'It was the only picture there, so it must have been important to him,' Naomi said.
'Is it important to us?'
Her eyes narrowed. 'If you can't tell, I must have overestimated you.'
'The other guy? Who is he?'
'I've no idea.'
'Was Edgar Blacker gay?'
'I got that impression, didn't you? That voice. The way he dressed.'
'Haven't thought about it till now,' he said. 'I've been proved wrong making assumptions like that.'
'Look at what's written on the back.'
He turned it over. Someone had written 'Innocents, Christmas 1982'.
'Okay,' he said. 'We know when it was taken.'
'And. .?'
'You mean the "innocents" bit? I guess that was written later, when the relationship got more serious.'
'My thought exactly,' Naomi said. 'They meet in 1982, possibly the evening this was taken. The friendship develops into a homosexual relationship. We can only guess at how long it lasts, but the blond young man here is the love of Blacker's life, which is why he keeps the picture on his bedroom wall. Is that assuming too much?'
'Sounds feasible. But does it have anything to do with the fire?'
'That's where your imagination comes in.'
'Does it?'
'We're writing a book, remember?' Naomi said with an edge to her voice. 'You're the creative one. See if you can think of a link between this picture and the fire that killed Blacker.'
'It doesn't have to be true?'
'Of course not. Leave the truth to me. I'll try and get some background on Blacker and I may even get the facts on his friendship with this man.'
'I'm getting confused,' Zach said. 'You want me to use my imagination while you go rooting out the facts?'
'Precisely. Isn't it exciting? We'll set out the two stories side by side, incident by incident, your imaginative version and my discoveries about the actual events. To my knowledge nobody has ever attempted anything like this. It's true that writers have used real crimes as inspiration-'
'Ellroy.'
'Who?'
'James Ellroy,' Zach said. You wouldn't have read him. He's not your kind of writer.'
'What about him?'
'He uses real crimes like the Black Dahlia case as the structure for his imagination to work on. Truman Capote's In Cold Blood is another example, written almost as documentary but with the characters speaking dialogue. It's brilliant.'
'I've read Capote,' she said without enthusiasm. 'But you and I will be going one better. We're adding an extra dimension. I'll be investigating the real facts at the same time as you're doing the fictional version. There'll be tension there. Electricity.'
She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm and he felt the electricity all right. He drew away and smoothed the hairs down, but they sprang up again. 'When do we start?'
'I've already started.'
'What about me?'
'This photo is your starting point. Try to bridge the gap between nineteen eighty-two and the present.'
'Do you want me to do an outline, or what?'
'Good idea. I have high expectations of you, Zach. You have an imagination to die for.'
'Some people find it weird.'
She flapped her hand in a dismissive way. 'Pay no attention. I've been called weird myself and I take it as a compliment. We're achievers, you and I. Who knows what this will lead to? More wine?'
He decided against another glass. Just being with Naomi made him feel heady.
He plucked up the courage to ask, 'Who do you think would publish a book like this?'
'We do,' she said. 'We're in the century of the e-book.'
'The internet?'
'We publish it ourselves and release it into cyberspace. Anyone on the world-wide web can access it.'
'I've heard about e-books. Never seen one.'
'They're tucked away in obscure sites, most of them. My plan is to create a new website called www.ChichesterMurderDetectives.com. Key words, you see, that search engines pick up. All kinds of people wanting to read about murder will find it, and be captivated. It's unique, this collaboration.'
'Well, yes,' he said with a tone of reserve.
'I've already purchased the authoring software. It's so simple to use. Accepts Word and WordPerfect. We don't even have to wait for the book to be finished. We can show it as work in progress.'
'Is that a good idea?'
'A brilliant idea. It's revolutionary. Visitors to our website will see the creative process at work. As it progresses and gets known, I predict that publishers will beat a path to our door. They'll be in competition to sign us up. And I don't just mean British publishers. We'll do deals with America, Japan, China.'
'Do you think so?'
'All of Europe. I know it. Never again will you and I have to submit a script and wait for some high-handed publisher to come to a decision. They'll have to make up their minds on what is out there, or risk being trampled in the stampede.'
'It sounds promising, but-'
'I'm starting straight away and I'll be looking to you to make your contribution, Zach.'
He left soon after, his thoughts in a spin.
11
I think when people die in fires it's not because of panic — it's more likely to be the lack of panic.
Neil Townsend, divisional officer, London Fire Brigade, quoted by Nicholas Faith in Blaze (1999)
Around four on the following Saturday morning most of Chichester was asleep. The late people had given up and gone home and the early people weren't yet ready to go out. The occasional drone of a heavy vehicle came from the bypass, the A27, and that was all.
In the fire station on the traffic island at Churchside, north of the town, four of the team on night duty were playing poker. A black and white film was running on the TV with the sound turned down. The other firemen were trying to get some sleep. They were dressed for action. Their response time was excellent in an emergency, but they didn't often get the chance to prove it.
