“Nothing so far. There’s nothing in his accounts to suggest he’d lent to any of last night’s victims, and the individuals concerned don’t appear to have heard of him.”
“So this is something else, then?”
Charlie paused, uncertain how best to respond, and before she could do so, Thomas Simms added:
“Karen’s death and Alice and Luke . . . they’re all part of something . . . bigger?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Well, perhaps you could fucking hurry up.”
It was spat at her with such venom that Charlie was struck dumb.
“I don’t think you get it, do you? Any of you. You come in here with your platitudes and good wishes, but I’m dealing with a terrified sixteen-year-old boy whose whole life has been crushed and who is looking tomefor answers as towhy his mother is dead. Is it something he did? Is it something I did? Or is it because some crazy fucking psychopath wants to burn down the whole city?”
“Believe me, we’re pulling out all the stops—”
“Well, it doesn’t look that way to me. So stop mollycoddling me and do something. Getout thereand do your bloody job.”
With that he turned back to Alice, dismissing Charlie once and for all.
On her way out, Charlie kept her head down once more. But this time it wasn’t to avoid entreating glances. It was to hide her shame.
42
Helen woke with a start. For a moment, she had no idea where she was or how she’d got there. Then slowly the pieces started to fall into place and, taking in the familiar surroundings, she recollected her decision to sleep in her office. There had seemed little point going home given the late finish, and she’d had a daybed installed some time ago for such an eventuality.
“Helen?”
It was softly spoken but still made her jump. Someone was in the room with her. The voice wasn’t familiar, or at least not in this context. Straightening up, she was surprised to find Gardam standing in the doorway.
“Sorry, I did knock three times, but you didn’t seem to hear me.”
His eyes were cast down as he spoke and Helen realized that she was still half-dressed. Torn between sitting like an idiot with a sheet pulled across her chest and getting dressed, she chose the latter—scurryingacross to the wardrobe and riffling through it for a fresh blouse and suit. As she pulled her clothes on, Gardam carried on speaking, his eyes still fixed to the floor to spare her blushes.
“I know the team’s due in shortly and I wanted to catch you before your briefing so we can talk about our media strategy. The press conference is scheduled for eleven a.m.”
Smoothing down her clothes, Helen emerged from her impromptu changing area. She had her professional face on now but felt embarrassed at having been caught out in this way.
“I meant to talk to you about that,” she replied evenly. “Press liaison isn’t really my thing—”
“It’s okay. I’m happy to field them if you want, but if you change your mind—”
“Thank you, sir. I think it’s important that I stay with the team.”
“I agree. So what have we got for them?”
“Well, we’re still sifting the intel from last night, but we do have one interesting lead—CCTV footage of a man running away from the house in Bevois Mount shortly before the blaze began. I’ve run off stills that we should share with the media—see if anyone recognizes him. I’m also going to show them to Gary Spence—I’d like to see his reaction, in case the man turns out to be one of his lackeys. But in truth I’m not holding out much hope. We’ve yet to establish any link between Spence and the properties targeted last night and I’m just not sure it’s his style—it’s a very public and messy way to conduct business.”
“So what are we looking at?”
“Well, they could be personally motivated attacks, given the concerted effort to kill. Or they could be about the fires themselves—somebody enjoying the chaos they’ve created, without a thought for the human cost.”
“So what line do we want to take with the press?”
“We appeal for witnesses, stress the need for vigilance and bring them up to speed on our progress.”
Helen continued in this vein, trying to sound upbeat about their ongoing searches, but truth be told—CCTV aside—there was nothing “juicy” for the press to get their teeth into yet. Helen wasn’t sure how Gardam would react to this. Some station chiefs seemed to relish disappointing the fourth estate—depriving them of sensational tidbits they craved—others panicked if they didn’t have anything substantial to lay before them. Helen despised these appeasers, but Gardam didn’t appear to be one of them. He seemed supremely relaxed about the grilling he was about to undergo.
