by Joy Ellis
Nikki smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I will!’
Cat left the office and returned to her desk, convinced they were finally onto something. That girl. How did she die? Who was she? She’d been important enough to Jeremy Bedford to cause him to leave his drinking pals and rush off into the night to meet a complete stranger in a dark car park. Was that what had happened to Ronnie and Clary?
‘That’s a thoughtful look.’ Ben stood beside her desk, smiling down at her.
‘It is, isn’t it? And for the first time since we got this case, I think we might be getting somewhere! Grab a seat and I’ll explain . . .’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The more he thought about his last escapade, the more he realised how lucky he had been to pull it off. But was it luck or perfect planning? The next one should be simpler, more straightforward anyhow. But he mustn’t get complacent. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, there was far too much at stake.
He checked his list of the materials he’d need, and made sure everything was in place. Then he went back indoors and checked the timings once more. This next hit should be very different to the others, in every way. It should be spectacular, as long as his weak stomach didn’t let him down. At this thought, a tiny whisper of smoke seemed to permeate the air, and made him cough. It had to be this way, there was no other choice, but he hated it.
He went to the kitchen, had a long drink of water and swallowed some paracetamol. Ever since he began this operation he’d been suffering from violent headaches, and they seemed to be getting worse. He assumed it was the stress. Well, he would just have to grin and bear it until the work was done.
He opened the file for his next fire, and checked all the data he’d collected on the comings and goings of his intended victim. He knew it backwards by now, but he needed to make sure every single detail was imprinted in his brain. He unpacked the throwaway PAYG phone from Tesco’s and inserted the unregistered sim card. There was a minimal amount of money on it, but it would be plenty for what he needed.
He stood up and paced the room, looking at his watch. Not long now.
* * *
Laura Archer gratefully accepted a coffee from Joseph, and proceeded to explain the case histories she had found.
‘I think it’s rather as we thought. As I looked further into the slightly stranger cases, I realised that sometimes there are people who don’t choose to use fire. They have to.’ She looked at Nikki. ‘The definition of an arsonist is someone who intentionally starts a fire in order to damage or destroy something, especially a building, or occasionally take a life. Our guy fits that category except that he’s not using the fire as a way of venting his anger, or because he has a desperate urge to set fire to things, or it just makes him feel good. I believe he has an agenda. His victims have to be consumed by fire.’
‘Without knowing what the agenda is, we have no way of predicting his next move.’ Joseph felt as if someone had superglued him to the starting block. He hated just waiting for the next fire.
‘For me, it’s a real failure. I can’t profile someone who doesn’t fit into any pattern.’ Laura looked as frustrated as he felt. ‘I can only reiterate what we already know, that he’s becoming more and more organised and cool in his planning. It’s just the act of condemning someone to the flames that sickens him.’ She shrugged. ‘Sorry. I really hoped that I’d be able to help.’
‘You are helping, Laura,’ said Nikki. ‘And we’ve got another question for you. It’s tenuous, but all of our victims are apparently altruistic people. We’ve heard them described as a charity worker; generous; helping others in whatever way they can; do-gooder; all-round good guy; kind; gentle; quiet; sweet natured, and all the rest. None of them seem to have any faults. Now what the hell do you make of that?’
Laura scratched her head. ‘Not a lot, to be honest. Some people who’ve been damaged by abuse can resent kindness being shown to others, especially if they were let down by the people who were supposed to help them.’ She paused. ‘Yes, in the context of this particular case, I’d say this was about someone being badly let down.’
‘The dead girl.’ Nikki and Joseph spoke in unison.
‘Dead girl?’ Laura looked at them blankly.
Nikki pulled a face. ‘Don’t ask. That’s all we know. Our killer lured Jeremy Bedford into his car by suggesting he knew something about a dead girl from his past.’
Laura sat up straight. ‘Then you need to find out all about her. She could be the root cause of why this killer is condemning others to death by fire.’
Nikki nodded. ‘The team are on it. I haven’t seen them look so enthusiastic for weeks.’
* * *
By four thirty the enthusiasm had waned. Between them, Cat, Ben and Dave had spoken to everyone connected to the three victims. None of them knew anything about a girl who’d died young. From the victims’ ages, they calculated that she must have been a teenager when she died, but they could find nothing. They were beginning to think that Harry, still recovering from the powerful drug, had imagined half the things he thought he recalled. In desperation, Cat spoke to him again, and he admitted to feeling very unsure and hazy about some of the things he’d said before. He was also starting to understand what a close call he’d had, and the shock of Jez’s terrible death was starting to hit home. Maybe this girl had never existed.
* * *
John Carson had spent the greater part of the day searching through old notebooks and diaries for entries he’d made many years ago regarding one particular case.
It was evening by the time he finally found it.
It was the case of a very disturbed young man who’d declared that he had a calling, a directive from on high to avenge a wrong by means of incineration. He’d apparently stated that he had no choice in the matter, atonement had to be made by means of fire. He was physically ill every time he made his “sinners” pay.
