Garry leant forward and squinted at the screen, reading the headline and first few lines. ‘What am I looking at?’

Jessica flicked onto a second page and let him read again, then onto half-a-dozen more. Garry turned to her, obviously confused. ‘Stories about the fires, your fire, Martin Chadwick being released . . . I don’t get it.’

‘How far back do these papers go?’ Jessica asked, pointing at the pile.

‘It’s what you asked for – about seven months or so. I’ve not got them all because there would have been way too many.’

‘Do all the stories you print go on the Internet?’

‘No, not the smaller ones.’

‘Okay, let’s start at the beginning.’ Jessica reached across Garry and started sorting through the papers.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for the earliest one.’

Garry half-heartedly picked up the papers closest to him and began sorting them. ‘Are you going to tell me why?’

‘I want you to see it.’

Jessica needed Garry to work things out. If he could, it would offer some sort of justification for her actions and thought process. She flipped over the pile of papers and took the one from the bottom, checking the date, and then skimming through the first two dozen pages. ‘Not this one,’ she said.

‘What am I looking for?’

‘Just wait.’

Jessica flicked through eight more newspapers before finally handing one to the journalist. ‘That one.’

She waited as Garry looked through the same sections. He looked up at her curiously. ‘Jess, I . . .’

Jessica continued working her way through the first pile, picking out three more and passing them to Garry and then choosing another five from the second. When she was finished, she tidily stacked the ones she had used in date order and sat on the sofa, looking to where the journalist was going through the items she had given him.

After the final one, he stared up at her, holding his palms upwards. ‘I don’t get it.’

Jessica closed her eyes and leant back in the seat. ‘Just look. Read what I’ve given you and read what’s on the Internet.’

As Garry looked back at the stack of papers, she could tell he was thinking that everything had got to her. She could almost hear his mind working, wanting to ask her if she was all right.

‘Just read,’ she whispered quietly.

33

The man reached into his jacket pocket and fingered the ignition of the lighter. He felt a thrill of excitement surge through his chest as he rubbed the grooves of the circular part with his thumb, gently rotating it slowly enough so that it didn’t produce a flame. He kept one hand on the object, holding his phone with his other as he walked briskly through the maze of alleyways he had so carefully remembered.

He felt proud of the way he had evolved. In the early days, there had been no planning at all. He would drive to the site, do what he had to do and then get in his car and head home. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out that he would find it hard to explain things if any witnesses reported his number plate close to more than one of his targets.

What he also started doing was buying fuel at a different petrol station each time, allowing him to refill his petrol can without arousing suspicion.

Not using his car at the scene solved one problem, but it left him with the issue of how to get the canister to the target without being seen. Public transport was obviously out and walking was not only impractical because of the distances but also due to how heavy the petrol was. He had thought about using something else to get the fires started but he hadn’t come across anything that was so quick to burn while, at the same time, being so easily available.

There was something about the smell too.

The aroma was perhaps the best part: the thick scent of power hanging in the air before he used the lighter. It offered more satisfaction than a match. The enjoyment as he quickly scuffed his finger along the round ignition was so much more thrilling than simply flicking a match along the side of a box.

Hiding the can close to the victim’s house had come to him in a moment as close to genius as he thought he had ever managed. He would find a nearby spot during daylight and then return to hide the can not long after it went dark. He would leave it under a hedge or somewhere similar that the public paid no attention to. With that done, he would park around a mile away in the early hours, hurry through the collection of side streets and back alleys he had memorised, and then retrieve his prize. After lighting the flames he would race back the way he had come and be in his vehicle before someone had even called 999.

At that time of the morning, it was almost always clear and by the time anyone arrived to start investigating what had happened, he was well on his way home.

Well, that was how it worked now.

Martin Chadwick’s house had almost been a big mistake. The early evening timing had been utterly naive, but at least it had guaranteed the target was in – and allowed lessons to be learned.

The man was glad it was spring, the early morning temperatures were relatively comfortable and the ground wasn’t frosty and slippery. He also didn’t have to wear a thick coat, making it harder to run.

He crossed a road, ducking under an overhanging branch before hurrying through a ginnel and emerging onto the cul-de-sac he had chosen. The hiding place for the fuel had been pretty easy this time around. Purely by accident when he had been driving to check the location earlier, he saw that it was bin day. Residents had already started to leave their large grey wheelie bins at the end of their driveways ready for collection the following morning. The man had left his can in the one belonging to the house opposite and then driven off.

He put his phone into his jacket pocket and raised the bin lid, reaching inside and lifting the petrol container out. He had deliberately not filled it all the way, knowing how heavy it would be otherwise. Making his way across the road, he could feel his hands trembling with anticipation.

At the end of the target’s drive, he stopped and placed the can on the floor, unscrewing the lid and inhaling just enough to enjoy the sensation without clouding his senses. His heart was pounding as he walked towards the front of the property and began dribbling the liquid in a thin trail towards the main door.

The faint glow of the nearby street lights glistened from the liquid as he watched it seep into the ruts of the paved drive before he reached the front of the house. He continued to trickle it gently as he never felt comfortable glugging the liquid over doors and window frames. The noise sounded wasteful, as if the fuel were simply being hurled away, rather than being used for a legitimate purpose.

He was lost in his thoughts, the smell gradually reaching the point of empowerment when he heard the front door open. The man was so surprised that as he spun around the can slipped in his hand and noisily clattered to the ground. He glanced up to see Detective Sergeant Jessica Daniel standing in the doorway. The liquid gushed out of the container over his shoes. He could feel a squelching sensation as he took an involuntary step backwards.

Jessica hadn’t left the doorstep but the man could hear movement behind him. He turned to see someone he didn’t know standing at the edge of the driveway. Looking from one person to the other, he heard Jessica saying his name, telling him not to be stupid. Desperately, he tried to think of an innocent explanation for why he happened to be there but there was clearly none.

He knew it was game over.

His hand shot into his pocket and pulled out the lighter in an attempt to keep the man from advancing down the driveway towards him. He held it in the air in a silent threat, trying to think what to do next. He wondered how they knew. Was it Jessica or was it the man he didn’t know who had figured it out? He thought he had been careful enough but there must have been something he had overlooked.