‘I’m sure they did.’

‘But one call came significantly earlier than that. At eleven thirty-eight – a full twelve minutes before the others.’

Now McAndrew had Helen’s attention.

‘Interestingly, this call didn’t come from a neighbour, it came from a payphone. And here’s the thing. It came from a payphone two streets away – there’s no way the caller could have seen the fire from there.’

‘So they saw the fire and ran to the nearest payphone?’

‘Possibly, but how come they saw this fire a full twelve minutes before anyone else? And why didn’t they stick around to help? If Agnieszka stopped texting at eleven fifteen p.m., she probably didn’t go to sleep immediately, so the arsonist gained entry at, what, eleven twenty-five p.m.? Eleven thirty? The fire was initially contained in the basement. The sofa burnt well, but it took a while for the fire to spread upwards as the basement stairwell did not connect with the main stairs.’

‘So on that basis,’ Helen said, picking up McAndrew’s thread, ‘the most likely explanation is that the arsonist set the fire at around eleven thirty p.m., left and walked the five-minute walk to the nearest payphone and called it in.’

‘It’s a theory,’ McAndrew replied calmly.

‘Ok, get me the audio from every fire over the last few days. I want to see if our arsonist has been in on the act from day one.’

McAndrew was halfway to the door when Helen called out:

‘One other thing. You didn’t say if the caller was male or female?’

There was a small pause, before McAndrew looked up at her and said:

‘Female.’

106

Thomas knelt down, so that he was at eye level with his son. Luke smiled awkwardly at him and in that moment Thomas saw that Charlie Brooks had been right. He had been guilty of neglecting his son, just when he needed his father most. He felt deep shame and sadness rise up in him and, not trusting himself to speak, simply stroked his son’s cheek. Tears immediately appeared in his son’s eyes, mirrored now in his own and he dropped his gaze to his son’s tie, which was characteristically askew. Gently, he straightened it for him.

‘I messed up today, son,’ Thomas said eventually. ‘I should have been here with you, but I wasn’t. Instead I let my emotions get the better of me and well … this is the result.’

He grimaced ruefully, as he gestured to the scratches on his face.

Luke returned the smile, but it was unconvincing – riven with anxiety and fear. Once again Thomas felt deep guilt at having put his own needs – his own anger – before his son’s happiness.

‘We’ll need to be off in a little while, so I wanted to have a little chat with you first.’

Luke nodded cautiously, so Thomas proceeded:

‘I … I haven’t been a very good dad the last few days. I won’t try to excuse my behaviour, all I will say is that I’ve been struggling a bit. I never prepared for … this.’

Luke stared at him, but Thomas was pleased to see there was no judgement in his expression.

‘So we’re going to have to find our way together, if that’s ok. Starting with today. You’ll never have to face anything as hard as what you’re about to do. There will be a lot of people at the funeral, there will be others – journalists, well-wishers – on the periphery. They will all want to talk to you, they’ll all want to offer you support, to ask you questions, to check that you’re ok. The answer is of course not, but they’ll ask anyway. And in the middle of all that, we’re going to have to … to say goodbye to Mum and Ali. A boy your age should never have to face something like this and I’m so, so sorry that you have to now. But – and this is the important bit – you won’t have to face it alone, ok? I’m going to be by your side every step of the way. Everything we face from now on, we face together.’

Luke said nothing, simply folding his father into an embrace and nestling his wet face into his shoulder. Thomas held him as he cried and for the first time since that awful night felt some strength returning to him.

As he hugged his son tight, he said a silent prayer for his wife and daughter. For his lovely son. And for the sage counsel of Charlie Brooks.

107

The pair of them sat in total silence.

Helen had commandeered an interview suite and asked McAndrew to join her. The table was covered with tapes from the call operators from the fire, police and ambulance services. The simple tape player in the centre of the table had been connected to speakers and McAndrew had turned the volume up high as they listened to the recordings.

There had been several female callers during the course of the three nights who’d reported the fires. Some sounded scared, others sounded panicked, all sounded breathless.

‘There – it’s the same one,’ Helen said, pausing the tape.

They had been listening to the calls from the first night. At around 11.50 p.m., a young woman had called 999, reporting a fire at a house in Millbrook – the Simms residence. And the voice on the tape sounded virtually identical to the early caller from the most recent blaze in Lower Shirley.

‘Do you agree that it’s the same caller?’ Helen asked, turning to McAndrew. A brief pause, then her junior nodded. Helen was pleased – she felt likewise and had a feeling they were about to catch a major break in the case.

They moved straight on to the tapes from the second night of fires. Here they hit a blank, however. There were thirteen female callers. The quality on some of the recordings was better than others, because of bad mobile reception and background noise, so it was hard to say for certain – but neither of them could divine their mystery caller among the collage of anguished voices.

Then suddenly Helen leant forward with purpose, scooping up the recording from the first night. She played their female caller once, then again, listening intently each time. The woman’s voice was clear and authoritative.

‘There’s a fire, like, a big one on Hillside Crescent. You need to get here now.’

‘Are you able to see the fire from where you are?’

‘For real. And there are people in there. So hurry up.’

‘Ok, I need you to step away from the fire now …’

Helen stopped the tape without warning and, flipping open the tape recorder, started to play the woman’s recording from the third night again. McAndrew made no attempt to interrupt her – she could tell Helen was utterly focused on the task in hand, scenting something.

The recording finished. Helen clicked it off, then sat back in her chair.

‘I think I know who it is.’

McAndrew looked up at her.

‘It’s the way she says “For real”, and the accent. I knew I’d heard it before.’

‘Who is it?’ McAndrew asked urgently.

Helen paused for a moment, before replying.

‘It’s Naomie Jackson.’

108

Sharon Jackson’s face turned pale the minute she opened the door. Helen and DS Sanderson had left Southampton Central straight away and raced over to Naomie’s home in the cheaper part of St Mary’s. The look on the officers’ faces betrayed the seriousness of their visit. Normally Sharon would have fobbed them off – she was experienced at dealing with the law – but there was no wriggling off the hook today.

She sat on the sofa, a look of blank incomprehension on her face, as Helen informed her that Naomie was now a person of interest in their investigation. Sanderson had gone upstairs in order to verify Sharon’s assertion that her daughter was not at home. She had not yet returned, but Helen had pressed on nevertheless. For her part, Sharon Jackson was shocked by Helen’s line of questioning and pushed back hard.