‘The firefighters are doing everything they can, Callum. Jesus –’

The young man had sunk his teeth into Helen’s hand and was bucking violently once more. Helen removed her hand quickly, but as she did so brought Callum’s right arm up sharply behind his back. He screamed out in pain.

‘I’m not letting you go, so unless you want to be charged with assaulting a police officer, I suggest you calm down. Ok?’

Finally the fight seemed to go out of him.

‘Where is she? Is she ok?’ he begged.

‘We don’t know, but we’re doing everything we can, believe me.’

She tried to sound upbeat, but Helen already feared the worst. There had been no sign of Denise Roberts since the fire was reported and neighbours said she was very much a homebody. Even more concerning was the fact that when the firefighters had managed to gain entry to the house through the front door – not three minutes ago – the chain and deadlock had been secured from the inside. They had had to barrel charge their way in. It looked very much like someone had been in the house when the blaze started.

‘Jesus Christ, what have I done?’

‘What do you mean, Callum?’

‘Oh God …’

‘Talk to me. What’s worrying you?’

‘I … I told her I pitied her. That was the last thing I said to her. Jesus Christ, she must have thought I fucking hated her …’

Now the floodgates opened, the devastated young man sobbing on to the dusty ground beneath him. Finally, Helen relinquished her grip, helping the young man up on to his haunches and wrapping her arms around him. He refused to look at the fire and seemed powerless to move now, so he just sat there, sobbing into his hands. Helen gave what comfort she could, but he barely seemed to register her presence. So they sat there silently, entwined together in desperation and sadness, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames that continued to consume his home.

39

Ensuring the car was centrally placed in his viewfinder, he gently pressed Record. The little red dot appeared at the side of the screen and a small smile spread across his face. There it was – in perfect definition. If he did his job right, if he got all the footage he needed, he’d be able to enjoy this little baby for many years to come. His smile stretched wider, then as quickly as it had appeared, he swallowed it back down. No point drawing attention to himself. So flattening his expression into one of general concern he carried on recording.

The vehicles were parked cheek by jowl in this lonely outdoor car park. Eight separate vehicles were now ablaze, the fire having spread from one to another, fanned by the rising wind. A sign claimed that the site was owned and maintained by Southampton City Council, but it was nothing of the sort. It was just a dusty piece of wasteland. Parking was so expensive in the city centre that those in the know came here. It was dirt cheap by day and at night the wardens weren’t around to enforce payment, so if you were smart you could park up here and head into the city, saving yourself a parking fee. Security was non-existent, but that didn’t seem to deter people. Perhaps this fire would.

A sudden jolt from the side nearly knocked the camera from his hand – some oaf pushing his way to the front of the crowd. In a flash, he’d turned on him, spitting bile in his direction – but the idiot didn’t even notice, too caught up in his own pathetic universe. Firing a parting shot of abuse, the man moved on, seeking a better vantage point from which to view this event.

Skirting the perimeter, he found a decent spot and once more pressed the little red button. He had a good shot of three different cars here, nicely positioned at intervals, their interweaving flames creating pretty patterns in the sky. This was more like it.

Relaxing, he started to rotate the camera, taking in the full panorama of the scene – the cars, the coppers, the rubberneckers, the paramedics, TV journalists, press photographers and local hacks. So much activity, so many people, all drawn here by the flames. It was strangely moving to behold.

Panning still further, he came to rest on the face of a young, pretty woman. Dressed in a smart suit, with her hair neatly tied up in a bun, she was bossing the uniformed coppers about. CID obviously, though he didn’t recognize her. It wasn’t Grace or the other one, but she would do. He drank in the anxiety on her face, the stress crumpling her pretty brow and making her voice tight and strangulated. Already he could feel his arousal growing, there was something about the way fire changed people that always provoked a physical reaction. This officer – whoever she may be – had had no idea that she would be here tonight, doing this, dancing to somebody else’s tune.

He realized he was smiling again. Shaking his head at his stupidity, he rubbed his tired eyes and looked into the viewfinder again – only to find that the female officer was staring straight at him. Immediately his body froze, all thoughts of arousal evaporating. Had she spotted him smiling? Was there something in his body language which had given him away? She was looking directly at him, her eyes seeming to bore into his brain, his soul. Now she was taking a step towards him. Should he turn and run? Or bluff it out? He suddenly felt tongue-tied, sweat dotting his back, unsure what to say or how to say it. The officer took another step, then suddenly darted off in another direction, having been hailed by a fellow officer.

In a flash, he had finished his recording and stowed the camera back in his rucksack. Now he was walking away at pace. He half expected her to cry out, to call him back, but no cry came.

He had been stupid to linger. Excited as he was, he must learn to be disciplined – to take what he needed and no more. If he was lucky he would be able to return tomorrow to garner some souvenirs, but for now he had other things to do. The Roberts house fire would probably be extinguished soon and he’d have to move quickly if he didn’t want to miss it. Checking once more that he had escaped undetected, he pulled his hood up on to his head and disappeared into the night.

40

He stared at the floor, refusing to look at her. Helen was well aware that she had just shattered this poor boy’s world, but she’d had no choice. She owed him the truth. When the firefighters had finally worked their way up to the first floor of the Roberts residence, they’d found a woman’s body in the main bedroom. She was curled up in the classic pugilist pose you so often see with fire victims. Oddly she was found plum in the middle of the room, seemingly having made no concerted move towards the windows or the door. There was precious little else Helen could pass on at the moment – Deborah Parks would have to wait until the site cooled before she could do her work. They hadn’t even managed to formally ID the body yet – that would happen later – but it seemed highly unlikely that another, unknown female had made her way into Denise’s bedroom and perished in the blaze. It looked for all the world like Callum’s mum was the arsonist’s second victim.

They were holed up together in a relatives’ room at Southampton Central police station. It hadn’t taken long for the press to gather outside the burning house and they soon zeroed in on Helen and the weeping boy, hoping for a photo and some good copy. Helen had bustled Callum to the nearest police vehicle and got him back to base safe and sound. He obviously couldn’t go home and, until they unearthed some friends or relatives to take him, it was down to Helen and her colleagues at Hampshire Social Services to ensure that he was ok.