'Van.'
Another key question. 'What kind of fuel do you use? Unleaded?'
'Diesel. How does that come into it?'
'It doesn't,' Andy said with a barely concealed sigh. 'Diesel doesn't come into it. Does your wife drive?'
'She can at a pinch. Like me she prefers cycling. There I go again, talking about her. You'd better not quote me.'
'The van? Does she drive the van?'
'On occasions.'
'Did either of you go out on the night Edgar Blacker's cottage burned down?'
'I didn't.'
Andy waited.
After a pause Basil said, 'I can't speak for Naomi.'
'You'd know if she went out at night.'
'I wouldn't. We sleep in separate bedrooms and I take tranquillisers for my nerves. Get into bed and I'm out like a light. I have to set the alarm.'
'What for?'
'My morning swim at the Westgate Centre. I like to be in the water by seven. I need to keep fit. I'm quite a bit older than Naomi.' The logic wasn't clear. Basil may have needed to keep fit to pleasure Naomi, but escape seemed a more likely explanation.
'I see. It seems your wife has been taking an unusual amount of interest in Mr Blacker's cottage.'
'You'll have to ask her about that. Look, I may be her husband, but I'm not her shadow. I have my own life to get on with.'
This might be clever stonewalling. It came across like evasion. Whoever was interviewing Naomi was likely to turn up some fascinating secrets.
'Let's talk about Miss Snow,' Andy said. 'A friend, would you say?'
'No more than any of the others,' Basil said. 'She was a quiet lady, unlike some I could name. Always courteous. There wasn't anything you could dislike about her, if that's what you're hinting at.'
'Did she visit your house?'
'I don't think so.'
'And you didn't visit hers, in Tower Street?'
'Why should I? No.'
'I've got to ask this. Did you go out on the night Miss Snow's house was burned down?'
'Certainly not.'
Andy had run through the list. He was about to end the interview when he had an inspiration. 'How is your garden laid out?'
A frown from Basil. 'Do you really want to know?'
'I wouldn't ask if I didn't.'
'It's the narrow strip that most suburban gardens are. I've tried to introduce curved shapes in the flower beds and the path for interest, and there's a small pond and some fruit trees. I like roses, so I have a pergola with trellis work. Oh, and a gazebo.'
'A lawn?'
'Certainly.'
'Do you mow it yourself?'
He said with pride, 'I do
'What kind of mower? Hover?'
'No, I prefer the cylindrical sort that gives me those beautiful stripes. Mine is a Ransom.'
'Petrol-driven?'
'I'm not out of the ark.'
'So you have a supply of petrol, leaded petrol?'
'Of course. A couple of cans in my shed.' He hesitated. 'Oh, I see what you're getting at, but you'd be wrong, quite wrong.'
Hen felt as if she was still on the dry outer layer of onion skin with Anton. While others were getting dramatic results, she might as well have gone to the canteen for a coffee and a doughnut.
'I've given this some thought,' he said when she returned.
'Good.'
'What time of the night does this arsonist choose?'
'The small hours.'
'You can't be more precise?'
'Around four a.m., in the case of the latest fire.' She added, 'I'm supposed to ask the questions.'
'So if I can prove I was at home between three thirty and five, am I in the clear?'
'I reckon you would be.'
'Excellent.' He felt in his pocket and dangled a house key in front of her. 'You have my permission to send one of your officers to check my computer.'
'We've been over this,' Hen said with a sigh. 'The fact that your computer was switched on is no proof you were there.'
He nodded. 'But if you look in my e-mail facility you'll find a record of the messages I sent and received that night, and each one has a time beside it. I'm very busy at that hour because I have friends across the world who share my interest in virtual architecture and it's a good time for an insomniac like me to communicate. When you look at the messages you won't need much convincing that they were mine. And you can do the same for the night of the first fire.'
She took the key. 'If you're right about this, I'll take back what I said. I'll get someone to drive you round there.'
She came out with mixed feelings. It would be good to get a result, yet secretly she'd rather fancied Anton as the arsonist. His calculating manner and his contempt for the rest of the circle had made him a prime suspect in her eyes.
When she came out of the interview room young Shilling was waiting in the corridor with a photo in a plastic folder. 'Guv, I've got it'
Her mood lightened up. 'Good lad.'
They went into her office and examined the black and white shot of two grinning men, one recognisable as the young Edgar Blacker, the other, with yellowish hair, unknown to her and unlike any of the men in the circle. The pair looked similar in age. Both wore striped shirts, but no ties. They were holding beer cans. Their free hands were over each other's shoulders.
'What do you think?' she asked Shilling. 'Family or friend?'
'They don't look like family to me.'
'Nor me.'
She turned it over and found the writing. ''Innocents, Christmas 1982'. Over twenty years ago. What do you make of it?'
'The 'Innocents' bit? Could be, like, a joke, guv.'
She turned it over to look at the front again. 'You mean they look well plastered?'
'A couple of lads on the beer isn't most people's idea of innocence.'
'Can you see what's in the background? It's been taken with a flash and there's some heavy shadowing, but that looks like a coffee machine behind them.'
Shilling studied it. 'And maybe the corner of a notice board.'
'Suggesting it's an office. The office Christmas party? Let's do a computer scan on this. Take care of it, will you? See if we can get the background enhanced. If there are clues here, I want to see them. It may have no bearing on the case, but I can't take the chance.'
She went back to where the remaining members of the circle were waiting. That stalwart character Maurice McDade was still there with the three who hadn't yet been seen: Bob Naylor, Dagmar Bumstead and Naomi Green. They all looked up.
