Firewatching

by Russ Thomas

  Tyler shrugs. “I didn’t, Rabbani did. There was a word circled in her notebook. The last thing she’d written in it. ‘Akela.’ I didn’t make the connection until you mentioned Cub Scouts. Then I remembered. The leaders all take the names of characters from The Jungle Book. My old Cub Scout leader was Baloo. He was a right little bastard, about as far from a bear as you could possibly imagine.”

  “So Rabbani had been looking into Felbridge and discovered he used to lead the Cub Scouts at the hut. That’s why she went there? To question him? What the fuck was she thinking? Stupid girl! Why didn’t she just tell us?”

  “No news yet then?”

  Doggett shakes his head.

  They stare at the screen together in silence.

  “So what the fuck is this?” Doggett asks.

  “It’s a blog.”

  “I know it’s a fucking blog, I meant . . . I mean . . . well, I don’t know what I mean.”

  Tyler glances over the entries again. “This is him. This is the killer. The fire watcher.”

  They read the screen in silence for a while and then Doggett says, “This explains Fireman Sam’s statistical spike. Looks like Barry isn’t the only copycat out there.”

  “We need to tell Enfield about this. If they can shut it down, it will help stop people copying.”

  “Hang on, let’s not be too hasty,” Doggett says. “This might be our only chance to catch the bastard. If we shut the thing down, won’t that just tip him the wink that we’re on to him? Can’t we just . . . trace it?” He asks hesitantly, as though he’s unsure whether it might be a stupid question.

  “We should be able to trace the IP address. But I don’t know how long that would take. In the meantime someone could get hurt.”

  “Well, let’s find out at least.”

  Tyler thinks about it for a moment. “I know someone who works in IT. Hang on a minute.” He pulls out his mobile and finds Sally-Ann’s number. While he’s waiting for her to answer, he says, “So what have you done with poor old Barry?”

  Doggett grins. “I read him the riot act a bit, but to be honest my heart wasn’t in it. He’ll probably catch far worse when he gets back to the butcher. And we’ll pass his details on to your fireman friend, just in case he decides to start lighting bonfires again. I almost feel sorry for the lad.”

  “Careful, Jim, you’re growing soft in your old age.”

  Before Doggett can respond, Sally-Ann answers without saying hello. “This isn’t a good time. Can I call you—?”

  He cuts her off: “Actually, this is work related.” Has he pissed her off somehow? Probably.

  “Oh,” she says. “Go on then.”

  He outlines what they know about the fire watcher and gives her the Web address. She’s silent at first and then seems to get excited, as though she can’t help getting drawn in, despite how pissed off she might be. “So you think this is your killer then? The Cartwright case?”

  “I can’t give you any details at this point, but I can tell you you’d be helping us out. A lot.”

  She giggles with excitement. “Sure. I should be able to trace it. Unless your killer is some kind of computer whiz and has managed to cover his tracks. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  “How long?”

  She hesitates, then, “I should have an answer for you by tomorrow.”

  “Great, thanks, Sal.”

  “Adam, wait! Don’t hang up.”

  He waits, but she’s fallen silent. Eventually he says, “I’m still here. Go on.”

  “It’s just . . . I need to tell you something.”

  “Okay. Can it wait? I mean, I’m sorry if I upset you the other night or something, but I’ve got a fair bit on at work at the moment and—”

  “I know, I know. I get it, only . . . this might be about work.” There’s a long silence, which he resolves not to break. Finally her voice comes to him, quiet and tiny. She says, “It’s just . . . I think I might have done something really stupid.”

  * * *

  —

  “I set you up,” says Sally-Ann.

  They are standing outside the headquarters of the South Yorkshire Police. The soon-to-be old headquarters; the building is less than a month from demolition. With a backward stretch, and standing on tiptoe, it is possible to see the shiny new building a few streets over, twice the size. The move has begun; around them huddle numerous unmarked white vans filled with paperwork no one knows what to do with.

  Sally-Ann plays with her earring, picks at her nails, and fails to meet his eye directly. She’s still draped in fabric; a thick, long-sleeved turtleneck that must be ridiculously hot. As if that wasn’t enough, she’s topped it off with an incongruous paisley summer scarf that even Audrey Hepburn couldn’t have pulled off. She must mistake his interest in her because she says, “Please don’t look at me like that. You’re a terrible person to disappoint, do you know that?” She looks round as a group of people exit the building. One of them, a short woman Tyler vaguely recognizes, waves to Sally-Ann, and she smiles and waves back. Then she sighs heavily. “Oscar,” she says, “I set you up with Oscar.”

  A bus pulls up at the light and lets out a sharp hiss of pneumatic brakes.

  “I didn’t know, Adam. I didn’t know about any of this, I swear.”

  At least now he knows how Oscar got his number. “Tell me,” he says.

  Sally-Ann swallows. “We were at school together. I hadn’t seen him for years, and then we bumped into each other out clubbing one night. We got talking and he seemed different to how he used to be. Not like when we were at school, all full of himself and throwing dirt in your hair in the playground—”

  “Sally-Ann.”

