Emilia had been up all night and she was dog-tired. This story was a good one, but did this guy really have to strike every night? Getting testimony from witnesses and emergency service personnel at one major fire was hard enough, but to have to do so atthreefires, in the small hours, three nights running? This guy just didn’t let up.
Emilia drained her last drop of coffee. It was seven a.m. and the office was starting to fill up. Her colleagues all stopped to chat, aware that Emilia had been at her desk since four a.m. working up her copy for the next day’s edition. Emilia was a child of the Twitter generation—her live feed keeping colleagues, fans and friends bang up to speed with what she was doing at any given moment. It was a brilliant way to disseminate breaking news, but also a fabulous vehicle for self-promotion. As she’d sat in the lonely office through the night, she’d made sure to keep the Twitter-sphere in the loop about developments so the world could marvel at her investigative zeal and her bosses (and more besides)could see how committed she was. Privately she hoped that someone in London might take notice and drop her a line.
But that was the future. Her priority now was creating a detailed four-page spread about the Southampton arsonist’s “Reign of Terror.” The police hadn’t confirmed it yet, but it was strongly rumored that a young woman had died in tonight’s fires, bringing the killer’s total to four victims in three nights. That was pretty good going by anyone’s standards and confirmed his status as a prolific serial killer. If he kept going at this pace, he might exceed them all.
Reading between the lines, the police still had no clue who their arsonist was. Everyone—police, public, even Emilia herself—had expected this guy to slow down, but he hadn’t done so and it now prompted an interesting question. If they couldn’t catch him, then how could they stop him? Her editor had leaped on the idea of a citywide curfew and Emilia had been happy to run with it. She didn’t necessarily believe it would happen, but it raised some concerns about human rights while simultaneously highlighting the police’s lack of progress. Secretly Emilia hoped the city authorities would go for it—it would be incredibly dramatic and would ensure that the world’s attention would be on Southampton for a short period of time. Not since the Boston Marathon manhunt had anything so draconian been floated.
She had almost finished typing when her mobile rang. She always put her number and Twitter handle by her byline, so she was constantly receiving phone calls from snitches, crooks and chancers on the make. The caller ID flagged the number as “withheld,” suggesting the caller was either important or very shady, so scooping up her phone, Emilia hurried to the ladies’ loo—it was the only spot in this place where you could get a modicum of privacy.
“Emilia Garanita.”
“Emilia, it’s Adam Latham. I’m the chief fire offi—”
“I know who you are, Adam. What can I do for you?”
“I hear you’ve been talking to a number of my officers tonight. About the latest fires—”
“Everything I did was strictly legal and aboveboard and I don’t appreciate being call—”
“I haven’t called to bollock you, Emilia. I’ve called to help you.”
There was a pause as Emilia took this in. Behind her, the ancient cisterns murmured quietly to themselves. “Go on.”
“I want to talk to you off the record about Helen Grace. I can trust you to be objective in your attitude to her, can’t I?”
“We only print the facts here, Adam.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. I obviously don’t want to be named or quoted, but I want to give you information on Grace’s handling of this case. It’s my firm belief that her bungled approach has endangered the public and cost lives. And I’d like to give you the details.”
Emilia sat down on the nearest loo seat and pulled the door to. So Latham wanted to do a hatchet job on Helen. She was happy to listen—finally she would have the inside track on the investigation and potentially a scapegoat too.
Emilia smiled to herself. This juicy story had just got a lot juicier.
92
Jacqueline Harris stared through the glass window at her son and felt a sharp stab of guilt. Ethan had never been an easy child and she had spent less time with him than she should have, hiring help to allow Michael and her to pursue their professional lives unchecked. But now, when she really wanted to be with her son, to reassure him that everything was going to be fine, she couldn’t.
The doctors had asked her to leave the room while they carried out further tests. Why hadn’t she spent more time with him? Why had she been so preoccupied with work? If she had lost him, she would never have forgiven herself. Things would be different now, she vowed.
In some ways, they had been extremely lucky. Ethan’s room was at the top of the house and though he had sustained scrapes and minor burns while being dragged from the blaze, they were superficial and would heal in time. He had, of course, inhaled a significant amount of smoke and that was what doctors were really concerned about, giventhat he already suffered from a mild form of brain damage, present since birth. Could this boy, who’d already been dealt a fairly tough hand, suffer yet more indignities? For all his physical problems, he was still bright and articulate.Please, God, don’t let that be taken away from him too,Jacqueline prayed.
Jacqueline heard steps behind her and turned to see a young woman in a smart suit approaching, a police warrant card held out for inspection.
“Mr. and Mrs. Harris? I’m DS Sanderson.”
“Jacqueline. And this is my husband, Michael.”
They shook hands.
“How’s he doing?”
“Good, I think. He’s awake, and alert, and seems to be passing all the tests fine. We want to get him discharged as soon as we can, but obviously that’s in the hands of the doctors.”
“That’s great news.”
Jacqueline nodded, suddenly ambushed by emotion. Had things turned out differently, she would have been at the police mortuary today.
“We’ll need to ask Ethan a few questions.”
