Chapter 52
She padded softly behind them without being seen.
She had followed them halfway across Southampton—her red Fiat tucked three cars back from the dark Mégane, hidden by the heavy rush-hour traffic—but this was the most dangerous bit, now that they were on foot.
If they were going to spot her, they would spot her here, where she was out in the open and exposed.
It was a description that could have aptly fit Emilia Garanita over the past year or two.
She was a talented and ambitious reporter who had underachieved so far.
There was no point dressing it up as anything else.
She had overplayed her hand during previous investigations and ended up back at the bottom of the heap, the victim of a particularly unscrupulous game of snakes and ladders.
Many held her responsible for this, but Emilia never had. She had been made promises, promises that hadn’t been kept. This was the story of her life in many ways, and in this particular instance the irony wasn’t lost on her. She had trusted a journalist and look where it had got her.
The pair she was following slowed now. The woman was instantly recognizable—DC Charlene “Charlie” Brooks—an honest and determined copper whom Emilia had crossed swords with many times.
The girl she didn’t know, but Charlie Brooks had been incredibly solicitous to her since leaving the police station—driving her home, buying her drinks and magazines, pep-talking her every step of the way.
This girl wasn’t some truant or teenage runaway—she was someone important.
Emilia snuck into a greasy spoon and found a table by the window.
Ignoring the unfriendly assertion by the owner that she couldn’t sit there without buying anything, Emilia kept her eyes glued on the dumb show playing out opposite.
The girl looked nervous, even a little anxious, but Brooks was working hard to soothe her.
Emilia couldn’t hear the words, but the body language—the hand gently squeezing the girl’s arm—spoke volumes.
Emilia removed her tablet from her bag and pulled up the link for the electoral register.
She shouldn’t have it, of course—it was for internal council use only—but no self-respecting local journalist could do without it.
She’d already clocked the street name as they turned into it, and now she added the house number.
Instantly she had her answer. Two people registered to the address: Sharon Jackson, aged forty-two, and Naomie Jackson, aged seventeen.
Slipping her tablet away, Emilia was pleased to see that Brooks was taking her leave.
Rising, she allowed her to turn the corner before hurrying from the café and straight across the street.
Once on the doorstep she paused for a second—to smooth her hair and reapply her lipstick—before confidently ringing the doorbell.
Naomie must have been expecting Brooks again, because her face fell when she saw a stranger standing on the doorstep.
“Naomie? It is Naomie Jackson, isn’t it?”
The girl nodded cautiously.
“I was given your name by DI Grace at Southampton Central. She says you’re assisting them with their inquiries?”
Another tiny nod.
“Well, as you know, the News always plays an active role in keeping the wider public informed about matters affecting their safety and well-being. I understand you have new information that is proving very helpful to the police in their hunt for this terrible arsonist and I was wondering if I might come in for two minutes to chat about it?”
The girl was clearly unsure, so Emilia followed up quickly. “We don’t have to use your name, anything you tell me is in confidence and, yes, we do pay. So what do you say?”
Moments later, Emilia was settled in the girl’s dreary living room prising information from the monosyllabic teenager.
She kept her eyes locked on the girl, but her hand worked overtime, scribbling down every tiny detail of her testimony.
Already Emilia had the feeling that this was going to play well for her—that this latest case would finally allow Emilia to write her own happy ending.