  “Sorry. So he took me for a drink one night, old friends catching up sort of thing, and then he told me he was . . . well, that he was exploring his sexuality. It wasn’t long after I’d met you, and I thought, you know who might be good for each other?”

  The bus pulls away, covering them in a blanket of dark fumes.

  “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

  “You’d have gone along with that, would you? A blind date? Come off it, Adam. You’re a nice guy, mostly. You’re intelligent, and you look great, but, well, you’re not exactly sociable. So I gave him the hard sell and convinced him it might be better if you met sort of spontaneously.”

  “The pub. He chatted me up at the bar while you watched.”

  “I’m sorry, it seemed harmless enough.”

  “So he knew I was with the police? That I was in CID?”

  Sally-Ann looks away, and he has his answer.

  “I didn’t think it at the time, but looking back I think he might have been angling for me to set him up with someone. Not you specifically but . . . he was really interested in my job. I told him what I did, working in the comms room, and he asked loads of questions about CID.”

  “He asked you about CID specifically?”

  Sally-Ann thinks about it. “Well, no, not exactly, but he kept coming back to the same thing, did I know anyone involved in the juicy stuff, drugs, murder? It was just one of those conversations you have in the pub, you know?”

  He thinks he’s beginning to.

  “But I’ve been thinking about the night I first met him. It was when I told him I worked for the police that he started to get more interested. I remember because it’s weird; most people run a mile when you tell them you work for the cops, but if anything I got the impression he was flirting with me. He asked me out, and when we went on our ‘date,’ and I made it clear I wasn’t interested in him, that’s when he suddenly came out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this . . . ?” He stops. He’s been a fool. “Last night, you set that up, too. That’s why you were so adamant I go.”

  “I didn’t know, Adam. I swear I didn’t. He said he liked you but that you were
. . . difficult. I said I told him that at the start.” Sally-Ann looks up at him. “Sorry. Anyway, he said he needed to see you again on neutral territory, like the night you met, that it was better that way.”

  “And you never thought anything was wrong with that? In light of what we found in his house?”

  “No, I mean, I don’t know, maybe. It’s just . . . he has this way about him. You sort of feel you can trust him. He’s always been like that, actually, overly charming. But when I saw you together in the club last night, and I saw him put that pill in your glass—”

  “What?”

  “I think he slipped you something. I asked him about it and he said you’d asked him for it. It was just an E, something to take the edge off, make you relax.”

  “You went along with this?”

  “Of course not! I tried asking you about it, but you were already wasted. You told me to piss off and stop bothering you. You said some pretty hurtful things actually.”

  Tyler can’t remember any of that. “He spiked me?”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have left you, but I was upset and—wait, Adam, where are you going? Please! Don’t leave it like this . . .”

  day six

  47820 pageviews—6 posts, last published

  Monday, 19 September—8963 followers

  The Church of the Company of Jesus, Santiago, Chile, 1863

  God’s house is no refuge.

  On December 8, 1863, the townsfolk of Santiago gathered for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. The church had been decorated for the fiesta: the walls draped in veils of gossamer-thin fabric, the eaves hung with oil lamps that lit every darkened corner, helping to speed the prayers of the congregation on their way. Everyone wanted to attend, but room in the church was limited, forcing many of the townsmen to give up their places to make room for the women and children.

  How did it come to pass? A slight breeze, perhaps. A veil blown into a naked flame. And suddenly the scene was changed. The congregation turned to flee. The women, dressed in their yards of linen and giant hooped skirts, were caught and entwined in their own clothing. They began to fall. The side doors to the church had been locked to make more room in the aisles for the congregation. The women and children had only one way out, through each other. The bodies piled up in the doorway, and those trapped behind in the flames pushed all the harder. They clamored and fought with each other, sealing their own fates. The men outside, their would-be rescuers, could only stand and watch in horror as their loved ones burned. Three thousand people were burned alive that day. It could only have been God’s mercy when the walls of the church began to collapse in the heat.

  In some cases whole families were lost, leaving no one to mourn but friends. Perhaps they were the lucky ones. The cleanup took ten days and, since identification was impossible, the bodies were buried together in a mass grave.

  No, God’s house is no refuge from fire. But you know that. God’s house is no refuge from anything. You didn’t mean to kill the policewoman. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens.

  But the other one, the one who called himself God’s servant. The Reverend Sebastian Thorogood got exactly what he deserved.

  POSTED BY thefirewatcher AT 7:18 AM

  18 COMMENTS

  BP12realSticko said . . .

  You’re sick mate! You need some serious help.

  JPBrown82 said . . .

  Why isn’t anyone doing anything about this guy? Is this for real?

  Firebug69 said . . .

  Shut the fuck up, douchebags! #firewatching

  Bazzameat1 said . . .

