Liar Liar - [29]

A sudden jolt from the side nearly knocked the camera from his hand – some oaf pushing his way to the front of the crowd. In a flash, he’d turned on him, spitting bile in his direction – but the idiot didn’t even notice, too caught up in his own pathetic universe. Firing a parting shot of abuse, the man moved on, seeking a better vantage point from which to view this event.

Skirting the perimeter, he found a decent spot and once more pressed the little red button. He had a good shot of three different cars here, nicely positioned at intervals, their interweaving flames creating pretty patterns in the sky. This was more like it.

Relaxing, he started to rotate the camera, taking in the full panorama of the scene – the cars, the coppers, the rubberneckers, the paramedics, TV journalists, press photographers and local hacks. So much activity, so many people, all drawn here by the flames. It was strangely moving to behold.

Panning still further, he came to rest on the face of a young, pretty woman. Dressed in a smart suit, with her hair neatly tied up in a bun, she was bossing the uniformed coppers about. CID obviously, though he didn’t recognize her. It wasn’t Grace or the other one, but she would do. He drank in the anxiety on her face, the stress crumpling her pretty brow and making her voice tight and strangulated. Already he could feel his arousal growing, there was something about the way fire changed people that always provoked a physical reaction. This officer – whoever she may be – had had no idea that she would be here tonight, doing this, dancing to somebody else’s tune.

He realized he was smiling again. Shaking his head at his stupidity, he rubbed his tired eyes and looked into the viewfinder again – only to find that the female officer was staring straight at him. Immediately his body froze, all thoughts of arousal evaporating. Had she spotted him smiling? Was there something in his body language which had given him away? She was looking directly at him, her eyes seeming to bore into his brain, his soul. Now she was taking a step towards him. Should he turn and run? Or bluff it out? He suddenly felt tongue-tied, sweat dotting his back, unsure what to say or how to say it. The officer took another step, then suddenly darted off in another direction, having been hailed by a fellow officer.

In a flash, he had finished his recording and stowed the camera back in his rucksack. Now he was walking away at pace. He half expected her to cry out, to call him back, but no cry came.

He had been stupid to linger. Excited as he was, he must learn to be disciplined – to take what he needed and no more. If he was lucky he would be able to return tomorrow to garner some souvenirs, but for now he had other things to do. The Roberts house fire would probably be extinguished soon and he’d have to move quickly if he didn’t want to miss it. Checking once more that he had escaped undetected, he pulled his hood up on to his head and disappeared into the night.

40

He stared at the floor, refusing to look at her. Helen was well aware that she had just shattered this poor boy’s world, but she’d had no choice. She owed him the truth. When the firefighters had finally worked their way up to the first floor of the Roberts residence, they’d found a woman’s body in the main bedroom. She was curled up in the classic pugilist pose you so often see with fire victims. Oddly she was found plum in the middle of the room, seemingly having made no concerted move towards the windows or the door. There was precious little else Helen could pass on at the moment – Deborah Parks would have to wait until the site cooled before she could do her work. They hadn’t even managed to formally ID the body yet – that would happen later – but it seemed highly unlikely that another, unknown female had made her way into Denise’s bedroom and perished in the blaze. It looked for all the world like Callum’s mum was the arsonist’s second victim.

They were holed up together in a relatives’ room at Southampton Central police station. It hadn’t taken long for the press to gather outside the burning house and they soon zeroed in on Helen and the weeping boy, hoping for a photo and some good copy. Helen had bustled Callum to the nearest police vehicle and got him back to base safe and sound. He obviously couldn’t go home and, until they unearthed some friends or relatives to take him, it was down to Helen and her colleagues at Hampshire Social Services to ensure that he was ok.

A cup of tea and a Wagon Wheel sat untouched on the table. Callum had barely said a word since they’d got here, resisting the overtures of both Helen and the Family Liaison Officer she’d tasked with babysitting him. Helen would have to return to operational duties – there was much to do now – and she didn’t want Callum palmed off on a total stranger once she did.

The young man stared at his feet, occasionally biting his nails in aggressive little bursts. He was clearly still trying to process the awful events of the last few hours and this made it all the harder for Helen to have to probe him for information now, but she had no alternative. Two devastating attacks on consecutive nights. Two people dead. Several more injured. Hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of damage to property and possessions. And still not a single eyewitness to point them towards the perpetrator. Gary Spence had been in police custody when the second set of fires began. True, he had associates to do his bidding, but surely he wouldn’t be so foolish as to carry out more attacks when the police spotlight was so firmly on him?