A Taste For Burning Part 2

They eyed one another levelly, then Donovan began to chuckle. After a half-offended moment David joined in. 'What's so funny? I've spent four days living in a van because some WASP ferret fancier doesn't want me contaminating his home. What's so frigging funny about that?'

Still laughing, Donovan shook his head. 'When he gets back from c.u.mbria, try again. Clean up, put on a tie: he 24.won't recognize you. Tell him Mr Shapiro couldn't wait so the magazine sent you instead. Tell him your name's Seamus O'Flynn.'

'Why?'

'Then you'll see what a b.u.m's rush is really like.'

In the middle of the night, sleeping as he often did, not in his bed but on it, a book propped against his knees, Donovan was jerked awake by sudden mayhem of shouts, running feet, clutching hands. For a crazy moment before he was alert enough to understand he was in the midst of that riot again, trampled under surges of hatred and panic.

Then his mind cleared enough for him to remember where he was and know that it was David Shapiro shaking his arm as if lives depended on it. 'Wha--?' he mumbled. 'What's the matter? What's that--?' His wits sharpened as he registered unexpected light and impossible colours flickering against the bedroom curtain.

'Fire!' yelled David. His sharp face was alight with excitement, his voice vibrant with it. 'The timberyard across the way. It's gone up like a Roman candle.'

25.Before he went topsides Donovan called the Fire Brigade and Queen's Street. Then he hurried on deck.

The sound and the smell reaching down the companionway prepared him for the sight of the fire. The roar of it was like an army on the march, feet and voices and the creak of equipment crammed together in an urgent shapeless chaos of sound. The smell was like walking into a wall, acrid and pungent and so thick there was no saying where the smell left off and the smoke began.

So he was ready for something spectacular; but he was still startled by just how spectacular, how comprehensive, a blaze it was. He froze half out of the hatch, and he knew his mouth was open because he could taste the smoke, but for long stunned seconds he seemed powerless to move.

Fire coated half the sky, leaping up the black sphere and pouring smoke the colour of gunmetal to blot out the few brave stars. There are many flammable substances in a sawmill: resin-rich timber, piles of shavings, drums of preservative. People who sell timber take precautions so there are fewer timberyard fires than there might be. But there are no small ones.

So far as Donovan could see the building was ablaze from end to end. Lumber piled in the alley was burning too, and as he watched the windows of the adjacent garden centre imploded with a sound like musical sh.e.l.lfire, victims of the blistering heat.

26.'David?'

He looked both ways along the wharf and there was all the light he needed to see there was no one on the tow-path. But there was movement on the other boats now as the noise brought sleepers from their beds. Tara and James Brindley were nearest to the fire, both too close for comfort.

Martin Cole's head appeared out of the Brindley's doghouse and Donovan, vaulting on to the tow-path, shouted to him. 'Fire Brigade's on its way. But you'd better move: if that building comes down it'll throw bricks clean across the ca.n.a.l.'

Cole yelled back, 'What about Tara?'

Donovan didn't let himself wonder. 'She'll have to take her chances. Did you see someone -young feller with a camera?'

Cole was already bent over his bow warp, working it loose. 'n.o.body came this way.'

'G.o.d-d.a.m.n.' Two things Donovan was afraid of: facing that fire, edging up on it with the heat searing his eyes, looking into its furious dancing heart, knowing that at any moment it would boil up out of its brick cauldron and spew hot rubble like lava over all the surrounding wharf, in order to find a photographer who wanted a spectacular climax for his CV; and facing said photographer's father and admitting that he hadn't dared search for him.

That swung it. He owed Shapiro, hadn't time to work out how much.

He needed to get to Broad Wharf. David wasn't on the tow-path, and if he'd gone into the alley he was beyond help. The other places you could photograph the fire from were Broad Wharf, where the tow-path opened into an unloading dock on the far side of the timberyard, and Brick-Lane, which ran along the back and was reached by a walkway from the same place. To reach Broad Wharf he'd have to chance the narrow tow-path with the building blazing above him.

27.Donovan was afraid of fire. Not irrationally afraid: he knew exactly what it could do. It destroyed things and people, destroyed them as if they had never been. At the same time there was an unpredictability about it that was almost human. It was impossible to judge how many liberties you could take with it. Provided he was cool and agile enough, a man might dart in front of a runaway train and know that as long as he cleared the track one second before the engine reached him the worst he would suffer would be a buffeting from the slipstream. It wouldn't find an extra burst of speed from somewhere, it wouldn't reach out for him, if it missed him first time it wouldn't throw itself sideways in order to get him that way.