  Check this out #firewatching

  1 2 3 Next

  Bright sunlight is shattered by the frosted glass of the window, creating a dance of fireflies across the polystyrene ceiling. Doggett is standing next to him, his leg twitching, and Tyler finds the movement oddly comforting. DCI Jordan is standing on the other side of the desk, her back to them, talking into her mobile. Or listening for the most part; Superintendent Stevens is the one doing all the talking. After a few minutes, she ends the call without saying goodbye. She turns and then sits down at the desk. “Rabbani?” she asks.

  Doggett shakes his head. “No change.”

  “Any idea what she was doing there?”

  Doggett employs his trademark shrug.

  “She was looking into Thorogood,” Tyler tells her.

  Jordan sighs loudly and sits down behind the desk. She looks at him, and he knows what’s coming before she speaks.

  “I’m taking you off the case.” She says it quietly, and Tyler nods.

  Doggett says, “Ma’am, I don’t think—”

  “No, you don’t, do you?” She slams her hand down on the desk.

  Doggett opens his mouth to go on and then evidently changes his mind.

  Jordan sighs again and rubs her forehead. “Just wait outside, Jim. I’ll deal with you later.”

  He hesitates, then turns and places his bony palm on Tyler’s shoulder. He squeezes it in a peculiarly intimate way and then he’s gone, the door closing behind Tyler with a soft click.

  Diane Jordan says, “I can’t protect you this time, Adam.”

  “I know.”

  She shakes her head. “Why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you just tell me you knew him?”

  He wishes he could answer that.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “I’m sorry we no longer have the sort of relationship where you feel you can talk to me.”

  And he realizes she’s right. They don’t have that relationship anymore.

  He thinks back to how it used to be, how much she did for him in the past. He was a scared sixteen-year-old. A child, forced into becoming an adult before he was ready. He can still see the light that sparkled on her face then even as it does now, only back then it was the reflected light of a glitter ball, and the electric-blue glow of the alcopop in his hands. He doesn’t know how she found him, but then it’s hard to lose yourself in a community as small as the Sheffield scene. Hard to lose yourself, but easy to be lost.

  It had been just six weeks since the death of his father. Six weeks of hedonistic excess. Drinking in bars and clubs, talking to other lost souls. Accepting the kindnesses of strangers, though they weren’t always that kind. Six weeks living out of a rucksack, and sleeping on floors and in beds of varying degrees of warmth, simply because he couldn’t bear to go home.

  He doesn’t remember exactly how she convinced him to go with her, but somehow she did. Then she helped him pull himself back together, taught him how to go on. He has no doubt that without her his life would now be very different, assuming he still had one. And this is how he repays her.

  “You know what happens next?” Jordan asks.

  “You’re suspending me,” he says.

  “I don’t have any choice.”

  “I understand.”

  She escorts him to the door. She pauses before she opens it and says, “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I know,” he tells her. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  He isn’t sure it’s worth much.

  Doggett is waiting outside. They fall into step together and walk down the corridor. After a moment or two Doggett says, “Did Cartwright know who you were when you met him?”

  Tyler says nothing.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

  “A friend of mine set us up. I didn’t know that until last night.”

  They walk on in silence for a few minutes and then Doggett says, “Elliot ID’d the second body.”

  Tyler stops. “Cynthia Cartwright?”

  Doggett nods. “Oscar’s mother. Strangled. The body was so well preserved they even got DNA from under the fingernails. Gerald’s. I’m not sure
it would hold up in court, but it’s good enough for me.”

  “So Gerald killed his wife and buried her in the cellar. That means Edna Burnside lied to us. She must have known what happened. Helped him cover up Cynthia’s disappearance.”

  “All that business about a bloody phone call. Then Oscar finds out and takes his revenge. Bricks his dad up in the same cellar where his mother’s buried. Then the old dears help him cover that up as well.”

  He wonders if Doggett is really asking his opinion. He gives it anyway. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oscar hired the builders who unearthed the body. Why would he do that if he knew what they’d find?”

  Doggett smiles. “That’s the clever bit. I’ve been looking into his finances, and Rockefeller isn’t half as loaded as he likes to make out. He only inherits his fortune properly when Daddy dearest is legally declared dead.”

  “That would happen soon enough without the body. It’s been six years. Why go through all this? It’s incredibly risky.”

  “His trust fund’s gone, the mortgage on his flat’s in arrears. He even owes money on his council tax. The only thing he owns outright is that bloody house, and he can’t sell it till his father’s declared dead. I’m telling you, he needed that body to be found. Involving you was his get-out-of-jail-free card. The minute we get close, his tame solicitor starts shouting about conflicted interests.”

  Oscar couldn’t have wasted any time after leaving Lily’s cottage, because Denham had been on DCI Jordan’s doorstep before she’d even arrived this morning. Threatening to file harassment charges: his own, Oscar’s, Lily’s. Jordan suspected they were empty threats for the most part, but it was enough to derail the investigation and put Tyler well and truly in the firing line. The worst thing was, he’d been on his way to Jordan’s office to come clean when she called. Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference, but if she’d just heard it from him, instead of Michael bloody Denham . . . It might have saved their friendship at least, if not his career.