“I’ve got McAndrew drafting a press release now.”
“Good.”
Helen took a breath. The last couple of hours seemed to have passed in a flash and she suddenly felt tired.
“How sure are you? That it’s her.”
“She’s our best bet. She has deliberately inserted herself into the investigation on three separate occasions. Two phone calls, plus a positive ID after the second fire, which succeeded in sending us off on a wild-goose chase with Richard Ford. She may not come across as capable of much, but she’s been instrumental in how this thing has played out. I think there’s a lot more going on under the surface than we give her credit for.”
“Okay, let’s do it, then, and see if we can bring her in before nightfall.”
Helen rang off and, gathering herself, marched back toward Sharon Jackson’s house. Finally the net was closing.
110
“Twenty Marlboro Gold, please.”
The Asian guy behind the counter barely looked up from his newspaper. Reaching behind him, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the shelves and tossed them onto the counter. “Nine pounds fifty.”
It was daylight robbery, but that was hardly the point. The shopkeeper took the ten-pound note, handed over the change and resumed reading the cricket reports. It was all so easy—no suspicions, no interest, nothing. Just a simple exchange, so ordinary in its execution, but presaging so much.
Turning to leave, the hooded figure suddenly stopped. The yawning shopkeeper continued to turn the pages, blissfully unaware of who he’d just come into contact with. But the TV on the wall behind him was better informed.
BREAKING NEWS: POLICE NAME SUSPECT IN SOUTHAMPTON ARSON ATTACK.
The caption was brief and to the point, but it was what was beneath that was more alarming. An extreme close-up of a family snap in which all Naomie’s imperfections—as well as her crooked smile—were revealed in perfect definition. Turning quickly, the figure fled before the owner even looked up.
111
All was quiet in Mandy Blayne’s house, except for the TV news, which played softly in the living room. Naomie Jackson’s face stared out from the screen, but looked on to an empty room. Mandy Blayne had briefly vacated the sofa to make herself a much-needed cup of tea.
As she looked out the window into the scrubby garden, Mandy could feel her mood edging ever lower. She had made the call to the doctor’s surgery and booked an appointment for next week, but even now she wondered if she would actually go. She had to get rid of this baby, obviously. What would she do with it? How would she support it? And yet suddenly the thought of disposing of it so casually filled her with sadness and doubt. What if this was her only chance of having a baby? What if she never found someone to be with and ended up alone? She didn’t want either outcome, and the choice made her miserable. Why did her life always seem to end up in no-win situations?
She poured the boiling water into the cup and grabbed the milkfrom the fridge. She had bought value tea bags to save a few pennies, but it had been a mistake. They were weak and the resulting tea was bland and milky. Another small disappointment to add to her larger reversals. Odd to think, though, that there was a small thing inside her that would feed off the food and drink she took in tonight. Strange to imagine that it was already dependent on her. It was getting dark outside now, but she could still make out the small strip of grass, bordered by neat beds, and for a moment she had a vision of a small child playing outside. Hands covered in sand, face sticky with dirt, a broad smile on its face. Like she had been, when she was a child. An outdoors kid never happier than when dirty and pleasantly exhausted. Mandy found herself smiling at the thought. It would be crazy to keep the baby, wouldn’t it?
Cradling her cup of tea, Mandy walked through the hall and into the lounge. Picking up the remote, she flicked the TV off and went upstairs. She couldn’t be bothered to watch the news—she just wanted to relax in a bath and switch off for a while. She would read a book, disengage her brain and try to con herself into feeling tired. Pretend that this was just another cozy Friday night in. But, for all her efforts, Mandy couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that—however hard she tried to distract herself—she was in store for a sleepless night.
112
“I’m getting tired of this game. So either you answer me now or I drag you out of here in cuffs.”
Helen didn’t like threatening people, but she had had her fill of Sharon Jackson’s lies and obfuscations. Sharon had finally confessed that her daughter had taken to doing her own laundry of late, wasting unnecessary amounts of fabric conditioner in washing a single hooded top and a pair of trousers. Add this to the number of newspaper cuttings Sanderson had found stored under her bed and the fact that Sharon couldn’t find a packet of matches she’d only bought last week and a clear picture was starting to emerge.
But Naomie’s motive remained unclear, which concerned Helen. Sharon Jackson insisted her daughter didn’t know any of the victims, but Helen could tell she was lying and was determined to find out why. “Don’t push me on this. I’m more than happy to do it, but it wouldn’t look too good in tomorrow’s newspapers.”
Sharon finally looked up at her.
“Take a peek out of your front curtains, Sharon.”
Unnerved, Sharon did as instructed. Helen had heard the press trucks start to pull up outside a few minutes ago. She knew they’d be here within the hour, once Naomie’s name was released.
“They won’t be going anywhere until this is over. So we have three choices. I can lead you out in front of them. I can leave here and let them loose on you. Or I can get a uniformed officer on the door, so there’s a chance you might get a moment’s peace. The choice is yours.”
Sharon sat down hard on the nearest armchair and ran her fingers through her long, lank hair. She seemed to be aging in front of Helen, as if buried fears were now burrowing their way to the surface.
“She’s never met Denise Roberts, but she might knowofher,” she said finally and with great reluctance.
“How?”
