Fire Damage: A gripping thriller that will keep you hooked. Kate Medina

or manslaughter?’

      ‘The only viable print that was lifted from Starkey’s gun was a partial of Jackson’s on the trigger.’

      ‘And Starkey’s? There weren’t any of his?’

      ‘No. The gun was well oiled. It’s almost impossible to lift prints from a well-oiled gun. Forensics said that they were lucky to get the sliver of Jackson’s on the trigger.’

      ‘What about Jackson’s sidearm?’

      ‘It was holstered when he was found. It had recently been cleaned and oiled. No prints.’

      Jessie took a sip of wine, rolled the stem of the glass between her fingers, thinking. ‘Who said that Jackson was being beasted? He could have gone voluntarily. There’s not much else to do out there during downtime and many of the lads are obsessed with fitness.’

      Callan nodded. ‘So that’s where the picture gets muddy. A corporal who shared their quarters said that he walked in on them having an argument.’

      ‘What about?’

      ‘He didn’t catch the subject, just the raised voices. They stopped when he came in and left straight after, to go for the run. But he said that Jackson looked …’ He fell silent, searching for the right words. ‘… off. But not enough so as to make him step in.’

      Jessie frowned. ‘And he was a corporal, so he would have had to feel on very solid ground to question two sergeants.’ Her legs were deadening, pins and needles. She shuffled them from under her, stretched out and put her feet on the coffee table. She saw Callan cast a quick look at her legs. Smoothing her skirt down below her knees, she continued: ‘Starkey and Jackson were the same rank.’

      He looked up and met her gaze, unembarrassed. ‘Yes.’

      ‘So … what’s the psychology behind that?’

      He shrugged. ‘You’re the shrink.’

      Silence, which, after a moment, Callan broke. ‘Starkey had a black eye forming when he was found and bruising to his torso when he was stripped and searched back at camp.’

      ‘And Jackson?’

      ‘His autopsy is booked for the day after tomorrow.’

      ‘How did Starkey explain the black eye and bruising?’

      ‘He didn’t.’

      ‘But he radioed the medics after Jackson was shot?’

      Callan nodded. ‘The shot was heard by the camp guards. Starkey radioed for help straight after.’

      ‘Is Starkey under arrest?’

      ‘He’s back in the UK, relieved of duties and confined to barracks for the moment, but he hasn’t been charged with anything. We don’t have enough evidence either way. I need to work out whether it’s murder, manslaughter, suicide or an accident borne of plain fucking stupidity. As well as collecting physical evidence, I need to understand what Colin Starkey was thinking – what they were both thinking.’

      ‘Motive,’ Jessie murmured. She took another sip of wine and looked past him, to the window. It was dark now, the night so dense that it could have been made from liquid; the table lamp she had switched on a hot yellow sun reflected in the glass.

      ‘Have you talked to Starkey yet?’

      ‘Once today.’

      ‘With a Ministry of Defence lawyer?’

      ‘He didn’t want one.’

      ‘And …?’ She looked back to him.

      His amber eyes were fixed on her face, head on one side, as if he was studying her, sizing her up. Though his bald scrutiny put her on edge, she wasn’t about to let him realize it. She met his gaze directly.

      ‘Did you get anything from him?’

      ‘Not much.’

      ‘Name, rank and number?’ Soldiers were notoriously tight-lipped; gave nothing away unless it was absolutely unavoidable.

      He rolled his eyes. ‘That’s the polite way of saying it. Fuck-all is the less polite way.’

      He’d finished his coffee, was looking around for somewhere to put the empty cup. Jessie jumped off the chair, took it from him and deposited it carefully in the kitchen sink, resisting the intense urge to wash it, dry it, stow it in the cupboard then and there.

      ‘This has the potential to get properly out of hand,’ he said, when she returned to the living room. ‘Jackson leaves a wife and two small children, under fives. His father is a troublemaker. He works as a shop steward at a factory in South London. Knows his rights – that kind of guy. He’s already spoken to the Daily Mail. The newspapers are all over the cutbacks in defence spending, how it’s putting lives at risk. They’re gagging for anything that makes the Army look bad. I need to get to the bottom of this quickly, keep a lid on the negative publicity.’

      ‘His son is dead. His grandchildren are fatherless. You can’t blame him.’

      Callan didn’t hesitate. ‘His son joined the Army. It goes with the territory.’

      ‘But not to die like that, potentially at the hands of your own side.’

      A grim smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. ‘We don’t get to choose how we die. Many people don’t even get to choose how they live.’ Tossing the file on to the coffee table, he pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll leave the file with you – not that there’s much of use in it. I’m interviewing Colin Starkey tomorrow at Provost Barracks.’ His will stretched out to her. ‘I’ll see you there at ten to four. Ask for me at the gate, they’ll let you through. I’ll meet you downstairs, main entrance.’

      ‘Fine,’ Jessie said simply. ‘One interview and then we’ll see.’

       4

      Jeanette Bass-Cooper stood on the narrow shingle beach and looked back up the wide stretch of lawn to the house. It was faux Greek, a huge and no doubt once grand villa, resplendent with fake colonnades, plastered and painted a sickly pale lemon, the paint peeling, plaster brittle and crumbling in places. It brought to mind one of the over made-up, ageing showgirls she had seen at a burlesque show in Paris a couple of weekends ago, gaudy and brazen against the sober Arts and Crafts on one side, the Georgian on the other. But it had potential. Six bedrooms, four bathrooms, three receptions, all with huge windows overlooking the water, décor that would have to be stripped back to its bare bones and redone, but its own private stretch of shingle beach and incredible views over the upper reaches of Chichester Harbour.

      It had been empty for four months and the landline was disconnected. There was no mobile reception inside, which was why she had tottered in her heels through the garden – mobile held aloft, gaze fixed on the reception icon – and down on to the skinny stone beach to call the estate agent. On one hand she was pleased there was no reception: no telephone masts to spoil this rural idyll she had set her heart on acquiring. But on the other, the inconvenience made her feel impotent. Getting away from it all was one thing, but with a commercial property business to run, being incommunicado was costly.

      Signal. At last. Only two bars, but it would have to do. This wasn’t going to be a long or complex conversation. All she needed from her estate agent was an explanation as to how – when she had bought a shopping centre in Liverpool for her business, the transaction complete from beginning to end in three days – it had taken five weeks and counting to fail even to exchange on this house. The owner was dead, for Chrissakes, so it clearly wasn’t him holding up the deal.

      She found Gavin Maxwell’s number on speed dial. The frustration she felt at the prospect of speaking to him had already found its way to her shoulders, which had repositioned themselves