Before the constable could ask who she was, Jessica showed him her identification and gave him a ‘piss off over there’ look. She had honed it perfectly over the years. She combined it with her ‘and don’t come back until your bollocks have dropped’ look, which was a new one she was working on.

‘Who called you?’ the fire officer asked as the other officer walked towards the house, suitably chastened.

‘Someone at Longsight.’

Jessica didn’t know exactly who had phoned it through but, given the location and the fact she wouldn’t usually have been called, it seemed like someone in the central call centre was on the ball that night. That was certainly a surprise. She knew she hadn’t answered the question the fire officer was really asking.

‘So why are you out here?’ he persisted.

‘Because I’m currently investigating why the house owner’s daughter killed herself.’

Reynolds and Rowlands each turned up within ten minutes. The inspector headed straight for the house, hoping to talk to whoever was in charge from the fire service as soon as the blaze was out. Meanwhile, Jessica and Rowlands went to visit the person who had reported the fire.

The neighbouring property was a similar size to Harley Todd’s. Large green gardens stretched into the darkness and the gravel driveway had three large cars parked close to the house. As they crunched their way towards the front door, Rowlands said the one name that Jessica had in her mind – ‘Ryan Chadwick’.

‘Why would he do this?’ Jessica asked.

‘I have no idea but it’s the second fire he’s been connected to in under a week. Not to mention that suicide,’ Rowlands replied.

Jessica agreed but couldn’t bring herself to say it. She didn’t know why he might have set fire to his own house, other than to frame Anthony Thompson, but all she could think of was the doodles on the pages Aidan had given her. She hadn’t told Dave, or anyone, about those sketches but that decision now looked foolish.

‘We can’t connect him to the one at his own house and all we know is that he knew Sienna. That doesn’t link him properly to either her death or this fire.’

She was saying it more to convince herself.

‘Maybe,’ Rowlands replied. ‘But the timing’s bloody uncanny. That said, we have another arsonist we’re overlooking.’

‘Who?’

Jessica felt stupid when the reply came.

‘Ryan’s dad, of course.’

With everything that had been going on, Jessica had almost forgotten the obvious fact that Martin Chadwick had only recently been released from prison after starting the fire that killed Alfie Thompson. Could he really be up to his old tricks? If so, why his own house and why this one?

Jessica didn’t know if there was a connection from Harley to Martin in any way other than through their children. The only thing she did know was that Anthony Thompson was definitely innocent of this one, given that he was still in a cell somewhere at the Bootle Street station.

Before Rowlands could say anything else, Jessica rang the bell. There was a large wooden door, fixed to a mock Tudor frame that looked impressive, even in the dark. The door opened inwards barely a second after the bell had sounded. Standing inside was a tall man with ginger hair combed to one side. He was wearing a grey pinstripe suit with a blue shirt underneath. Jessica was confused by how quickly he had opened the door.

As if reading her mind, he said: ‘I’ve been watching through the upstairs window to see what was going on next door. I saw you coming.’

His voice was husky and dry and he offered little to no emotion.

Jessica checked his name and confirmed it was he who had called the police. The neighbour invited them in, closing the door behind them as flecks of black ash drifted across the front of the house. He told them he had smelled the fire but had disregarded it at first, thinking someone was having a bonfire nearby. When he noticed the orange glow illuminating his lawn not long after, he had walked along his driveway until he saw the flames properly and then called the police. Jessica asked if he had seen anything suspicious but the man seemed more concerned by the possibility of it being ‘kids’ who might target him next.

Three times he repeated ‘These bloody kids today’ before Jessica asked him to confirm whether he had seen any youths.

Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t.

‘What do you know of your neighbour?’ Jessica asked.

‘Harley?’

‘Yes.’

The man shrugged. ‘We pretty much keep to ourselves. We invited him around for a dinner party when he first moved in but he didn’t bother turning up. Then sometimes we would hear cars bringing his daughter back late . . . well, before . . .’ He tailed off, apparently not wanting to mention her death, but he didn’t seem overly concerned.

‘Was there anything suspicious about the cars?’

‘What cars?’

Jessica forced herself not to roll her eyes. ‘The ones you said brought back his daughter.’

He shrugged his shoulders, eyes darting towards the door, evidently bored. He clearly had no interest in anyone other than himself and Jessica suspected his annoyance stemmed back to the dinner party snub. She could picture him moaning about it every day since, a typical busybody who took offence at any minute dispute. Jessica thought about leaving but figured it couldn’t do any harm to push him a little further.

‘What else can you tell me about Harley?’

‘What do you want to know?’

Jessica raised her eyebrows, speaking firmly. ‘That’s what I just asked you.’

For a moment, the man didn’t reply, chewing on his bottom lip. ‘He’s not around much. I think he’s got a job that takes him around the country. A lot of the time it was just his daughter in the house.’

Jessica wasn’t hearing anything she wasn’t already aware of but didn’t want another rant about kids.

The man suggested they should leave an officer stationed at the end of his driveway just in case the perpetrator – or ‘perpetrators’, as he emphasised – should return. His gravelly voice made it sound as if he endlessly smoked either cigarettes or cigars and his attitude was pushing her buttons.

Jessica told him to call the police if he had any further concerns and then left the house when, for one of the few times in her life, she was pleased to see it raining. It was the drizzly nothing-type mist that was barely noticeable when out in it. If you got wet in the morning, however, you spent the rest of the day trying to dry out. There were still small scraps of burned black material being blown across to them and the raindrops almost seemed to taste of the blaze.

‘Shite,’ Rowlands said as they made their way down the driveway.

‘Stop moaning,’ Jessica replied, pulling the jacket’s hood over her head.

Dave was wearing only his suit. He tried to yank the jacket over his head but it was a little too tight and he struggled to loosen it around his arms to enable him to lift it up.

Jessica laughed. ‘Covering your hair isn’t going to stop it going grey.’

Rowlands finally contorted his arm enough to free the jacket and he raised it over himself. ‘I keep telling you I’m not going grey,’ he said defensively.

‘Maybe you’re right . . . it might be white, I suppose.’

‘Sod off, is it.’

As they reached the main road, Jessica could see at least three more police cars had arrived. Their blue lights were silently spinning as if to remind people that, if the fire engines and flames weren’t enough of an indication, there had been a blaze.

They began walking along the adjacent driveway but it was clear the fire was either out or close to it. Only one of the hoses still appeared to be in use and most of the fire officers who had been tackling the blaze were now leaning against the side of one of the large vehicles sheltering from the rain and ash-like debris which was drifting on the breeze.