Natasha got out of her bed, in one of the spare rooms of the Jameson’s house and put on her dressing gown, going down the stairs and making her way to the front door to collect the day's milk delivery.
On opening the front door she noticed that two small holes had been punched through the bottle tops of each of the milk bottles. Natasha thought that birds making holes in milk bottle tops was just a story from her parent's era, but perhaps not though she'd certainly never experienced the problem at her flat, but then she did live in town.
Natasha decided that before she would wake Stephanie, she would make sure the Jameson’s daughter’s breakfast was ready.
Natasha’s employers had left strict instructions that during the week, albeit a holiday week, their daughter would have to be up and ready for eight thirty. This was because they were preparing her for the time when she would start full time work, even though their daughter was still only nine years old.
Natasha wondered about whatever had happened to childhood. She couldn’t recall her own parents ever behaving in this way; but she had her instructions and the Jameson’s daughter didn’t seem to have any problems with the way her life was.
Natasha poured the milk over her charge’s cereal. She then poured herself a coffee and topped the contents of the cup up with milk. It was now time to go and wake the young girl.
Natasha walked up the stairs and stood outside the bedroom door.
“Stephanie,” Natasha called in a quiet voice, “it's time to wake up.” There was no response.
“STEPHANIE!” the nanny yelled. “It's time to wake up.” Natasha heard the young girl stir at last.
“Whaaat?” was the response.
“Stephanie, it's breakfast time,” her nanny said.
“Okay. I'm coming,” the Jameson's daughter responded, slowly dragging herself from her warm and comfy bed.
After much delay and daydreaming the nine-year-old finally, made her way down to the breakfast table where Natasha was waiting.
“Have your breakfast, Steph, and then we'll do some fun things today.”
Stephanie started eating her cereal and Natasha drunk her coffee.
As the young girl was about to put the last spoonful of her cereal in her mouth, she dropped the spoon. Natasha had already finished her coffee.
“Natasha,” Stephanie said, grimacing, “I don't feel so good.”
“What's wrong darling?” Natasha asked, concerned with what her charge had just said, it was certainly unusual and she hoped the little girl wasn’t coming down with a bug or something.
Before she could get an answer Stephanie keeled over, falling from the breakfast stool, landing in a heap on the kitchen floor.
Natasha leapt up attempting to get to the young girl. But as she stood a sudden lethargy overcame her muscles and she felt as if the air around her had turned into a thick and restricting treacle. Before she could cover the miniscule distance between her and the child her vision blurred. Natasha raised her arms slowly to rub her eyes, without result, and before she could do anything else she collapsed next to the Jamesons' daughter, also unconscious.
After an hour had passed the Jameson’s kitchen door opened slowly and an intruder entered. The stranger quickly located some short wax tea-lights in the kitchen's cupboards drawers and smiled; how convenient it was, that mostly, people behaved in the same manner, keeping the same types of thing in the same types of places.
Removing the short wax candles carefully from the drawer the interloper placed a few on the top shelf of the breakfast bar and lit them. Moving slowly, stepping over the deeply slumbering bodies, the trespasser crossed the kitchen to the hob and turned on the gas. After the hob started spewing forth its gas, the interloper performed the same action for the oven and the fake log fire in the lounge.
It wouldn't be long before the gas from the appliances had filled the whole ground level from ceiling to floor, to be ignited by the burning tea-lights. The intruder knew that neither the Jameson's daughter nor the nanny would feel a thing; they'd had enough of the soporific drug, which had been injected into the milk bottles earlier, to keep them asleep for a week.
The fact that the house was in Belsize and so far out in the sticks meant that any evidence would be destroyed by the ensuing fire long before the alarm was raised. The intruder left the house satisfied.
Stephanie stirred and opened her eyes; the rotten egg smell of the gas had brought her round, slightly. She was conscious enough to see the little candles twinkling in the blurred vision of her half-opened eyes just before the gas in the room ignited.