In the shadow of a narrow alley close to the town centre (central enough to feature on Anton's computer) waited the solitary figure who would give the firemen a night to remember. No one else seemed to be about, but if some early riser had come by at this time he would almost certainly have walked past the alley without seeing anything. The fire-raiser was dressed in dark clothes. The plastic bag was black. It was from Waterstone's bookshop. It didn't contain books.
The saying goes: if it works, don't fix it. The method had been used before, with success. A few quick steps to the front door. The letter-flap opened with a gloved hand and the piece of hose inserted. The trickle of fuel as it formed a pool on the floor inside. The hose withdrawn. The oily rags pushed through. The last rag ignited with a struck match and dropped through.
No one was in the street when the arsonist arrived, or left. No neighbour was watching. Even if some sleepless person had looked out of a window opposite, there was not a lot to see for some time. The pink glow inside the house could have been an electric light. If there was a smoke alarm it didn't work. The fire took hold with devastating effect, rapidly finding the stairwell. The flames leapt up, creating a backdraught. You couldn't have designed a more efficient incinerator.
It was later estimated that the fire raged for up to fifty minutes before a milkman on his way to work saw smoke and sparks ripping through the roof and raised the alarm.
The fire team responded with admirable speed once they got the shout. Three fire appliances attended. An attempt was made to gain entry through a bedroom window, but the floor had collapsed. The entire contents of the room, bed, wardrobe, dressing table and chair, had dropped to ground level and been turned to ashes.
Chichester had not seen so devastating a house fire in anyone's memory.
12
I after supper walked in the dark down to Tower-street, and there saw it all on fire at the Trinity house on that side and the Dolphin tavern on this side, which was
very near us — and the fire with extraordinary vehemence.
Samuel Pepys, Diary, 4 September 1666
Bob stared at the TV screen. He'd just switched on, as he did most mornings while he shuffled around the kitchen making coffee and toast. The breakfast programme was supposed to get him going, encouragement that other people were already on their feet and doing a job. He didn't expect to listen to what they were saying until after his second coffee.
They were running a clip of a burnt-out house, blackened, with wisps of smoke still escaping from what was left of the roof. The style of commentary told him this was the local news slot, and he heard the name of his town. '. . in Tower Street, Chichester, in the early hours of this morning.' Now the newsreader's head and shoulders filled the screen. 'The fire service were at the scene close to the town centre within a short time of receiving the call, but the station fire officer said it was too far advanced for them to enter the building. It is feared that a middle-aged woman lost her life. And now your local weather.'
'Jesus,' Bob said. He'd recognised the house.
He scraped his hand through his hair.
'Yesterday's weather system has passed across the country now and we can look forward to a brighter day.'
'Oh my God!'
'What's up, Dad?'
Sue had just come down in the faded Robbie Williams T-shirt she slept in, her face still puffy from sleep.
'Dad?'
'Another fire. A woman died and I know who she is.' He kicked off his flip-flops. 'I'm going out.'
You haven't had your toast.'
He was out of the room already.
At the scene, the entire street was closed. The end was taped off and two policemen were preventing anyone from crossing the line. Bob's portable TV had given him a better view. All he could make out from here was the back of a fire tender. The only other clue as to what was happening were the acrid fumes hanging in the air, making his throat and nostrils smart.
'Which house is it?' he asked one of the cops.
'Sorry, chum. This is as far as you go.'
'Which house?'
'Why — do you live here?'
'Someone I know does.'
'The fourth along. Gutted. No one inside stood a chance.'
'Number seven?'
'It would be, yes. It's a wonder the place next door didn't go up as well.'
'Listen. Who's in charge? I need to speak to them.'
'And who might you be?'
He gave his name. 'I know the woman who lives in that house. I don't think this was an accident.'
'Okay.'
'Are you listening? I want to see the man in charge.'
'Hold on.' The officer spoke into his personal phone. After getting a response he lifted the tape enough for Bob to duck under. 'Ask for DI Cherry.'
'Dai Cherry?'
He was given a long look.
'Detective Inspector. Ask nicely.'
Ask nicely. The stupid things people say, Bob thought, as he stepped around bits of blackened debris and pools of water. Firemen were disconnecting hoses, chatting to each other, just doing their job. An ambulance and three fire tenders were still in attendance, but the main action was over. The small house was tragic to behold, every window smashed and soot stains spread across the front. A fragment of charred carpet lay on the pavement. Bob recognised the carpet pattern and felt his stomach churn.
Ahead, a fire officer with more silver on his shoulders than the others was in conversation with a tall man in a leather jacket and jeans. Bob went right up to them.
'Inspector Cherry?'
The two continued their dialogue.
'Can I have a word?'
The fire officer finished what he was saying and walked off.
The detective's gaze was on the building. He didn't even turn to look at Bob. 'You've got something to say to me?' Either he wasn't expecting much, or he was playing it cool.
'Bob Naylor, yes. The woman who lives here is called Snow, Miss Amelia Snow.'
'And?'
'Have you found her?'
No answer. This casual attitude was getting to Bob. There still wasn't eye contact. 'Because someone was out to kill her.'
