‘Listen to me, Charlie. I know Ford was your collar. I know you want to help. But I would be a terrible team leader if I didn’t ask you to heed the medics’ advice and step back from this. I know a few days in bed isn’t realistic, but I want you to stand down for today. I’ll get uniform to take you home. Freshen up, talk to Steve, get some rest and we’ll talk in the morning. Please don’t fight me on this one, Charlie. It’s for your own good.’

Charlie’s body was starting to shake now, as the fear and emotion of the day’s events started to register. She could have been killed today. That would take a while to sink in but when it did it would be hard to shake off. Charlie had responsibilities, loved ones who depended on her. The selfishness of life in a dangerous, front-line job was something you dealt with day after day, but it was hard when you had a nice family to go home to, when events forced you to confront the prospect of your own mortality. Helen didn’t really expect to see Charlie back tomorrow, but she had to offer her that carrot for now, to ensure that she did the right thing in going home to rest.

Charlie nodded gently but said nothing. Helen could tell she was trying not to sob and laid a gentle arm around her shoulder.

‘Don’t worry, Charlie. You made it.’

Charlie leant in closer, seeking Helen’s warmth and support. Helen squeezed her a little tighter in response. Then, having gestured to a uniformed officer to bring a car round, said:

‘Now go home and give that beautiful daughter of yours a big kiss.’

64

‘Tell me exactly what you said to her.’

Deborah Parks stared at her boss, refusing to be intimidated by his aggressive manner.

‘She’s an old friend and she asked me to talk to her off the record. She wanted some background info on certain members of the team, that’s all.’

‘Your team said you were away from duties for over an hour. You must have been in a very talkative mood.’

‘It wasn’t like that!’

‘So what was it like?’

Deborah squirmed in her seat, privately cursing whichever colleague of hers had dobbed her in. Adam Latham was a canny operator, very political and extremely sensitive about both his reputation and that of the Service. He actively encouraged internal gossip and whistleblowing, as long as the matters arising could be dealt with discreetly. He prided himself on being too smart to be duped and his little network of informers helped him justify that bold claim.

‘You left your designated work to sit down with Helen Grace and within the hour one of our own officers is in cuffs. One of your colleagues. What did you say to her?’

‘She asked me a direct question about Richard Ford. And I answered as honestly as I could.’

‘Saying what?’

‘That he was a good officer, but was socially isolated.’

‘And?’

‘And that he’d failed to make promotion.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘I couldn’t lie, Adam. She’s a Detective Inspector investigating a double murder and she asked me a direct question.’

‘And what would she have done if you’d refused? Arrested you?’

‘That’s hardly the point. I’m loyal to this place, of course I am, but someone is doing this and we all have a moral duty to help find out who.’

Adam Latham eyeballed Deborah silently, while chewing on his biro. She refused to blink, refused to bow her head in contrition – she had to front this out. But already she could feel the ground shifting beneath her feet. Latham was an old-fashioned guy who prized loyalty and solidarity above all things, and she knew that in talking to the ‘enemy’ she had committed a cardinal sin. There was only one way for Latham – his way – and Deborah knew that she would suffer for her close association with Helen Grace.

‘Grace is clutching at straws,’ Latham said suddenly, jolting Deborah out of her thoughts. ‘Time will show that. For now, we’ll take the line that Ford is just helping the police with their enquiries and that we fully expect him to be back at work protecting the people of Southampton in the very near future. I have talked to our press people and they are drafting a statement, which I expect everybody to read and follow to the letter. Is that clear?’

‘Of course.’

‘No more talking out of school. It’s time for the wagon train to circle, Deborah. If you get my drift.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good, that’s settled then. Now fuck off.’

It was said with such contempt that for a moment Deborah froze, uncertain if she had heard him correctly. But the way Latham ignored her presence, as he picked up the phone, left her in no doubt as to his opinion of her. She stood quickly and walked out and away down the corridor. With each step, her heart slid a little further into her boots. She had done nothing wrong, but she would be punished nevertheless. Latham would no doubt let it be known that she couldn’t be trusted, that she was a turncoat. Through no fault of her own, she would pay the price for somebody else’s crimes.

65

Helen stood quietly as Meredith Walker went about her work. The stove fire had been extinguished, but the claustrophobic attic room still reeked of smoke, rendering the atmosphere close and unpleasant. There were no windows or vents in this place, the open door was the only means of expelling the pungent smoke that danced around the naked bulb in this strange cocoon.

Emotions swirled through Helen as she took in the scene. Concern for Charlie, irritation at Emilia Garanita, whom she’d had to forcibly eject from the crime scene, but also disquiet at what she now saw. Every room in the house was packed to the rafters – Ford was clearly a hoarder – but the attic was different. This seemed to be a more ordered chaos, a kind of nerve centre, a shrine almost and the object of Ford’s worship was clear.

The walls, the roof, every joint and joist were covered with photos of fire. The floor and every available surface were piled high with boxes overflowing with clippings, while the rickety shelves erected on two of the walls groaned with first-hand accounts of history’s deadliest blazes. The whole room felt like a brain bursting with one man’s obsession. A dark, secret place where he could revel in his private passion.

Helen immediately wondered how long Ford had been living alone in this house. His mother had passed away a few years back, though exactly how long ago she wasn’t sure. Did all this start then? Had he kept it buried inside while she was alive, only to give in to his obsession once there was no one to rein him in? Had his loneliness, his isolation, contributed to the feelings that had pushed him over the edge?

Ford was now in custody at Southampton Central. He’d been passed fit for questioning by their medics, but Helen had decided to let him stew for a while yet. She wanted him to feel the confines of the holding cell, to witness the whispered comments of the screws – she wanted his fear and paranoia to grow. It wasn’t a pleasant way to treat someone, but it often worked. A brief taste of incarceration – and the promise of more to come if convicted – often prompted suspects to confess quickly in the hope of making a deal.

There was another reason Helen wanted to buy some time. His attic was a veritable treasure trove of evidence and she wanted to be fully armed when she sat down opposite Ford. She would never forgive herself if he managed to wriggle off the hook because of a procedural error or some omission in the narrative she presented. It was obvious that some of the photos on the wall were of the fires in Millbrook, Bevois Mount and elsewhere. No doubt the dozens of mini-cam tapes now being bagged by Meredith and her officers would yield similar evidence of an unhealthy interest in these terrible attacks. Everywhere you looked you saw recent events reflected back at you – Helen had only been here an hour but already her unusual surroundings were starting to affect her, seeming to suggest that the world was made of fire and fire alone.