‘Jim, get the duty doctor down here. Interview suspended at 16.50,’ he said. ‘Mr Streeter, when the doctor has seen your client, she’ll be returned to custody. I don’t envisage continuing this interview until the morning. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to take instruction before then.’

  Next door, Jill picked up the phone to Ned again. ‘No further information on the location,’ she said, ‘just that it’s in the garden.’

  When Greg and Jim came in, she said, ‘I’ve alerted Ned.’

  ‘Good,’ said Greg. ‘I was sure you’d pick up the cue.’

  ‘He’ll need dogs and radar,’ said Jim.

  ‘It’s not a huge garden,’ objected Greg, but Jill chipped in.

  ‘Ned said there was what he called GPR available in Cambridge, and he’s already given them a ring.’

  ‘Ground-penetrating radar,’ translated Jim. ‘It’ll save a lot of time and manpower if it’s available.’

  The phone rang on the desk and Greg picked it up. ‘We were just talking about that,’ he said. Then he put the phone down. ‘Ned says it’ll be here in ninety minutes. It’s worth the wait to avoid digging up the whole area unnecessarily.’

  39

  6 August 2020 – evening, near Elveden War Memorial

  Nick pulled up in the southbound lay-by near the war memorial and looked at his watch. Then he sighed irritably and checked he had everything he needed: petrol, empty wine bottles – nicked from his party-mad neighbour’s wheelie bin – a lighter with matches for backup, fabric nicked from his wife’s sewing basket – he was oblivious to the fact she’d been saving the scraps for her lockdown quilting project and would definitely miss them – and the digital gadget from the dark web which had been so effective at starting the Leyton Estate Range Rover. What he hadn’t got was his driver. After repeated attempts on WhatsApp, by text and by phone, he was forced to the conclusion that Jacko had blocked him.

  ‘Cheeky sod,’ he muttered again in recollection, and took a swig from his Thermos of tea. Still, at least he’d managed to borrow his brother’s tow truck even though Ade had flatly refused to get involved this time. And not using his own vehicle meant he could leave it parked in a prominent position by his favourite pub, where Mick O’Hanlon would swear blind he’d spent the evening.

  Nick was feeling a bit jittery and would have loved something stronger than tea. Maybe it was having to act alone that was getting to him, but being tipsy in charge of an arson attack was not a good idea, let alone driving his target away afterward. Whatever else went up in smoke this evening, he was determined it wouldn’t be him or his future.

  A large articulated lorry pulled into the lay-by in front of him. He got the message, from the way it swerved into place, that the driver thought he was taking up too much of the available parking with little excuse. No matter. I won’t be here much longer. He looked at his watch again, then at the map lying on the passenger seat beside him. It wasn’t far for him to backtrack toward Elveden and the large estate farm he’d originally scouted all those weeks ago.

  The plan was to hide the tow truck down the back road between the A11 and the A134, then approach the back of the farmyard across the fields, much as he had on the last two occasions. Then he’d start the distraction, drive the Range Rover away while everyone was looking at the fire, and round the long way back to the tow truck. Easy.

  He had miscalculated on two counts. First, all Norfolk farmers were now alerted to the presence of an arsonist in their midst, and the larger estates could afford high-tech precautions. Second, there had been no rain for some weeks, and everywhere was tinder dry.

  He parked the borrowed tow truck in a field entrance at quarter to ten, exactly as planned, and slung the heavy rucksack laden with bottles and matches over his shoulder. Then he hesitated. It was a long walk to the farmyard, and he wasn’t keen on carrying that weight very far. On the spur of the moment he jettisoned the bottles and set off across the field carrying just the petrol can, the matches in his pocket. The field had been harvested since he last checked it out, and he was walking over stubble. While it made for easier going, he did feel rather exposed to view and was relieved to arrive at the other side without being spotted. Two more fields, as he remembered, then he’d be close to the farmyard.

