‘What can you tell me? I’m presuming all three fires were arson?’
‘They were,’ Helen replied quickly. She had already discussed their media strategy with Gardam and they both agreed that there was no point concealing the fact from the press or public, given their need for witnesses and the continuing threat posed by an arsonist at large. ‘I’m happy for you to print that, as I want the public to be vigilant and to ask themselves if they saw anything suspicious last night. But…’ Helen continued, fixing the young woman with a beady eye… ‘I don’t want this arsonist glamorized or sensationalized in any way. I want you to report facts, Emilia, not speculation.’
‘That’s the creed I live and die by.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
‘So you think you’re after a glory hunter here? Someone who wants the headlines?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Do you think they’ll try to contact you? Contact the press?’
‘It’s happened before, but, like I say, we have no idea what the motivation behind these fires might be. That’s why we print the facts, appeal for help and no more, right?’
Helen climbed on to her bike and turned the ignition.
‘One last question. Are you expecting more fires?’
As ever, Emilia had saved her best question – her real question – for last.
‘I sincerely hope not’ was Helen’s neutral reply, as she slipped on her helmet and sped away. But she had spent half the night wondering the very same thing. The three fires had been so ‘impressive’, so devastating, so newsworthy, wouldn’t the perpetrator feel some sense of triumph now? They had achieved their aims and got away scot free. So what was to stop them doing exactly the same thing again?
Denise Roberts stood in front of the full-length mirror. She turned this way, now that, appraising herself. She had spent a small fortune on her new underwear and she wanted to be reassured that it had been money well spent. Tonight was important – she’d been thinking about nothing else for days – and she wanted it to be right. No, she wanted it to be perfect.
Throwing on a dressing gown, she marched down the stairs towards the living room. She lived in a two up, two down in Bevois Mount which was well cared for and pleasant enough – or at least it would have been were it not for the constant presence of her layabout son.
‘Get off your arse and tidy this place up,’ Denise ordered, as she bustled into the living room. Her son, Callum, a truculent sixteen-year-old, always acted up when she had someone coming round and today was no different. A half-eaten bowl of Cheerios sat next to a mug of coffee, as usual plonked down on the wooden coffee table without a coaster. Magazines and freesheets littered the floor and her son sat beached on the La-Z-Boy, eyes fixed to the large plasma screen on the wall.