The last thing she felt was the sudden rush of heat as the fumes combusted taking her breath away, lighting the gas in her lungs and melting her hair. A back draught peeled the skin from her face but by this time she was not aware.
The house exploded outwards, scattering debris across the Jameson’s front and back garden; a yellow-orange fire quickly began to consume what remained.
After being woken from their sleep by a huge explosion, the Jameson's nearest neighbour in the private lane peered out of their window.
A plume of smoke was wheedling its way into the air from a source further up the private road, the neighbour immediately called the fire service.
Janus was sitting in his kitchen reading the morning paper and having a cup of coffee, when he got the call.
“Am I speaking to Janus Malik?” the call started after Janus had picked up his phone, not giving him a chance to say anything.
“Yes,” Janus replied, curious as to who the caller was.
“Mr Malik, this is Thames Valley police, we need to speak to you about an incident that occurred earlier this morning.”
“Okay,” Janus said, happy to help the police, if he could. But he couldn’t imagine why they should be calling him, particularly the Thames Valley police.
“Would you mind remaining at home until we can get someone to you?”
“I suppose,” Janus said. “What's this about though?”
“I would prefer it if we could talk to you face to face,” the officer on the other end of the line said. “Would this be a problem?”
“No,” Janus replied; his heartbeat increasing. He was getting worried. What could this mean?
“Okay, sir. We'll be sending someone around in about twenty minutes or so.” Janus’s telephone line clicked as the police officer put the phone down.
Janus was seriously concerned. What was going on? He was annoyed that he’d been caught so unawares that he hadn't even thought to insist the caller tell him why he had been phoned, instead of capitulating so readily.
Janus picked up his TV remote and switched to the news channel. If there was anything as serious as he felt the call had intimated then it would surely be on the news. There was nothing, at least there was nothing local. He tried a few other news channels but the result was the same. He turned the TV off.
All that he could do now was to wait for the arrival of whoever it was and then try to ascertain what was going on.
Not another nightmare please
, he thought to himself.
Eventually his door phone buzzed and Janus stopped reading his newspaper; putting it down he made his way from his kitchenette to the entry phone, lifting it.
“Hello. Who is it?” Janus asked.
“It's the police. Can we come in?”
“Of course.” Janus pressed the button that unlocked the downstairs door. Within a few minutes there was a rap at his front door. He opened it and two uniformed officers entered.
“Do you have somewhere to sit?” the first officer queried.
“Yes, over here,” Janus indicated the way to his lounge.
“Please take a seat, Mr Malik,” the second police officer instructed.
Janus sat down on his sofa, not knowing what else to do.
“What's this about officers?” Janus asked both of the policemen.
“Mr Malik, I am PC Evans and my colleague here is PC Stone. We are here to question you about the whereabouts of Mr Richard Jameson.”
“Why's that? Can't you find him in the phone book? Why'd you need me?”
“Mr Malik, earlier this morning there was an explosion at Mr Jameson’s house. We need to contact Mr Jameson about this. We know you’re a close friend and our attempts to contact him have so far been unsuccessful.”
“If he's not at his house I don't know where he is,” Janus answered crossly.
“Mr Malik, if he was at his house then he's dead. The house was completely destroyed by an explosion this morning,” PC Stone explained in a manner so blunt it could have been construed as malicious rather than matter of fact.
Janus was stunned. Richard dead? He couldn't accept it. Janus closed his mind to any scenario suggesting Richard's death. If Richard's house had been destroyed then so would Richard be, and his family. This couldn't be possible.
“Are you telling me that Richard was not in the house when the explosion occurred? Why would you be asking me about his whereabouts if you believed he was dead?”
“At this moment we do not know for sure whether Mr Jameson was in his house or not. The fact that we cannot contact him, or his wife for that matter, leads us to believe he may well have been in the house. But there is a lot more work we need to do before we can establish this as a fact.”
“I'm sorry officer; if Richard was not there then I have no idea where he is.”
“Are you sure about this, Mr Malik?”
“Of course I am,” Janus pleaded.
