Some might have been wary of venturing into the streets so late. Not Jessie. She'd once had her handbag snatched in broad daylight outside Woolworths, but never a problem at night. After midnight you could walk up South Street to the Cross and past the cathedral along West Street without seeing a soul. This was her shortest circuit. If she felt more energetic she would try other routes. The one walk she'd given up was Tower Street, and that was because it depressed her to go past the blackened ruin that had been Miss Snow's.
Tonight she passed the limping man with the little white Jack Russell and as usual he raised his hat and said, 'Good evening.' That was another thing about the streets at night. People were more civil.
She took a deep breath and looked up at the stars. Her troubles always seemed less when she studied the night sky. That offensive young policeman who'd got under her skin was just one more example of the brashness that passed for confidence these days. When he'd called the circle 'whacky' — implying that she was whacky too — it was a stupid insult. She was glad she hadn't let it pass. He had no right to make a slur like that. And he hadn't the right to call her 'dear' either. What was he — all of twenty-five years old? He should be forced to attend the circle and learn the power of words. She doubted if he realised how offensive he'd sounded. That poor beginning had set the tone of the interview. If he'd been more civil at the start she might not have taken it as provocation when he questioned her about her address, her late-night walks and her car.
Out here in the vastness of the night, the whole episode could be dismissed more easily. DC Humphreys was just a silly young pup. A more respectful approach would have got him better results. As it was, she'd gone a bit overboard and no doubt confirmed his opinion that she was a batty old woman. It had been a mistake on her part to talk about her visions. Young people of his sort watch any number of films about scary goings-on, yet wouldn't recognise the supernatural if it tapped them on the shoulder and passed the time of day. To be open to such experiences you needed to have lived a bit, not filled your imagination with werewolves and vampires.
Opposite the Tower Street turn she hesitated, conscious that she was depriving herself by no longer including it in her walks. Perhaps tonight she ought to reclaim the route. Or tomorrow. On balance she thought tomorrow was a better idea. Or the next night. The whole point of the evening stroll was to shut out unpleasant thoughts.
The moonlight gave her the opportunity to stand below the fourteenth-century bell tower and watch the clouds passing above the crenellated top, giving the illusion that the tower itself was on the move. Some nights, when the wind was strong, she could almost believe that the whole structure was tipping over and about to crush her. She found that quite exciting.
She moved on, passing the comforting statue of St Richard giving his blessing, and the west door of the cathedral with the dear, carved faces of the Queen and the Duke set into the arched stonework. She was sorry that Giles, her late husband, the archdeacon, had departed this world before seeing the results of the stone-cleaning. It had transformed the cathedral.
Back through the cloisters she went, stepping a little faster. The lighting wasn't so good here and this was the only part of the walk that she didn't enjoy. Footsteps echoed on the stone flags and you could imagine someone was behind you. It was built around a former burial ground. She had to come this way to get to the passage leading to Vicars Close, so she was sensible about it. She didn't let her imagination dwell on the gravestones she was walking over and the memorials set into the wall. Instead she thought about the letters she had to write and the shopping she had to do in the morning.
As she approached her house she saw the light go out in the house next door but one. The canon had decided to turn off the television and go to bed.
She let herself in and closed her door and bolted it. She wouldn't be turning her lights out. It put burglars off if you left them on. Another Tip for the Twenty-First Century.
Zach was in bed in his railway carriage home, but not asleep. He had promised to stay awake until midnight, so he was correcting the latest chapter of his epic novel, Madrigor. This was the only writing project that mattered. He couldn't raise any enthusiasm for Naomi's e-book. Was it wishful thinking that she would give up on him if he contributed nothing else? Almost certainly. Each day she left messages with red priority tags on his e-mail. At some stage he would be forced to confront her and say he wanted to pull out.
He looked at the digital clock by his bed. Two minutes to go. Put the script in its folder and shoved it under the bed. Took a sip of water. Reached for his mobile and switched on. Texting was a new experience and he wasn't too familiar with the language. He had a suspicion Sharon enjoyed sending cryptic messages he struggled with. She insisted on this midnight ritual.
Here it was: the first message.
PMFI
No use. He couldn't work it out, so he tapped in one of the few abbreviations he did know: PXT (please explain that).
Back came: PARDON ME FOR INTERRUPTING
NO PROBLEM, he wrote. IM IN BED
THINKING OF ME?
OF COURSE
NICE THOUGHTS?
NAUGHTY
GMTA
Oh Christ, he thought. There she goes again. What's that?
But he didn't need to ask. She texted it in full:
GREAT MINDS THINK ALIKE
THANKS SWEET DREAMS
WITH U IN THEM
PLEASE
ILU
He could work that out. Now it was a matter of signing off.
ILU2
HAGN
PXT
HAVE A GOOD NIGHT OO
OO was OVER AND OUT. Zach switched off and turned out the light.
