Ford shrugged.
‘Yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you record the fires?’
‘For professional purposes,’ Shapiro intervened.
‘I’m asking Mr Ford, not you,’ Sanderson said brusquely.
‘It’s my job. I’m interested in it, like.’
‘Fire interests you?’
Ford said nothing.
‘I’d say it interests you very much,’ Sanderson suggested, unabashed. ‘I think you spent most of your time in that little room at the top of the house. You wouldn’t believe the amount of newspapers, empty pizza boxes, cans and so on we found up there. Have you been living in that room? Do you sleep in that room?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Yet there’s no bed. No TV. No heating except a small stove. There’s very little in the way of home comforts in fact, but… there is your collection, isn’t there?’
As the words hung in the air, Helen took over.
‘We’ve bagged every last item. The books, the DVDs, the clippings, the recordings, everything.’
Helen watched Ford closely – how would he react to knowing that his precious haul was now in the hands of strangers? And worse than strangers, the police.
‘We found a lot of souvenirs, Richard. A fire-damaged sign from Travell’s, a cash box from Bertrand’s, family photos from the Bevois Mount fire. You went back to these sites – returned to the scene of the crime – and took things that didn’t belong to you. Your little trophies…’
Ford gave Helen a look then dropped his gaze. Was that anger Helen saw?
‘You took them because you wanted to revel in your crimes. In the wanton destruction and loss of life that you have caused. And when DC Brooks came to talk to you yesterday, you tried to destroy the evidence.’
‘It’s her word against his -’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Helen replied angrily. ‘We pulled tapes, clippings and more from that stove. Your client was destroying the evidence because he’s guilty, because he’d been caught red-handed. Two people are dead, two more are grievously injured and I would suggest that unless your client wants to spend the rest of his life behind bars, then he’d better start talking.’
Helen turned, fixing Ford in the eye.
‘So what’s it going to be, Richard? Are you going to play ball or shall I charge you with a double murder here and now?’
69
The wheels squeaked noisily as they slid over the tired linoleum floor. Thomas Simms cursed under his breath – he already felt as if the eyes of everyone in the hospital were glued to him and his son. He didn’t need the ancient hospital wheelchair trumpeting their presence to one and all.
It was a long journey from Luke’s ward to the main exit and each step of the way Thomas questioned the wisdom of what he was doing. He hated being away from Alice and it was convenient to have Luke in the same place, being looked after by the attentive nurses. But his son had begged to be discharged and in the end Thomas had relented. There was little more that the surgeons or doctors could do – Luke’s legs were set in heavy plaster after the operation, his shoulder was in a sling – now there was nothing to do but rest up and wait. And Luke clearly didn’t want to do that here.
Here he couldn’t hide from the visitors, journalists or prurient well-wishers, so Thomas had arranged that they would go and stay with his sister, Mary, who had a big place in Upper Shirley. They obviously couldn’t go back to their own house – Thomas privately wondered if they would ever return there again – and he couldn’t face staying in a hotel, so Mary’s had seemed a good bet. He and his older sister hadn’t always got on, but it was the best he could do in a no-win situation.
‘How you doing, mate? Not hurting you, am I?’
‘No, you’re all right,’ his son lied bravely, each bump on their journey clearly going right through him.
Thomas immediately felt the emotion rise in him once more. His son had been so brave throughout, facing up to his injuries, his grief, his fractured future, with admirable stoicism. When the real reckoning of recent events would finally land on him, Thomas couldn’t tell. He both hoped and feared he would be on hand when it did.
They had reached the main atrium now and the exit was just ahead of them. The taxi wasn’t due for another ten minutes or so, so Thomas dived into the nearby shop to buy a can of Coke for them both. Karen had never been keen on the kids drinking it, but Luke had developed a taste for it while in hospital and Thomas was happy to indulge him. As he queued to pay, his eye fell on the stack of local papers nearby.
‘SUSPECT ARRESTED!’ the headline screamed. And beneath it more details, including the fact that the suspect worked for Hants Fire and Rescue. The paper didn’t reveal his identity, but Thomas knew his name. He knew because he had made a deal with the devil. He had nodded and thanked the FLO who’d come to the hospital to keep him up to date on developments later, failing to admit that he already knew the man in question was Richard Ford. Thanks to his deal with Emilia Garanita – the fruits of which were spread over the centrefold as well as the front six pages – he knew where Ford lived, what his family history was and some details of what the police had found when they’d raided his house.
Garanita had called him from outside Ford’s house. He had had to stand in a corridor out of view, given the ban on mobile phones in wards, and had listened, speechless, to her summary of developments. She had excitement in her voice as she relayed her news and for a moment Thomas had hated her for that – for enjoying this experience – but as the hours passed afterwards, he’d hated Richard Ford more. Thomas was by nature a peaceful guy, but he felt in himself now an anger that was strange and fierce. That guy, that shaven-headed little shit, had destroyed their lives. Taken his beautiful wife, scarred his daughter and broken his son – all to satisfy his thirst for fire. He had crept into his house, set fire to his stairs and shattered his family.
The shopkeeper was offering Thomas his change now, but he wandered off without collecting it. He walked back to his son, a rictus smile plastered on his face, but his thoughts were miles away. In a small room across town, his wife’s killer was sitting, safe and well, fighting his corner, while he was here, wheeling his injured son through a lobby, watched every step of the way. Where was the justice in that? Could there ever be justice for something like this?
Thomas Simms had never wanted to harm anybody before, but suddenly he yearned to be in that room, face to face with Ford. He would show him what he’d done – to Thomas, to his family – and then he would see that justice was done. He knew there and then, with absolute certainty, that if he ever found himself alone with Richard Ford he would kill him.
70
‘My client has protested his innocence – repeatedly – and has said all he’s going to say on the matter. We are going round in circles, Inspector, so can I suggest -’
‘We’ll stop when I say so, not before,’ Helen replied sternly. She had had enough of Shapiro’s constant interruptions.
‘I’m not sure I like your tone,’ said Hannah Shapiro.
‘Then find alternative employment.’
Shapiro glared at Helen, but said nothing, so Helen resumed.
‘I’ve given you the chance to come clean, Richard. To help us to help you. But you’ve refused to cooperate. So we’re going to have to keep going, I’m afraid. It’s six fifteen p.m., so I make it that we have at least another two hours to go.’
Helen paused to let Ford take this in, before she said:
‘We’ve established that you had footage of the six recent fires. But your collection goes back a bit further than that, doesn’t it?’
A moment’s hesitation, then: