44

All around him people were screaming and crying. ‘There’s someone in there, there’s someone in there,’ a woman shrieked nearby, as if the repetition of the bloody obvious could somehow affect her rescue. Satisfyingly, her bleating was suddenly cut short by a huge boom, as the front bedroom flashed over, blasting the main window from its casing and sending hot splinters of glass flying towards the crowd. Many present now turned and ran, bumping into him and disturbing his framing. That had pissed him off. Up until then, his recording had been perfect.

Watching the footage from last night’s fires was proving to be a pleasurable experience. He had over an hour’s worth of material from each fire and over time he would edit them into tight, dramatic narratives. But for now he was content to enjoy the raw, uncut recordings.

He had had a busy night, so could afford himself a little R’n’R now. He’d returned home just after midnight and, having changed his clothes and picked up the camera, went straight out again. Meticulous as always, he visited the sites in order, culminating with the smoking house in Bevois Mount. He had lingered there the longest, drinking in the reactions of the shocked neighbours, enjoying the moment.

As dawn broke, he’d chanced his arm. The fire crew had done all they could do – it was the arson investigator’s scene now – and they departed in short order. The site was roped off and a uniformed police officer was standing guard, but there were enough local gossips and journalists to distract him, so slipping round the back, he vaulted the fence and approached the back of the house.

It was a stupid, reckless thing to do, but somehow he knew he wouldn’t get caught. He’d filmed his approach. It looked like a trick from a cheap horror film and he smiled now as he watched it back. Teasing the fire-damaged back door open, he’d slipped inside.

He knew that Deborah Parks would be on site first thing, so pocketing the camera, he’d set to work, searching for suitable souvenirs. He could hear the chatter at the front of the house. The earnest enquiries of local residents, the pushy questions from the hacks and the self-important PC ordering them to move back. Walking through the living room, he found only devastation, so darting across the hall, he investigated the box room-cum-study.

There had obviously been piles of stuff stored in here – he could see the charred remnants of cardboard boxes – which provided the spreading fire with plenty of fuel. Fortunately – depending on your point of view – the linoleum floor in the hall had delayed the fire reaching this room and the firefighters had managed to extinguish the blaze before the whole room went up. The trinkets of a life half lived now littered this small space and, among the burnt manuals, books and shoeboxes, he’d found a framed photo. The glass was cracked and black with soot, the metal frame bent and awkward, but the photo inside had survived. Burnt at the edges and buckled with the heat, but you could still make out mother and son smiling awkwardly at the camera. Slipping it into his rucksack he hurried out and across the hall. He’d paused briefly as he departed. There was something strangely moving about standing in the smouldering ruins of the house. Smoke and steam still rose from the floor – hence the need for his work boots – and the whole place reeked of fire. Breathing in the sharp odour one last time, he’d turned and headed for the back door.

The footage was coming to an end now, but his pleasure was not. So flipping the footage back to the start, he settled back in his easy chair, undid his fly and slipped his hand inside his trousers.

45

‘Do you have any leads?’

Detective Superintendent Jonathan Gardam had not met Emilia Garanita before. But he had heard a lot about her. Helen Grace had given him chapter and verse, as had Hampshire Fire and Rescue’s Chief Officer, Adam Latham, who now sat beside him, fielding questions from the press. The major tabloids were represented at their briefing today, but Emilia Garanita was not going to let them bully her or hold her back. Watching her as she tried to lead the questioning, Gardam had the distinct impression that this represented an opportunity for the ambitious young journalist to shine on a bigger stage.

‘Are you making any progress?’ Garanita persisted. Gardam paused, taking a moment to drink in all the small details of this local curiosity – the facial scarring, the dyed hair, the fuck-you attitude – before replying:

‘DI Grace and her team are pursuing a number of leads and we have pulled in every officer available to help with our enquiries. There is currently a greater police presence on the street than at any time in the last five years.’

Gardam let this register. He wanted every journalist to note this surge in manpower. Moreover, he wanted their arsonist to take heed of this when it was reported later today. When you’re struggling for concrete leads, prevention is often as good as detection. He wanted to make the arsonist think twice before carrying out further attacks.

‘And we’re confident that progress in the investigation will be swift. Alongside this, we have been liaising with our colleagues in the Fire and Rescue Service who have now drafted in extra fire response vehicles as well as additional firefighters from neighbouring forces.’

‘We are now confident,’ Adam Latham added, overlapping with his police colleague, ‘that we can deal with any emergency quickly and effectively, however complicated the situation may be.’

Another tacit warning to the arsonist. They had more police, more firefighters, more resources. Diversionary fires would be of little help to him now. Privately Gardam wondered how he would react to this challenge. Would he back down or respond in kind – upping his game as they upped theirs?

‘I’ll ask the question again – do you have any suspects?’

Garanita was a dog with a bone, revelling in her self-appointed duty of holding the police to account. Gardam had heard that the Southampton Evening News had been going gently on them for a while – thanks in part to a temporary truce between Garanita and Helen Grace – but that respite appeared to be over now, as Southampton’s pre-eminent crime reporter sniffed a juicy new story.

‘There are several persons of interest whom we are trying to trace, but chief among them is a man seen running from the scene of the Bevois Mount house fire at around eleven twenty-five p.m. last night. You are being handed printed images of the CCTV still now and we would urge your readers, your viewers, to take a good look at it. Do they recognize this man? If so, we would ask them to get in touch via the special incident hotline, which is manned twenty-four hours a day, so we can eliminate him from our enquiries. In the meantime, I would ask the public to remain calm and take sensible precautions, especially after dark.’

‘So lock your doors and sit tight. Is that the best you can do?’

‘It’s the sensible thing to do. I appreciate that these attacks have caused alarm, but the best thing the public can do is be vigilant, be sensible and let us go about our business.’

‘In the police we trust?’

‘Exactly, Emilia. As you know, DI Grace has an exemplary record in running investigations of this scale and complexity. And I have every confidence in her,’ Gardam responded forcefully, pausing a little for effect before concluding:

‘She’s delivered before and I’m sure she’ll do so again.’