  He paused just before the fence and spinney that divided the yard and farm buildings from the last field. This one had been harvested too, but the straw was lying in rows awaiting baling. He loosened the top on the petrol can, checked his matches were to hand, then surveyed the potential targets before him. The farm vehicles, including the Range Rover, had previously been parked in the open-fronted garage nearest the road. He saw no reason to think anything would be different today. The rudimentary plan was to fire the buildings furthest from the road, hide at the back of the garage block, then drive the Range Rover away while the farm staff were busy dealing with the blaze.

  The plan unravelled immediately he crossed the boundary fence. What he hadn’t realised was that, between his last visit and this, the estate had fitted a security beam round the perimeter. As he crossed the line, his body broke the beam and the ensuing siren was probably clearly audible in Cambridge, some twenty miles away. So startled he dropped his petrol can, Nick froze, then picked it up and ran for cover in the shadow of the nearest barn. Some five or six farmworkers cascaded out of an accommodation block tucked away on the far side of the yard, and ran toward the grain stores. As they fanned out, Nick scuttled for the garage block, but a shout that went up behind him proved he’d been spotted.

  On the spur of the moment, he tore the top off the petrol can and swung it round in a semi-circle, then dropped it and lit a match in shaking hands.

  The petrol vapour went up with a whump, and flames shot up between Nick and the pursuing farmworkers, then across the yard, following the trail of petrol he had, unknowingly, laid behind him as he ran. He didn’t waste time on the Range Rover but just legged it out of the yard and down the road.

  A modicum of sense slowed his mad gallop as soon as there was some distance between him and the flames. He realised he had a long walk back to the tow truck, and also that his face, arms and the front of his legs were scorched. A flashing, jangling fire engine went past him as he approached the junction with the main road, then two more. That was when he realised that the farmyard wasn’t the only blaze.

  40

  6 August 2020 – late evening near the Bure

  By six in the evening, it had become apparent that the GPR wasn’t arriving anytime soon. Roadworks on the A11, compounded by an accident and rush hour traffic meant a significant holdup. On the basis that the body of Frankie Chalmers had apparently been in the garden for over two years and wasn’t going anywhere, plus the advice from both the duty doctor and Mr Streeter that Ms Hamilton was in no fit state to be questioned further that day, Greg concluded with a certain relief that the exhumation and subsequent renewal of questioning could be postponed until the following day. He headed for home and Chris with even more enthusiasm than usual, driven both by concern for her and a strong desire for a quiet evening with the woman he loved, and a good, long, sleep.

  It was unfortunate, therefore, that they had scarcely greeted each other and sat down with a glass of wine apiece, Bobby on Chris’s lap and Tally on Greg’s shoulder, when Greg’s phone rang. Tally was offended at the interruption and gave his ear an extra hard nibble.

  ‘Ow!’ exclaimed Greg as he looked at his phone, and his heart sank.

  ‘Work,’ said Chris. It wasn’t a question.

  Greg listened for a moment then asked, ‘Have you alerted Jim and Jill?’ The answer was obviously yes, and he rang off, pushing his, luckily scarcely touched, glass of wine to one side.

  ‘The arsonist,’ he said briefly. ‘Near Elveden. Sounds like the same MO, only this time he’s managed to set light to Thetford Forest. Every fire engine from here to Cambridge has been despatched.’

  Chris was already on her feet, turning the salmon they’d been about to eat with salad into doorstep sandwiches, the kettle on for a flask of coffee.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ll have time to eat, so take this with you,’ she said. Greg was pulling his shoes back on and hunting for his car keys.

  ‘In the fruit bowl,’ said Chris, the voice of long experience.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Greg.

  ‘I’m just sorry I’m not coming with you,’ said Chris. ‘Never mind. At least we both know what we signed up for. We can take some time off together when this is over.’

  Greg kissed her, thinking, not for the first time, how very lucky he was. Then he was on his way south. He rang Jim as he joined the A11 at Thickthorn. He was passed on the roundabout by an ambulance and a fire engine, both with lights flashing and sirens blaring.

  ‘Where are you, Jim?’ he asked.

  ‘Right behind you,’ came the answer, and lights flashed on the car in Greg’s rear-view mirror.