John read it for the third time. Voices in his head that he believed to be God had instructed this particular young fire-setter to bring a group of people to justice. It was his task to carry out God’s will by the use of cleansing fire. This killing spree had been planned to take place over a period of several weeks. However, the young avenging angel was so distressed by what he was doing that he speeded up the programme in order to get it over with as soon as possible. By the end, he was setting two fires, with two deaths, every night.
This was the only other case John could recall of a reluctant arsonist. Now, he believed they had another one.
John sat down on his sofa and picked up the phone. ‘Cameron? I might be wrong here, but I have a very worrying suspicion that your man will strike again tonight. I believe he has changed his initial timetable, and wants this whole business over as soon as possible.’
He replaced the receiver, stood up and took his coat and car keys. He wanted to be out on the streets when the call came. And it would come.
* * *
Nikki listened to what Cameron had to say.
‘There’s not a damn thing we can do to pre-empt this! Hell, we need a break, Cam! We need something to follow up, some lead, but there’s nothing. He’s a spectre, a bloody angel of death, and only he knows when and where the next strike will be!’
Cam nodded. ‘We’ve got more men and women out on the streets than we’ve ever had, but how can you watch a whole town, especially when you don’t know who or what you’re looking for?’
Nikki spread her hands. ‘And who’s to say he’ll target the town again? It could be one of the Greenborough villages, and there are dozens of those. Is it time to go public? Ask for their help? No one wants their home or business destroyed, do they? Surely, with the residents and business people all keeping watch we stand a much better chance of catching the bastard?’
Cameron inhaled. ‘I’ve asked, Nikki, but upstairs are worried about panic, and nuisance and hoax calls jamming the system when we need it open to deal with the real stuff. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place.’
<
br /> Nikki groaned. ‘I suppose they’re right. People will think every drunk on his way home is an arsonist, and there’ll be ten calls that all turn out to be a fox trying to get into a chicken run. And that’s without the hoaxers and nutters. They’d have a bloody field day!’
‘Difficult as it is, we’ll just have to be vigilant. The Fenland Constabulary’s finest are going to be out there all night long. We have to hope that our man either gets spooked by the unusually heavy police presence, or gets flustered and makes a mistake.’
Nikki wasn’t convinced, but there was nothing she could say. ‘I’ll go tell the team. Joseph and I will remain here, just in case John Carson’s right. Maybe he’ll be wrong for once, you never know.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Cam said. ‘I’m betting John’s hunch is right.’
* * *
Michael Porter threw the greasy frying pan into the old butler sink with the rest of the unwashed pots and dishes. Maybe he’d get around to sorting it tonight, maybe not.
Pushing aside newspapers, biscuit wrappers and empty milk cartons, he cleared a space on the kitchen table big enough for his plate. He’d tidy up a bit after tea. ‘And maybe not,’ he murmured aloud. The room was a tip, but there was no one else to see it, so what did it matter?
He squeezed tomato ketchup over his bacon, sausage and egg. Vaguely, he wondered how long he could go on living like this before he had a heart attack or a stroke. Not that he really cared. At least, if he didn’t die, he’d get fed in hospital, and his laundry done free of charge.
He looked around the massive, cold kitchen, and saw it as it had been when he was a kid. Clean and warm, smelling of real coffee, baking, and wholesome meaty dinners. The rambling old house had always been cluttered, but with things that mattered — a row of Wellies, dog beds, flower vases, fishing rods, cameras and books. Hundreds of books. Now it was cluttered with fast food boxes, beer cans and black sacks that he’d forgotten to put out for the bin men.
Michael was twenty-eight years old but felt sixty. His brother was working in the Middle East, his sister had married and gone to Canada and his parents had died within a month of each other, both from cancer. That left Michael. He had been the youngest, the tearaway. A lovable rogue, according to his mother. A right little tyke was his father’s description. His siblings had tolerated him. Now they hated him. For letting the home go to rack and ruin and throwing their inheritance down the proverbial. Well, tough! You’ve got lives. All I’ve got is this desolate ruin in the middle of a muddy fen. You’ve got people who love you. I’ve got no one. Even the dog ran away.
He chewed his cheap sausage and wondered what was in it. Certainly not much meat. Michael picked up a slice of white bread that sat on a pile of junk mail next to his plate, placed the remainder of the sausage in it and folded it over. Maybe the bread and butter would improve the flavour.
It didn’t. He shovelled the rest of the food into his mouth and finished the meal. Leaving the plate where it was, he stood up and checked his pockets for spare change. He fished out two pound coins and some assorted silver. Was there enough for a pint down the local? He counted it out, but stopped at just over two quid. He needed another sixty pence for a pint, and he wasn’t going to find that, not until Friday.
When the phone rang, he scowled. If it was P-P-bloody-I again, he’d really give them what for!
‘Yes?’
‘Hello? Michael Porter?’
He didn’t recognise the voice. ‘Whatever you’re selling,’ he said, ‘I don’t want it! When I want something, I ring you, not the other way round. Got it?’
‘I’m not selling anything, I promise you,’ the caller said.
‘Then why are you wasting my time?’ He switched the phone to loudspeaker so he could hear more clearly.
‘I want to talk to you, Michael. Please don’t hang up.’
‘Talk about what?’ Michael felt suddenly uneasy.
