Peter Lovesey - The Circle

The police had this theory that Edgar Blacker had treated him badly. And of course it was true. Blacker had behaved outrageously, considering how the bastard had done so handsomely out of the insurance claim.

Yes, he thought, I'm definitely in the frame for the killing of Blacker. But they'd have a job to pin the killing of Miss Snow on me. There was no history of bad feeling with Miss Snow. So they'd had to content themselves with questions about my movements on the night of the Tower Street fire. Living alone, as I do, I couldn't produce an alibi. I wasn't at work on my computer in the small hours of the morning, like that anorak Anton. Nor was I having a dirty weekend in Harrogate with Sharon. Now that was a turn-up. Who would have thought a little cracker like her would have fancied Zach the nerd?

However Tudor looked at it, the list of suspects was worryingly short.

Blast! He'd hit another wrong key and turning had come on the screen as burning.

In her bungalow in Belgrave Crescent, Dagmar Bumstead lay awake wondering if she'd done the right thing. Earlier in the day she'd had a man round to seal her front door with two metal plates, inside and out. He'd fitted a new, self-contained letterbox attached to a post near the front gate. On the face of it, this was proof of her innocence, the reaction of a frightened woman.

Yet a cynical detective might view it differently, as a desperate bid to deflect attention, the killer trying to portray herself as the very opposite of what she was. Dagmar couldn't be sure how the police mind worked. She'd been impressed by DC Shilling. His attempts to ambush her had been pretty effective. He'd reminded her that she knew about Blacker's betrayal of Maurice ahead of the first murder. He must have got that from Thomasine; no one else knew. He'd also laid a trail inviting her to show disapproval of Miss Snow, suggesting that she could have done a better job as secretary of the circle. If Shilling was typical of the police investigation, they weren't going to take a fortified front door as proof of innocence.

Too wound up to sleep, she put on the light and looked for a book to take her mind off her present worries. She picked up Pride and Prejudice and was soon immersed in the intrigues of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy.

Basil was locking up when Naomi called from upstairs, 'What are you doing?'

'The usual, dear.'

'What did you say?'

'Checking the doors and windows.'

'Well, don't. I may need to go out.'

Basil went upstairs to the room where Naomi was at work on her computer. She'd been there all evening.

'Do you know what time it is?' he asked.

'I don't particularly care.'

'Ten past one. Isn't it a bit late to be thinking of going out, my dear?'

She didn't look away from the screen. 'Don't fuss, Basil. Go to bed.'

'What — and have you call me out at some ungodly hour? Remember what happened last time?'

'You're not going to let me forget, are you?'

'Are you meeting someone?'

'For pity's sake. If I wanted to visit a lover I wouldn't be telling you about it, would I? It's research, man. I'm trying to get into the mind of a killer who works by night.'

Basil sighed. 'You were a lot easier to live with when you were doing the witchcraft book.'

Thomasine was asleep.

Bob was having his last cigarette of the day. It was a good thing he'd come home because young Sue had been waiting up for him, sitting alone with a torch, scared to go upstairs. She'd been trying to add a new DVD player to her hi-fi system and the electricity had gone. The poor kid hated the dark. It was only a matter of the trip switch going, but she didn't know how to fix it. Bob mended the faulty fuse and gave her a cuddle and she was now asleep.

He didn't need reminding that he was a parent still and she was just fourteen, for all her eyeshadow and street talk. Had he been tempted to stay the night at Thomasine's? Yes, for about five seconds. They both knew that fixing the letterbox was just an excuse to get him there. But he'd taken the job seriously and fitted a piece of plywood, accepted a can of beer and left. Thomasine would be thinking he was a dead loss, a man in need of a large dose of Viagra.

Watch out lady, here comes Bob.

Invite him in and he's on the job.

But when he says he needs a screw

It's for your letterbox, not you.

Actually he liked Thomasine a lot. He cared about what she thought of him. He cared so much that he was nervous of telling her he had a fourteen-year-old daughter who had to come first.

That night another fire was started in Chichester.

For the arsonist, the stakes were higher. Just getting to the scene was high risk. The city was nervous. The papers and television were already talking of a serial fire-raiser. The police were under orders to look out for suspicious behaviour. Everyone on the streets at night was a potential suspect.

So every parked car might contain someone on watch. Behind every curtain could be a detective, or one of those amateur snoopers who make a call to Crimestoppers.

But the planning took account of the risks. The arsonist picked a route that gave plenty of cover and made sure each stretch of the way was safe to use, once waiting in a shop doorway for ten minutes for some lone walker to pass right out of sight.

At the chosen house, it was the same modus operandi. The rags, the fuel, the flame. Then a quick exit from the scene, quick, but not obvious, leaving behind a fire that would take and spread, devouring everything combustible. We fill our homes with wooden furniture. Usually the floors, doors and staircase are of wood. Most curtains and blinds catch fire readily. Paper in the form of newspapers, magazines and junk mail is shoved through the door every day and often left in the hallway. No wonder so many domestic fires cause maximum destruction and death before the firefighters arrive.

This one was quick and deadly. It happened in Vicars Close.

The first Hen Mallin knew of it was at six thirty, when she stepped out of the shower. She could never hear the phone when the water was going. Didn't want to. She grabbed a towel and her mobile. I don't need this, she thought.

'Another?. . Vicars Close? That's. . Oh God. And is she. .? I'll be there shortly.'

Grim-faced as she drove from Bognor, she tried to get a grip on what had happened and what it meant. A third death by fire in Chichester. Another of the writers' circle murdered, and by night, the victim at home, in bed, at her most vulnerable. This would panic the rest of them. And give the press a field day. Proof positive that a serial killer was at work. She could hear the questions already. Why hadn't the police given twenty-four-hour protection to the members of the circle? How many more fatal fires would have to take place before the arsonist was caught?

Pick a number, she thought from the depths of her despair.

Fire engines, two of them, were drawn up in Canon Lane, on the south side of the cathedral, the closest they could get to the fire. A mass of pipes snaked up the narrow lane that fronted the terrace. There was barely room to put her feet down. But at least Vicars Close was cordoned off at each end, barring the gawpers.

Wisps of smoke still rose from the smashed windows of the burnt-out, saturated house. The fire had been contained in the one dwelling. The rest of the nicely maintained row appeared to have escaped, even the adjacent houses. White fronts and cared-for gardens made the contrast more poignant.