be heartened to know that no one was injured in any of the fires, by the way,’ said the sergeant. ‘Funny how often a firebomb lands in a bedroom and everybody gets out alive. Pure fluke though.’
‘Of course.’ Terry had not even been wondering about casualties.
‘Now, do you mind holding on for Inspector McKeague? He’s on his way specifically to see you.’
‘I’m sorry. Tell him I am much too busy.’
It was only when he was out on the street that Terry remembered he had nowhere to go. His car was up at the Wellington Park and Kathleen had the keys and, with any luck, was asleep. She presumably had the keys to her own car too and that was in Damascus Street. He could go to his office and at least have a computer and a desk on which to make plans. He would have to talk to the bank and make sure there was a steady flow of cash to Kathleen. Right now, she didn’t even have a credit card, unless it was in the house in Damascus Street. It wasn’t far, so he decided to walk round there and see what state it was in. There were more people and cars on the streets now. Office workers and university staff drove in to town early from the suburbs to try to claim a parking space.
The Holy Land was quiet but there was a strong stench of soot and petrol from the house. The front door opened on a nudge. The acrid fumes were almost stifling on the ground floor. He saw what had broken the downstairs window. A petrol bomb had come through into the front living room but had not exploded. This told him how thorough the attack was. If this one had gone off, Kathleen would not have got out alive. In the old days, he had made petrol bombs with milk bottles, but everybody got their milk in cartons now. That left beer bottles, which were too small, or whiskey bottles, which, if they were the large size, would carry their own weight through double glazing but often not break when they landed. The neck was narrow and long, so the fuse cloth often burnt out too. That’s what had happened to this one. But he could tell that, otherwise, it was a well-made bomb. There was sugar and detergent in the mix – the working man’s napalm. It didn’t mean the bomber was a seasoned terrorist; he could have learnt that from a TV documentary, or from some old reminiscing rioter. But it didn’t mean the arsonist wasn’t a pro. You could get so good at murder and sabotage that your own skill singled you out so you disguised your style by being amateurish.
Kathleen’s overcoat was still draped over an armchair and her handbag was on the floor beside it. Her car keys were in the bag. Her red leather purse with her credit cards was there too. Well, wasn’t it great, he thought, that she had such nice honest neighbours? The coat stank of petrol and would have to be cleaned. Terry went upstairs. The main bedroom, where Kathleen had slept, was badly scorched. The flames had reached all the walls, and the mattress and sheets too. Apart from the fumes and stench, the bathroom was all right. So were the other two bedrooms. He stripped for a shower. He needed one.
Under the steaming water he didn’t hear the door open and a man with heavy feet ascend the stairs. The man opened the bathroom door and was as surprised to see Terry as Terry was to see him.
‘Jack! An early start. Good on you, man.’
The recovery had begun.
***
Kathleen had not slept well. She got snatches of sleep for half an hour at a time and then would snap awake. Her nerves jangled. The shock and adrenalin alone would have made her restless without the fear and anxiety tormenting her. What if the arsonist had followed her to the hotel? He might have been on the street when the fire had started and seen her run out of the house. Maybe the man who had burnt her out of two houses in one night was sleeping soundly now, as content as if he had killed her, perhaps assuming he had.
She got up, went into the bathroom, looked around it and walked out again. She crossed the large room, sat in a deep armchair and picked up the hotel’s guidelines, which detailed where she could get a masseuse or a dentist and the times of church services. She opened the drawer by her bed and took out the Gideons Bible. Her eye lighted on a familiar passage: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.’ Clothe the naked and feed the hungry and comfort the outcast. Yes to all three, she said to herself. As for the prisoner? Yes, she would visit Terry and try to love him if he went to jail. She would feel better about him having two grim years in a cell to think about what he had done and to say sorry, if only to himself or to God. She believed in God. That’s what it came down to. There has to be a God, she thought, if things like this are to be resolved, for it is not right to just put them out of your mind and move on.
But she had more practical things to think about. It was now eight o’clock. She was in that dreadful limbo between not having slept properly and not being tired enough to reverse the habit of being up and doing things at this hour. Her mobile rang.
‘Hello, Kathleen Brankin.’
‘Mrs Brankin, it’s Gilly McDonald. I need somewhere to live. Our house was burnt out last night and you’ve to get me somewhere else to live. I’ve nowhere.’
‘Gilly, give me your number and I’ll get back to you.’
Gilly was frantic. ‘You could have killed us last night.’
‘I could have killed you? How do you work that out?’
‘That’s what everyone is saying; this was for the insurance. What else would it be when every house you own was burnt out in one night. It’s on the news.’
‘I doubt that the news is saying we burnt our own houses.’
‘Well, that’s what it sounds like.’
‘Gilly, I have nowhere to go today yet either. Give me your number.’
‘I bet you’re not sleeping on a sofa out in Andytown, are you?’
‘No.’ She felt ashamed that she was in a nice suite in the Welly Park and then angry that she should be justifying that.
‘Gilly, we did not burn the houses for the insurance, whatever anyone is saying. The best I can offer you now is to give you money. Go to the estate agent and get another flat and we’ll pay the deposit.’
‘If I come up and see you now, will you give me £500?’
‘Gilly, I don’t even have clothes to wear today. I don’t have my chequebook or anything.’
‘Aye, that’s all right, Mrs Brankin. You just worry about yourself. Well, I’ll see you in court and I hope the pair of youse go to jail for this.’
There was another call coming through. It was Terry, so she took it.
‘Hi.’
‘I’m over in Damascus Street. Your things are OK, though your clothes smell of petrol and smoke. Your bag is here with your cards. I can run them up to you now.’
When she finished that call, the phone rang yet again. ‘Mrs Brankin? My name is Sam. I’m a producer on the Nevan Toland Show. We were wondering if you would take a call from Nevan about the fires last night.’
She could not help but be curious. ‘What about the fires last night?’
‘Well, it’s a terrible thing that so many of your properties were burnt down. Have you lost everything?’
‘I don’t know the scale of the damage yet. Our home was well ablaze this morning. I doubt that there is
