Deborah nodded, a little less convincingly this time, then said:
“Okay, shoot.”
Helen delved into the folder that lay in front of her. Deborah was Southampton born and bred and had served at stations all over the city.Attractive, popular and ambitious as she was, every budding firefighter made a friend of her—a fact that Helen now hoped would stand her in good stead.
“I’m going to show you a list of six names. All male colleagues of yours. I know little more than their ages and job titles at present. I need you to fill me in on the detail—what they’re like, whether you trust them, whether it’s possible,” Helen went on, lowering her voice, “that they could be our arsonist.”
Deborah nodded soberly as Helen slipped the piece of paper across the table toward her. There they were in black and white: Alan Jackson, John Foley, Trevor Robinson, Simon Duggan, Martin Hughes and Richard Ford.
Was one of these six men their killer?
54
Lifting the police cordon, he entered the site, his boots crunching satisfyingly on the charred bits of wood that littered the former showroom. Just a day ago, this place had been a popular destination for couples and families seeking a new sofa, dining table or king-size bed. The guys who ran this place must have been making money hand over fist, but not anymore. The vast building had gone up in flames and in the early hours of this morning the roof had eventually come down—the final majestic act of destruction ensuring that everything below would be consumed as well.
He had chosen his moment carefully. Deborah Parks had left the site rather suddenly following a phone call, and the rest of her team had taken advantage of this to nip off for a cup of tea. There was only one uniformed police officer and he was soon talked round. This was too good an opportunity to miss.
He felt his heart beating faster as he made his way across thedeserted space. It looked otherworldly, like a scene of devastation on another planet—you seldom got to see fires on this scale. He pulled the camera from his bag and executed a slow pan. Right to left, then back again, slow and steady, missing nothing.
Clicking it off, he stowed it back in his bag and pulled a bin liner from his pocket. Encasing his hands in sterile gloves, he bent down, sifting through the burned detritus on the surface, looking for the good stuff. Truth be told, it wasn’t such fertile ground as a domestic property, with all the family photos and trinkets, but these larger sites could sometimes surprise you and this one certainly obliged now. Buried beneath the ash and protected by a solid metal door were the remnants of a banner poster, advertising a recent flash sale. You could still make outEVERYTHING MUST GOplumb in the center. He liked that, given the context, and he slipped it quickly in his bag.
“Can I help you?”
He hadn’t heard anyone approaching, and he froze momentarily—his adrenaline spiking—before he gathered himself and rose to face his interrogator. It was one of Parks’s crew—where the bloody hell had he sprung from?
“This is a sealed site. Members of the public are not allowed in here.”
“It’s okay, mate,” he replied calmly. “I’m the advance guard. I was told you needed some help shifting fire-damaged obstacles.”
“And you are?”
“Hants Fire and Rescue,” he said confidently, holding up his ID for inspection. “It’s supposed to be my day off, but you know firemen...” He paused briefly before concluding:
“We’re always happy to help.”
55
He’d visited this place a dozen times and it was fast becoming his own personal hell. Initially he had hoped it might be a sanctuary—somewhere to get a moment’s respite from the horror of everyday life. Later still, he’d imagined it might be the place to buy something nice for Luke, a token of some kind that would offset the terrible guilt he felt about his many failings as a dad. But it was none of these things. It was just a simple shop, staffed by hospital volunteers, and as he stood still, staring at the modest selection of chocolate bars in front of him, he felt so empty, so helpless that for a second he thought he might cry.
“I wouldn’t buy the chocolate from here. It’s always past its sell-by date,” a voice next to him whispered. Thomas Simms turned to find a young woman next to him, clutching a copy ofGrazia. She had nice eyes and a pleasant smile, but the historic scarring down one side of her face was what really grabbed your attention. She was probably a patient-turned-volunteer and Thomas was struck by the serendipity ofthis moment. Here he was, lost in self-pitying introspection, forgetful of the fact that everyone suffers and somehow they get through it.
“I’m Emilia,” the woman said, extending her hand.
“Thomas,” he replied, shaking it. Oddly her name seemed to fit her perfectly, as if that was what he’d been expecting her to say. Did he recognize her from somewhere?
“Do you have a minute to talk?” she continued, her smile never faltering as she subtly changed tack.
“You’re a journalist?” he said sharply, removing his hand from hers.
“Emilia Garanita,Southampton Evening News.”
“Look, I know you’re doing your job, but I’ve said everything I’m going to say. We’ve issued a statement this morning asking for some space—”
“I respect that, Thomas. As you can see, I’ve had troubles of my own. I know what it feels like when life stabs you in the back. I’ve no interest in making your life harder.”
“I wish I could believe that—”
“In fact, I’d like to help you.”