In his flat above the building society, Tudor was at work on the latest chapter of his autobiography. It was after midnight, but when the mood took him and the ideas were flowing, he lost all track of time. He tended to write like this, in bursts of inspiration. He'd seen inspiration described by the American writer Stanley Ellin as 'a sort of spontaneous combustion — the oily rags of the head and heart'. A great way of putting it. He would have written to Mr Ellin and told him so, but unfortunately Mr Ellin was dead. Famous people enjoyed being reminded of quotable things they'd once said, and Tudor made a point of collecting their wise and witty sayings to trot out when the chance came, either in a letter or face to face. It was a pity so many memorable things had been said by people who were dead.
His own wise and witty words were flowing tonight. He was writing up his latest experience, the interview with the police. The chapter already had a title: In the Frame for Murder. He was now putting into vivid prose — with a little dramatic licence — the account of his grilling at the hands of DI Stella Gregson. He portrayed her as a formidable adversary, picked for her forensic skill, beady-eyed, probing, springing a series of surprise questions that he countered brilliantly. 'But even as I parried her cut and thrust,' he wrote, 'I was aware that her patience could snap at any time and I might presently find myself in a cell being kicked to kingdom come by a bunch of booted bobbies, so I took some of the edge off my responses with shafts of wit. And you may be sure I reminded her that I was on a social footing with the Chief Constable and the Lord Lieutenant of the county.'
Splendid alliteration there, a bunch of booted bobbies. Almost worthy of his old chum Dylan.
Going over the interrogation in his mind, he couldn't help thinking he was still the prime suspect, and while it was good to be the centre of attention, it was worrying as well.
Damn! He'd hit the wrong key because his hand was shaking.
The police had this theory that Edgar Blacker had treated him badly. And of course it was true. Blacker had behaved outrageously, considering how the bastard had done so handsomely out of the insurance claim.
Yes, he thought, I'm definitely in the frame for the killing of Blacker. But they'd have a job to pin the killing of Miss Snow on me. There was no history of bad feeling with Miss Snow. So th
ey'd had to content themselves with questions about my movements on the night of the Tower Street fire. Living alone, as I do, I couldn't produce an alibi. I wasn't at work on my computer in the small hours of the morning, like that anorak Anton. Nor was I having a dirty weekend in Harrogate with Sharon. Now that was a turn-up. Who would have thought a little cracker like her would have fancied Zach the nerd?
However Tudor looked at it, the list of suspects was worryingly short.
Blast! He'd hit another wrong key and turning had come on the screen as burning.
In her bungalow in Belgrave Crescent, Dagmar Bumstead lay awake wondering if she'd done the right thing. Earlier in the day she'd had a man round to seal her front door with two metal plates, inside and out. He'd fitted a new, self-contained letterbox attached to a post near the front gate. On the face of it, this was proof of her innocence, the reaction of a frightened woman.
Yet a cynical detective might view it differently, as a desperate bid to deflect attention, the killer trying to portray herself as the very opposite of what she was. Dagmar couldn't be sure how the police mind worked. She'd been impressed by DC Shilling. His attempts to ambush her had been pretty effective. He'd reminded her that she knew about Blacker's betrayal of Maurice ahead of the first murder. He must have got that from Thomasine; no one else knew. He'd also laid a trail inviting her to show disapproval of Miss Snow, suggesting that she could have done a better job as secretary of the circle. If Shilling was typical of the police investigation, they weren't going to take a fortified front door as proof of innocence.
Too wound up to sleep, she put on the light and looked for a book to take her mind off her present worries. She picked up Pride and Prejudice and was soon immersed in the intrigues of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy.
Basil was locking up when Naomi called from upstairs, 'What are you doing?'
'The usual, dear.'
'What did you say?'
'Checking the doors and windows.'
'Well, don't. I may need to go out.'
Basil went upstairs to the room where Naomi was at work on her computer. She'd been there all evening.
'Do you know what time it is?' he asked.
'I don't particularly care.'
'Ten past one. Isn't it a bit late to be thinking of going out, my dear?'
She didn't look away from the screen. 'Don't fuss, Basil. Go to bed.'
'What — and have you call me out at some ungodly hour? Remember what happened last time?'
'You're not going to let me forget, are you?'
'Are you meeting someone?'
'For pity's sake. If I wanted to visit a lover I wouldn't be telling you about it, would I? It's research, man. I'm trying to get into the mind of a killer who works by night.'
Basil sighed. 'You were a lot easier to live with when you were doing the witchcraft book.'
Thomasine was asleep.
Bob was having his last cigarette of the day. It was a good thing he'd come home because young Sue had been waiting up for him, sitting alone with a torch, scared to go upstairs. She'd been trying to add a new DVD player to her hi-fi system and the electricity had gone. The poor kid hated the dark. It was only a matter of the trip switch going, but she didn't know how to fix it. Bob mended the faulty fuse and gave her a cuddle and she was now asleep.
He didn't need reminding that he was a parent still and she was just fourteen, for all her eyeshadow and street talk. Had he been tempted to stay the night at Thomasine's? Yes, for about five seconds. They both knew that fixing the letterbox was just an excuse to get him there. But he'd taken the job seriously and fitted a piece of plywood, accepted a can of beer and left. Thomasine would be thinking he was a dead loss, a man in need of a large dose of Viagra.