“Thank you, Mr Malik. I would request that, until our investigations are over, you inform us if you decide to go anywhere. This is just procedure of course,” the police officer attempted to reassure him.
“Oh, okay. I've no plans to go anywhere.”
What's going on?
Janus thought.
“Thank you for your time. I'm sure we'll be talking again.” The police constable passed Janus a card. “If you can think of anything appropriate to our investigation or can put us in touch with Mr Jameson then please call the number on the card.”
“Thank you officer, I can assure you I will.” With that last statement the two policemen left Janus's flat.
Janus poured himself another coffee and sat down heavily on his sofa. What the hell was going on?
Janus tried Richard's mobile number but all he got was the voice mail.
At the same time Janus was attempting to answer the questions the police were putting to him in his flat, Detective Inspector Davis, from the Thames Valley police, was questioning the fire service’s officer-in-charge about the ins and outs of the explosion that had occurred at the Jameson's house. They were both standing in the lane away from the remains of the house.
“As far as we can tell, and this is obviously our initial view, the explosion was probably due to a gas leak,” the fire officer explained to the police detective. “As you can see, now that we've put the fire out, there's not much of the property left, and what does remain has been scattered. I would say that this was probably a particularly large gas leak, if it was a gas leak at all, but until we get the fire investigation team in, I can't say any more.”
“Will you be able to tell if this was deliberate?” the detective questioned further.
“If there was any accelerant used to start this, it's very likely that we will find it. You'll be surprised what traces chemicals leave even after a fire of this size.”
“Thanks. One final question; was there anyone in the house?”
“We can’t tell at the moment,” the fireman responded. “As soon as we know, you will know.”
“Thanks.” The detective left the fire officer, adding additional notes to his pocket book.
News of the explosion was logged in the Thames Valley police computer and filtered back to other police forces in the surrounding areas, notably the Met, that same morning.
The preliminary details were sketchy but the owner of the house was very apparent, unless the land registry was out of date, which was quite unlikely; the house belonged to one Richard Jameson of publishing fame.
***
Chief Superintendent Harris entered his office expecting to get on with the paperwork which usually cluttered his in-tray, but before he could even sit down he noticed a fresh piece of paper lying on the top. He picked up the newly arrived report and looked at it severely. Harris sighed. The property in the report could not belong to the same Richard Jameson he'd met with when dealing with Jameson Publishing's secretary's suicide. This had to be a coincidence; the Strickland case had been closed around a week ago, an obvious suicide and could not have anything to do with the gas leak at the Jameson's house. This guy must just be very unlucky, the Superintendent thought to himself.
Chief Superintendent Harris was only a few months away from early retirement, the last thing he needed was a case he had closed, in London, being opened again due to some artificial link to something that had happened in the Thames Valley area. How would that look to the board of commissioners, if he’d prematurely closed a case? The thought did not warrant any consideration.
Everything else to do with his position was complete or nearly complete, ready for his leaving the following month. He was certain that there was no link between the two incidents and that was fact as far as he was concerned.
He picked up his office phone. “Can you get my car here immediately?”
“Of course, sir,” came the reply.
Within minutes Chief Superintendent Harris was in his car and the police driver was motoring towards Chorleywood, somewhere off junction 18 on the M25. Once they were at Chorleywood they'd easily make their way to Belsize and the scene of the latest incident and where Richard Jameson lived.
In the past Harris had recommended several of his officers to the Thames Valley region after they'd requested redeployment out of the Met's area. He understood the requests; the London beat was not for everyone. However, in granting those requests, he'd made sure that the officers concerned realised the recommendation didn't come without its ties.
Harris hoped that there was at least one of his former staff on site and in charge, otherwise he would have to think of another ploy to assist in the resolution of the investigation and to ensure the outcome only indicated Richard Jameson was at the centre of a set of very unfortunate and awful coincidences.
As his car pulled up to the perimeter of the roped off area he recognised DS Davis walking away from one of the firemen.
“Stop here,” he instructed his driver. The driver stopped and Harris wound down his window.