‘About Mischief Night, ten years ago.’
Michael’s mouth went dry. He wanted to throw the phone as far as he could and smash it to pieces.
‘I see you know what I’m talking about.’
‘Who are you?’ Michael managed to growl. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that it’s time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘Time to pay.’
There was a long silence. Michael felt the first intimations of real fear. ‘Go away. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve got the wrong person.’
‘Oh no, it’s you alright, it’s you I want. It’s you who has to pay.’
‘But . . .’
‘It’s too late now, Michael Porter. I just wanted to hear your voice before you die.’
‘Who are you, for God’s sake? And why are you threatening me?’
‘Goodbye, Michael. And don’t try to escape, because you can’t. And before you breathe your last, give a thought to Mischief Night, won’t you?’
The line went dead. Michael realised he was shaking.
Then he smelt the burning.
For a moment he froze, rooted to the spot in shock. In his head he still heard that voice. Mischief Night. And what was that smell?
He broke from his trance and rushed to the cooker. Had he left hot fat on the lighted hob?
No, of course he hadn’t, but for some reason, his brain wasn’t functioning properly. He looked around. There was no smoke. He tried to think. Who had that been on the phone? Some lunatic? But he knew about Mischief Night, didn’t he? And he knew his name, and his telephone number.
Then he heard a rustling noise. It was coming from the hallway. He pushed open the door and ran into the big hall, but it was empty. The sound must have come from the lounge. He pushed open the door, and screamed.
The far end of the lounge, the window end, was engulfed in flames. The curtains were blazing, dripping what looked like liquid fire onto the carpet. The crackling was fast becoming a steady roar, and Michael ran from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
He ran into the hall and grabbed the front door handle, but it was locked, and the key was gone. He stared at it. But he always left the key in the lock! Windows? No good. The tiny panes of old glass, in mullions, were nearly all rusted, jammed or screwed shut to stop the drafts.
Michael started to cry with sheer helplessness, then remembered the back door. He’d left it unlocked when he came home. That was his way out.
He flung open the kitchen door and gasped. The flames seemed to reach out towards him.
He hunched over and charged to the back door, threw himself against it, but it held fast. Someone had locked it, from outside.
In panic, he ran back to the hall and raced up the stairs. It might mean broken bones, but he’d jump from one of the tall sash windows on the landing. At least he wouldn’t burn to death.
He tried three of the big windows before he realised that they’d all been nailed shut. They had been replaced a few years ago and were made of toughened glass, and he’d never break them.
At that moment he knew his caller had been deadly serious. It really was no use trying to escape.
Or maybe not? The loft hatch! He remembered the funny circular window up there that led to the roof. If he could get through that, there was a slim chance he could shimmy down the drainpipe to safety, like he had when he was a kid.
Michael went back to the upstairs landing and found the pole that released the loft hatch clasp. He pushed it in and turned it, but nothing happened. He tried again, and his heart sank. Whoever wanted him dead had done a very thorough job on the old house.
All around him the fire roared. Things were falling and crashing downstairs, and the staircase was now alight. In a blind panic he ran from the landing. There was only one place to go. He didn’t think it would save his life, but it might spare him a little of the agony. As he raced down the narrow corridor to the main bathroom, he suddenly thought, why didn’t I dial 999?
He slammed the bathroom door closed, then grabbed his mobile from his pocket. For the first time since his old dog ran away, Michael was pleased that it had. He couldn’t have coped if his dog were there too. He could fight back the tears no longer. He knew it was too late now, but he need to hear a human voice. He didn’t want to be alone when he died, and before he did, he wanted to tell someone that he was sorry. Sorry for Mischief Night.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘Outskirts of Frampton Village! Nuthatch Lane. An old farmhouse — Rycroft Farm!’ Nikki called across the CID room to Joseph.
Nikki knew John Carson would be waiting for them, and when they arrived, she wasn’t disappointed. ‘You were right,’ she said without preamble. ‘He struck again.’
If possible, John looked even worse than he had the day before. ‘I knew it, but I hoped I would be wrong. And this fire was in a very different league to the others.’
Nikki watched from the safety of the lane as three fire appliances tackled the blaze. There would be little left of Rycroft Farm when the flames had finally been doused.
John sighed. ‘This time he secured the old building tighter than a duck’s backside. The occupant, one Mr Michael Porter, didn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of escaping. Windows nailed or screwed shut, doors locked and barricaded. No way out, I’m afraid.’
‘Why didn’t the guy notice?’ asked Joseph incredulously.
‘Sad case. Bit of a recluse. Lost his parents, then his siblings went, and he was left to look after the place. He developed a form of depression, and lost interest in the family home. Everything else, for that matter.’
‘How do you know all this, John?’ asked Nikki.
‘One of the fire crew used to drink with him sometimes, down at the Nightingale Watch. Got to know him pretty well. He felt sorry for the bloke. Josh, the fireman, reckons he wouldn’t have noticed if someone had draped multicoloured bunting all over the house. And the killer did a neat job, or so they think from what’s left of the window frames.’
‘And the occupant?’ Nikki really didn’t want to know, but had to ask.
