Free Remains to be Seen by J.M. Gregson Page A

rarely troubled by a human presence.
    Sometimes the odd adventurous hiker would scale the low ridge behind the house, but no footpath was marked on even the large-scale Ordnance Survey maps, and the sheep who were pastured on this rolling and sparsely wooded ground were normally undisturbed.
    On this Thursday morning, a solitary pair of eyes gazed down from the shelter of a group of beeches on to the rear view of Marton Towers. The pale March sun of the earlier part of the week had deserted Lancashire; the day was dank and chill, with the threat of a little drizzle or even sleet before nightfall. From behind the smooth trunk of a mature tree, the man watched the thin column of black smoke, which rose slow and straight into the still air. Then he took a small pair of binoculars from the pocket of his anorak and studied the site of the fire, which had so ravaged this particular section of the estate on the previous evening.
    The single long line of what had been a pleasingly symmetrical appendage to the main house was now broken. There was an ugly gap towards one end, where thirty yards of what had originally been the slated roof of the stables had disappeared completely. On each side of this, partly ruined walls projected irregularly, like broken and blackened teeth.
    On the other side of the scene, where there was access from the road, there were no doubt vehicles and activity, but from this man’s viewpoint on the hill, the ravaged scene looked almost deserted. He had seen a red fire engine leave ten minutes ago. Even from eight hundred yards away he could catch the acrid smell that always hangs about a scene when ancient mortar and dampened wood have been consumed by fire and then doused by foam and water.
    He knew where he was going to scale the wall. Stone walls weren’t difficult, unless they had been exceptionally well maintained. Seven feet of smooth brick could give you problems, but in stone it was normally easy to find foot and hand holds.
    He was over the wall in five seconds, dropping with simian agility to the grass within and moving swiftly to the cover of a clump of rhododendrons, which were heavy with buds. He moved cautiously nearer and nearer to the site of last night’s conflagration, until he could see at first hand the blackened and splintered beams he had studied through the binoculars from half a mile away.
    No one looked out to the rear of the ravaged masonry, even when he moved to within twenty yards of it, even when he could hear the sound of voices from within, even when he could catch the odd word of what was being said. And from here, he could see what he had not been able to see from the hillside.
    There were long blue-and-white plastic strips stretched between newly erected posts at the front of the place, on the side of the gap which was nearer to the main house. They enclosed a rough rectangle which he thought was probably thirty yards by twenty, which began at the rear wall of the terrace which was now so near to him and extended for perhaps ten or fifteen yards out beyond the front wall.
    The man knew what this denoted well enough. The police were here, as well as the firemen. These plastic strips were marking out a scene-of-crime area.
    He moved swiftly but with no real haste back to the rhododendrons. He had thought he would escape undetected from the scene, but when he was almost back at the spot where he had scaled the wall, there was a shout from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a uniformed constable, stepping over the blackened rubble and commanding him to stop. It was an order he was never going to heed.
    He was back over the wall as swiftly and easily as he had entered, his trainers and his hands slipping swiftly into the crannies which gave him leverage. Then he was away up the hillside, gaining height efficiently over ground he knew well. The sheep started away in groups from the route chosen by this unfamiliar intruder, but no hunters pursued him.
    When