Jessica Brooks giggled, picked up one of the many fluffy toys that filled her cot and threw it at her mother. It was the third projectile that Jessica had aimed at her in the last minute. She was trying to be stern but privately loved this little game. Jessie seemed to enjoy it so much, displaying a vivacity, cheekiness and sense of humor that Charlie found irresistible. She fervently hoped that her daughter would never lose that aspect of her personality. She was a little girl who seemed to enjoy life, and Charlie hoped she always would.
“Now, don’t you do that again.” She wagged her finger at her daughter in a pantomime gesture. Jessica’s hand was already stretching toward a cuddly panda, and seconds later it flew at Charlie. Quickly Charlie caught and threw it back, causing more peals of giggles from Jessica.
Charlie could hear the landline ringing elsewhere in the house and she prayed it wasn’t for her. She loved her time with her daughter, and thecouple of hours spent in her company tonight had made her feel normal again. Or as normal as could be expected. Her voice was still hoarse, her throat hurt like hell, but the shock had worn off, her hands no longer shook and each minute spent in Jessica’s joyful company was a powerful tonic.
The phone had stopped ringing and she could hear Steve talking. She breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to her daughter once more. “Okay, you. How are we going to get you to sleep? It’s past your bedtime and you know you’ll be a grouch in the morning if you’re tired. So how about we put Brown Bear, Teddy, Snoopy and Fredbackin your cot and think about closing our eyes?”
Jessica didn’t seem particularly keen on this plan, defiantly kicking away the descending mass of soft toys. Charlie realized Steve was now in the doorway and, smiling, gestured toward Jessie.
“Do you want to have a go? I don’t seem to be having much joy.”
But the look on Steve’s face stopped her in her tracks. He looked somber and very pale.
“It’s for you,” he said simply, holding up the cordless phone.
Charlie suddenly felt sick, though she didn’t know why. Steve never let things get to him, so it must be bad.
“Charlie?” he reiterated, offering the phone to her. Now she didn’t hesitate, plucking it from him and walking from the room.
“Charlie Brooks,” she said quickly into the receiver.
“It’s Susan Roberts, Charlie.”
Susan was one of the force’s most experienced Family Liaison officers. Charlie knew her to be a cheery, redoubtable character, but her tone only served to spike her anxiety still further.
“What’s the matter, Susan? What’s happened?”
There was a long pause. To Charlie’s surprise, she realized that Susan was trying not to cry. She had an inkling now of what was coming, but still it rocked her backward when Susan finally said:
“Alice Simms is dead.”
72
Helen and Sanderson stood in Helen’s office, neither saying a word. Outside, Helen could see news of Alice’s death rippling round the incident room. Several members of the team were fighting back tears. Others just looked blank with shock. Everybody had been knocked for six by this terrible, sudden tragedy.
“What did they say?” Sanderson asked.
Helen had only just got off the phone with the hospital and was still trying to process what they’d told her. “She’d been stable since the fire, but they never managed to get her to regain consciousness. It seems... that her injuries were just too profound and in the end... her heart gave up fighting.”
Tears pricked Sanderson’s eyes and Helen felt her desolation. They had all been so convinced that this brave little girl would pull through. Had this just been wishful thinking? The doctors had seemed hopeful, but in the end it was a terrible trauma for a little girl to endure. Hermother’s very best efforts to save her hadn’t been enough. Which meant that Richard Ford was now facing a triple-murder charge.
“What do you want to do?” Sanderson asked.
They had been discussing how to respond to Shapiro’s ultimatum when the call came through. Helen knew she had to keep calm and avoid getting caught up in the emotion of the moment. It was very tempting to charge Ford right now, to seek some immediate justice for Alice and her mum, but they had to be able to make the charges stick.
“Well, he’s got motive and opportunity in abundance. Not to mention the expertise. We know he’s lied to us under caution already on a number of occasions, but he’s not going to confess, so—”
“He might if we charge him. If he thinks he can wriggle out of it by pleading diminished responsibility—”
“But if he doesn’t and ends up beating the rap, it’ll be our fault. We need to link him to the site of the fire itself—”
“What about Deborah Parks’s findings? She said she found a boot print at the Roberts house that matched the sole of Ford’s fire boots—”
“But that print was made post-fire. We need evidence of him setting them. We need paraffin in the house, on his clothes, a print on the residual evidence, footage of him buying cigarettes...”
“What if we ask Naomie Jackson to ID him? Put him in the frame for the Roberts fire at least.”
“Wouldn’t stand up. She was clear that she didn’t see his face and it would be easy to disprove. It was dark, she’d had a drink and so on...”
