It was his creation and he felt responsible for it somehow. Not just legally, that was an occupational hazard; more like a parent.
Parental responsibility, that was it. He had given it life, loved it, cherished it, watched it finding its way in the world. Blossoming, even.
That first flicker of flame.
He always left when the fire engines arrived. No sympathy, no mercy, no pause to marvel at the beauty of it. They’d just set about killing it, as quickly and efficiently as they could.
He couldn’t bring himself to watch that.
The pain would last for days, the sense of loss – a bereavement, almost. Until he gave it life again, somewhere else.
Oxidation was the key.
He’d tried to understand the science of it, but that stripped away the magic, the mystical element.
It was almost spiritual. It really was.
Never erotic, despite what that psychiatrist had said. That had been a close shave all the same – sentencing adjourned for psychiatric reports. He’d told them what they wanted to hear and walked away with probation.
Who gave a crap about a thatched bus shelter anyway? It was just begging for someone to light it up.
And he still had the photos: flames climbing into a starry sky, dancing; alive, almost – living and breathing. But they were just for him.
No Instagramming those. No way.
It had been hard work, that one, come to think of it, the thatch tightly packed, stopping the oxygen getting to it.
There we go, oxidation again.
Understanding a little of the science helped, oddly enough.
It had been a bit too busy on the seafront as well, the fire hardly going before some do-gooder was on their phone, dialling 999. There’d been no real chance to savour it in peace, to watch it grow, even at that time in the morning. Still, the fire brigade had taken twenty minutes to get there, so it wasn’t all bad.
And he’d got those photos.
Tonight would be very different. He’d teach them a lesson: never sack an arsonist if you don’t want your hotel burned down. It was as good a lesson as any.
Whoever heard of a waiter being sacked for eating leftovers? The job was seasonal anyway, and there’d only been a few weeks to go.
He’d had to improvise too, and it would be fun seeing if it worked. His preferred method was the filter of a Jin Ling cigarette wrapped in Swan Vesta matches. The few minutes it took to burn down gave him a chance to get clear, get his camera ready. It had been a stroke of luck finding them at that car boot sale; none of that reduced-ignition nonsense you get with shop-bought cigarettes to have to deal with.
He stepped back into the trees, his eyes fixed on the kitchen area at the back of the ballroom, and waited. Not long to go now, surely?
Tonight would be a tribute to Jason Bourne, although in the film he’d stuffed a magazine in the toaster. All he could find was yesterday’s Torbay Gazette. Still, that was all it was good for, really.
Yes, tonight would be very different.
The gas bottles would see to that.
Chapter One
‘I’ll do the talking.’ Police Constable Nigel Cole rang the bell, even though the front door of the bungalow was standing open, a shaft of light illuminating the garden path. ‘Better wipe your feet before we go in as well.’
PC Sarah Loveday had beaten him to it, and was already brushing her boots off in the long wet grass by the metal gate that had slammed behind her on a spring. The farmyard muck was taking some shifting. ‘Shouldn’t we take them off?’ she asked. ‘My nan would do her nut if we traipsed this lot through her flat.’
‘I think this old bird’s past caring.’ Cole was trying to stay patient. A probationer in the Rural Crimes team was all well and good, but this one was too keen by half – young and irritatingly bright; she’d been running rings around him for weeks. Much more of it and he’d wring her bloody neck.
Cole stepped into the hall just as a woman in a blue carer’s uniform appeared at the far end of the corridor. ‘You’re not coming in here like that, are you?’ she asked, glaring at his boots.
‘We’ve just come from a farm at East Brent; bloke’s had his tractor pinched.’
‘Stay where you are and I’ll put some newspaper down.’ The woman picked up a copy of the Burnham and Highbridge Weekly News from a pile by the phone, and backed away towards the open living room door, covering the hall carpet with sheets of newspaper as she went. ‘No point in treading mud everywhere.’
‘Is the doctor still here?’ asked Cole.
‘Through here,’ she replied. ‘With Deirdre. Just make sure you stay on the paper.’
The doctor was sitting on the arm of the sofa, idly scrolling through pictures on a smartphone. Instagram probably; the app swiped away and the phone dropped into an inside jacket pocket in one well-rehearsed movement. ‘Ah, you’re here,’ he said, standing up. ‘She’s dead, obviously, but there’s no real reason for it that I can see. Nothing in her medical records that might explain it either, but I’m not her GP, so it’s one for the coroner, I’m afraid. Unexplained.’
‘Who found her?’ asked Cole.
‘I did,’ replied the carer, hovering in the doorway. ‘I came in just after six, as usual, and there she was. She’d had her hair done today, as well.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Eighty-eight.’
The old lady looked peaceful, asleep even. Eyes closed, head resting in the corner of the winged armchair, a pen and a crossword book in her lap. She was sitting in front of an electric fire, a single bar glowing orange, her legs covered by a blanket.
