Thomas suddenly felt his temper flare again. What the hell was he doing bartering with a bloody journalist in a hospital shop. His son was waiting for him upstairs. His daughter was still fighting for her life. What was he doing here? Sensing his anger, his pursuer reached out her hand and laid it on his arm, gently arresting his departure.
‘They are going to arrest a firefighter. One of Hampshire’s own,’ she whispered, looking him dead in the eye. Thomas suddenly felt breathless and dizzy. He had wanted the police to make progress desperately, but now a part of him wanted it all just to go away. He was scared to think what the next chapter of their life might hold.
‘I can’t give you his name yet, but I should know more in the next twenty-four hours. I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you as soon as I have it, I swear. Unlike the police, I’ll hide nothing from you.’
Thomas looked at her, but didn’t know what to say. Should he believe her?
‘A witness saw the suspect running from the scene of last night’s fire and picked out the crest of the Hants Fire Service tattooed on his arm. I can give you her name too, if you want.’
But she wouldn’t give it yet – that was clear. Thomas hung his head and once more tears threatened. Everything was telling him not to do this, not to get caught up in this game, but how could he brush her off and go back upstairs now? Knowing that she knew more about his wife’s killer than he did. So after a long pause, he raised his head, looked her dead in the eye and said:
‘What do you want?’
56
‘Simon Duggan wouldn’t have the brains for it. You can definitely rule him out.’
‘How certain are you?’ Helen responded. They had already ruled out three possibles – Duggan was the fourth that seemed to be going the same way – and they were fast running out of options.
‘Look, I know he fits the profile. Bit of a loner, lives at home with his mum and so forth, but he’s a follower. He wouldn’t go to the toilet without someone’s permission. He doesn’t have the nerve or intelligence to pull off something on this scale, nor does he have the anger. He’s a simple soul.’
‘Ok, what about Martin Hughes?’ Helen replied, trying to keep the strain out of her voice.
For the first time, Deborah paused. She rolled this possibility round her brain a few times, then said:
‘Better, but still not right.’
‘How so?’
‘He’s quick to anger and has fallen out with pretty much everyone at one time or another. It’s cost him career-wise, no question, younger guys have progressed faster than he has, he’s divorced…’
‘All of which fits the profile,’ Helen said.
‘But he’s not a young man -’
‘Profiles are just guides, they’re not blueprints.’
‘And he loves his family. They may have split up, but he still loves his ex to bits and dotes on his son. He’s a fuck-up for sure, but his temper blows out as quickly as it comes and the rest of the time he’s a pretty sound bloke. I’m sorry, Helen, but I just can’t see it.’
‘Which leaves Richard Ford,’ Helen replied, more in hope than expectation. But this time, there was genuine hesitation from Deborah. Prior to this, she’d been assertive, confident even, knocking back Helen’s suspicions about her colleagues. But now she seemed troubled.
‘Talk to me, Deborah. What’s he like?’
‘I don’t really know him that well…’ she answered.
‘But what you do know gives you doubts?’ Helen asked. She didn’t want to lead Deborah to any conclusions, but she had something for her here – Helen was sure of it.
‘Yes,’ she eventually said. ‘He’s one of those guys that as a woman you just steer clear of. Something about the way he looks at you. Like you’re some sort of foreign species.’
‘Does he have friends?’
‘Not within the team. He avoids crowds, pubs, that kind of thing. He doesn’t take part in all the usual macho posturing you get from fire guys, he doesn’t really take part in anything at work, except… work.’
‘How long’s he been working for the Fire and Rescue service?’
‘Since leaving school, I think.’
‘Does he have a tattoo – with the Hants Fire crest?’
‘Sure – a lot of the guys do.’
‘Is he a hard worker?’
‘Very. Happy to come in on his days off to help out. I don’t think he has a girlfriend.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘What about family?’
‘He’s never mentioned anyone. He’s a loner. New guys try to engage with him, then give up after a while. That’s the way he wants it, so…’
‘And if he’s so diligent and experienced, why is he still at a relatively junior rank?’
‘Can’t do the exams. He’s great on all the practical stuff, but the theory, the homework… And as for his interview technique…’
‘Has he been passed over for promotion?’
Another moment of hesitation, then:
‘Yes. He failed his fire sergeant’s interview for the third time recently. Which means… that he can’t apply again.’
Helen tried to suppress the excitement growing within her, as she asked the next question.
‘And when was this?’
All Deborah’s confidence – her resistance – seemed to have deserted now as she replied.
‘A month ago.’
Helen marched away from the café, her phone clamped to her ear. As soon as Sanderson answered, she launched in without introduction.
‘We need to check out Richard Ford. Who was doing the initial chat with him?’
There was the briefest intake of breath from Sanderson, before she replied.
‘Charlie. She’s with him right now.’
57
Something was wrong in this house. Charlie had felt it the moment she stepped inside. Everything was in the right place, there were no obvious signs of anything amiss, but the whole place felt unused, like a museum. It looked – and smelt – stale.
Richard Ford had been less than pleased to find Charlie waiting for him on his doorstep. He had been helping out at one of the fire sites, he’d told her, shifting some of the detritus, so the arson team could do their work. He was dirty and sweaty and stank of smoke – clearly he had been looking forward to getting a shower. But instead he found himself answering the gentle questions of a DC, probing him about his work patterns and movements over the last couple of days. Charlie didn’t blame him for being irritated and yet that wasn’t quite it. He seemed to be giving off something else. Suspicion? Anxiety? Something else? Charlie couldn’t put her finger on it.
He’d been carrying a black bin liner, which he made no reference to, stowing it in the hall cupboard, before shepherding Charlie into the old kitchen. He’d put the kettle on for tea, but it laboured to work up a head of steam. It was as if everything was slightly off here – the slow tick-tock of the dusty carriage clock on the mantelpiece giving the dated kitchen the washed-out feel of yesteryear.
‘Do you live alone?’ she asked.
‘Yup. Mum died a few years back. Got a sister, but she didn’t want any of this,’ he replied gesturing to the house. ‘She emigrated to Oz.’
Charlie could hardly blame her. As Ford now made the tea in what looked very much like two dirty cups, Charlie’s eye ran over the Hants Fire and Rescue tattoo that graced his left bicep. The sight set her nerves jangling, but when Ford turned to her, Charlie was all smiles once more.
‘And last night you were home alone?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You didn’t go out at any time? To the shops? Anything?’
‘No. Why?’
‘These are just standard questions. We’ve been asked to verify the movements of everyone on the fire team… So what about Tuesday night? The night of the first fires -’
But Charlie got no further. Her mobile rang out, disturbing the eerie quiet of the house.