'Oh yes?'
As off-hand as that. How was he going to break through this wall? 'They did their best to trap her last Saturday. You know the boat house that burned down? She was supposed to be meeting someone there. She had a phone call. Now this. It's got to be murder.'
He could have been talking about the weather for all the reaction he got. 'You're from round here, are you?'
'What?'
'Local?'
'From Chichester, yes. Did you hear what I just said? It's murder.'
'What are you then — a friend?'
'I met Miss Snow a few times in the past two weeks, that's all. Through the writers' circle. She's the secretary. Was she in there?'
'So you belong to this circle?'
'I've been to one meeting. Look, this isn't about me. I'm not important. I'm telling you Miss Snow was under threat, for God's sake.'
'I heard what you said, Mr Taylor.'
'Naylor.'
'When you've calmed down we'll take a statement. Can you call at the police station later today? Give your details to the officer over there before you leave.'
With that, DI Cherry strolled off towards a police response car.
'Bloody hell.'
Shaking his head in disbelief, Bob went over to pass on his name and address. If this was the level of interest from the police, he wasn't surprised poor old Maurice was still in custody.
'Bob!'
He turned to look at the taped-off area where the shout had come from, and his spirits had a lift. Thomasine was there waving, with Dagmar at her side. As soon as he'd passed on his name and address he went over to them.
'Was she in there?' Thomasine asked.
'Seems so. They're saying bugger all.'
'Poor little soul! It wasn't an accident, was it?'
'They're not saying. My guess is that someone torched the house, like they did Edgar Blacker's.'
Dagmar said, 'Who in the world would want to harm Miss Snow?'
He shook his head, at a loss for an explanation. 'I need a coffee. How about you two?'
The Costa shop in West Street was the nearest place open at this time. They carried their coffees upstairs, where they had the space to themselves.
'They'll have to release Maurice now,' Dagmar said. 'They will, won't they?'
Maurice wasn't high in Bob's thoughts right now 'If it's up to the dipstick I just met, I wouldn't hold your breath.'
'Someone else will be in charge,' Thomasine said. 'If it's a murder investigation they use detectives.'
'He was a detective. Does anyone know what time this happened?'
'Some hours ago. I saw it on TV. If it's anything like the fire that killed Blacker, it was started at night when no one was about.'
'What a wicked thing,' Dagmar said.
'She was a sweetie,' Thomasine said.'I can't understand this.'
'Have they got her out?' Dagmar asked.
'There can't be much left of her to get out,' Bob said. 'From what I could see, the fire got a grip before anyone arrived. It burned like a furnace inside. The place is just a shell now.'
'It's appalling,' Dagmar said. 'And you're right, Tommy. She was a lovely person, always helping people in trouble. All the work she did for the women's refuge, working in the charity shop. They're going to miss her.'
'So are we,' Thomasine said. 'She did great as the circle secretary. Don't know why she took it on. It's not a job I'd want, with people like Anton ready to jump on any mistake you make.'
'She was glad of the chance to work with Maurice,' Dagmar said, and added at once, 'I don't mean that unkindly. She was very high-minded, and so is Maurice, but there is some satisfaction to be got by a single lady linking up with a nice man in a worthwhile enterprise.'
There speaks the romantic novelist, Bob thought.
He'd always thought of Dagmar as the one who fancied Maurice the most.
Thomasine's mind was elsewhere. 'Is it safe to assume the killer is the person who phoned Miss Snow and tried to lure her to the boat house?'
'That's my reading of it,' Bob said. 'Same m.o., basically.'
'M.o.?'
'Latin, isn't it? Same method. Killing by fire. Dead simple and not much risk. They must have stuffed some inflammable material in the space under the boat house for it to go up like it did. A fire doesn't take that quickly without paraffin or something.'
'Do you think they realised it was you inside and not Miss Snow?'
'I shouted plenty. They heard me.'
'What you're saying is that it was a trap meant for Miss Snow and when you walked into it they decided you'd better go instead?'
'Abso-bloody-lutely. I knew too much already.'
'And for a time they must have thought they'd succeeded, unless they watched you climb out on the roof.'
'I sensed they'd gone by then. Light the blue touch paper and run.'
There was a silence between them for a short while, as if no one wanted to make the dread conclusion that united them. At length it was Thomasine who spoke it.
'Let's face it. These fires all have a connection with the circle. None of us is safe any more.'
'But why pick on us?' Dagmar said. 'We're no threat to anyone, a harmless group of writers. We're not the mafia.'
'Dag, one of us can't be harmless,' Thomasine said. 'Someone in the circle is a killer.'
'It could be an outsider.'
'I don't see it. Three fires, all linked to the circle. They know who we are and where we live.'
'But why? Where's the sense in it?'
'I think we've got to consider pyromania.'
'Come again?' Bob said.
'Pyromania. People with a thing about starting fires. A mental illness. They have this need to see places go up in flames.'
'I've heard of that,' he said, 'but you're wrong. Our fire-raiser is picking on people, not buildings.'
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