Chapter 17
An experienced journalist knows when to pounce. Those who’ve been around the block know not to fight for scraps with the press pack—better to bide your time and hit a police officer once he thinks he’s escaped the mob, when his guard is down.
Helen was just about to climb onto her bike when she saw Emilia Garanita approaching.
The crime correspondent for the Southampton Evening News was no stranger to Helen and they had been through a lot together—some of it good, some of it bad, some of it downright unpleasant.
But they were currently enjoying an extended truce, so for once Helen didn’t cut and run.
“You’ve got two minutes, Emilia. I’m needed back at Southampton Central.”
“Same old same old,” Emilia said, smiling broadly. It never ceased to amaze Helen how brazenly unaffected Garanita was by the things she reported on. A woman had died here, three other family members had been injured, yet still Emilia seemed happy, excited even, about the story that lay ahead.
“What can you tell me? I’m presuming all three fires were arson?”
“They were,” Helen replied quickly. She had already discussed their media strategy with Gardam and they both agreed that there was no point concealing the fact from the press or public, given their need for witnesses and the continuing threat posed by an arsonist at large.
“I’m happy for you to print that, as I want the public to be vigilant and to ask themselves if they saw anything suspicious last night.
But,” Helen continued, fixing the young woman with a beady eye, “I don’t want this arsonist glamorized or sensationalized in any way.
I want you to report facts, Emilia, not speculation. ”
“That’s the creed I live and die by.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.”
“So you think you’re after a glory hunter here? Someone who wants the headlines?”
“Possibly.”
“Do you think they’ll try to contact you? Contact the press?”
“It’s happened before, but, like I say, we have no idea what the motivation behind these fires might be. That’s why we print the facts, appeal for help and no more, right?”
Helen climbed onto her bike and turned the ignition.
“One last question. Are you expecting more fires?”
As ever, Emilia had saved her best question—her real question—for last.
“I sincerely hope not” was Helen’s neutral reply before she slipped on her helmet and sped away.
But she had spent half the night wondering the very same thing.
The three fires had been so “impressive,” so devastating, so newsworthy—wouldn’t the perpetrator feel some sense of triumph now?
This person had achieved his or her aims and gotten away scot-free.
So what was to stop the person from doing exactly the same thing again?