When Everett pulls up outside the B&B at 3 a.m., there’s no sign of life. Unlike on the Cowley Road a hundred yards away, where what the authorities euphemistically call the ‘night-time economy’ is still in full swing. Its rather scruffy state aside, the B&B doesn’t look much different to the house the Dawsons live in, but the resemblance stops at the architecture. This end of town has always gone its own way and the Victorian developers who tried to turn it into a lucrative mini model of its grand northerly neighbour quickly found it wouldn’t take, and the experiment fizzled out. Some of the houses are still there, but most are student digs, or offices, or B&Bs. Like this one. Carved into the lintel above the door the name Ponsonby Villa is still just about legible; the current owner – perhaps advisedly – has changed it to The Comfy Inn.
Everett gets out and locks the car carefully (she knows better than most what the crime levels are like round here), then opens the back seat and hauls out a canvas holdall. She’s packed some clothes Sharon can borrow, as well as a couple of toothbrushes and some basics. Should be enough until the shops open in the morning. She makes a mental note to call her neighbour to feed Hector, then lumbers the heavy bag up the path to the front door. It’s a good five minutes before the owner appears, in a rather unsavoury vest and some stained pyjama bottoms that Everett doesn’t dare inspect too closely. Upstairs, in their room, Sharon is sitting on the bed, still wrapped in the blanket the ambulance crew gave her. All she has underneath is a nightdress. Leo is huddled against her, coughing now and again, his face smeared with soot. Everett starts to unpack the bag. A sweatshirt, some jeans, a couple of Tshirts. Sharon looks at them with distaste.
‘I don’t like wearing other people’s things.’
Everett glances at her. ‘Well, I’m afraid you don’t have many other options, do you? And everything’s perfectly clean. It’s straight out of the washing machine.’
Sharon shudders. ‘That stuff is at least three sizes too big for me. I wouldn’t be seen dead in it.’
Everett feels like telling her she’s lucky not to be dead, full stop, but stifles her anger by telling herself the woman’s probably still in shock.
‘Well, like I said,’ she says evenly, ‘you don’t have much choice. You can go out first thing and get some more. After all, you managed to save your handbag, didn’t you? Most people in your position don’t even have credit cards.’
Sharon looks at her narrowly, then reaches for the pink towel laid out folded on the bed.
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she says.
*
BBC Midlands Today
Saturday 23 July 2016 | Last updated at 07:56
Daisy Mason: Fire at family home
Fire services were called to the home of Barry and Sharon Mason last night, after what is believed to have been an arson attack. The fire spread quickly, causing extensive damage, and the adjoining homes had to be evacuated.
Since their daughter’s disappearance, the Masons have become the targets of a widespread Twitter hate campaign, which gained further momentum after Barry Mason was revealed to be using dating websites under a false name. Some recent tweets have appeared to contain explicit threats against the Masons.
In a statement issued by Thames Valley CID, Detective Inspector Adam Fawley confirmed that the police will pursue anyone using social media to incite violence or criminal damage to the fullest extent of the law. ‘This behaviour is a form of modern terrorism. Those responsible will be traced, and they will be charged.’
Twitter has issued an official statement condemning the violence, and offering the police their full cooperation in tracking down those responsible.
Anyone with any information about Daisy should contact Thames Valley CID incident room on 01865 0966552.
*
‘Mind where you’re treading. The top layer is cooling, but it’s still burning underneath in places.’
It’s 8.05 on Saturday morning, and I’ve already had far too much coffee, which does nothing to help the slightly hallucinogenic feeling induced by what’s left of the Masons’ sitting room. The senior fire officer comes slowly towards me over the cheap acrylic carpet. Most of it has melted into evil-smelling sludge, and there are patches where you can see the concrete underneath. They’re still hosing outside and the exterior walls are running with blackened water, but most of the internal ones are down. Just plasterboard, most of them; they didn’t stand a chance.
‘As it happens,’ I say, indicating my boots, ‘I’ve done this sort of thing before.’
‘So how can I help you, Inspector?’
‘I’m assuming arson is a given?’
‘No question. You can still smell the accelerant upstairs. We’re picking through the glass now – if we’re lucky, we could find some fragments of the bottle it was in.’
‘Any idea how it started – precisely?’
He turns and points up through the gaping hole that was once a staircase. ‘We’re currently working on the theory that someone chucked it in through the upstairs window at the back.’
‘The daughter’s bedroom?’
‘If you say so – to be honest, you couldn’t tell whose it is from the state it’s in.’
‘You think someone could really throw a bottle like that from the towpath? It’s what, thirty feet away, even thirty-five?’
He considers. ‘It could definitely be done, but you’d need to get some height on the throw, so it was either an adult or a pretty hefty kid. That may be why only one shot actually made its target – there’s two or three blackened craters in the back garden where the others must have landed. We’re collecting the glass fragments inside the house and we’ve taken samples on the path, but unless we’re lucky and we get some fingerprints we’re unlikely to be able to identify the culprits. Hundreds of people traipse up and down at the back there, so footprints are worse than useless.’
It’s a blow, even if it’s one I expected. ‘How come the fire spread so fast? I mean, look at this place. There’s nothing left.’
‘I wondered about that too – we only took eight minutes to get here, but it was already completely engulfed. These modern houses look nice but they’ve no guts. One of those big Victorian ones beyond the canal – they’d take a lot more burning.’
‘You said “some of it”.’
‘Well, the accelerant wouldn’t have helped. And all the man-made fibres in here – they’d go up like the Fourth of July. But all the same, I’m surprised it got such a hold in so short a time.’
‘Right,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Thanks. Let me know if anything else comes up.’
‘Will do.’
Out in the back garden, Challow is squatting down with his case open and a pile of evidence bags in front of him. Some clothes, mostly coats and jackets as far as I can see, a few shoes, what looks like a duffel bag. A lot is black and charred. Some of it is barely recognizable.
‘Is there anything – anything at all?’
He straightens up, his paper suit creaking. ‘Not much, to be honest, and only from downstairs. I might get something from the shoes, but it’ll be touch and go with the amount of fire damage. Upstairs is a write-off. If you were hoping for something from the girl’s bedroom, forget it. She could have bled out up there and I doubt we’d find it now. And you and I both know that room had been scrubbed down to the atoms. We were only ever going to get trace.’
‘I should have pushed harder for that bloody search warrant.’
‘Don’t blame yourself. You did what you could – the Super will have to take the heat on that one.’ He stops. ‘Sorry. Crass choice of words.’
There’s a silence. Challow shakes his head then bends to get a bottle of water out of his case. He takes a swig and pulls a face. ‘Warm.’
‘Anything else?’
‘The fire crew brought down the father’s computer, but I suspect the hard drive’s gone.’
‘Bring it in anyway. I hope we’ll have evidence on the phone, but the PC may have more.’
‘And there is this rather sad item.’
He holds up an evidence bag. Whatever’s in it, it once had fur.
‘Jesus, Alan, what the hell is that – the family rabbit?’
He smiles wryly. ‘The Masons didn’t appear to go in for pets. They no doubt produce far too much mess for the über-tidy Mrs M. No, this fur is definitely of the fake variety.’ He hands it to me. ‘One lion costume, badly torn. I suspect young Leo was rather underwhelmed by the prospect of fancy dress.’
I see him again. Telling me how the boys pick on him because of his name. How they turn it into a weapon to use against him. No wonder the poor little sod didn’t want to dress up as the king of the bloody jungle.
‘And the school bag?’
‘No sign.’