Free Remains to be Seen by J.M. Gregson

overview and your grasp of strategy contributed to last night’s success, sir.’
    Tommy Bloody Tucker tried to catch his man’s eye with an admonitory glare, but found that Peach’s glassy stare was now fixed as usual on the wall above his head. He searched his mind feverishly for something which would take this bantam cock of a chief inspector down a peg or two. ‘I understand that the operation was not a complete success. That as well as the casualty we have already discussed, a fire occurred, despite the very substantial police presence.’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜What do you mean, “No, sir”? The report I have in front of me speaks of very substantial fire damage in a row of terraced dwellings at Marton Towers. Further details to follow, it says, but clearly very substantial damage. So it’s really rather silly to try to pretend that—’
    â€˜Fire certainly occurred, sir. Substantial damage, as you say. But it wasn’t part of our operation, sir. Very probably had no connection at all with it. The fire did not start, or at any rate was certainly not apparent, until some time after the last police officer had left the scene, sir.’
    Tucker leaned forward and made a note on the pad in front of him, frowning as if he were digesting and recording a complex abstract idea. ‘I’ll make that clear if any of these journos try to raise the matter of the fire at my media conference. Good point that, Peach. No fire until after the last police officer had left the scene. I’ll remember.’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Pity about the damage: it’s the part of the house which used to be the stables, in Victorian and Edwardian days. No impairment of the main house where we snatched the drug villains, fortunately. I’ll be able to let you know how extensive the destruction of the cottages and offices is, in due course.’
    â€˜Oh, there’s no need for you to get involved, Peach. Leave it to the fire-service boys: just make it clear that the fire was nothing to do with us, and keep away, is my advice.’
    â€˜Can’t do that, sir.’
    â€˜Really, Peach, I think I must insist—’
    â€˜Further details have just come in, sir. As you said they would, when you mentioned the fire. I’ll liaise with the fire-service personnel, but it seems there might be a need for police involvement, after all.’
    â€˜If this fire was nothing to do with the raid last night, there really seems little point in—’
    â€˜There’s a body up there, sir.’
    â€˜A body?’
    â€˜A corpse, sir.’ Peach chose monosyllables wherever possible, and spoke as if he was spelling out the idea to a slow-learning child. ‘Found this morning, in one of the cottages, sir. Very little of it left, sir, it seems. I’m going out there to see exactly how much now.’ He looked into the wide-eyed countenance of his superior officer and allowed himself a grim smile. ‘Remains to be seen, as you might say, sir.’
    Marton Towers had an estate of just under a hundred acres. That was modest by comparison with the great English estates, which had originated in medieval days and then been extended by judicious marriages and by supporting the winning sides in national upheavals. But it was large for the first half of the nineteenth century, when this impressive and rather grandiose residence had been built.
    In modern east Lancashire, when twelve houses and more were crowded on to each precious acre, a hundred-acre estate was huge. It was enclosed by a seven-foot-high stone wall, which would in itself have cost as much as a small row of terraced houses to build. The lane which provided the only vehicular access to the Towers ran alongside the wall for a quarter of a mile before it reached the front gates. At the rear, where the boundary of the estate climbed gently up the lower slopes of a hill, the wall was just as well maintained, but