The Burning Question

Book 0: The DCI Banham Series

by Linda Regan

Genres: Thrillers; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

When an arson attack strikes in south London, leaving three people dead, it quickly becomes clear that the youngest victim, Danielle Low, was the intended target.

With no clear motive, and the killer at large, DCI Banham must act fast. But working with his partner, DI Alison Grainger, has its own challenges that threaten to stall the investigation. Then another body is found in similar circumstances and he knows that there is someone far more sinister at work.

As they begin to unravel a dark web of secrets, the case unexpectedly leads close to home and with time of the essence, and the killer always one step ahead, can DCI Banham and his team work together to put a stop to the depravity before another life is lost?

Set in the gritty backstreets of London, The Burning Question is the latest thrilling instalment in the DCI Banham series by the much-loved author and actress Linda Regan. For fans of Lynda La Plante and Martina Cole.

Release date: May 12, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

It was nearly midnight when the call came through to DCI Paul Banham. There had been a massive fire in a small block of flats, the Apple Tree Apartments in Apple Tree Close, not too far away from where he lived. The remains of three bodies had been found. After the first fire officers had attended, they had called in Fire Forensics, and it was already strongly suspected as arson.

Banham had immediately assigned DI Alison Grainger as Senior Investigating Officer on the case. It helped that Alison was his partner outside of work, too. They had sat up together, for the rest of the night, with maps of the surrounding streets, getting to know the location, every alleyway and slip road, and everything that was in the vicinity of Apple Tree Close.

It was now seven in the morning, and Alison had already rung round and pulled her team together. Having had less than three hours’ sleep, she was feeling fuzzy-headed. Percolated coffee bubbled in her kitchen as she wrote notes before the first meeting with her team. She intended drinking at least three cups, strong and black, before she set off for the Murder Investigation Unit. Her brain needed to be razor sharp and firing on all cylinders. Before the call had come through, and before they’d gone to sleep that evening, she and Banham had been in bed, talking through their future. It was over a year since she had miscarried their baby. The loss had shaken her badly, something she felt she couldn’t talk about with Banham. It had also changed her; she no longer felt any maternal pangs. Banham continually told her that he still wanted them to have a child together, but would wait until she felt ready again. She felt bad and also selfish, because she didn’t feel she’d ever want a baby after losing the last one. The miscarriage had made her tougher, more ambitious, but had killed her motherly feelings. She now wanted to concentrate on work and getting promoted.

Yet she didn’t feel she could tell Banham she no longer had the same feelings; that would break his heart. He had been through so much, having lost his first wife and their baby daughter to a killer – a machete-wielding murderer who, even after over twelve years, had never been found and brought to justice. So, she’d lied and told him she needed time. He was understanding and had agreed, but inside Alison now knew her only calling in life was her job – hunt down killers and give closure to those who had lost their loved ones to murder.

As she poured the coffee, she studied the map of the area around Apple Tree Close. It was a small cul-de-sac leading off a street confusingly named Apple Tree Road, with a few shops and a pub. There was CCTV on that road. Let’s hope there’s something on it, she thought, knowing how grainy and useless most of the footage usually was. The pub, too, would be likely to have cameras and it was situated almost opposite Apple Tree Close itself.

The burnt-out block was made up of three flats, and had gone up very quickly. Alison had checked the electoral register already. The resident of the ground-floor flat was presumably one of the three who had lost their lives. A Danielle Low, a woman in her early thirties, had lived there alone. The other cadavers were found in the second-floor flat: an older couple, both in their seventies, the Dowds. The first-floor resident had been spoken to by the fire officers when he arrived home from work to find his home alight. He was Del Harris, single and in his mid-thirties. Alison underlined his name as she poured more coffee. He had gone to stay with his mother in Putney. The chief fire officer had passed on a forwarding address for him.

Yesterday’s weather had been rainy, on and off, so not many people would have been out and about, and Sunday was always the quietest day of the week, so not many passers-by. She wrote CCTV check on the pad as she drank her first coffee, then, door-to-door and find where neighbours have been evacuated to and take statements. Then, Del Harris – DS Stephanie Green to interview him. DS Colin Crowther to talk to neighbours. DC Luke Hughes – CCTV findings, and backgrounds of victims. Trainee DC Hannah Kemp to shadow . . .?

