There was, however, one unusual pattern: a cyberfriend whom she had chatted to repeatedly over the last six months, before suddenly dropping three weeks ago.
Helen looked at the username. Naomie’s correspondent went by the handle of “firstpersonsingular”—no first name or surname was ever referred to in their chats. It was an intriguing choice—implying a sense of difference, a unique quality perhaps but also showcasing a high level of education and exhibiting a degree of wit and sophistication in choosing a grammatical pun as a username. This immediately concerned Helen—Naomie was not educated, not massively bright per se, whereas this person clearly was—given the vocabulary and the considered, acerbic style of the insults and character assassinations.
As a disturbing thought took hold, Helen searched for other sites or postings linked to firstpersonsingular. There were a few to choose from, but Helen homed in on a blog site that had been recently added to.
When people come to judge me, they will see that none of this is my fault.
Whatever, it’s important that you know I’m not mad, or bad. I’m just reacting to circumstances. Actions have consequences, my friends...
They told him he was a worm, a germ, a piece of shit who should never have existed. But he did more than any of them.
I saw what people said about the fire at Millbrook—they said it was hideous, ugly, an abomination. But not to me. I thought it was beautiful.
The posts had all been written in the last four days—afterthe spate of arson attacks had begun. Firstpersonsingular’s interest in the fires was telling, as was the fact that there had been no formal break-off in their online friendship with Naomie Jackson. What had happened? Had they met at some point? Decided face-to-face to drop online communication to attempt to conceal their connection?
Suddenly it all made sense. The reason why they couldn’t find a motive for the Simms and Harris fires. And why they couldn’t place their prime suspect at the Roberts and Blayne fires. She had hidden it pretty well, but now it was as plain as day.
Naomie Jackson had a partner in crime.
127
“Can I just double-check these timings? So there’s no mistake in your statement?”
Helen was back in the interview suite, sitting next to Charlie, who had just arrived back from St. Mary’s. Helen had asked her to sit in, tasking Sanderson with chasing down the mysterious “firstpersonsingular.” It was a slight break in the chain of command, but Helen wanted Charlie’s input and, besides, it felt good to have her old friend back at her side as the case reached its climax.
“So on Wednesday night, you left the Green Man around eleven and made your way home?”
Naomie looked tired and wrung out, the product of a sleepless night in the cells. Part of Helen was pleased—it’s harder to keep your guard up when you’re exhausted.
“More or less.”
“I’m going to have to press you, Naomie. You left the pub around eleven, walked to Denise Roberts’s house and then what?”
“I set the fire, like I said.”
“So that would have been around eleven fifteen p.m.?”
“Right.”
“Wrong. Because you were in the Green Man with your friends,” Helen replied, all the warmth suddenly evaporating from her tone.
Naomie’s brief shot a concerned look in her direction, but Charlie leaped in before she could intervene.
“I’ve spoken to Danielle this morning. I’ve seen the photos, placing you there until gone midnight. We’ve also had a little look at your movements on Friday—the day Mandy Blayne’s house was targeted. The movement of your mobile signal suggests you didn’t go near St. Denys.”
Charlie could see Naomie was about to kick back, so she carried on quickly:
“That doesn’t prove anything, of course. You might have lost your phone or had it stolen. However, we have tallied your mobile movements with street cameras and guess what—they match.”
“I’m now showing the suspect some CCTV stills time-coded to the hours between two and four p.m. on Friday,” Helen said, taking over. “Your face can be clearly seen in a couple of them, in spite of your cap. I take it you’re not going to deny that it’s you?”
Helen pushed the stills across the table toward Naomie and her brief, but the former refused to look at them. She looked ashen.
“Look at them,” Helen barked, her voice suddenly harsh. “Are you going to deny that’s you?”
Naomie glanced anxiously at her brief but received nothing in return—it clearlywasher in the photos. Now Naomie’s eyes started to fill. Helen could see that the young girl was panicking, obviously torn over what to do next. Helen cursed herself for ever having believedthis scared, downtrodden teenager was the mastermind behind the arson attacks.
“I know this is not what you wanted, not how you hoped things would pan out, but believe me, this is good news, Naomie. There’s a simple reason you can’t provide any clear motive for the fires at the Simms and Harris households—because they weren’tyourvictims. Your accomplice wanted to hurt them, while you wanted to get at Denise Roberts and Mandy Blayne. Credit to you both, you played it smartly. You set the first and third fires, your accomplice the second and fourth. You had no personal connection to the victims you actually targeted, making it virtually impossible that you’d be identified as a suspect.”
