“What? But I never even knew FRY existed! How could I possibly be the legal owner?”
“Then what’s that at the bottom, Isabel?”
“It looks like a signature.” I do a double take.
My signature.
“No! That’s not my signature. I’ve never seen this thing before in my life! And besides, if I were really the head of a criminal organisation, I doubt I’d be stupid enough to get it registered in my own name! If anything, I’d open up a secret bank account in the Seychelles or something.”
“So you’ve thought about it then?”
“This is ridiculous!”
“Is it? I bet if we search your house we’ll find more evidence. Insurance scams, competition, revenge. Whatever the motive, you’ll set the fire for a fee. Isn’t that right, Miss Anderson?”
“No!”
Chapter Twenty-One
I glance nervously at my lawyer.
“I don’t know any Dan Jones, either. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Dan Jones is the owner of Queensbeach Caravan Park,” Millrose says, folding her arms. “But you know that, don’t you? You were seen talking to him the day after the caravan park caught fire. I’ve got witnesses to prove it.”
“That was the only time I ever met him! I just went with Alicia to check the damage to her caravan. I felt sorry for her at the time.”
Millrose looks sceptical.
“Look – can’t you see I’m being set up here? I mean, really. What kind of criminal organisation takes money transfers to start fires?”
“A very profitable one, by the looks of it.”
I sigh with frustration. “Why would I want anything to do with this? I’ve got a proper job.”
“Yes, that’s right – you’re a junior manager at Robertson’s, aren’t you? How much does that pay? Eighteen – twenty grand?”
“Yes, about that.”
“I hear you also have a penchant for expensive designer clothing.”
“Well, yes, I like nice clothes. Who doesn’t?”
“How are your finances? Have you ever been in debt?”
“No. I mean, not really. I’ve run up a few credit card bills before but…”
“Do you currently have any credit card debts, Isabel?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“I’ve cut back on my spending recently.”
All this stress has been quite good for my bank balance, actually. I haven’t had the heart to do much shopping much since Alicia and Jody started to take over my life. In fact, I’ve managed to save up a surprising amount over the last couple of months – enough to pay off my huge Visa bill, and a bit left over which I’ve transferred into my savings account.
Penney tries a different tack.
“What does FRY stand for?”
“I really don’t know. I told you – I’m being set up!”
Millrose is losing her patience. “Look, this would all go a lot smoother if you’d just cooperate.”
I grit my teeth. “That’s what I’m trying to do!”
My lawyer clears his throat. “I’d like to speak to Isabel in private, please.”
“Go ahead. I think we could all do with a break.”
Millrose stops the tape, and she and Penney leave the room, closing the door behind them.
I look at him anxiously. “It looks bad, doesn’t it?”
“That depends. You know they’re going to search your house?”
”Can they really do that?”
“Yes, they’ve got a warrant. So if there’s any chance they could find something incriminating, you need to tell me now.”
“I’ve already told you – I’m innocent!”
“Then why do you look so worried?”
I twist a loose strand of hair around my finger.
What will they find at my house?
“I wouldn’t put it past Alicia to plant something. I’ve caught her in my house before.”
“She broke in?”
“No – my friend gave her a key. I’ve changed the locks since, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t found another way in. Or she could have planted something the last time. That girl’s really got it in for me.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“I’ve dealt with these grudge cases before, though none quite as complex as this one. But in my experience, the source of the conflict is usually a man,” he glances at me uncertainly – “or a woman. Is there someone the two of you are fighting over?”
“Well, there is Deacon,” I say slowly, trying not to picture the two of them together. “But I don’t think he’s the source of the conflict. He’s just another pawn in her sick little game. I think this goes way back, to when Julio dumped Jody all those years ago. I can’t imagine why she would still want to get revenge, though. Or why she would be taking it out on me.”
Penney and Millrose return with cups of tea. I sip mine slowly and try to gauge how much trouble I’m really in.
Millrose looks me straight in the eye. “I’m going to give you one more chance, Isabel. Why don’t you tell us what really happened last night? Did you set fire to Robertson’s Superstore?”
“No!”
“What about the fire at Queensbeach Caravan Park, or the one at the Waterfront Gym last month?”
“I told you, I didn’t start any fires! And anyway – I thought the fire at the gym wasn’t started deliberately?”
I look to Penney for confirmation.
“New evidence has come to light. It looks like it might have been arson after all.”
Oh hell!
“Look, you have to believe me – none of this has anything to do with me. I haven’t started any fires, I swear!”
Millrose crinkles up her plastic cup and tosses it into the bin.
“Perhaps a few hours in the holding cells will change your mind about that?”
“No!” I look at her in horror.
“Unless there’s something you want to say?”
“Just that I’m innocent.”
“Penney, do you have any more questions?”
“No.” He looks at me with disdain. “Let her stew.”
Small, dark and disgusting, the cell still reeks of its last inhabitant. It is completely empty, bar for a mattress with a thin blanket on it and a toilet. All those stories you hear about prisoners living in the lap of luxury with PlayStations and televisions must be a load of rubbish. This is the scummiest place I’ve ever been.
I struggle to calm my nerves.
Instantly, I’m transported back to the scene of the fire. My heart pounds, my chest closes up. I remember the terrifying sensation of smoke seeping into the room, closing my airways.
I’ve got to get out of here!
I claw desperately at the bars.
“I shouldn’t be in here! You’ve got to let me out!”
A uniformed police officer peers in at me. “Are you OK, love?”
I can’t reply. My breaths are coming in slow, desperate gasps.
“First time is it?” he asks, not unsympathetically. “Here, drink some water.”
I take the paper cup he offers me and tip the liquid down my throat. It doesn’t help. I watch in horror as the word ‘FRY’ forms in blood-red letters on the wall in front of me. But the police officer’s expression remains the same, as if nothing is happening.
I’m the only one who can see it.
I watch with morbid fascination as the blood drips down the walls.
Drip!
Drip!
Drip!
Can’t you see that? Can’t you smell it?
“Here, have a paper bag.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“You breathe into it. It helps you to regulate your breathing.”
I do as instructed, for all the good it does. My brain is in overdrive. I’m living and breathing a full-blooded nightmare. I’ve had too much to take in, too much to process. Alicia is not in my cell. She can’t be. And yet the writing is on the wall all the same. I lick my lips. My mouth has that slightly metallic taste – the taste of blood.