Alison tapped her teeth with her pen as she tried to think who the best detective would be to put her new trainee with. Then she wrote, DS Crowther.

‘I’m off,’ Alison shouted to Banham as she threw the last of her coffee down her throat and snatched her car keys from the side.

‘I’ll be in shortly,’ came the reply. ‘Keep me posted.’

He may have made her Senior Investigating Officer, she thought to herself, but still she would bet, a pound to a penny, that he would follow her around like a puppy. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because, as he told her constantly, he hated not knowing where she was. Irritating though it was, she understood. Alison dealt with victims who needed closure, like Banham, all the time, and fully sympathised with their plight, but she still found his constant need to be near her, or know where she was at all times, very difficult.

She hurried out the front door, mind on the job and the new team member that she had to settle in.

Trainee Detective Constable Hannah Kemp moved closer to the mirror to study her face. The scarring was minimal, but it was there. Everyone told her they didn’t notice, but she felt it constantly. That happy, carefree young officer, who enjoyed her weekly girls’ nights in wine bars and clubs, and was about to be married, was no longer looking back at her. The face staring out from the mirror was harder, and care-worn – but still filled with ambition. Not a bad thing for a twenty-seven-year-old woman who had been promoted from a uniformed PC to a trainee detective. She dabbed more powder over the side of her nose to cover her scars, reminding herself it was about confidence. But confidence was hard to pull off on her first day in after nearly a year away from the job.

She slid her fingers underneath her fair hair, lifting it up and away from her oval-shaped face, then turned her head to look at her profile. Yes, her nose was definitely crooked, there was a little lump on the bone that had never gone down, and the scars on her forehead were still prominent. Given the time back, though, she knew she would do the same again. So, no self-pity, she told herself. She was ready to come back.

She had put in an application for the Major Incident Team. Alison Grainger had vouched for her, given her a glowing report, and had now requested for Hannah to join her team. Opportunities like this didn’t come along every day. She would grab it with both hands. Her first day on the job and already the DI had rung to tell her there had been an arson attack, and she was on board. She most certainly was!

Hannah pulled her hair away from her face, and then slid the black scrunchie from her wrist, using it to secure her hair into a neat ponytail. This would tell the team she was about to meet that she wasn’t afraid of having her scars on show. They all knew her story anyway.

A second later, she pulled the scrunchie from her hair and let it fall loose again. One step at a time, she told herself.

She would get a haircut at the weekend. Her thick dark-blond mane now hung below her shoulders; it looked best when it barely touched them. She would get highlights too, jazz herself up a bit. She wasn’t saving for a house, or a wedding, anymore. She could spend what she liked.

She turned her body to check her rear view. A green shirt with wide-legged grey slacks – much more comfortable than the itchy PC’s uniform trousers. And her own trainers were a lot preferable to the frumpy black lace-ups she’d worn as a PC, not to mention easier to chase criminals in.

It had taken a lot to get herself to today, and here she was, part of the murder team. She had earned it, DI Grainger had told her, because she had showed such bravery in a life-threatening situation. Hannah hadn’t thought of it as brave. You just dealt with the situation you were faced with. That’s what police did. But here she was, in MIT. She was lucky.

She and DI Grainger had become good friends when Hannah was new on the force, when they had both been planning their weddings . . . And then through all the stuff that had happened, when Hannah retreated from the world, Alison Grainger had kept in touch and stopped her giving up. She knew she had an ally in the DI. And she wasn’t going to let her down.

She pulled the Rescue Remedy phial from her bag and squeezed a couple of drops under her tongue, reminding herself she was a survivor. Now it was time to move on.

Alison had pinned pictures to the board at the front of the murder investigation room. She was drawing arrows from some pictures to others as Hannah entered. The DI didn’t see her come in, as her back was to the room, so Hannah hovered in the doorway.

The desks were all crowded with computer equipment and papers. Some also showed the remains of early morning breakfasts: coffee cups and fast-food containers, half-eaten cakes and chocolate wrappers. Most of the detectives were standing, taking in the pictures on the board. Only DC Luke Hughes sat, in his wheelchair, behind a desk at the front of the room.

Hannah was unsure whether to announce her presence or stand at the door waiting for someone to see her. She took a step into the room and DS Crowther spotted her.