  ‘Jill?’

  ‘Ahead of us, I think. Blues and twos?’ asked Jim hopefully.

  ‘Oh I think so, don’t you?’ said Greg. ‘Jim, can you send someone into Norwich to check out Nick Waters’s gaff? Find him, if they can. I don’t think they will, as I suspect he’s our arsonist, but it might be useful to establish precisely where he isn’t, if you know what I mean. And if they can find him, at least we can rule him out. But, Jim, make sure they have some backup. He mixes with a nasty lot.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Jim. ‘I think Steve’s available.’

  ‘And, while I think about it, get Bill started on scanning ANPR for any plates on our watch list,’ added Greg. ‘I’ll speak to Jill and Ned about crime scene management, and I believe the local Thetford team are already on the scene. Thanks, Jim.’

  The next call was to Ned. ‘ETA?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m in touch with the fire commander,’ Ned replied. ‘No point busting a gut to get there before they’ll allow us onto the ground. He says the farmyard blaze was put out quickly, thanks to the efficiency of the farm team, and they’re just finishing damping down. Thetford have a cordon round the property, and they say we can probably get onto site around 01.00. The fire in the forest is another matter. Seems the accelerant was spread around quite a bit and set light to straw in an adjacent field, which in turn ignited the trees. Everything’s tinder dry, so they’ve got quite a job on their hands. Said we’re about to see how effective the Forestry Commission fire breaks actually are!’

  Greg could see the glow in the sky long before he reached Thetford; an unpleasant reminder of the explosions and subsequent fire at the government laboratory a year or so ago that had resulted in numerous casualties. He fervently hoped that the casualty list, this time, would be much shorter.

  When he arrived at the estate farmyard, Jill was already on the scene, liaising with a uniformed sergeant to organise control of the considerable perimeter. Early representatives of the media were already in evidence, together with gawkers from the local population. Luckily they were few, as the location was some distance from the nearest village. One of them tugged Greg by the elbow as he made his way toward Jill.

  ‘You police?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Greg. ‘I’m a bit busy right now. If you have anything to say, can you speak to one of the uniformed officers?’

  ‘This might be important,’ the man insisted. ‘I was driving home from my late shift and I saw someone walking away from the fire. He looked suspicious.’

  Greg turned to look at the man. He didn’t look like a fantasist, but you could never tell. ‘When was this?’ he asked.

  ‘Just after the fire started. At least, I could see the blaze and I could hear fire engines on their way. One passed me soon after.’

  ‘And why did you think he looked suspicious?’

  ‘Because…’ The man paused and scratched the back of his neck. ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘But he was walking away when anyone else would have been rushing toward it, and come to think of it, he must have come out of the farm drive. Otherwise, I’d have seen him sooner. He was a biggish bloke, in work clothes. You know, dark jacket and jeans.’

  ‘Which way did he go?’ asked Greg.

  ‘That way.’ The man pointed a grubby finger down the road toward the south and the A11.

  ‘Thank you.’ It was a wild hunch, but there was nothing Greg could usefully do here until Ned arrived, or so he justified it to himself. ‘See that plain-clothes officer over there?’ He pointed to Jill. ‘Tell her what you’ve told me, and give her every last detail you can remember, including the best description of the man you can manage. And thank you.’ He looked round and beckoned the Thetford sergeant over.

  ‘We have a tip that I’m going to check out,’ he said. ‘Tell DS Hayes I’ll be back shortly.’ And he got back in his car to drive in the direction the witness had pointed.

  He was stopped twice in the first few minutes. Initially by a squad car stopping all traffic to keep the area clear for the fire service. Second, by a fireman waving a torch and warning him, even after seeing his warrant card, that he proceeded further at his own risk.

  ‘The fire’s reached those trees,’ he said, pointing to the dark rustling mass to their right. ‘At the moment it’s headed away from here, but if the wind shifts that could change in a moment.’

  ‘Is that likely?’ asked Greg.

