‘Can we drop by mine and pick up some stuff?’ Smith asked Clarke.
‘You sure you want to?’ Clarke watched her nod.
‘Should I tag along?’ Ogilvie asked.
‘Of course you should,’ Clarke told him. ‘It’s your crime scene, after all.’
Laura Smith lived in a terraced two-storey house in Bellevue, only a few streets north of Siobhan Clarke. The engine had departed, but a fire investigator remained. He was conferring with the scene-of-crime team. Despite it not yet being dawn, lights were on in the adjacent properties and, recognising Smith when she stepped out of Clarke’s car, a couple of doors opened, the neighbours approaching to ask if she was all right and was there anything they could do to help. While Smith reassured them, Clarke checked that the house was safe to enter. The fire investigator was holding a clear plastic evidence bag containing the neck of a shattered bottle, charred wadding stuffed into it.
‘Pretty basic stuff,’ he commented.
Ogilvie touched Clarke on the arm to get her attention. ‘Might start asking a few questions while memories are fresh.’
Clarke nodded her agreement. She watched Smith as she walked slowly towards her home.
‘You okay to do this?’
‘Takes more than an arson attack to scare me.’
‘No such crime in Scots law,’ the investigator interrupted. ‘We refer to it as fire-raising.’
‘I’ll remember that when I write it up.’
The front door stood gaping. Inside, the floor was sodden after a dousing from the fire engine’s hose. The ceiling had been blackened, as had the walls. Clarke doubted Smith would ever get the smell out of her sofa; it would have to be replaced. Same went for the large flat-screen TV, which was dripping water.
‘I use an upstairs room as my office,’ Smith said, ‘so my computer should be fine. Notebook and iPad are in my bedroom.’
Clarke nodded. ‘I’ll stay here,’ she said, as Smith headed for the stairs.
She did another circuit of the living room, then headed through to the kitchen. Dishes still sat on the worktop, waiting until there were enough of them to merit the dishwasher being run. Clarke did the same thing at home. She tried to think what she might have to buy to meet the needs of a house guest. The spare bedroom — never previously used — had become a dumping ground. The ironing board and mound of laundry would need moving and the floor area around the bed clearing of boxes and bits of junk. For want of anything better to do, she stepped outside again. The fire investigator was taking photos of the shattered living room window.
‘Been a spate of these recently,’ he informed her. ‘But mostly happening to people not unknown to Police Scotland.’
‘I’m not sure there’s a connection,’ Clarke told him.
‘Lab will examine the material used, that could give us a clue. In at least two that I’ve worked this past month, the cotton was from the same batch of cloth. Spirits bottles, too, same as tonight. Petrol could have come from anywhere, obviously.’
‘Prints from the glass?’
‘We’ve not been having much luck there.’
‘So whoever did the others wore gloves?’
He nodded and took another photo. The SOCOs were readying to pack up. An emergency glazier had parked his van and was measuring up for temporary boards in front of the broken window. Clarke headed across the street, to where Ogilvie was chatting with a couple in their thirties.
‘Alistair here,’ he said, indicating the man, ‘heard a car leaving at speed. This was just after one a.m., so the timing is right.’
‘Weird that the breaking glass didn’t wake me. Though maybe it did, and that’s how come I heard the engine.’
‘A throaty growl,’ Ogilvie repeated for Clarke’s benefit.
‘Terrible thing to happen,’ the man’s partner added. ‘Laura’s such a lovely person. Will they come back, do you think? I mean, are we safe in our beds?’
‘Perfectly safe,’ Clarke assured her, leading Ogilvie a few paces away. ‘So what happens next?’ she asked him.
‘I’ll check the council’s CCTV for traffic in this area. Doubt there’ll be much of it after midnight apart from minicabs and taxis. Sounds like it was a big car, too, maybe a van.’ He looked at the houses either side of them. ‘I might try a few doors, in case anyone saw anything. Could get lucky with one of those video doorbells; might’ve captured the car or driver.’ He looked at her to see if he’d forgotten anything.
‘Laura will be at mine if and when you need her. That’s not something I want widely known, though.’
‘Understood.’
Clarke indicated the fire investigator. ‘Make sure you get his details before he leaves. If this ties into any other incidents, we need to know.’
‘What about compiling a suspect list?’
‘I’ll get Laura started on that in the morning.’
‘One last thing,’ Ogilvie said. ‘Is this an attempted murder? I’m just wondering how I frame it to the boss.’
‘Attempted murder until the fiscal says otherwise.’ Clarke was thinking of how different the outcome could have been if Smith had been dead to the world in bed.
She watched Ogilvie nod his understanding, then walked back to the house and stepped through the doorway. Smith was in the living room, tapping something into her phone.
‘Just putting a photo on Twitter,’ she explained.
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
‘Maybe not wise, but necessary.’
‘Are you posting as Laura Smith or the Courant?’
‘The Courant is reporting an attack on Laura Smith’s home.’
‘You’re basically outing yourself.’
‘Time to step from the shadows, Siobhan. My employer will either be okay with that, or they won’t. But as the Courant gets more hits than their own website...’ She shrugged, then picked up the backpack and shopping bag that had been sitting at her feet.
‘There’s only toast for breakfast,’ Clarke warned her. ‘Unless one of us wakes up early.’
‘No way I’m going to be able to sleep. Plus I need to get this written.’
‘Just remember it’s a police matter, Laura. Don’t trample over our inquiry.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
She locked the front door after them, and didn’t look back once as she headed to the car.
Day Seven
25
‘It’s five in the morning,’ Alan Fleck said, answering his phone. He was in the kitchen of his home, his wife asleep upstairs. Two or three times a night he got up for a piss, and the third time he usually didn’t bother going back to bed. Instead he would settle at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, or maybe go for a walk around the garden if the weather allowed. He might read the news online or switch on the radio. He might think about cars he’d like to have on his books. Just now, as the phone buzzed, he’d been remembering a vintage Aston Martin, sold too cheaply, just before the market for them went mega. No power steering meant the thing had been a pig to drive, otherwise he might have hung onto it for himself. Still, everyone had regrets, didn’t they?
‘I took you for an early riser,’ Rob Driscoll said.
‘And it just so happens you’re right — didn’t think you were a fellow traveller, though.’
‘I get alerts on my phone. Have you heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Laura Smith got firebombed a few hours back.’
Fleck narrowed his eyes. ‘The reporter?’
‘The same. And here’s the thing — the Courant had it before anyone else. Had it suspiciously quickly, if you ask me.’