‘Good morning,’ he said, with his hard-to-resist smile. ‘And welcome to MIT.’

Crowther was five feet, four inches, and only then with the right lifts in his shoes. The man hadn’t the faintest idea of either dress sense or colour coordination. Today, he was wearing a navy-blue cardigan that had possibly been knitted fifty years ago, which had dropped and lengthened with over-washing and would now fit a stilt-walker. The T-shirt underneath the cardigan was a vivid shade of mauve. His jeans were a good fit apart from the legs; the bottoms had been rolled up to avoid him tripping over. His shoes were the seventies-style boots he always ordered, with inside lifts for maximum height. His hair, which was black and curly, had been over-gelled so it stood on end. Rumour had it that he styled it this way to look taller. It had the opposite effect. DS Stephanie Green, who argued with him constantly, referred to his hair as a hedgehog that had mated with a poodle. Nevertheless, he had a cute face, and enormous, kind, brown eyes with huge eyelashes. He was a first-class detective with a reputation for missing nothing, and remembering everything. Professional respect for him was immense, and his popularity extreme. He seemed to bring out a protective instinct in women, and always had more than his fair share of female conquests.

Hannah acknowledged him with an unsure smile, and mumbled, ‘Morning,’ back to him. The sound of her voice made Alison immediately turn around. She greeted her new DC in a reassuring tone.

‘Hannah. Hello, come on in.’ Then, addressing the room, Alison announced, ‘Please welcome our new trainee detective, Hannah Kemp. I know most of you know Hannah from her previous role as a PC, but for those who don’t, she has been off on compassionate leave. She was on duty in the riots ten months back, which led to her kidnap – we will all have heard the rest of that story. She was new to the force, only a year out of Hendon, and acted with such courage, she was honoured with an award for her outstanding bravery, quick thinking, and calmness in a highly dangerous situation. She requested to come back and applied to cross over into MIT. I know it’s still early days in her career, but I am delighted to have her on our team. I know she will be a great asset.’

Alison gave Hannah a reassuring smile, before continuing, ‘Please everyone, be patient, help her learn the ropes, and listen to her. She has the makings of a great detective.’ She turned to Hannah, who was blushing and clearly feeling a little overwhelmed. ‘I know you must be feeling apprehensive,’ Alison said with warmth. ‘But we are your colleagues, so please feel free to come to any of us at any time for advice.’

The room broke into thunderous applause. Hannah nodded her thank you, feeling too full of painful memories to speak.

‘Right, back to business,’ Alison said, turning back to the whiteboard. She picked up a ruler and pointed to photos of three charred and unrecognisable cadavers.

‘We have heard back from Fire Forensics who are ninety-nine per cent sure the Apple Tree Close fire was arson,’ she told the room. ‘A full investigation is still ongoing, so more to come on that. And the bodies have been identified: Danielle Low –’ Alison pointed to a drawing of the three-storey building that had housed three flats – ‘she lived alone on the ground floor. And Tom and Ann Dowd, who lived on the second floor – the top floor. The occupier of the first-floor flat, a Del Harris, was, fortunately, away at the time of the fire. Danielle Low –’ Alison pointed the ruler at a photo showing the severely charred remains of a woman – ‘was found in the lounge of her ground-floor flat. The arsonist might well have known that, as the curtains weren’t drawn.’

Alison turned back to the room. ‘This flat was where the fire was started. So, we concentrate, first, on getting to know about Danielle.’ She then pointed the ruler at the next photo – the couple whose bodies had been photographed next to each other, and again, were totally unrecognisable. ‘Mr and Mrs Dowd had no chance of getting out. The flames spread within minutes. Del Harris, who lived alone, came back from work to find the building burning and surrounded by fire engines. Questions?’

‘Was anything left?’ Colin Crowther asked. ‘Anything possessions-wise, guv? And has Forensics given us anything to go by, from the area outside? Cigarette butts? Footprints? Is there CCTV? Anyone seen in the area?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Nothing at all, as yet,’ she said. ‘You are going to oversee the door-to-door with the uniform team, Col, as you’re mentioning it. The neighbours have been evacuated for now, so that means finding out where to, and following that through. Someone must have seen something. There’s a pub opposite the close, that would have been open. Get a list of any customers, and interview staff that were there yesterday. The close is tiny, and it’s adjacent to a row of shops. Unfortunately, it was Sunday, but we need to know: were any of them open, or was anyone in their shop doing the accounts or whatever? Flats above the shops would have a good view of the road. Was anyone there, looking out their window?’

