‘Could this guy have any connection to the Millbrook house fire?’ DI Sanderson asked. ‘We know Thomas Simms was working all the hours God sent. Perhaps his wife got lonely and sought other company. Perhaps she and Denise shared a lover? Maybe they thought better of it eventually, kicked him out -’
‘We’d be stupid to rule anything out at this stage, so check it out, but do it tactfully. If we can find a connection between the two principal victims – Karen Simms and Denise Roberts – then we’re halfway towards identifying the perpetrator. In the meantime, let’s think about other possibilities.’
Immediately DC Edwards piped up.
‘The MO seems to be identical. Two diversionary fires to tie up the emergency services, then an attack on a residential property. Very calculated, very precise.’
‘But in a very different part of town,’ DC McAndrew added. ‘Millbrook is aspirational, lower-middle class and upwards. Denise’s housing estate in Bevois Mount isn’t. High unemployment and crime rates, people living off benefits and the black market, very little spare cash to throw around.’
‘So is there a financial motive?’ Lucas asked. ‘Thomas Simms could certainly do with the insurance money and I presume Denise Roberts could too.’
‘Denise Roberts let her home insurance lapse some time ago,’ Sanderson said quickly. ‘And the attacks seemed designed to kill, so I think we can rule that out.’
‘Perhaps there is no connection then,’ DC Lucas returned a little tartly. ‘Perhaps our arsonist is showing us that he can strike whenever and wherever he likes.’
It wasn’t a pleasant thought but Helen knew Lucas might be right.
‘We have to consider that possibility,’ Helen responded. ‘There’s no evidence suggesting these fires were started to conceal a previous crime or to profit financially. They could be personally motivated against the victims but, equally, they could be random acts of arson whose significance lies in the feelings they afford the arsonist. A sexual charge, a God complex, a desire to expel anxiety, to exert controclass="underline" there are many different ways in which arson can satisfy.’
Helen had done plenty of academic research on serial offenders during her time in the States, knowledge she would now bring to the fore in their hunt for a home-grown offender. She pulled up the bullet point profile on the screen.
‘Your typical arsonist is white and male – over ninety per cent of all arson-related crimes are committed by Caucasian men. He is normally aged between twenty-one and thirty-five, unemployed or in a badly paid job, with low self-esteem and few prospects. He is very likely to exhibit paranoia and is quick to take offence. He may be living at home or in shared, hostel-type accommodation, or may even be homeless. Often the choice of fire site relates to a desire to strike at authority figures, at people or institutions that have wronged them. That doesn’t seem to be the case here, but we ought to be alive to the possibility.’
Several of the team nodded – they seemed to be hanging on Helen’s every word.
‘Our perpetrator is obviously feeling confident, having committed major acts of arson on consecutive nights. They are clearly not panicked by Karen Simms’s death – they haven’t contacted any media outlets expressing remorse for their actions. They may even be enjoying themselves. A large percentage of arsonists try to insert themselves into the narratives of their crime, so let’s compare all the footage from last night’s fire with that from the night before. See if there’s anyone present on both nights who’s making themselves especially visible, trying to help in the rescue effort, playing the hero, what-have-you. It may be they were tucked up safely in bed by the time the fire reached its peak, but somehow I doubt it.’
Helen was in her element now – this was why people were queuing up to join her team.
‘Let’s keep an eye out for self-aggrandizing statements on social media, the internet. Also anyone talking repeatedly to journalists or the TV. But let’s not forget about the basics too. Many a killer has been caught through mundane slip-ups. So talk to local businesses – find out if anyone has been stockpiling paraffin or washing smoke-damaged clothes in the laundrette. Any unusual behaviour or tiny changes in someone’s routine could be significant, so remember to ask the small questions as well as the big ones.’
More nods from the team.
‘Admin support have run off print-outs of the best CCTV image we have of our fleeing male, complete with time code, so get out there and jog some memories. You can’t commit crimes of this scale and just vanish into thin air. So let’s find someone who saw our perpetrator.’
Within five minutes, the incident room was clear. As Helen strode out herself, shutting the door, she felt a quiet surge of satisfaction. The hunt was on.
44
All around him people were screaming and crying. ‘There’s someone in there, there’s someone in there,’ a woman shrieked nearby, as if the repetition of the bloody obvious could somehow affect her rescue. Satisfyingly, her bleating was suddenly cut short by a huge boom, as the front bedroom flashed over, blasting the main window from its casing and sending hot splinters of glass flying towards the crowd. Many present now turned and ran, bumping into him and disturbing his framing. That had pissed him off. Up until then, his recording had been perfect.
Watching the footage from last night’s fires was proving to be a pleasurable experience. He had over an hour’s worth of material from each fire and over time he would edit them into tight, dramatic narratives. But for now he was content to enjoy the raw, uncut recordings.
He had had a busy night, so could afford himself a little R’n’R now. He’d returned home just after midnight and, having changed his clothes and picked up the camera, went straight out again. Meticulous as always, he visited the sites in order, culminating with the smoking house in Bevois Mount. He had lingered there the longest, drinking in the reactions of the shocked neighbours, enjoying the moment.
As dawn broke, he’d chanced his arm. The fire crew had done all they could do – it was the arson investigator’s scene now – and they departed in short order. The site was roped off and a uniformed police officer was standing guard, but there were enough local gossips and journalists to distract him, so slipping round the back, he vaulted the fence and approached the back of the house.
It was a stupid, reckless thing to do, but somehow he knew he wouldn’t get caught. He’d filmed his approach. It looked like a trick from a cheap horror film and he smiled now as he watched it back. Teasing the fire-damaged back door open, he’d slipped inside.
He knew that Deborah Parks would be on site first thing, so pocketing the camera, he’d set to work, searching for suitable souvenirs. He could hear the chatter at the front of the house. The earnest enquiries of local residents, the pushy questions from the hacks and the self-important PC ordering them to move back. Walking through the living room, he found only devastation, so darting across the hall, he investigated the box room-cum-study.
There had obviously been piles of stuff stored in here – he could see the charred remnants of cardboard boxes – which provided the spreading fire with plenty of fuel. Fortunately – depending on your point of view – the linoleum floor in the hall had delayed the fire reaching this room and the firefighters had managed to extinguish the blaze before the whole room went up. The trinkets of a life half lived now littered this small space and, among the burnt manuals, books and shoeboxes, he’d found a framed photo. The glass was cracked and black with soot, the metal frame bent and awkward, but the photo inside had survived. Burnt at the edges and buckled with the heat, but you could still make out mother and son smiling awkwardly at the camera. Slipping it into his rucksack he hurried out and across the hall. He’d paused briefly as he departed. There was something strangely moving about standing in the smouldering ruins of the house. Smoke and steam still rose from the floor – hence the need for his work boots – and the whole place reeked of fire. Breathing in the sharp odour one last time, he’d turned and headed for the back door.