Fire could do all those things and more. It was more like a live enemy than a physical phenomenon. Indeed, any comprehensive definition of life would include fire, and to Donovan that seemed fair enough. That was how it felt to face a fire: like going into battle against a hostile power that had intelligence, strength and weapons of incalculable capacity at its disposal.

None of which altered the situation. To search for David Shapiro with some hope of finding him he had to reach Broad Wharf, and the only way of doing that without a lengthy detour was to pa.s.s behind the burning building and trust that even if the wall was going to come down it wouldn't do it in the ten seconds it would take him. He packed his lungs with smoky air, gritted his teeth and hurled himself into the heat and the danger like a sprinter coming off his blocks.

Halfway -too far from the end, too late to go back he thought he'd guessed wrong and the wall could come down in less than ten seconds. A roar and a gout of flame above him broke his stride and made him duck, throwing his arm up in a fatuous gesture of self-defence. But it wasn't the wall, it was the roof that had gone, charred beams and superheated tin crashing into the furnace 28.below. Donovan ran on and reached the comparative safety of Broad Wharf, where the air was only as hot as a hair-dryer and only as thick as a puff on a Turkish cigar.

He didn't have to look for David. While he was still bent double fighting for breath David appeared at his side, flames dancing in his eyes like wine. He had his camera in one hand and waved it with scant respect for its delicate insides. 'Did you ever see anything like thisT he shouted over the roar.

Donovan didn't know whether to be glad he was safe or furious that he'd risked his neck to find out. He stayed where he was, bent double, breathing heavily.

Sirens in Brick Lane heralded the arrival of the fire engines. Under the cover of water jets, figures in black and yellow oilskins trotted through the walk-way bringing more hoses with them.

'Away out of there, lads,' one of them shouted, the accent instantly identifying Leading Fireman Daniels. Then he peered through the smoke. 'What -Donovan, is it? What you doing here?'

'Nothing,' said Donovan, straightening. 'We're just going.'

David was indignant. 'I'm not finished yet.'

'Oh yes you are,' Donovan said with conviction.

That was when the wall went. It may have been the pressure of the water pouring into the building, it may have been that with the roof gone there was nothing left to hold it together; it may have been that the fire took just that amount of time to do its work. But the wall backing on to the ca.n.a.l began to belly out, as if it were made of rubber, and then -almost in slow motion -it fell.

'Watch yourselves!' yelled Daniels.

But the wall wasn't heading for Broad Wharf, it was falling over the tow-path. Donovan watched stunned as the masonry broke up, filling the air with a lethal hail of sparks and hot brick.

He wasn't a man who put a lot of himself into pos- 29.sessions. Mostly he bought things when he needed them, kept them while they were useful and disposed of them when they were finished with. Apart from his one suit and not-quite-matching tie for formal occasions, he chose his clothes for warmth, comfort and proximity to the store entrance. His music system was so basic it came in one box marked Ca.s.sette Player, and the remote control for his television was a long stick.

There were really only two things he made any emotional investment in. As luck would have it his bike, because it was new and he was still protecting it from the harsh realities of life on the tow-path, was in the garage at Queen's Street with a Fingerprints: Do Not Touch sign on it. But his boat was moored within spitting distance of the building, and he didn't know what he'd see when the dust cleared.

He saw nothing. For a moment he thought there must still be too much rubbish in the air, that he wasn't seeing as far up the wharf as he thought. But the more the dust settled, the clearer the view of the rubble piled high on the tow-path and spilling into the ca.n.a.l, the surer he was that he could see everything there was to be seen. And there was no sign of Tara. No battered hulk strewn with bricks. No superstructure half-sunk in the murky water. Nothing he recognized floating on the boiling, sc.u.mmy surface even. She was gone as if she had never existed.

'Oh, s.h.i.t.'

David touched his arm. 'There.'

Beyond the rubble, beyond the arena lit by the manic glow of the fire, something was moving on the dark water. The throb of an engine reached them over the roar of flames.

'That's the Brindley, Martin Cole's boat. Oh--' He saw it too, the long dark shape skewing awkwardly behind the James Brindley because there was no one at the tiller.

The high pitch of a woman's voice carried to them where a man's wouldn't have. Even so they couldn't hear 30.every word: 'warps' was one and 'sorry' another.

'What's she saying?'

Donovan knew because he knew what must have happened. 'She's apologizing for cutting my warps. They hadn't time to untie her: they cut her loose, got a rope on her and towed her clear.' She couldn't, he knew, have escaped scot-free. There'd be the warps to replace. He'd be lucky if at least some of the flying bricks hadn't found her windows. Her varnish would be scarred by cinders and he'd probably have to repaint to get rid of the soot. But he still had a home.

'You know,' David Shapiro said in all seriousness as they retreated from the danger zone, 'you should have moved her before you came to look at the fire.'

