A Cold Flame: A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked. Aidan Conway

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       One

      The few flowers left in the chipped vase had withered to dry brown stalks in the searing August sun.

      “You’re still sure this falls within our brief?” said Carrara as they stared at the cold, charred remains of the ground floor flat. All the bodies had now been removed but their presence lingered.

      “It’s another fire, isn’t it?” said Rossi. “Probably arson. Why not?”

      It was not the first fire in the city to bear the hallmarks of foul play, but it was the first fatal one since they had been moved off their normal duties.

      They were standing in the welcome shade of the elevated section of the tangenziale flyover, on a side street off the busy, grimy Via Prenestina. It was hot, cripplingly hot. Thin rivulets of sweat were meandering down Rossi’s neck despite the shade.

      “Even if there’s a file on this one already?” said Carrara. “A file that’s as good as closed.”

      Rossi shook his head and continued to gaze into the blackened ruins.

      “It’s August. You can get away with murder in August. Who was on it again?”

      Carrara leafed through the case notes.

      “No one I know. A guy called Lallana. Had a racial homicide’s brief. Seconded to us in June and then transferred out again, at his own request, now buzzing all over the place with Europol. I got hold of him by phone but he wasn’t keen on talking. Says it’s all in the reports and he’s got nothing more to add.”

      “Giving you the brush-off?”

      Carrara shrugged.

      “He had it down as a hate crime – seems the victims were all foreigners – but not a single, solid lead. No witnesses, just the one guy who survived it.”

      “A survivor?” said Rossi.

      “Was. Dead now. Had 60 per cent burns. Should have been long gone but somehow hung on for nearly a week.”

      “And all while I was on holiday,” said Rossi.

      “You can’t be everywhere, Mick,” said Carrara glancing up from the notes. “I mean a break was merited, after Marini.”

      Rossi’s thoughts turned then to the events of the previous winter but as his shoes crunched on the ash and scorched timbers he was still struggling to comprehend the present horror. Shooting, strangling, stabbing – that was one thing – but burning to death. They must have been locked inside when the fire started. Some might have woken but had been unable to get to a door or a window, the security grilles put there ostensibly to keep them safe from intruders thus consigning them to their fates.

      “But why wasn’t anyone able to get out?” said Rossi. “Because they locked their room doors every night?”

      “Correct,” said Carrara. “Normal practice in bedsits, but no keys for the security grilles were found, not even after a fingertip search.”

      “What about the front door?” said Rossi. “Couldn’t they have got out with their own keys? They all had one, right?”

      Carrara took out a blown-up scene-of-crime photo.

      “The lock. Tampered with, the barrel and mechanism all mangled up. Some debris was found inside. It could have been someone forcing it – an attempted break-in – or it could have been sabotage. The occupants might have been able to open it from the inside to escape, if they had managed to reach the door, but the bolts were still in place. Nobody could get in until СКАЧАТЬ