‘Ma’am.’ Crowther nodded, taking the instruction.

Alison added, ‘Can you take Hannah with you, Col? Show her the area.’

The tone of his voice changed. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he nodded. Alison was immediately aware of the murmur that went round the room.

‘But a word in my office before you go,’ she added. ‘Rest of you, background checks on the victims. CCTV footage checks if we can get some. Luke will oversee all of this.’

Luke Hughes nodded from his wheelchair. ‘Guv.’

She then turned to Stephanie Green. ‘Can you track down Del Harris and interview him, please, Steph? He’ll have something to say, I’m sure.’

‘Ma’am,’ Stephanie answered from the back of the room. Her fingers, which she held to her mouth as she spoke, were sticky with chocolate and crumbs from the croissant that she had just consumed. There were smears of it around her cheeks, too. Baz Butler, one of the other detectives on the team, who was walking past with fellow detectives Les Mitchell and bald-headed Nigel, handed her a serviette. There was an empty bag on her desk advertising the burger she had also eaten, and beside that was a large paper cup of coffee. Stephanie was a large woman with a large appetite, for sex as well as food. She and Colin Crowther spent most of their time making jibes at each other. She tried to seduce all the men in the building, and Crowther all the women. Alison kept out of it. Both were excellent detectives, and she was always glad to have them both on her team.

Stephanie wiped one of her chocolate-stained hands down the side of her jeans and picked up a pen.

‘Del Harris was out at the time of the fire,’ Alison reminded her, reading from the notes on her desk. ‘I have an address for his mother in Putney, where he’s staying. Find out how well he knew the others in the flats, and how well they all got on. Also, any regular visitors to the ground-floor flat he had noticed. And where he was at the time of the arson, and who saw him. He could be a suspect.’

Stephanie now had the croissant bag turned upside down and was tipping the crumbs onto her open palm. She nodded to Alison, then threw the flaky crumbs into her mouth. She then squeezed the paper bag into a ball, dropped it on her desk, and grabbed her large man’s parka from the back of her chair and left the room.

‘That’s it, see you all later,’ Alison told them, then added, ‘Crowther, my office.’

The latest findings from the fire had just been placed on Alison’s desk. As she opened the first page, she heard a knock at her door.

‘Come in, Col,’ she said. ‘Have a seat.’

‘Problem?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘No, just advice.’

He grinned. ‘That’s normally the other way round, isn’t it? So, I’ll presume all is good, then, in the love nest with the guv’nor?’

‘Yes. This is not about Banham. Listen, I’m not going to tread on eggshells here. You and I go back too far. So, I can say to you what I wouldn’t say to any of the others, though, obviously not in front of them.’

‘What is it you want to say, Alison? Although, I can guess.’ Crowther leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and crossed his ankles, then lifted his overgrown eyebrows and grinned. ‘Don’t seduce Hannah Kemp?’

Alison was staring at his socks. Either, one had faded, or they were odd socks. One was brownish and the other beige. She decided not to mention it. Normally, his dress sense was a lot worse. She adored him anyway. They were very close, having worked together for many years, and had got each other out of many a scrape. He was one of the few officers she confided in.

‘Col, I want you to be serious. We both know how much Hannah suffered in that hostage situation. It broke her marriage up, before it even began.’

He stayed leaning back in his chair with his arms folded. ‘I knew this was going to be one of your lectures about keeping my hands to myself.’

‘This is her first day back after months of compassionate leave,’ Alison argued. ‘I’ve paired her with you because I know you’ll take care of her and teach her. And that is what she needs.’

His eyebrows were raised as he nodded. ‘Oh, and definitely no hanky-panky. That’s what you want to say, isn’t it, mate.’

‘In a nutshell, yes.’

‘I like women, we all know that, Ali. But I ain’t that insensitive. I know what she’s been through. I was there when it happened – we both were.’ He paused, then added, ‘Listen, that woman is strong, and resilient, and brave. She was hardly out of training when the hostage situ happened. And look how she coped. With guts and great intelligence. She’ll be an asset to this team. I ain’t gonna compromise that.’