There was a council of war in the DCFs office at eight o'clock. Shapiro was grim. 'Well, we suspected before but after this there can't be any doubt. It's arson. I'm not even going to consider the possibility of three major fires in a week, all of them accidents.'

'I don't know how else to put this,' said Donovan, his face devoid of expression. 'But is there a coloured gentleman in the woodpile?'

Detective Inspector Graham didn't understand, looked at him blankly. 'What?'

With a faint smile Shapiro explained. 'The two previous fires were on premises owned by Pakistanis. Sergeant Donovan's wondering about the timberyard.' He pulled a printout across the desk towards him. 'But according to this the place is owned by a.s.sorted members of the Evans family. An Evans founded it and his grandsons are the current owners.' One eyebrow twitched sardonically. 'Not a lot of Pakistanis called Evans, are there, Sergeant?'

'Not a lot, sir, no,' said Donovan, deadpan.

'What were you thinking?' asked Liz. 'Attacks on immigrant businesses?'

'Could be. We also wondered, since both the previous 31.attacks were on defunct businesses, if it was for the insurance and the torch was someone known to both Asil Younis of Hereward Holdings and Rachid--'

'Rachid Aziz,' supplied Donovan, 'aged thirty-seven, of Flat 3, 102 Rosedale Road.'

'And Rachid Aziz of Rachid's Eight-Till-Late off Milne Road,' Shapiro finished seamlessly. 'But the Evans family rather upset that calculation, in more ways than one. Not only are the owners not Pakistanis, their business was thriving -it's hard to see why they'd prefer to have the insurance. There may be a connection that we haven't thought of yet. Or the only connection may be that these three places were handy when someone who gets a kick out of fires happened along.'

'So who do we talk to and what do we ask?'

'The owners,' decided Shapiro. 'It's the only line we can pursue till we turn something up. Donovan's going to see Rachid and I was going to talk to Mr Younis. Could you take that over, Liz? I've got to go and see Sir when he gets in.'

Liz chuckled. In the portly, sonorous, mid-fifties Detective Chief Inspector there remained traces of the schoolboy. She amused herself with the image of him waiting outside Superintendent Taylor's office twisting his cap in his hands. 'About this?'

'I expect so,' said Shapiro. 'What else?'

As they split up he signalled Donovan to wait. 'About last night. I don't know why David was staying with you when I've got a bed for him at home. But it looks to me -from what you've told me, and what I was told by the Fire Brigade who were rather more forthcoming, not to mention displeased -that my son's actions were the direct cause of the damage to your boat.'

'The fire,' Donovan said, 'was the direct cause of the damage to my boat. ISuch as it is. I'll fix it up come the weekend.'

Shapiro wasn't satisfied. 'It was David's fault you hadn't 32.time to move it before the building fell on it.'

'If I hadn't been looking for David I'd have been looking for whoever started the fire, or making sure there was no one else in danger. With or without David, the boat was always going to be a low priority.'

'All the same, I don't want you out of pocket.'

'I won't be. That's what insurance is for. That's why I pay the premium every year. Stop worrying, Chief, everything's fine.'

'What about tonight? I can put you both up if you can't stay there.'

Donovan rolled his eyes. 'Tell you what, Chief. If I need a piece of cardboard for the window I'll come straight to you. Otherwise, forget it.' With that he left, closing the door behind him.

Shapiro sighed, disappointed. He'd hoped for a windfall out of this, that he'd get his son under his own roof for a few days. But David wouldn't come unless Donovan did, and pride stopped him putting it to his sergeant like that.

The phone rang. Station Officer Silcott was tired after his night's exertions, but more than that he sounded grim. 'It's just got nasty, Frank.'

'It is arson, then.'

'Oh, it's arson all right, but that's not what I meant. We've found a body. Someone was sleeping under the pallets in the alley -dosser, probably, though there wasn't much left for an ID. Poor sod never had a chance. I guess that makes it a minimum of manslaughter.'

33.Rachid Aziz had a wife, two daughters, a flat rather too small for them, an elderly hatchback and a job stacking supermarket shelves that was whittling away, pound by pound, the debts incurred when his own shop failed.

'What was the problem?' asked Donovan. 'A corner shop like that: you might never get rich but I wouldn't have thought you'd have gone bust either.'

'I was unlucky,' said Mr Aziz, his eyes low as if confessing a sin. 'I borrowed money to buy the shop. Then the interest rates went up so all my profit went to cover the debt. Then the council demolished three streets of small houses on the far side of Milne Road and erected a bus station and a multi-storey car park. No doubt these are most useful facilities but they don't buy groceries the way three streets of small houses did.'

