Sanderson finished her drink and returned to the bar for a refill. She chided herself for being so negative. Surely it was possible to find someone – Charlie and many others like her had managed it. Privately, Sanderson rather envied Charlie – her happy home, her baby girl. She knew it meant sacrifices on a personal and professional level, but at least it meant something. Charlie’s life seemed very grounded compared to hers. But she was never going to get there unless she tried and she had been looking forward to meeting Will tonight. He sounded fun from his emails, had an interesting job and he was certainly easy on the eye.

The question was whether she would make it. Helen had told the team that finding Gary Spence was their top priority and a number of his known haunts were now under surveillance. His home, his mates, a couple of snooker halls and this pub – a place he liked to frequent at the end of stressful day, extorting money from desperate debtors who hadn’t read the small print properly. As Sanderson returned to her seat in the corner, she felt several sets of eyes following her progress. Did they suspect her? Or did they just like the look of her? It was feasible that they had already called Spence and warned him not to come. It was impossible to tell and as with all stakeouts there was only one way to find out.

Watch and wait.

23

He recognized her immediately. As she put on her protective suit, mask and goggles, he took in her trim figure. She was pretty and well groomed, her glossy chestnut hair always secure in a very professional-looking bun. He had observed her at a number of burnt-out properties over the past year, diligently carrying out her work, and had even looked her up on Facebook. Her name was Deborah Parks and he always felt a little charge when looking at her.

She had been working at Travell’s Timber Yard since lunchtime. The massive site looked like a war zone – the main warehouse had burnt to the ground, as had most of the stock, temporarily turning the skies over this part of town black. It’d been an amazing thing to witness and had drawn big crowds, but now they had all disappeared. Back to X Factor and Celebrity BB. They thought the show was over. They didn’t value what was right in front of them. They couldn’t see what he could see.

Deborah Parks was on the move now, entering the shell of the warehouse and temporarily out of view. A couple of uniformed officers guarded the main gate, but the site was huge and the chain link fence had not been well maintained – they obviously didn’t get too many timber thieves round here. It was a matter of a few seconds to haul up the bottom of the fence and roll underneath.

Dusting himself down, he surveyed the scene, pausing for a moment to breathe in the strong aroma of carbonized wood that rose from the ashes of this once-vibrant business. Moving out of sight, he began filming. A slow panorama at first, taking in the full devastation of the scene, then a series of zoomed-in close-ups. The devil is in the detail at fire sites – the small remnants of the conflagration, the things that survived, tell the story best. A successful family business that had taken years to build – destroyed in less than an hour. Such was the power of fire.

The sound of a voice nearby made him look up from his recording. He had been so wrapped up in his work that he’d failed to notice Deborah Parks leaving the warehouse to make a phone call. Berating himself for his carelessness, he ducked behind the remnants of a timber stack and scuttled along the perimeter fence away from danger.

Finding a new place of safety towards the back of the site, he rested for a minute – to catch his breath and reassure himself that he hadn’t been spotted – putting his camera back in his rucksack. Now he got on with the real business. Crawling on his hands and knees, his eyes darting this way and that, searching, searching, searching. You never knew what you were going to find in these situations – sometimes it took ages to find anything decent – but today fate was smiling on him. Near the fence edge was a fire-damaged sign. As soon as he picked it up and turned it over, he broke into a broad smile. ‘Travell’s Timber Yard’, it proudly announced, but this boastful sign was now smeared with soot and violated by fire. It was ideal. The perfect souvenir of a memorable night.

It was too big to fit in his rucksack, but if he held it to him with the writing facing inwards he would be ok. He didn’t have far to go. Lifting the fence, he slipped it under, then followed himself. Picking it up, he got to his feet and, having checked that there were no police officers about, hurried off down the street.

As he went, he chuckled to himself. It had been a very satisfactory day’s work.

24

When would he ever escape this place?

Luke Simms had only been in hospital for a day, but already it felt like a lifetime. When you cannot move, when there’s nothing you can do for yourself, time passes very slowly. Luke had hardly slept – kept awake by the pain in his shoulder and legs and the dull ache of his loss. But at least at night he had been left alone.

During visiting hours today, he had been besieged – inundated with teary visitors who lavished him with affection or urged him to ‘stay strong’. They left flowers, chocolates, books, DVDs – already his room was a riot of colour. It was like an Aladdin’s cave and, though he was grateful for their kindness and concern, he hated it all. Some people he was glad to see of course, but his misfortune now seemed to be a magnet for anyone who’d ever known him. So in addition to family and close friends, he’d been visited by football mates and their parents, ex-girlfriends, godparents, guys from school, cousins several times removed. Some of them barely knew him, some of them he thought actively disliked him, but suddenly they all wanted a piece of him. Wanted to tell him how brave he was. Wanted to offer their sympathy to him and, worse than that, their praise.

It was all so inappropriate. What had he actually done? He had jumped from a building and broken his legs. In a stroke his home, his life, his future had been shattered – so what exactly was there to be happy or hopeful about? He was always polite, but when they geed him up by telling him how quick-thinking he’d been, how courageous, he wanted to tell them all to go Hell. He hadn’t jumped because he was brave. He had jumped because he was scared.

Had he been a proper son and brother, he would have braved the flames. He would have charged through them to find his mother and sister. He could have got them out of the house ten, twenty minutes earlier perhaps, but he didn’t. Because he was scared by the awful chorus of smoke alarms and the flames devouring the stairs, he had turned and fled, climbing out of his window and jumping to safety.

Because of that his mother had died. His mother who had given up work to raise him. Who had taken him to football practice three times a week. Who had always called him her ‘special one’. He’d abandoned her – as he had abandoned his little sister – to her fate. And for that he would never forgive himself.

Which is why all the bouquets and cards with messages of good will and praise seemed completely obscene. If he had his way, they would all have been thrown straight in the bin.