground coffee. She cursed under her breath, cutting the utterance short almost as soon as she said it. Tamara moved closer to her, noting Janssen following with his eyes. “You were out when it started? Together?” Jane nodded, picking up a cloth from the nearby sink and wiping up the spillage. “Do you mind if I ask where?” Jane Francis glared at her. It seemed a particularly venomous look and she was reminded of Mark McCall’s statement about her being evil. With that one look, she understood why he might get that impression, especially seeing as Jane was clearly intimidated by the police presence.
“Ken thought it might be nice for us to spend the day out, make the most of the weather and the time we have while the kids aren’t around.”
She glanced at her watch; it was barely midday. Jane looked nervous, agitated. “Home early?” The question went unanswered or ignored. She couldn’t decide which. Ken’s head lowered and she saw Janssen incline his own. He was thinking something, she could tell.
“What happened to your face, Mr Francis?” Janssen asked. So focussed was she on their behaviour patterns that she hadn’t noticed. Now she paid closer attention. The redness and minor swelling around the eye on the left side of his face looked sore. Ken didn’t look the type to have battled an inferno. Athletic in stature, perhaps, but he didn’t exude courage, not to her anyway.
“I must have fallen,” Ken all but whispered without looking up. The challenge to his weak assertion came from
