wanting to read about murder will find it, and be captivated. It's unique, this collaboration.'
'Well, yes,' he said with a tone of reserve.
'I've already purchased the authoring software. It's so simple to use. Accepts Word and WordPerfect. We don't even have to wait for the book to be finished. We can show it as work in progress.'
'Is that a good idea?'
'A brilliant idea. It's revolutionary. Visitors to our website will see the creative process at work. As it progresses and gets known, I predict that publishers will beat a path to our door. They'll be in competition to sign us up. And I don't just mean British publishers. We'll do deals with America, Japan, China.'
'Do you think so?'
'All of Europe. I know it. Never again will you and I have to submit a script and wait for some high-handed publisher to come to a decision. They'll have to make up their minds on what is out there, or risk being trampled in the stampede.'
'It sounds promising, but-'
'I'm starting straight away and I'll be looking to you to make your contribution, Zach.'
He left soon after, his thoughts in a spin.
11
I think when people die in fires it's not because of panic — it's more likely to be the lack of panic.
Around four on the following Saturday morning most of Chichester was asleep. The late people had given up and gone home and the early people weren't yet ready to go out. The occasional drone of a heavy vehicle came from the bypass, the A27, and that was all.
In the fire station on the traffic island at Churchside, north of the town, four of the team on night duty were playing poker. A black and white film was running on the TV with the sound turned down. The other firemen were trying to get some sleep. They were dressed for action. Their response time was excellent in an emergency, but they didn't often get the chance to prove it.
In the shadow of a narrow alley close to the town centre (central enough to feature on Anton's computer) waited the solitary figure who would give the firemen a night to remember. No one else seemed to be about, but if some early riser had come by at this time he would almost certainly have walked past the alley without seeing anything. The fire-raiser was dressed in dark clothes. The plastic bag was black. It was from Waterstone's bookshop. It didn't contain books.
The saying goes: if it works, don't fix it. The method had been used before, with success. A few quick steps to the front door. The letter-flap opened with a gloved hand and the piece of hose inserted. The trickle of fuel as it formed a pool on the floor inside. The hose withdrawn. The oily rags pushed through. The last rag ignited with a struck match and dropped through.
No one was in the street when the arsonist arrived, or left. No neighbour was watching. Even if some sleepless person had looked out of a window opposite, there was not a lot to see for some time. The pink glow inside the house could have been an electric light. If there was a smoke alarm it didn't work. The fire took hold with devastating effect, rapidly finding the stairwell. The flames leapt up, creating a backdraught. You couldn't have designed a more efficient incinerator.
It was later estimated that the fire raged for up to fifty minutes before a milkman on his way to work saw smoke and sparks ripping through the roof and raised the alarm.
The fire team responded with admirable speed once they got the shout. Three fire appliances attended. An attempt was made to gain entry through a bedroom window, but the floor had collapsed. The entire contents of the room, bed, wardrobe, dressing table and chair, had dropped to ground level and been turned to ashes.
Chichester had not seen so devastating a house fire in anyone's memory.
12
I after supper walked in the dark down to Tower-street, and there saw it all on fire at the Trinity house on that side and the Dolphin tavern on this side, which was very near us — and the fire with extraordinary vehemence.
Bob stared at the TV screen. He'd just switched on, as he did most mornings while he shuffled around the kitchen making coffee and toast. The breakfast programme was supposed to get him going, encouragement that other people were already on their feet and doing a job. He didn't expect to listen to what they were saying until after his second coffee.
They were running a clip of a burnt-out house, blackened, with wisps of smoke still escaping from what was left of the roof. The style of commentary told him this was the local news slot, and he heard the name of his town. '. . in Tower Street, Chichester, in the early hours of this morning.' Now the newsreader's head and shoulders filled the screen. 'The fire service were at the scene close to the town centre within a short time of receiving the call, but the station fire officer said it was too far advanced for them to enter the building. It is feared that a middle-aged woman lost her life. And now your local weather.'
'Jesus,' Bob said. He'd recognised the house.
He scraped his hand through his hair.
'Yesterday's weather system has passed across the country now and we can look forward to a brighter day.'
'Oh my God!'
'What's up, Dad?'
Sue had just come down in the faded Robbie Williams T-shirt she slept in, her face still puffy from sleep.
'Dad?'
'Another fire. A woman died and I know who she is.' He kicked off his flip-flops. 'I'm going out.'
You haven't had your toast.'
He was out of the room already.
At the scene, the entire street was closed. The end was taped off and two policemen were preventing anyone from crossing the line. Bob's portable TV had given him a better view. All he could make out from here was the back of a fire tender. The only other clue as to what was happening were the acrid fumes hanging in the air, making his throat and nostrils smart.
'Which house is it?' he asked one of the cops.
'Sorry, chum. This is as far as you go.'
'Which house?'
'Why — do you live here?'
'Someone I know does.'
'The fourth along. Gutted. No one inside stood a chance.'
'Number seven?'
'It would be, yes. It's a wonder the place next door didn't go up as well.'
'Listen. Who's in charge? I need to speak to them.'
'And who might you be?'
He gave his name. 'I know the woman who lives in that house. I don't think this was an accident.'
