48 Hours - A City of London Thriller by J Jackson Bentley Page A

Eddie,” I
replied.
    “ I know, but you’ll help us out on this, won’t you, lad? It’s
my anniversary this weekend, and I promised the wife I’d take her
somewhere nice. You know how it is. Anyway, that fire I’m supposed
to be looking at, well, I can’t really do it, but you can, can’t
you, lad?”
    I sighed. Another excuse. Two weeks ago it had been his
daughter’s birthday which had prevented him from attending to his
work duties. I wondered what he might come up with next. I hoped
his grandmother was in good health, or she might well be the reason
why he couldn’t cover the weekend yet again, in two weeks’ time.
Grannies do tend to have a habit of passing away at inconvenient
moments, especially when a good excuse is required.
    “ OK, Eddie. Give me the details, and please tell me it’s not
out in the wilds.” I looked at the address I had written down. It
didn’t get much wilder. But hey, it was a balmy evening, almost
midsummer. It wouldn’t be fully dark until nearly midnight, if it
got dark at all. It seemed like a great opportunity to go for a
nice drive in the green, rolling hills of Yorkshire.
    ***
    The road up to where the house was situated wasn’t even on my
map, and I would have struggled to find it at all without the pall
of smoke and flashing blue lights to guide me. A makeshift sign
read Cobben Lane, and I was looking for Crest House. I drove up the
badly rutted road that mainly served farm vehicles, worrying every
inch of the way about my deposit on the hired Volvo. At the very
least the suspension would be wrecked, and at the worst I would
tumble down the hillside, the edge of which seemed to be no more
than six inches from my wheels.
    I drove past a stone built longhouse, typical of the rural
buildings in this area. The longhouse had proved to be the ideal
farmhouse in days gone by. The animals would be stabled in stone
barns either side of the house, the warmth from their bodies
providing extra heat as well as a wind barrier to the human
habitation in the middle.
    Ahead of me stood the smouldering remnants of a house. The
occupants had clearly enjoyed a magnificent view across the valley
from their windows. I parked up and strode over to the firemen who
were cooling down the embers. I didn’t recognise anyone, so I hand
signalled ‘who is in charge’ knowing that my spoken words would be
lost amidst the noise of the pumps and the gushing water, and would
not penetrate the protective headgear of the firemen. They nodded
towards the second fire tender. As I passed the fire engine I
spotted the red van parked on the tarmac. Inside was Rodney Killip,
the area fire investigator. He signalled for me to join him in the
van. I climbed in. He was filling in a pro forma fire report that
was bulldog-clipped to a piece of plywood.
    “ Can’t they give you a proper clipboard, then?” I asked
frivolously.
    “ Spending cuts,” he grumbled. “They’ll be asking us to bring
our own water next, you mark my words. By the way, why did you come
down that old rutted track? Why didn’t you use the tarmac road?
Much better for your fancy car, I’d have thought.” Rod pointed to a
beautiful tarmac road leading off into the distance. He smiled when
he saw the frown on my face.
    We sat and chatted for around five minutes. It seemed that the
lady of the house had been clearing rubbish and had decided to pile
it all up and start a bonfire; not a great idea when the landscape
is tinder dry, after a particularly dry winter and spring. In Rod’s
view she hadn’t built the fire properly, and when the wind swung
around it blew flaming debris and flying sparks onto the roof of
the single storey extension. The flat roof was still littered with
dried leaves and twigs from the previous autumn, and these quickly
caught fire. The lady panicked and, instead of securing the house,
she ran next door for help. By the time help arrived, in the shape
of the fire crew, the flat roof was well ablaze and flames