“That’s hardly the point. I’m loyal to this place, of course I am, butsomeoneis doing this and we all have a moral duty to help find out who.”
Adam Latham eyeballed Deborah silently while chewing on his Biro. She refused to blink, refused to bow her head in contrition—she had to front this out. But already she could feel the floor shifting beneath her feet. Latham was an old-fashioned guy who prized loyalty and solidarity above all things, and she knew that in talking to the “enemy” she had committed a cardinal sin. There was only one way for Latham—hisway—and Deborah knew that she would suffer for her close association with Helen Grace.
“Grace is clutching at straws,” Latham said suddenly, jolting Deborah out of her thoughts. “Time will show that. For now, we’ll take the line that Ford is just helping the police with their inquiries and that we fully expect him to be back at work protecting the people of Southampton in the very near future. I have talked to our press peopleand they are drafting a statement, which I expect everybody to read and follow to the letter. Is that clear?”
“Of course.”
“No more talking out of school. It’s time for the wagon train to circle, Deborah. If you get my drift.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, that’s settled, then. Now fuck off.”
It was said with such contempt that for a moment Deborah froze, uncertain if she had heard him correctly. But the way Latham ignored her presence, as he picked up the phone, left her in no doubt as to his opinion of her. She stood quickly and walked out and away down the corridor. With each step, her heart slid a little further into her boots. She had done nothing wrong, but she would be punished nevertheless. Latham would no doubt let it be known that she couldn’t be trusted, that she was a turncoat. Through no fault of her own, she would pay the price for somebody else’s crimes.
65
Helen stood quietly as Meredith Walker went about her work. The stove fire had been extinguished, but the claustrophobic attic room still reeked of smoke, rendering the atmosphere close and unpleasant. There were no windows or vents in this place; the open door was the only means of expelling the pungent smoke that danced around the naked bulb in this strange cocoon.
Emotions swirled through Helen as she took in the scene. Concern for Charlie, irritation at Emilia Garanita, whom she’d had to forcibly eject from the crime scene, but also disquiet at what she now saw. Every room in the house was packed to the rafters—Ford was clearly a hoarder—but the attic was different. This seemed to be a more ordered chaos, a kind of nerve center, a shrine almost, and the object of Ford’s worship was clear.
The walls, the roof, every joint and joist was covered with photos of fire. The floor and every available surface was piled high with boxesoverflowing with clippings, while the rickety shelves erected on two of the walls groaned with firsthand accounts of history’s deadliest blazes. The whole room felt like a brain bursting with one man’s obsession. A dark, secret place where he could revel in his private passion.
Helen immediately wondered how long Ford had been living alone in this house. His mother had passed away a few years back, though exactly how long ago she wasn’t sure. Did all this start then? Had he kept it buried inside while she was alive, only to give in to his obsession once there was no one to rein him in? Had his loneliness, his isolation, contributed to the feelings that had pushed him over the edge?
Ford was now in custody at Southampton Central. He’d been passed fit for questioning by their medics, but Helen had decided to let him stew for a while yet. She wanted him to feel the confines of the holding cell, to hear the whispered comments of the screws—she wanted his fear and paranoia to grow. It wasn’t a pleasant way to treat someone, but it often worked. A brief taste of incarceration—and the promise of more to come if convicted—often prompted suspects to confess quickly in the hope of making a deal.
There was another reason Helen wanted to buy some time. His attic was a veritable treasure trove of evidence and she wanted to be fully armed when she sat down opposite Ford. She would never forgive herself if he managed to wriggle off the hook because of a procedural error or some omission in the narrative she presented. It was obvious that some of the photos on the wall were of the fires in Millbrook, Bevois Mount and elsewhere. No doubt the dozens of minicam tapes now being bagged by Meredith and her officers would yield similar evidence of an unhealthy interest in these terrible attacks. Everywhere you looked you saw recent events reflected back at you—Helen had been here only an hour, but already her unusual surroundings were starting to affect her, seeming to suggest that the world was made of fire and fire alone.
There was one thing that was missing, however, and that was anyimprint of Ford himself. No photos, no keepsakes, no sign ofhim. It was as if his whole identity had been subsumed by a greater master.
“Any personal mementos? Any family snaps? Passing-out parades?” Helen asked.
“Only this,” Meredith replied, scooping an evidence bag from the floor and passing it to her. “Found it down the back of a chest of drawers.”
It was a clipping from the local paper showing a fire crew visiting a school. Two officers were featured in the large photo, surrounded by adoring, curious kids. One of them was a female officer whom Helen didn’t recognize. The other one, as the caption beneath confirmed, was Richard Ford.
Helen froze as she looked at the picture. She hadn’t really taken Ford in properly when arresting him. She was more concerned with Charlie’s well-being and had passed the shell-shocked Ford on to her colleagues quickly. But there could be no doubt about it now—she had met Ford before.
Helen was still processing this development when her phone buzzed loudly. Her mind was elsewhere, but somehow she knew exactly who it would be.
Jonathan Gardam.
66
Helen threw her coat and scarf down on the chair and turned to face her boss, who reclined on the sofa in her office. “DS Sanderson’s waiting for me in the interview suite, so I’m going to have to be relatively brief, I’m afraid.”
Gardam either missed or ignored the note of irritation in Helen’s voice. When he replied it was in an open and friendly manner. “Of course. Questioning Ford has to be our top priority. How sure are you that he’s our man?”
“Pretty sure,” Helen replied, without elaborating further.
“Why?”
“Because he’s in love with fire. Because he’d know what to do. Because he was there. I think these fires have been fueling his fantasies.”
Gardam nodded. “Do you think he’ll talk to you?”
“Doubt it, but you never know how people will react under interview. Thanks to Meredith we’ve got a lot of evidence to lay before him and his lawyer.”