'When did you close?'

'I tried to sell the business first,' said Aziz. 'But it was obvious to all that if I couldn't make it pay neither could anyone else. Then I tried to sell the building. Only prices had dropped twenty per cent since I bought it so even if I found a buyer I would still be in debt. I played for time, hoping the recession would end. But it got worse, and then I couldn't sell the shop at all. Little businesses like mine were closing all over the country, who was going to put their money into one now? Finally I had no choice but to seek work elsewhere and let the shop lie empty.

34.This was in April.' He smiled sadly. 'At the end of the financial year.'

Donovan did the sum. 'And after six months you were still looking for a buyer and still paying the interest on your loan?'

'Oh, yes. It is not easy, but then neither was running the shop. At least with the supermarket I know how much money I will have at the end of each week.'

'It must have been a relief when the place burned down,' suggested Donovan.

Aziz met his eyes. 'Oh, yes. It was of course insured as a condition of the loan. Because the market value has fallen the insurance company will not pay out the full amount, but it will pay off most of my debt. By working hard I will pay the rest.'

Donovan pursed his lips and wondered how to phrase the next question. Rachid Aziz saved him the trouble. 'So now you are wondering if I went there on Friday night with a can of petrol and a box of matches, and solved my problems that way. Yes?'

'Yes,' admitted Donovan.

'The answer, Sergeant Donovan, is no. If you ask if I am pleased, then the answer to that is that I am very pleased. If you ask how long I could have managed had something like this not happened, the answer is not very long and I was most dreadfully worried. If you ask whether it had occurred to me to burn my shop, then I have to confess that it had, more than once.

'And still I tell you that I did not do it, that I do not know who did, that I never paid anyone to do it and never asked anyone to do it. And if you ask why you should believe me when there seems every reason not to, all I can say is that I did not do it and never would have done it because it would be wrong.'

Donovan's instinct was to believe him. He saw many people in the course of his work, many of them crooked, some of them dumb enough to be obvious crooks, some of 35.them clever enough to make you wonder. But he thought Rachid Aziz wasn't even one of those so much as an honest man.

However, he'd been a policeman long enough to know that no amount of intuition was a subst.i.tute for evidence. 'Where were you on Friday night? Between finishing work and about midnight when the fire started.'

Aziz cast his mind back, gave an apologetic shrug. 'I was at home, with my family. They will confirm this. But you would not expect them to say I was out burning down my shop.'

So he had to settle for intuition after all. 'OK, Mr Aziz. I'll probably want to see you again at some point, but I don't expect ypu're planning on leaving the country, are you?'

Aziz risked a little smile. 'Not until the insurance on my shop comes through.'

As he was leaving another question occurred to Donovan. 'Do you know Mr Asil Younis at all?'

The open countenance of Mr Aziz shut like a box. Ice cracked in his voice. 'Indeed I do not.'

Donovan raised an eyebrow. 'And don't want to, by the sound of it. Why, what's wrong with him?'

Aziz's lips were tightly compressed and for a moment he resisted answering. Then he relented. 'Sergeant Donovan, Mr Younis is a very successful businessman. He came to this country with nothing, now he is a wealthy man with a big house in the best part of Cambridge Road. His sons are successful also, and he made for his daughter a good marriage. He is a most generous benefactor of our mosque. These things notwithstanding, Sergeant, Mr Younis is not a good man.'

This was all news to Donovan. 'You mean he's a crook?'

Aziz gave a little shake of the head. 'That I cannot say, not knowing the details of his business activity. All I can say is that Mr Younis is not a man whose company I would seek. Not a man whose family I would wish my family to a.s.sociate with.'

36.Donovan scratched his head but couldn't get Aziz to say more. When asked how he'd formed this opinion of a man he didn't know, all he would say was that as members of the same small community they naturally heard things about one another that outsiders would not. Asked if he knew anything about Mr Younis that the police should know, Mr Aziz would go no further than repeating that Mr Younis was not a good man.

Donovan knew better than to beat his head against a stone wall. He left Aziz standing stiffly by the mantelpiece, unconsciously fiddling with the photographs.

The house on Cambridge Road was about as grand as a house can be before people start talking snidely of stately homes. It was between-the-wars Palladian, with a Portland stone colonnade forming the frontage. A blink of aquamarine through the windows on one side of the pedi mented doorcase suggested a swimming-pool. In front of the house the gravel drive made a graceful sweep round a circle of manicured lawn featuring a bronze sundial on a marble plinth.

To go with all this Liz expected a butler. But when she said who she was and asked to see Mr Younis, the small man in the dark suit who answered the door held it wide and said, 'I am Asil Younis, Inspector Graham, how may I help you?'