“There—it’s the same one,” Helen said, pausing the tape.
They had been listening to the calls from the first night. At around eleven fifty, a young woman had called 999, reporting a fire at a house in Millbrook—the Simms residence. And the voice on the tape sounded virtually identical to the early caller from the most recent blaze in Lower Shirley.
“Do you agree that it’s the same caller?” Helen asked, turning to McAndrew. A brief pause; then her junior nodded. Helen was pleased—she felt likewise and had a feeling they were about to catch a major break in the case.
They moved straight onto the tapes from the second night of fires. Here they hit a blank, however. There were thirteen female callers. The quality of some of the recordings was better than others, because of bad mobile reception and background noise, so it was hard to say for certain, but neither of them could divine their mystery caller among the collage of anguished voices.
Then suddenly Helen leaned forward with purpose, scooping up the recording from the first night. She played their female caller once, then again, listening intently each time. The woman’s voice was clear and authoritative.
“There’s a fire, like, a big one on Hillside Crescent. You need to get here now.”
“Are you able to see the fire from where you are?”
“For real. And there are peopleinthere. So hurry up.”
“Okay, I need you to step away from the fire now—”
Helen stopped the tape without warning, flipped open the tape recorder and started to play the woman’s recording from the third night again. McAndrew made no attempt to interrupt her—she could tell Helen was utterly focused on the task in hand, scenting something.
The recording finished. Helen clicked it off, then sat back in her chair. “I think I know who it is.”
McAndrew looked up at her.
“It’s the way she says ‘For real,’ and the accent. I knew I’d heard it before.”
“Who is it?” McAndrew asked urgently.
Helen paused for a moment, before replying, “It’s Naomie Jackson.”
108
Sharon Jackson’s face turned pale the moment she opened the door. Helen and DS Sanderson had left Southampton Central straightaway and raced over to Naomie’s home in the cheaper part of St. Mary’s. The look on the officers’ faces betrayed the seriousness of their visit. Normally Sharon would have fobbed them off—she was experienced at dealing with the law—but there was no wriggling off the hook today.
She sat on the sofa, a look of blank incomprehension on her face, as Helen informed her that Naomie was now a person of interest in their investigation. Sanderson had gone upstairs in order to verify Sharon’s assertion that her daughter was not at home. She had not yet returned, but Helen had pressed on nevertheless. For her part, Sharon Jackson was shocked by Helen’s line of questioning and pushed back hard.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree. My Naomie would never do something like that. Sheloveskids.”
Helen let that non sequitur go and continued with her questions. “Where is Naomie now, Sharon?”
“I’ve told you I’m expecting her back later, but it’s Friday, isn’t it...? I don’t keep tabs on her.”
“Clearly not. I’m going to need you to account for her movements on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights.”
Sharon suddenly looked less bullish, so Helen was quick to follow up. “Where were you? And where was Naomie?”
“Tuesday night I was in and so was Naomie. Then we had a bit of a falling-out and she left for a while.”
“What time?”
“Around nine p.m.”
“When did she return?”
“Late. I’d gone to bed. I heard her come in, but I don’t know what time it was.”
“And the other nights?”
“I was out.”
