Some of the vigor seemed to be returning to Thomas now, as he gathered himself.
“And what about you, Thomas? Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to do this to you and your family?”
For the first time Thomas paused, before replying, “No. I’ve no idea who might have done this to us.”
Charlie nodded and moved the conversation on. But she had seen the pause—that brief moment when something might have been said but wasn’t—and it left her wondering. What had he been about to say? What did he know? And, most important, why was he lying to her?
17
An experienced journalist knows when to pounce. Those who’ve been around the block know not to fight for scraps with the press pack—better to bide your time and hit a police officer once he thinks he’s escaped the mob, when his guard is down.
Helen was just about to climb onto her bike when she saw Emilia Garanita approaching. The crime correspondent for theSouthampton Evening Newswas no stranger to Helen and they had been through a lot together—some of it good, some of it bad, some of it downright unpleasant. But they were currently enjoying an extended truce, so for once Helen didn’t cut and run.
“You’ve got two minutes, Emilia. I’m needed back at Southampton Central.”
“Same old same old,” Emilia said, smiling broadly. It never ceased to amaze Helen how brazenly unaffected Garanita was by the things she reported on. A woman had died here, three other family membershad been injured, yet still Emilia seemed happy, excited even, about the story that lay ahead.
“What can you tell me? I’m presuming all three fires were arson?”
“They were,” Helen replied quickly. She had already discussed their media strategy with Gardam and they both agreed that there was no point concealing the fact from the press or public, given their need for witnesses and the continuing threat posed by an arsonist at large. “I’m happy for you to print that, as I want the public to be vigilant and to ask themselves if they saw anything suspicious last night. But,” Helen continued, fixing the young woman with a beady eye, “I don’t want this arsonist glamorized or sensationalized in any way. I want you to report facts, Emilia, not speculation.”
“That’s the creed I live and die by.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.”
“So you think you’re after a glory hunter here? Someone whowantsthe headlines?”
“Possibly.”
“Do you think they’ll try to contact you? Contact the press?”
“It’s happened before, but, like I say, we have no idea what the motivation behind these fires might be. That’s why we print the facts, appeal for help and no more, right?”
Helen climbed onto her bike and turned the ignition.
“One last question. Are you expecting more fires?”
As ever, Emilia had saved her best question—her real question—for last.
“I sincerely hope not” was Helen’s neutral reply before she slipped on her helmet and sped away. But she had spent half the night wondering the very same thing. The three fires had been so “impressive,” so devastating, sonewsworthy—wouldn’t the perpetrator feel some sense of triumph now? This person had achieved his or her aims and gotten away scot-free. So what was to stop the person from doing exactly the same thing again?
18
Denise Roberts stood in front of the full-length mirror. She turned this way, now that, appraising herself. She had spent a small fortune on her new underwear and she wanted to be reassured that it had been money well spent. Tonight was important—she’d been thinking about nothing else for days—and she wanted it to be right. No, she wanted it to be perfect.
Throwing on a dressing gown, she marched down the stairs toward the living room. She lived in a two-up, two-down in Bevois Mount that was well cared for and pleasant enough—or at least it would have been were it not for the constant presence of her layabout son.
“Get off your arse and tidy this place up,” Denise ordered as she bustled into the living room. Her son, Callum, a truculent sixteen-year-old, always acted up when she had someone coming round, and today was no different. A half-eaten bowl of Cheerios sat next to a mug of coffee, as usual plonked down on the wooden coffee table without a coaster.Magazines and freesheets littered the floor, and her son sat beached on the La-Z-Boy, eyes fixed to the large plasma screen on the wall.
For a moment, Denise’s eyes strayed from the shambles in the living room to the TV. She was ready to launch another broadside at him for his viewing habits—he could waste a whole day watchingDog the Bounty HunterandIce Road Truckers—but momentarily she paused. He wasn’t glued to these staples today—for the first time in living memory he was actually watching the news. The screen was dominated by terrible pictures from last night’s fires. There were reporters at each scene relaying the latest news—overnight a mother of two had died—and this was the national news, not local. Southampton was suddenly on the map for all the wrong reasons.
“A change from your usual rubbish,” Denise commented drily, casting an eye in her son’s direction. But he seemed not to hear her—his attention was totally fixed on the screen. As was customary now, there was endless amateur footage of the fires (not to mention the many eyewitness accounts of publicity-hungry meddlers) being replayed, meaning that the news channels could replay the fires as “live” hour after hour. It was strangely hypnotic to watch—the huge flames from the timber yard exploding upward as the warehouse roof collapsed—but still her son’s trance annoyed her. She couldn’t have him lying about, cluttering the place up. Not today.
She gave him a little kick.
“What the fuck?” he spat out, snarling at his mother.
“You need to shift. I need to be tidying.”