‘And that’s why I’ve put her with you. She wanted to come back to work. The medical team advised her to stay off longer, but she was adamant. And she wanted to be in this department. I gave her a reference despite the fact she had had little experience even as a PC before that happened. Because, I agree, she has the makings of a great detective. But we must remember, sharp as her brain is – and it is – she’s inexperienced. She is going to make mistakes. And I need someone who will cover for her and help her through them – and keep a sharp eye out and report everything back to me.’

‘Course.’

‘And it needs to be done discreetly.’

‘I’m your man.’

Alison nodded. ‘I know that. Now, listen. Her ex-fiancé, PC Peter Byfield, has been sent to another station in Chelsea. Everyone thought that best. He’s still phoning her regularly, apparently, and won’t give her space. She broke off the engagement because she felt she needed more time to heal. So, don’t fuck with her head. Just help her. Got it?’

‘Is that it, Alison? A lecture on not being lecherous?’

‘No lecture, just a friend asking a friend.’

‘I won’t,’ he assured her, standing up and heading for the door. ‘Anything else, or can I go and do my job?’

‘Yes, there is something else. Your socks don’t match.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, and your hair. I prefer it without gel.’

‘Christ, don’t tell me you fancy me too!’

She burst out laughing. ‘Oh, do stop. It’s a tactful way of saying you need a haircut. Now, go and find the bastard arsonist,’ she said, then shook her head and added. ‘I really don’t know what women see in you.’

‘They don’t see, Ali, they feel. That’s the secret.’ He winked at her, then turned and left the office.

The short close containing the Apple Tree Apartments was set off a small main road. As Stephanie approached it, she took a detour around the block. The CCTV cameras on the road had been sprayed with black paint, leaving them useless. The Fire Forensics unit were moving around the badly damaged building. Some were on their hands and knees in the road, outside the police cordons, scraping up tiny particles of mud, or dirt, or anything that might assist in finding the person who had set the building on fire and murdered three people. A red-and-white police DO NOT ENTER cordon had been secured at both ends of the main road.

Stephanie parked her green Honda, flashed her warrant card to the two PCs standing guard by the tape, and signed the book to say she was officially entering a crime scene, then donned forensic overalls. The chief fire officer, Callum, was watching her as she walked towards him. She knew him well; she’d had a one-night fling with him many years ago, when she was a uniformed PC and he a serving fire officer.

She had pulled her face mask over her mouth to block the smoky fumes that still hung in the air. She lifted it up as she neared the building to enable herself to speak. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked, addressing Callum, who was looking serious.

‘Fire was started on the ground floor,’ he told her.

‘Yes, we have that.’

‘That’s as much as we’re sure of. Remnants of a petrol-filled cloth were found on the carpet where it landed, in the bedroom at the back. Also particles of a glass bottle. Arson, for sure.’

‘Window was broken, I see,’ Stephanie added. ‘Can I go in?’

‘Sorry, Steph, no, not yet.’

‘What kind of bottle was it? Do we know that?’

‘Looks more like a jar,’ the fire officer told her. ‘There were some glass fragments left that weren’t from the window. All gone to Forensics, so we’ll let you know more when we know.’

‘Thanks.’

She looked at her notebook. Del Harris had been interviewed by the local uniforms just after the fire, and was staying in Putney with his mother. Nothing else she could find here, just yet. She thanked Callum and headed back to her car to make her way to Putney.

Hannah Kemp was sitting in the passenger seat beside Crowther in his black BMW.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her.

‘Raring to go.’

‘It’s overseeing door-knocking. That sort of thing. So nothing too complicated to start you off.’

‘That’s the sort of thing we did as uniformed PCs. You’re a DS, why do you have to do that?’

He smiled at her naivety. ‘Our job is to find the culprit. In this case, the bastard who murdered a young woman and a retired couple. Often, a neighbour or someone will have seen something. That may well lead us to finding our killer. And yes, we call on the help of a uniformed team. Depends on the crime and availability. But it’s an important job. You need to ask the right questions. Someone might just remember something that way. And, there is always a top man on the door-to-door.’ He raised his eyebrows again. ‘That’s me, in this case. There aren’t many neighbours around here. It’s a small close, so what they saw or heard could make a lot of difference. Ask them where they were, what they remember was happening around that time for them. Push th. . .