  The fireman hesitated. ‘I think you’ll be OK for a bit,’ he said. ‘But if you hear a siren or horns, get the hell out. And don’t leave the road. A fire will travel a lot faster than you can run.’

  Nodding agreement, Greg drove on, keeping a very wary eye on the trees and with his window down so he would definitely hear any warning sirens. The last end he sought was immolation in a pinewood.

  Joining the A134, he had a choice of turning left, away from the fire, or right. Sighing, and holding a finger up to test the wind direction, he reluctantly decided on right, and was almost immediately rewarded by the sight of a vehicle parked by the side of the road, blocking a field entrance. It looked remarkably like a tow truck. Greg stopped his car and watched for a moment, but could see no movement. Driving forward slowly, he parked his car across the front of the tow truck, preventing it from moving off, and waited. Still no movement. Adjusting his stab vest, and checking he had his phone, radio and taser, he got out of the car and walked over to the truck’s cab to peer in. Two things happened simultaneously. A siren went off in the distance, and a man erupted from the passenger side of the truck to run off into the field behind them.

  41

  7 August 2020 – early morning

  Greg hesitated for barely a microsecond before setting off after the runner. He fumbled for his radio as he ran and gasped into it.

  ‘Geldard in hot pursuit of probable arsonist. Backup needed. Heading across fields from the B1106 toward the A11.’

  He was already regretting the recent years of too little exercise as he watched the depressingly fit shape in front of him draw ahead across the stubble. He tried to put a spurt on and maintained it for perhaps fifty yards before realising he was falling back again. The siren had fallen silent but, to his right, Greg could see the red glow gaining ground and could hear the crackle of flames. He was about to give up and give his aching lungs a rest, not to mention his wobbling legs, when the figure in front of him crashed to the ground near the field edge. With a guttural roar that had more relief in it than triumph, Greg cancelled the idea of a rest and speeded up. He saw the man struggle to his knees, then fall back again, but by then he was on him.

  Drawing his taser and trying not to collapse forward with his hands on his knees, he managed, ‘You’re nicked, sunshine,’ which, he admitted to Chris afterwards, must have come from some long-forgotten and at the time disparaged TV crime series. It fell, in any event, a long way short of the formal warning, but at least had the merit of clarity.

  The figure on the ground was lying on his face but made an effort to turn his head.

  ‘Stay exactly where you are and put your hands behind your back,’ bellowed Greg over what he realised was an increasing background noise from the fire.

  The figure seemed to shrug his shoulders but complied, and Greg handcuffed him with a feeling of relief. Then looked about him.

  He realised that the fire had advanced on two fronts, one behind him and the other to his right. In both cases the trees on the edge of the field were alight, and he could feel the heat on his exposed skin.

  ‘Up you get, sunshine,’ he said, still not sure why he was channelling Life on Mars, and tugged on the pinioned arms. The man on the ground groaned and rolled onto his side.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, ‘but I think I’ve broken my ankle.’

  Greg glanced round and back at his prisoner. ‘You’ve got a choice,’ he almost shouted, to make himself heard over the crackle of flames. ‘Hop or burn. Which is it to be?’ Then he bent down and hauled the man to his feet, or at least foot, while shouting into his radio. ‘Assistance required and ambulance.’ He looked round again to get his bearings and added, ‘Head for the A11 War Memorial then roughly east from there. We’ll try to meet you.’ His message was obscured by the clanging bell of a fire tender passing on the main road, which he realised, to his relief, was only thirty or so yards away.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, putting an arm round his prisoner casualty. ‘Roughly sixty hops and you’re home and dry.’ He looked into the man’s face for the first time and recognised Nick Waters. ‘Got you,’ he added, in case the man had any doubts on the matter. ‘And when we’re clear of this,’ – he nodded at the fast-approaching walls of fire – ‘I’m arresting you for murder and arson.’

  Their clumsy three-legged race against ignition resulted in at least two more falls before they reached the hedge that divided the field from the lay-by on the main Norwich road. Nick Waters screamed on each fall, and Greg was forced to the conclusion that his ankle was, at the least, badly sprained if not broken.