“Not within the team. He avoids crowds, pubs, that kind of thing. He doesn’t take part in all the usual macho posturing you get from fire guys. He doesn’t really take part in anything at work, except... work.”
“How long’s he been working for the Fire and Rescue Service?”
“Since leaving school, I think.”
“Does he have a tattoo—with the Hants Fire crest?”
“Sure—a lot of the guys do.”
“Is he a hard worker?”
“Very. Happy to come in on his days off to help out. I don’t think he has a girlfriend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What about family?”
“He’s never mentioned anyone. He’s a loner. New guys try to engage with him, then give up after a while. That’s the way he wants it, so... Can’t do the exams. He’s great on all the practical stuff, but the theory, the homework... And as for his interview technique...”
“Has he been passed over for promotion?”
Another moment of hesitation, then:
“Yes. He failed his fire sergeant’s interview for the third time recently. Which means... that he can’t apply again.”
Helen tried to suppress the excitement growing within her as she asked the next question. “And when was this?”
All Deborah’s confidence—her resistance—seemed to have deserted now as she replied, “A month ago.”
***
Helen marched away from the café, her phone clamped to her ear. As soon as Sanderson answered, she launched in without introduction. “We need to check out Richard Ford. Who was doing the initial chat with him?”
There was the briefest intake of breath from Sanderson before she replied, “Charlie. She’s with him right now.”
57
Something was wrong in this house. Charlie had felt it the moment she stepped inside. Everything was in the right place, there were no obvious signs of anything amiss, but the whole place felt unused, like a museum. It looked—and smelled—stale.
Richard Ford had been less than pleased to find Charlie waiting for him on his doorstep. He had been helping out at one of the fire sites, he’d told her, shifting some of the detritus so the arson team could do their work. He was dirty and sweaty and stank of smoke—clearly he had been looking forward to getting a shower. But instead he found himself answering the gentle questions of a DC, probing him about his work patterns and movements over the last couple of days. Charlie didn’t blame him for being irritated and yet that wasn’t quite it. He seemed to be giving off something else. Suspicion? Anxiety? Something else? Charlie couldn’t put her finger on it.
He’d been carrying a black bin liner, which he made no reference to, stowing it in the hall cupboard before shepherding Charlie into the old kitchen. He’d put the kettle on for tea, but it labored to work up a head of steam. It was as if everything was slightlyoffhere—the slow ticktock of the dusty carriage clock on the mantelpiece giving the dated kitchen the washed-out feel of yesteryear.
“Do you live alone?” she asked.
“Yup. Mum died a few years back. Got a sister, but she didn’t want any of this,” he replied, gesturing to the house. “She emigrated to Oz.”
Charlie could hardly blame her. As Ford now made the tea in what looked very much like two dirty cups, Charlie’s eye ran over the Hants Fire and Rescue tattoo that graced his left biceps. The sight set her nerves jangling, but when Ford turned to her, Charlie was all smiles once more.
“And last night you were home alone?”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t go out at any time? To the shops? Anything?”
“No. Why?”
