‘So what’s it going to be, Richard? Are you going to play ball or shall I charge you with a double murder here and now?’

69

The wheels squeaked noisily as they slid over the tired linoleum floor. Thomas Simms cursed under his breath – he already felt as if the eyes of everyone in the hospital were glued to him and his son. He didn’t need the ancient hospital wheelchair trumpeting their presence to one and all.

It was a long journey from Luke’s ward to the main exit and each step of the way Thomas questioned the wisdom of what he was doing. He hated being away from Alice and it was convenient to have Luke in the same place, being looked after by the attentive nurses. But his son had begged to be discharged and in the end Thomas had relented. There was little more that the surgeons or doctors could do – Luke’s legs were set in heavy plaster after the operation, his shoulder was in a sling – now there was nothing to do but rest up and wait. And Luke clearly didn’t want to do that here.

Here he couldn’t hide from the visitors, journalists or prurient well-wishers, so Thomas had arranged that they would go and stay with his sister, Mary, who had a big place in Upper Shirley. They obviously couldn’t go back to their own house – Thomas privately wondered if they would ever return there again – and he couldn’t face staying in a hotel, so Mary’s had seemed a good bet. He and his older sister hadn’t always got on, but it was the best he could do in a no-win situation.

‘How you doing, mate? Not hurting you, am I?’

‘No, you’re all right,’ his son lied bravely, each bump on their journey clearly going right through him.

Thomas immediately felt the emotion rise in him once more. His son had been so brave throughout, facing up to his injuries, his grief, his fractured future, with admirable stoicism. When the real reckoning of recent events would finally land on him, Thomas couldn’t tell. He both hoped and feared he would be on hand when it did.

They had reached the main atrium now and the exit was just ahead of them. The taxi wasn’t due for another ten minutes or so, so Thomas dived into the nearby shop to buy a can of Coke for them both. Karen had never been keen on the kids drinking it, but Luke had developed a taste for it while in hospital and Thomas was happy to indulge him. As he queued to pay, his eye fell on the stack of local papers nearby.

‘SUSPECT ARRESTED!’ the headline screamed. And beneath it more details, including the fact that the suspect worked for Hants Fire and Rescue. The paper didn’t reveal his identity, but Thomas knew his name. He knew because he had made a deal with the devil. He had nodded and thanked the FLO who’d come to the hospital to keep him up to date on developments later, failing to admit that he already knew the man in question was Richard Ford. Thanks to his deal with Emilia Garanita – the fruits of which were spread over the centrefold as well as the front six pages – he knew where Ford lived, what his family history was and some details of what the police had found when they’d raided his house.

Garanita had called him from outside Ford’s house. He had had to stand in a corridor out of view, given the ban on mobile phones in wards, and had listened, speechless, to her summary of developments. She had excitement in her voice as she relayed her news and for a moment Thomas had hated her for that – for enjoying this experience – but as the hours passed afterwards, he’d hated Richard Ford more. Thomas was by nature a peaceful guy, but he felt in himself now an anger that was strange and fierce. That guy, that shaven-headed little shit, had destroyed their lives. Taken his beautiful wife, scarred his daughter and broken his son – all to satisfy his thirst for fire. He had crept into his house, set fire to his stairs and shattered his family.

The shopkeeper was offering Thomas his change now, but he wandered off without collecting it. He walked back to his son, a rictus smile plastered on his face, but his thoughts were miles away. In a small room across town, his wife’s killer was sitting, safe and well, fighting his corner, while he was here, wheeling his injured son through a lobby, watched every step of the way. Where was the justice in that? Could there ever be justice for something like this?

Thomas Simms had never wanted to harm anybody before, but suddenly he yearned to be in that room, face to face with Ford. He would show him what he’d done – to Thomas, to his family – and then he would see that justice was done. He knew there and then, with absolute certainty, that if he ever found himself alone with Richard Ford he would kill him.

70

‘My client has protested his innocence – repeatedly – and has said all he’s going to say on the matter. We are going round in circles, Inspector, so can I suggest –’

‘We’ll stop when I say so, not before,’ Helen replied sternly. She had had enough of Shapiro’s constant interruptions.

‘I’m not sure I like your tone,’ said Hannah Shapiro.

‘Then find alternative employment.’

Shapiro glared at Helen, but said nothing, so Helen resumed.

‘I’ve given you the chance to come clean, Richard. To help us to help you. But you’ve refused to cooperate. So we’re going to have to keep going, I’m afraid. It’s six fifteen p.m., so I make it that we have at least another two hours to go.’

Helen paused to let Ford take this in, before she said:

‘We’ve established that you had footage of the six recent fires. But your collection goes back a bit further than that, doesn’t it?’

A moment’s hesitation, then:

‘Yes.’

‘The labels on the tapes cover pretty much every year since you joined the Fire Service. That’s over fifteen years’ worth of footage. I take it this is all your own work?’

‘Yes,’ Ford answered quietly.

‘We had a little look at some of them. I recognized the fire at the WestQuay in 2010, the fire at Garton NCP in 2006, even the fire at the Tetherton Ballroom on Millennium night.’

‘I’ve already said they were for professional purposes. I wanted to learn how fire behaves –’

‘Well then, you must have been a very diligent student, because the tape boxes are covered in your prints and often cracked and the tapes themselves are well worn. You’ve watched them over and over again, haven’t you?’

‘We’ve already established that my client has no family to speak of and a limited circle of friends –’

‘Spare me the violins. I don’t think you watch them because you’re lonely, Richard, I think you watch them because you want to. Because you like fire. Because it turns you on.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ Ford responded quickly.

‘We found a bin which was overflowing with tissues,’ Sanderson butted in. ‘We’ve had a few of them analysed and guess what. There’s semen on every one. And, hey, I’m no prude. I know what boys get up to. But here’s the thing. There’s no pornographic material in your little attic, no web history of porn surfing either, so exactly what is it that gets you so excited?’

Silence in the room now. For the first time, Helen thought she saw doubt in Hannah Shapiro’s eyes.

‘I was wrong earlier,’ Helen said. ‘You don’t like fire, do you? You love fire.’

Ford shook his head unconvincingly, so Helen stepped up her attack.

‘You like the way it dances, don’t you? What do you think it’s saying to you when it does that? Is it calling to you? Asking you to come closer? Or is it performing for you? Dancing to its master’s tune? Is that what you like? The feeling of power it gives you? The knowledge that all this chaos, all this fear, all this beauty was created by you? I don’t blame you for that. I can see the attraction.’