Too wound up to sleep, she put on the light and looked for a book to take her mind off her present worries. She picked up Pride and Prejudice and was soon immersed in the intrigues of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy.
Basil was locking up when Naomi called from upstairs, 'What are you doing?'
'The usual, dear.'
'What did you say?'
'Checking the doors and windows.'
'Well, don't. I may need to go out.'
Basil went upstairs to the room where Naomi was at work on her computer. She'd been there all evening.
'Do you know what time it is?' he asked.
'I don't particularly care.'
'Ten past one. Isn't it a bit late to be thinking of going out, my dear?'
She didn't look away from the screen. 'Don't fuss, Basil. Go to bed.'
'What — and have you call me out at some ungodly hour? Remember what happened last time?'
'You're not going to let me forget, are you?'
'Are you meeting someone?'
'For pity's sake. If I wanted to visit a lover I wouldn't be telling you about it, would I? It's research, man. I'm trying to get into the mind of a killer who works by night.'
Basil sighed. 'You were a lot easier to live with when you were doing the witchcraft book.'
Thomasine was asleep.
Bob was having his last cigarette of the day. It was a good thing he'd come home because young Sue had been waiting up for him, sitting alone with a torch, scared to go upstairs. She'd been trying to add a new DVD player to her hi-fi system and the electricity had gone. The poor kid hated the dark. It was only a matter of the trip switch going, but she didn't know how to fix it. Bob mended the faulty fuse and gave her a cuddle and she was now asleep.
He didn't need reminding that he was a parent still and she was just fourteen, for all her eyeshadow and street talk. Had he been tempted to stay the night at Thomasine's? Yes, for about five seconds. They both knew that fixing the letterbox was just an excuse to get him there. But he'd taken the job seriously and fitted a piece of plywood, accepted a can of beer and left. Thomasine would be thinking he was a dead loss, a man in need of a large dose of Viagra.
Watch out lady, here comes Bob.
Invite him in and he's on the job.
But when he says he needs a screw
It's for your letterbox, not you.
Actually he liked Thomasine a lot. He cared about what she thought of him. He cared so much that he was nervous of telling her he had a fourteen-year-old daughter who had to come first.
22
Fire is emphatic business. It doesn't fool around.
That night another fire was started in Chichester.
For the arsonist, the stakes were higher. Just getting to the scene was high risk. The city was nervous. The papers and television were already talking of a serial fire-raiser. The police were under orders to look out for suspicious behaviour. Everyone on the streets at night was a potential suspect.
So every parked car might contain someone on watch. Behind every curtain could be a detective, or one of those amateur snoopers who make a call to Crimestoppers.
But the planning took account of the risks. The arsonist picked a route that gave plenty of cover and made sure each stretch of the way was safe to use, once waiting in a shop doorway for ten minutes for some lone walker to pass right out of sight.
At the chosen house, it was the same modus operandi. The rags, the fuel, the flame. Then a quick exit from the scene, quick, but not obvious, leaving behind a fire that would take and spread, devouring everything combustible. We fill our homes with wooden furniture. Usually the floors, doors and staircase are of wood. Most curtains and blinds catch fire readily. Paper in the form of newspapers, magazines and junk mail is shoved through the door every day and often left in the hallway. No wonder so many domestic fires cause maximum destruction and death before the firefighters arrive.
This one was quick and deadly. It happened in Vicars Close.
23
It was a maxim with Foxey — our revered father, gentlemen — 'Always suspect everybody.'
The first Hen Mallin knew of it was at six thirty, when she stepped out of the shower. She could never hear the phone when the water was going. Didn't want to. She grabbed a towel and her mobile. I don't need this, she thought.
'Another?. . Vicars Close? That's. . Oh God. And is she. .? I'll be there shortly.'
Grim-faced as she drove from Bognor, she tried to get a grip on what had happened and what it meant. A third death by fire in Chichester. Another of the writers' circle murdered, and by night, the victim at home, in bed, at her most vulnerable. This would panic the rest of them. And give the press a field day. Proof positive that a serial killer was at work. She could hear the questions already. Why hadn't the police given twenty-four-hour protection to the members of the circle? How many more fatal fires would have to take place before the arsonist was caught?
Pick a number, she thought from the depths of her despair.
Fire engines, two of them, were drawn up in Canon Lane, on the south side of the cathedral, the closest they could get to the fire. A mass of pipes snaked up the narrow lane that fronted the terrace. There was barely room to put her feet down. But at least Vicars Close was cordoned off at each end, barring the gawpers.
Wisps of smoke still rose from the smashed windows of the burnt-out, saturated house. The fire had been contained in the one dwelling. The rest of the nicely maintained row appeared to have escaped, even the adjacent houses. White fronts and cared-for gardens made the contrast more poignant.
Hen lit a cigar and took a fortifying drag.
Stella Gregson was standing in a bed of purple irises in the trampled remains of the garden. 'Seems to have happened around four thirty this morning, guv, just like the others.'
'Witnesses — or is that too much to hope?'
'None so far. Uniform are knocking on doors.'
'Who reported it?'
'A shop window-cleaner, name of Meredith. He saw the smoke from South Street and came to investigate. That was just before six. The fire had ripped through the place by that time.'
Hen stepped over some of the hoses to speak to the senior fire officer. 'Any conclusions yet?'
'It was started at the front, I can tell you that.'
'Like the others. Petrol through the letterbox?'
He hedged a little. 'The investigation team hasn't been through yet.'
'But you have.'
'All I can give you is a personal observation.'
'Like I said, petrol through the letterbox?'
He smiled in a way that confirmed it.
'You took the decision to remove the dead woman?'
'We had to. The floor was starting to go. It's a wonder we contained it to the one house. These old buildings had solid walls. Fifteenth century.'
'Is there much left of her?'
'It's not pretty, but she isn't ash, like the last one.'
'Just the one victim?'
'Please God, yes. That's all we found. She lived alone, according to the neighbours.'
'That's our information, too.'
He scratched his unshaven face. 'Do you think the point of this was to kill? Who'd want to-'
'Thanks,' Hen cut him off. Speculation had its purpose, but not now. 'Appreciate your help.'
She returned to Stella. 'Not much we can do here until it cools off, Stell. We've got to move fast on this. I want to know where each member of the circle spent the last twelve hours. See if anyone spoke to Jessie late yesterday, in person or by phone. Look for signs of guilt, examine their hands, ask to see their shoes, clothes, vehicles, garages, outbuildings. Check for fuel, evidence of it, the smell of it.'