Free Little Triggers by Martyn Waites Page A

yet, Mr Larkin,” said Umpleby, looking pointedly in Grice’s direction, “but from what we can piece together so far, it seems as if the fire did indeed start in Mr Houchen’s flat. Antiquated gas supply. Maybe that whisky you mentioned made him clumsy with lighting it. That’s only a theory, of course, but it seems the most logical at the moment.”
    “Right.”
    They fell silent again. A question popped into Larkin’s head; he decided not to ask it. Instead he slowly sipped his tea, trying to look relaxed.
    “So there’s nothing more you can tell us, Mr Larkin?” asked Umpleby.
    “Nothing that’s not in the article,” he replied.
    “Well, in that case …” Umpleby stood up, followed by Grice. He handed his mug back to Larkin – Grice’s tea sat on the floor, untouched. “Thanks for the hospitality. We’ll see ourselves out.”
    “Any time,” said Larkin.
    Grice sidled past him on his way to the door. As he went he curled his lip at Larkin. It could have been anything, a sneer, a smile or an Elvis Presley impersonation. Larkin gave a solemn wink in return.
    As he reached the door, Umpleby paused and turned. “Mr Larkin?” There was a glint in his eye as he spoke. “Perhaps our remarks about your chosen profession were tactless. So if you think there’s something we should know, something perhaps omitted from your article — ” He produced a business card. “You know where to find us.”
    The door shut and Larkin stood alone in the hall. Something was going on, their manner told him that, but he didn’t have a clue as to what it was. He was just glad he’d trusted his instincts and kept quiet.
    He looked at his watch. It wasn’t worth going to bed. With a sigh he padded back to the kitchen, to microwave the remains of his discarded supper for breakfast.
    Bolland was wrapping up his eulogy. Prior to this morning, the office staff had believed Houchen to be just another overweight,sweaty photographer: Bolland’s words left them wondering how they could have failed to notice the true Houchen; the crusading ambassador for truth and justice, blessed with a Gandhi-like wisdom. Larkin shook his head in disbelief.
    The meeting broke up. Slowly, people drifted back to their workstations. Bolland surveyed the office, accepted that applause would not be forthcoming, and motioned Larkin into his office.
    “Twice in two days I’ve been in here, Dave,” said Larkin, attempting to perch on the chrome and leather construction. “Tongues will wag.”
    “Tongues can do what they bloody well want.”
    “Like that, is it?”
    “Yes it is,” said Bolland, leaning forward. “I’ve had the police round here, asking questions.”
    “So have I,” said Larkin.
    “Then catch me up on the investigation, Stephen.”
    “Pardon?” said Larkin. Either Bolland had been picking up hip but obscure slang from American cop shows, or he was fighting a losing grammatical battle.
    “Just tell me what’s been going on,” he demanded irritably. “Was Houchen into something he shouldn’t have been?”
    “I know as much as you, Dave,” said Larkin, comfortably, finding it easier to lie to Bolland than to the police.
    “What did you tell the police?”
    “That he seemed perfectly normal. That he asked me round to his place to share a bottle of malt. They reckon he was pissed and playing with the gas fire.”
    Bolland nodded twice in succession, the corners of his mouth pulled down. “And what d’you think, Stephen?”
    “I think Houchen must have been sharing his flat with Eskimos to want the fire on in the middle of July.”
    “Did you mention that to them?”
    “No.”
    Bolland frowned. “Why not?”
    “Why d’you think? If they reckon he wanted the fire on in this weather then they’re either thicker than they look – which would be hard – or they’re lying.”
    “So why would they lie, Stephen?”
    “Why does anyone lie?” Larkin leaned forward. “Look. Houchen left a message on my