Heatwave Oliver Davies (story reading .txt) 📖

that the breeze had carried the smell over from the jerry can, but I changed my mind when I moved further along the side of the house, and the scent intensified.

I knew I looked strange as I crouched down, trying to figure out where the fuel smell was coming from, but there was no-one around to see, and I wanted to know. The alcohol had all but evaporated in the heat, but it’d sunk into the grass at the base of the wall, and I touched my fingers to it, recoiling from the stench of fuel when I brought my hand to my nose.

Moving back over to Stephen, I called him over to have a look. I took a couple of pictures of the spot, but there was little to see, so I wanted Stephen to back up my account in case it was useful.

“I’d thought it was strange that they’d only set fire to one side,” I mused aloud as Stephen crouched down near where the fuel had been spilt or deliberately poured. “I think they intended to set it alight on both sides, but they couldn’t for some reason.”

“Perhaps they freaked out after lighting the other side,” Stephen said, getting to his feet with a wince. He gave his bad knee a rub before straightening up.

“Or maybe they were interrupted by someone walking by, for example.”

“Possible. We’d need that witness to come forward, though, if they exist.”

“Or we track them down, aye,” I agreed. I glanced around the spot and shook my head. “I think they’re learning, you know. They only set fire to one side of that barn, remember? And the whole structure didn’t burn, meaning that the farmer could save his animals. But this time, I think they wanted the whole thing to go up before the firefighters could get here.”

“A big show, yeah. It makes sense.”

I sighed. “Did you get anything off the jerry can?”

“I was just about to try when you called me.”

I waved him off to finish what he’d started while I headed back round to the front of the burnt house. The firefighters were heading off, and I watched them go, the last of the bystanders also turning away once the fire engine had left. There was tape ringing the property’s boundary, and the junior officer who Rashford had sent over was standing there, making sure that nobody else with trouble on their mind got in. We didn’t need some foolhardy school kids falling through the house’s second floor because they wanted to explore.

The day was wearing on, but I was aware that time was of the essence when it came to finding a witness and getting them to recount what they saw. I was pinning my hopes on someone having seen the teenagers, even if only for a moment and only from the back. Someone who could confirm that a group of young people was there.

At this stage, a person playing devil’s advocate could argue that there wasn’t much proof that this fire linked to the others at all. I was convinced that it was, partly because it fit the pattern but primarily because of the messages I’d seen exchanged on the site. But that wasn’t concrete evidence, evidence that the teenagers were here on the ground and set the fire with their own hands.

Stephen approached me from the side, carrying the fingerprints kit and the jerry can in an evidence bag.

“Anything?” I asked him.

“Possibly. They’re probably partials, but we can hope.”

We moved back towards the car together, and Stephen put the things away in the boot.

“What now, boss?”

I glanced along the length of the street which was relatively quiet now that the commotion of the fire had mostly passed. Still, there was usually at least someone in sight on the suburbian road, even if they were a short way down the pavement. I just hoped that there had been someone watching when we needed them to.

I turned to Stephen. “Now we need a witness.”

Twelve

Leaving the junior officer to keep an eye on the house, me and Stephen resorted to good, old-fashioned police work: knocking on people’s doors. To my relief, it wasn’t too long before we found someone who’d witnessed the teenagers at the site of the fire.

“Must have been ten of them,” he said, after inviting us into his house and fetching glasses of water for us. He’d offered us a cold beer, which had been honestly tempting, but we were on duty, so I had to refuse.

“What were they wearing?”

“Those hooded jackets,” he said, gesturing vaguely. Our witness, who’d introduced himself as Clive, was a slender man, about fifty, with a raggedy beard that made him look like he ought to wear a motorbike club jacket. “That’s why I noticed them first. I thought, how can they be wearing that in weather like this, y’know?”

There was a squeal from outside, and I looked up, but Clive waved his hand at me.

“Don’t worry. It’s just the kids larking about. I’ve got them for the day.”

“If this is a bad time-” I started.

“No, no, they’re old enough to play by themselves for a bit.”

“Alright, we appreciate you helping us,” I told him, taking a sip of water as I considered what to ask him.

“Did you get a look at their faces?” Stephen asked while I was thinking.

“Not too much.” Clive gave a shrug, taking a gulp of his own beer. “They all had their hoods up, pretty much, or caps on. I didn’t think they were adults though, some of them were pretty short. Kids, really.”

I gave a hum of acknowledgement as I made a note.

“Did you see the fire being set?” Stephen said, and I nodded, looking up to catch Clive’s response.

“Well, not really. They’d gone round the side of the house, hadn’t they? Some round the one side, and the rest round the other.”

“So they split up?” I said, eager to see whether my theory was correct.

“Yeah. And a couple stood at the front, like, which looked