He was so transparent. Fry imagined he was a bit of a nuisance at Neighbourhood Watch meetings, always claiming to have seen something that he hadn’t, to make himself more interesting. She wondered whether Wade was a member of other organizations, too. The Police Liaison Committee, the Keep Edendale Tidy Group – anything that would let him stick his nose into other people’s lives.

‘What about traffic, Mr Wade? Were there any cars going by when you first saw the fire?’

‘Not that I noticed,’ he said. ‘Just a minute.’

He raised his camera to his face and focused on something past Fry. She turned to see a liveried police car pull up outside number 32, and the driver spoke to a uniformed officer on duty outside.

‘Would it be all right if I took your photograph as well?’ asked Wade. ‘I don’t think I’ve got a detective.’

‘No, it wouldn’t be all right.’

He sighed. ‘Fair enough.’

‘Mr Wade, did you make any attempt to get into your neighbour’s house when you saw the fire? Or were you too busy taking photographs?’

He looked hurt. ‘Of course I tried to get in. After I’d made the call, I ran back out and went over the fence to their house. But there were already flames coming out of the windows, and I couldn’t see a thing for the smoke.’

‘You must have seen Brian Mullen arrive home later.’

He shoved the camera away in a pocket and wiped the palms of his hands on his sweater.

‘Yes, poor bugger. He was going out of his mind. Is Brian all right, do you know?’

‘His injuries are only minor.’

‘That’s something, anyway.’

Even out here, the smell of smoke and charring was very strong. Mr Wade himself seemed to reek of burning, like a smoked kipper. If he’d stood in his garden wearing that same sweater while the fire was burning, it was probably impregnated with the smell: smouldering wood and singed flesh.

‘Are you normally at home during the day, Mr Wade?’

‘Sometimes I work late shifts,’ he said. ‘I make deliveries for the supermarkets.’

‘I see.’

‘I ought to be in bed now. But I couldn’t sleep with all this excitement going on.’

Fry looked across the fence at number 32. The SOCOs had erected a crime-scene tent over the doorway, so it was impossible to see inside the house now, except for a vague shape moving past a blackened window now and then. The bodies of the victims had long since been removed, and the firefighters had finished damping down, leaving nothing but a few streams of muddy water running into the gutter.

‘Yes. Riveting, isn’t it?’