She knew the best way to cause the fire was to start it from the front door, and let it take its own course, so that is exactly what she did. As she set to work, it did not cross her mind that she was destroying everything her daughter owned in the world – her photos, her clothes, all her personal effects. All she had to do was start the fire and then the Calor Gas heaters her daughter used for warmth would do the majority of the damage for her. She was grateful for the light from the street-lamp outside – she daren’t put a light on, or make a noise. These places were like rabbit hutches, even a toilet flushing next door could be heard by all and sundry. She was smiling as she lit the match, and she slipped out as quietly as she had come in.

On the way home she was playing ABBA on her car stereo and singing at the top of her voice. This really was her Waterloo; she would play up her daughter’s dangerous stupidity for all it was worth. A lit cigarette could cause untold damage – ten lit simultaneously could do even more! She guessed the washing basket full of clothes would be the first to really ignite, but the bin in the kitchen would also be a big help.

She would explain away the petrol by saying it was an insurance scam, that her daughter had hinted at money to come. She had covered all bases, and now she would have those kids until they sorted out accommodation and all the other shite that went with a major fire. Either way, this was a win-win situation for her.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Two

Cherie was shaking Gabby, screaming at her to wake up.

‘Mummy, Mummy, the house is on fire!’

Gabby could barely breathe; the bedroom was engulfed in smoke. Coughing, she jumped out of the bed. Vincent, the only thing she could think about was her baby Vincent, alone and afraid in his room.

She phoned the fire brigade in a panic and then, taking her daughter by the hand, she did the worst thing possible; she opened her bedroom door.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Three

‘Are you Cynthia Callahan?’

Cynthia, who had partaken of a few drinks to celebrate her late-night excursion, was bleary-eyed as she looked at the policeman and woman at her door.

‘Yes, I am. What’s going on? What’s happened?’

Sergeant Proctor could hear a rising panic in her voice. He walked her through to her kitchen and, sitting her down, he nodded to the policewoman, who looked through Cynthia’s cupboards until she found a bottle of brandy. Pouring out a large one, she placed it in front of the frightened woman.

All the time this was going on there was a panic rising inside Cynthia. This wasn’t just about a burnt-out house. This was too ominous.