Liar Liar - [68]

‘Will you need us to identify her? She’s from Poland and doesn’t have any family over here,’ Michael said, trying to sound as business-like as possible.

‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. We have other ways in which we can identify her without putting you through that.’

Jacqueline shut her eyes. That could only mean one thing – that Agnieszka had been so badly burnt that a visual identification was impossible. An image of her charred corpse now shot into Jacqueline’s mind, turning her stomach. None of this felt real but it was happening nevertheless. As Jacqueline stood there, dutifully answering the officer’s polite questions, she had the feeling that the axis of their world was shifting. Their home had been destroyed, their son injured, their nanny murdered. They had now become the news story – the collateral damage of someone else’s insanity.

93

Smoke rose gently from the ashes. Only the shell of the building now remained – everything inside it had been consumed by the fire. Twenty-four hours ago this had been an expensive terraced house in the one of the most desirable parts of the city. Now it was a smouldering wreck and, worse still, a murder scene.

The body of a young woman had only recently been removed from the scorched basement flat. The fabric of the building was still impressively hot and Helen had to wear protective boots, as she carefully traversed the site with Deborah Parks. The latter had been on site for a couple of hours already, braving the unpleasant atmosphere and risk of falling debris, in order to try and gain an understanding of what had happened last night.

‘Our arsonist is developing his or her MO,’ Deborah said, after the formalities had been concluded.

‘In what way?’ Helen asked, alarmed by Deborah’s concerned expression.

‘The seat of the fire was here,’ Deborah answered, gesturing towards an area in the middle of the small, basement living room. A partially melted TV stood nearby, surrounded by the remnants of charred furniture. ‘The smell has cleared now that we’ve ventilated the site, but when we first arrived, we had to wear these,’ she explained, tapping her mask. ‘The aroma of cyanide oxide was still very strong.’

‘Burning foam?’

‘This leather sofa – or what remains of it – would have been stuffed with polyurethane foam. Highly flammable and highly toxic.’

‘Is that what would have killed Agnieszka?’

‘Nothing so pleasant, I’m afraid,’ Deborah said, pulling a face. ‘We found a melted paraffin container about five yards from the sofa. My suspicion is that your arsonist entered via the back door and poured the paraffin directly on to the sofa before setting light to it.’

‘No delay timer?’

‘I haven’t found any evidence of one and, believe me, I’ve looked.’

‘And you think Agnieszka Jarosik was on the sofa when this happened?’

‘Best guess is that the fire started just before midnight. If Agnieszka was on the sofa, we can guess she didn’t fight back because she didn’t have time or -’

‘Or because she was asleep,’ Helen interrupted, earning a measured nod from Deborah. ‘She’d had a busy day, sticks the TV on, falls asleep on the sofa. And the next thing she knows she’s being doused in paraffin…’

‘It’s all supposition,’ Deborah replied. ‘But it’s our best guess. The body was directly over the seat of the fire. She never moved.’

‘She burnt to death,’ Helen said, her heart sinking even as she said it.

‘Jim Grieves will be able to tell you more,’ Deborah added, ‘but if you were an optimist you might think that she died of shock. When an individual is set on fire like that, their heart often gives out straight away, the initial conflagration proving too much for them.’

‘What a way to die.’

There was silence for a moment, then Helen continued:

‘What makes you think the arsonist came in through the back?’

Deborah gestured at the back door and the pair of them picked their way cautiously through the wreckage towards it.

‘It’s an old-fashioned wood and glass door with a solid, traditional lock. The bolts weren’t across, but when we turned up this morning, the door was locked – from the outside. Look, the key is as we found it.’

Helen peered through the devastated door and sure enough the key was poking out of the heavy iron lock on the wrong side of the door.

‘Our arsonist was taking no chances,’ she muttered. ‘So why the change in MO? Why not carry on as before?’

‘Who’s to know? We’ve a different house layout here. No cupboard under the stairs, plus the stairs down to the basement do not link up to the main staircase. That could be relevant or it could be there was some other factor driving such a direct attack.’

‘A particular hatred for the victim?’

‘Or some kind of time pressure. Perhaps the extra boots on the street have made him nervous. Perhaps he was worried about getting caught and wanted to get this one done as fast as possible.’

‘Perhaps they’d had a close shave earlier in the night?’ Helen offered.

‘Very possibly. Either way, dousing another human being in paraffin and then discarding the empty bottle nearby represents a definite escalation. Whether it’s fear, desperation or sadism driving them, I really couldn’t say.’