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“Who are you?” she asks. Her voice is croaky, her throat sore.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Ambrose?”
“A bit wobbly,” she replies. But then she remembers, fear taking hold. “Where’s Alice? Where’s my daughter?”
“She’s in the ICU, with your parents,” the man says. “She inhaled a lot of smoke from the fire and was in respiratory distress from the carbon monoxide poisoning. But she’s over the worst of it. She’s going to be fine.”
Jess tries to sit up but her head swims. “I have to see her,” she mutters, but the man shakes his head.
“Not yet, Mrs. Ambrose. I need to speak to you about how your husband died before we can let you see your daughter.”
“My husband …” Jess repeats. “Patrick’s dead?”
The man has the decency to look ashamed. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. They found a body in the spare bedroom. We’re assuming that was your husband?”
Jess nods slowly. She starts to cry. What the hell had happened? How could Patrick be dead? He was there, he was just there, with her at home. He was going to London today. Has anyone called his work to tell them? Has anyone spoken to his parents? Should she …?
“Could you tell me about last night?” the man asks calmly.
“You’re police.” She recoils, her jaw clenching, heart beating. A familiar twitch of alarm. “I don’t want to speak to you.”
He sits up straight in his seat. He levels her with a stare. “This isn’t going to go away, Jessica,” he says. “The sooner you tell me, the sooner we can get this cleared up and you can see your daughter.”
“Cleared up? What do you mean?” But then she realizes. She glares at him through her tears. “You think I did it?”
“It was arson. Someone started that fire deliberately.”
“It wasn’t me!”
“So tell me what happened.” He pauses, and she feels him studying her face for a reaction. “Don’t you want to see Alice, Mrs. Ambrose?” he adds.
She nods. Yes, she wants that more than anything.
He hands her a tissue from the box on the bedside table and she wipes her eyes and blows her nose. The snot on the tissue is black from soot.
Jess shakes her head. “I don’t remember much. Honestly, I don’t. I woke, I smelled smoke. I left my bedroom. The fire was everywhere. I grabbed my daughter and got out the only way I could see.”
“Did you call the fire brigade?”
“No, no, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I … I don’t know.” Why hadn’t she called 999? It just hadn’t occurred to her. In her panic the only person she’d thought about was her daughter.
“Why were you sleeping in a different room from your husband?”
“He had to get up early for work. He doesn’t like to disturb me.”
The man nods, thinking. He isn’t what she expects from a police officer. He’s dark, solemn, with messy hair, and at least a week’s worth of stubble. He has a smell about him: not unpleasant, but slightly musty, with diesel oil. It reminds her of a garage.
“What’s your name,” she asks. “Detective …?”
“Griffin,” he says. “And had you noticed anyone strange lately?”
“Strange?”
“Anyone you didn’t recognize in your neighborhood. Watching you, or your house? Had your husband mentioned anything odd?”
