32
If you want to write fiction, the best thing you can do is take two aspirins, lie down in a dark room, and wait for the feeling to pass. If it persists, you probably ought to write a novel.
All I needed was a steady table and a typewriter.
So what had caused Hen to run? In the last minutes the clouds had parted over a large section of the sky and areas of the garden were now moonlit. She had good night vision and near the limit of her range she'd spotted a movement. Something or someone was running at speed across the lawn towards the main gate.
On impulse she set off in pursuit. She was no sprinter, and not athletic in any way. Determination powered her. She ought to have sent someone else, but the time it would take to tell them was too long. The quarry was already swallowed by the darkness. She let her short legs carry her at the best speed she could manage across the turf. And somehow she got the figure in sight again, saw that it was human for sure, dressed mostly in dark clothes.
She felt certain this was the arsonist. She'd read somewhere, some time, that the sickos who do this stuff like to remain at the scene to watch the result of their crime, deriving satisfaction that was as good as sex. This one, though, was a killer first, an arsonist second. The psychology didn't necessarily apply.
Her legs started to ache and her throat had gone dry, but she ran on. She wasn't closing the seventy metre gap and she couldn't think how she would, but at least she had the killer in sight. She guessed there was a parked car or a bike nearby, even though the team hadn't located it. This was where the chase was heading. The first target was the main gate.
The running movement interfered with her vision in this faint light. She couldn't make out much more than the flash of white socks or trainers. At this distance there was no chance of identifying the person or what else they were wearing.
Then she had her first piece of luck all day: the fire engine moving fast along the road. She saw the pulsing blue light before she heard the siren.
The person ahead saw it, too, and veered sharp left, so as not to be sighted by the fire team. Helpful to Hen. She cut the angle and reduced the distance between them. Better still, as the fire engine reached the gate, the arsonist stopped and crouched at the foot of a tree.
Hen ran on, realising with an upsurge of adrenalin that she hadn't been spotted yet. I'm going to get there, she thought, without any conception of how she'd cope. She got to within twenty metres before she was seen.
And now it was down to whose legs moved faster. The arsonist was up, but not away yet. Hen, so near now, raised her strength for a last surge of speed. She could hear the breathing coming in gasps and thought, this bastard is feeling worse than I am.
The gap closed to a couple of metres and Hen flung herself forward. As a rugby tackle, it wouldn't have pleased a purist, but it was effective. Her right hand grabbed a shin and held on. The other person tipped forward and toppled over.
Hen scrambled to get a better hold. She needn't have troubled, because the fall had taken any fight from the fugitive.
The stink of petrol was unmistakable.
She took the handcuffs from her back pocket and slammed them on. After catching her breath she managed to say, 'You're nicked.'
Andy Humphreys was the first to get to her, followed by Duncan Shilling and two others.
'Who is it, guv?' Andy said.
Hen was still on the ground beside her capture. 'We haven't met before, and she hasn't spoken yet, but this is Miss Snow. Amelia Snow, supposedly burnt to ashes over a week ago.'
Now that she had her first proper look at the Chichester arsonist, a terrified middle-aged woman, lips quivering as she gasped for air, Hen had to admit to herself that the chase hadn't been quite the physical challenge it had seemed.
'Duncan.'
'Guv?'
'Arrest her for the murder of Edgar Blacker. And give her the caution. We're doing this by the book.'
Overnight, Miss Snow's clothes were taken for forensic examination and there was little doubt what they would confirm. When Hen Mallin and Stella Gregson faced her across the table in Interview Room One next morning, it was apparent that she was ready to tell all. There was that stunned look of capitulation Hen had learned to recognise in first offenders. Miss Snow's first night in a cell had not resulted in much sleep. The red-lidded eyes had been to the abyss and looked over. The hands would not stay still.
She hadn't even tried to tidy her hair.
After Stella had spoken the necessary words for the tape, Hen said, 'I have to give you credit, Miss Snow. You gave us the runaround for longer than I care to admit. It was only in the last twenty-four hours I seriously began to think you might be alive, only when we found the nude shots of you in that sex magazine. But let's deal with this in sequence, shall we? It's a complex case and I'm not sure my colleague believes in it even now.'
Miss Snow gave a despairing shrug that didn't augur well.
Hen hoped she wasn't going to go silent on them. 'It's a matter of record that you posed for those photos. Were you primed with drink? It looks as if you were.'
Now she nodded, but added nothing.
'So you weren't a professional model?'
A faint sigh said enough.
'You were tricked, and you regretted it for the rest of your life?'
She managed an audible, 'Yes.'
Hen had the good sense not to dwell on the humiliation. 'You did everything possible to put the episode behind you, and it seemed you'd succeeded. You got your professional qualifications in accountancy. You had a good career and earned plenty of respect in Chichester, doing charitable work as well as keeping the books for some of the pillars of local society. You joined the writers' circle and became their treasurer and secretary. You had hopes of being published soon. Am I being fair?'
She responded with a firmer, Yes.'
'Well, you're going to have to help me now. We want to hear in your own words about Edgar Blacker.'
Miss Snow shook her head, but in regret rather than denial. She began to speak in a clear, soft tone, articulating every word. 'I didn't know until he turned up at our meeting that he was the man who took those vile pictures.' She hesitated as if to draw on her reserves of strength. 'If you know the sort of person I am, it's incredible that I posed like that. It beggars belief. And I still don't know how it happened.' She dipped her face to avoid eye contact. 'He introduced himself at a party we had for one of the dancers in the show I was appearing in, said he was a photographer and how photogenic I was and how I ought to have a portfolio of pictures. He said he'd seen me dance and I was so much better than the others that I could easily become a solo performer — the kind of flattery you want to believe, and do if you're a stagestruck girl, as I was. Well, the next day I turned up at the house he called his studio. I'd brought a suitcase of costumes as he suggested. I knew it was risky in a way, but I was a showgirl and I'd met men before and kept them at arm's length if I needed to. He took a few pictures of me in costume and then we had lunch. He'd brought in some cold chicken and salad.'
'And drinks?'
'Yes, and he must have added some drug, because I came over very strange soon after, giggly and talkative. When we went back to the photography. . Do I have to describe this?'
'Please.'
'I have only the haziest memory of what went on. I was changing costumes and he came behind the screen and caught me half naked. He said I was beautiful and I shouldn't be afraid to display myself. He drew me towards