Watch out lady, here comes Bob.
Invite him in and he's on the job.
But when he says he needs a screw
It's for your letterbox, not you.
Actually he liked Thomasine a lot. He cared about what she thought of him. He cared so much that he was nervous of telling her he had a fourteen-year-old daughter who had to come first.
22
Fire is emphatic business. It doesn't fool around.
Shelly Reuben, Origin and Cause (1994)
That night another fire was started in Chichester.
For the arsonist, the stakes were higher. Just getting to the scene was high risk. The city was nervous. The papers and television were already talking of a serial fire-raiser. The police were under orders to look out for suspicious behaviour. Everyone on the streets at night was a potential suspect.
So every parked car might contain someone on watch. Behind every curtain could be a detective, or one of those amateur snoopers who make a call to Crimestoppers.
But the planning took account of the risks. The arsonist picked a route that gave plenty of cover and made sure each stretch of the way was safe to use, once waiting in a shop doorway for ten minutes for some lone walker to pass right out of sight.
At the chosen house, it was the same modus operandi. The rags, the fuel, the flame. Then a quick exit from the scene, quick, but not obvious, leaving behind a fire that would take and spread, devouring everything combustible. We fill our homes with wooden furniture. Usually the floors, doors and staircase are of wood. Most curtains and blinds catch fire readily. Paper in the form of newspapers, magazines and junk mail is shoved through the door every day and often left in the hallway. No wonder so many domestic fires cause maximum destruction and death before the firefighters arrive.
This one was quick and deadly. It happened in Vicars Close.
23
It was a maxim with Foxey — our revered father, gentlemen — 'Always suspect everybody.'
Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop (1841)
The first Hen Mallin knew of it was at six thirty, when she stepped out of the shower. She could never hear the phone when the water was going. Didn't want to. She grabbed a towel and her mobile. I don't need this, she thought.
'Another?. . Vicars Close? That's. . Oh God. And is she. .? I'll be there shortly.'
Grim-faced as she drove from Bognor, she tried to get a grip on what had happened and what it meant. A third death by fire in Chichester. Another of the writers' circle murdered, and by night, the victim at home, in bed, at her most vulnerable. This would panic the rest of them. And give the press a field day. Proof positive that a serial killer was at work. She could hear the questions already. Why hadn't the police given twenty-four-hour protection to the members of the circle? How many more fatal fires would have to take place before the arsonist was caught?
Pick a number, she thought from the depths of her despair.
Fire engines, two of them, were drawn up in Canon Lane, on the south side of the cathedral, the closest they could get to the fire. A mass of pipes snaked up the narrow lane that fronted the terrace. There was barely room to put her feet down. But at least Vicars Close was cordoned off at each end, barring the gawpers.
Wisps of smoke still rose from the smashed windows of the burnt-out, saturated house. The fire had been contained in the one dwelling. The rest of the nicely maintained row appeared to have escaped, even the adjacent houses. White fronts and cared-for gardens made the contrast more poignant.
Hen lit a cigar and took a fortifying drag.
Stella Gregson was standing in a bed of purple irises in the trampled remains of the garden. 'Seems to have happened around four thirty this morning, guv, just like the others.'
'Witnesses — or is that too much to hope?'
'None so far. Uniform are knocking on doors.'
'Who reported it?'
'A shop window-cleaner, name of Meredith. He saw the smoke from South Street and came to investigate. That was just before six. The fire had ripped through the place by that time.'
Hen stepped over some of the hoses to speak to the senior fire officer. 'Any conclusions yet?'
'It was started at the front, I can tell you that.'
; 'Like the others. Petrol through the letterbox?'
He hedged a little. 'The investigation team hasn't been through yet.'
'But you have.'
'All I can give you is a personal observation.'
'Like I said, petrol through the letterbox?'
He smiled in a way that confirmed it.
'You took the decision to remove the dead woman?'
'We had to. The floor was starting to go. It's a wonder we contained it to the one house. These old buildings had solid walls. Fifteenth century.'
'Is there much left of her?'
'It's not pretty, but she isn't ash, like the last one.'
'Just the one victim?'
'Please God, yes. That's all we found. She lived alone, according to the neighbours.'
'That's our information, too.'
He scratched his unshaven face. 'Do you think the point of this was to kill? Who'd want to-'
'Thanks,' Hen cut him off. Speculation had its purpose, but not now. 'Appreciate your help.'
She returned to Stella. 'Not much we can do here until it cools off, Stell. We've got to move fast on this. I want to know where each member of the circle spent the last twelve hours. See if anyone spoke to Jessie late yesterday, in person or by phone. Look for signs of guilt, examine their hands, ask to see their shoes, clothes, vehicles, garages, outbuildings. Check for fuel, evidence of it, the smell of it.'
'We'll need warrants for all that, guv.'
'Sod that. They owe us their cooperation. If they refuse, we know who to focus on, and they'll be aware of that. Get the team working on it pronto, will you, before the press start badgering them.'
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