“What's the news, Sergeant Davis?” Harris queried.
“Hello, sir.” Davis answered the car passenger's query with surprise, recognising the questioner. “What brings you to our neck of the woods? And it's Detective Inspector now, sir.”
“Well, Detective Inspector, what can I say, congratulations?” Harris offered.
“No need to, sir. Anything I can do for you?” Davis asked.
“Just wondering what's happening here.”
“So far it looks like an accident. No bodies have been found and we're still trying to reach the property's owner.
As soon as the fire investigation team have finished they'll let us know if there was anyone inside when the building went up.”
“Good. And is this an accident?”
“The initial view is that it was an accident; a gas leak in fact,” Davis confirmed.
“Good,” Harris said adding; “When will you know for sure?”
“As soon as we get the report from the fire investigation officer, sir.”
“Okay. I want to know as soon as you do, if not before,” Harris said in an unwarranted firm manner.
“Yes, sir,” Davis replied, frowning at the stern way he’d been addressed by his former Guv’.
“And Davis…,” Harris continued.
“Yes, sir?” Davis answered, knowing he didn’t want to hear anymore.
“Don't doubt that this is an accident. Okay Davis? You understand me? An accident,” Harris reiterated for the final time.
“Yes, sir,” Davis replied, slowly, and not entirely happy with what was being suggested, but also realising the outcome his former boss was after; and in reality knowing what he would have to deliver if his past was not going to come to light all of a sudden.
***
Davis thought back to his time in the Met. Most of his time had been good but in the last few years of his duty with the Met it had been an awful and difficult time; especially when a suspect had died in an operation he’d been in charge of. He owed his former Guv’ a lot.
Although, he thought to himself; recalling the incident…
If an internal investigation had got underway at the time, Davis was fairly certain that he would have been exonerated but mud sticks, and to have a suspect die during an operation he had been in charge of would most definitely have meant his career would have been curtailed somewhat, at best. At worst he could have lost his job, entire pension and his marriage to boot.
The incident was still firmly stuck in his mind; he doubted he would ever forget it.
He had led a team on a dawn raid on the house of one of the scum who’d been polluting the capital with heroin; nastily cut heroin at that. His team had got onto the case because of an increase in the death rate of those stupid smack heads.
The house had been your usual converted semi-detached house, the pusher had lived in the upstairs flat.
Davis had led the way and the idiot pusher, after all their warnings, had ignored them and confronted Davis when he’d got to the top of the stairs and the entrance to the pusher’s flat.
After a silly and minor struggle, in Davis’s mind, the pusher had ended up falling down the stairs. Normally this would have been understood as part and parcel of the raid, but the idiot scum had fallen down the stairs and broken his neck, killing him outright.
Worst of all, the twat’s idiot wife had witnessed the whole altercation and she’d not been on anything.
His Guv’ had made sure the team’s view recounted an accidental fall; all the pocket books tying up. The whole raid resulted in the incarceration of the pusher’s wife and the quick cremation of her husband’s body.
Davis didn’t suppose anything could come out of any fresh revelation; even if his former Guv’ wanted it. But he knew if it hadn’t been for his boss at the time his life would have, more than likely, turned out completely different and not in his favour, one iota.
Davis sighed inwardly as his Guv’, from a previous life, finished talking to him.
***
Chief Superintendent Harris closed the car's window and instructed the driver to take him back to headquarters.
There could not and would not be a link if he could help it and he was sure Davis would help him in this regard; particularly after the help he had afforded the officer previously and particularly as there was no link between the cases anyway.
Harris was happy with the person investigating the explosion and was happy with the conclusions he had drawn.
Ms Strickland's death and the fire were clearly accidents, unfortunate ones, but accidents all the same. He couldn't afford the Strickland case to be opened again. It wouldn't look good on his constabulary and what was more important — it wouldn't look good on him.
Harris needed to leave the force with a clean slate if he was going to take advantage of his final position in future employment, especially if the winks and nods as to a political career were going to bear fruit.