Many held her responsible for this, but Emilia never had. She had been made promises, promises that hadn’t been kept. This was the story of her life in many ways and in this particular instance the irony wasn’t lost on her. She had trusted a journalist and look where it had got her.

The pair she was following slowed now. The woman was instantly recognizable – DC Charlene ‘Charlie’ Brooks – an honest and determined copper whom Emilia had crossed swords with many times. The girl she didn’t know, but Charlie Brooks had been incredibly solicitous to her since leaving the police station – driving her home, buying her drinks and magazines, pep talking her every step of the way. This girl wasn’t some truant or teen runaway – she was someone important.

Emilia snuck into a greasy spoon and found a table by the window. Ignoring the unfriendly assertion by the owner that she couldn’t sit there without buying anything, Emilia kept her eyes glued on the dumb show playing out opposite. The girl looked nervous, even a little anxious, but Brooks was working hard to soothe her. Emilia couldn’t hear the words but the body language – the hand gently squeezing the girl’s arm – spoke volumes.

Removing her tablet from her bag, Emilia pulled up the link for the electoral register. She shouldn’t have it of course – it was for internal Council use only – but no self-respecting local journalist could do without it. She’d already clocked the road name as they turned into it, now she added the house number. Instantly she had her answer. Two people registered to the address: Sharon Jackson, aged forty-two, and Naomie Jackson, aged seventeen.

Slipping her tablet away, Emilia was pleased to see that Brooks was taking her leave. Rising, she allowed her to turn the corner, before hurrying from the café and straight across the road. Once on the doorstep she paused for a second – to smooth her hair and reapply her lipstick – before confidently ringing the doorbell.

Naomie must have been expecting Brooks again, because her face fell when she saw a stranger standing on the doorstep.

‘Naomie? It is Naomie Jackson, isn’t it?’

The girl nodded cautiously.

‘I was given your name by DI Grace at Southampton Central. She says you’re assisting them with their enquiries?’

Another tiny nod.

‘Well, as you know, the News always plays an active role in keeping the wider public informed about matters affecting their safety and well-being. I understand you have new information which is proving very helpful to the police in their hunt for this terrible arsonist and I was wondering if I might come in for two minutes to chat about it?’

The girl was clearly unsure, so Emilia followed up quickly.

‘We don’t have to use your name, anything you tell me is in confidence and, yes, we do pay. So what do you say?’

Moments later, Emilia was settled in the girl’s dreary living room prising information from the monosyllabic teen. She kept her eyes locked on the girl, but her hand worked overtime, scribbling down every tiny detail of her testimony. Already Emilia had the feeling that this was going to play well for her – that this latest case would finally allow Emilia to write her own happy ending.

53

Deborah Parks marched across the café, turning heads as she went. Out of her work scrubs she was quite something – her svelte figure and flowing hair released from the baggy, sexless suit to impressive effect. Helen was not surprised to see more than one man pause in his conversation as she glided past their tables.

Kissing Helen hello, she sat down and gestured to the waiter for a cappuccino. It was always strange – and refreshing – to meet colleagues away from the workplace. Interaction at crime scenes and on disaster sites was necessarily sombre and professional, but this didn’t really suit Deborah or do justice to her bubbly, optimistic personality. They chatted happily, then Helen elegantly moved the conversation on to more serious matters. This wasn’t a social call – Helen was here to dig for dirt.

Sanderson’s first pass on the Fire and Rescue staff rotas had thrown up six preliminary names. Six men whose shift patterns could have allowed them to start the fires and who fitted the profile in terms of age, marital status and disciplinary history. Helen had already dispatched officers from her team to do the preliminary checks, asking these six individuals standard, routine questions about their movements, their take on the fires and any suspicions they might have – all in the interest of sniffing out small discrepancies in their alibis or something unusual in their behaviour. These conversations were necessarily anodyne and often brief, but it was surprising what they sometimes threw up. A family member listening in, a girlfriend uncomfortable at providing a false alibi – these visits often served to undermine the perpetrator in unexpected ways.

‘So are you going to tell me what this cloak and dagger stuff is all about?’ Deborah enquired. It was said pleasantly, but was shot through with curiosity. Helen had had no choice but to do this discreetly, given the earlier altercation with Latham, and she knew that if she’d dragged the diligent Deborah away from her work in person, then tongues would have wagged. So she’d asked her to meet in a Caffè Nero near the fire site and suggested she invent a reason for her absence.

‘I told the boys that I had a doctor’s appointment,’ Deborah continued, ‘which set the cat among the pigeons. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that lot come up with.’

‘I appreciate that and I know your time is not your own, so I’ll cut to the chase. I need to talk to you off the record about some of your colleagues. None of it will come back to you – it’s just to help me get some background on them.’

Deborah Parks nodded, then replied:

‘Strictly off the record?’

‘Of course.’

Deborah nodded, a little less convincingly this time, then said:

‘Ok, shoot.’

Helen delved into the folder that lay in front of her. Deborah was Southampton born and bred and had served at stations all over the city. Attractive, popular and ambitious as she was, every budding firefighter made a friend of her – a fact that Helen now hoped would stand her in good stead.

‘I’m going to show you a list of six names. All male colleagues of yours. I know little more than their ages and job titles at present. I need you to fill me in on the detail – what they’re like, whether you trust them, whether it’s possible,’ Helen went on, lowering her voice, ‘that they could be our arsonist.’

Deborah nodded soberly as Helen slipped the piece of paper across the table towards her. There they were in black and white:

Alan Jackson, John Foley, Trevor Robinson, Simon Duggan, Martin Hughes and Richard Ford.

Was one of these six men their killer?

54

Lifting the police cordon, he entered the site, his boots crunching satisfyingly on the charred bits of wood that littered the former showroom. Just a day ago, this place had been a popular destination for couples and families seeking a new sofa, dining table or king-size bed. The guys who ran this place must have been making money hand over fist, but not any more. The vast building had gone up in flames and in the early hours of this morning the roof had eventually come down – the final majestic act of destruction ensuring that everything below would be consumed as well.

He had chosen his moment carefully. Deborah Parks had left the site rather suddenly following a phone call and the rest of her team had taken advantage of this to nip off for a cup of tea. There was only one uniformed police officer and he was soon talked round. This was too good an opportunity to miss.