“What about it?”
“According to Naomie, you all went to a pub near the Common. Which one was it?”
“The Green Man.”
“When did you get there?”
“Around nine, I think.”
“And Naomie was with you?”
“Course.”
“What time did she leave that night?”
“I don’t know, do I?”
“She said she left early to go home. Is that right?”
“If she says so.”
“What do you say?”
“Yeah, sure, she left early.”
But she didn’t sound sure and Charlie knew she had to press further. “When did you leave?”
“Midnight. Half past maybe. They had a lock-in, so...”
“And did you see Naomie leaving?”
“No, I was drinking, having fun with my mates, wasn’t I?”
“Did you take any pictures that night? On your phone?”
“Dunno.”
“You said you were mucking around with your friends, so...”
Suddenly Danielle looked evasive and Charlie followed up quickly. “Give me your phone.”
“I haven’t got it on me . . .”
“Your hand’s been clamped in your jacket pocket since you left the house. I know you’ve got it and I’d like to see it. And before you kick off, I’m happy to do this at home with your folks, if you’d pref—”
“All right, all right,” Danielle said, scowling, as she delved into her pocket and dug out her phone. “Knock yourself out.”
Charlie took it from her and opened up her photos. Quickly she scrolled back through the days before alighting on Wednesday’s date. Predictably there were dozens of photos. Danielle was part of the generation that lived its life in public and Charlie was amused to see photos of Danielle’s painted toes, her tattoos, several trial hairdos, plus a cheeky shot of her mum in her dressing gown among the snaps Danielle had posted that day.
But Charlie was interested in the evening photos and flicked to them now. The gaggle of girls had been in high spirits and there were plenty of stupid, drunken poses. Naomie Jackson was there, not quite in the thick of things but present and enjoying herself, it appeared. Charlie moved through them more carefully now, checking the times that each photo was taken. Ten thirty p.m., ten forty-seven, ten forty-nine, eleven twelve, eleven thirteen, eleven twenty-five, eleven thirty-eight...
And it was with this last one that Charlie had the evidence she needed. Naomie had previously said that she’d left the pub early and headed home, encountering the fleeing arsonist en route, a few minutes before eleven thirty p.m. And yet here she was, pictured in the pub with her mates at eleven thirty-eight. She had never left the pub—had stayed with them almost to the bitter end, it appeared.
If the timings on Danielle’s phone were correct—and there was no reason to doubt that they were—then it was clear that Naomie had spun them a story about her movements that night. She had been lying when she said she encountered the arsonist. More important, she had been lying to them when she said she started the fire in Denise Roberts’s house.
125
McAndrew stopped in her tracks the moment she saw him.
