The Girl Who Stole the Apple

‘I think that’s possible.’

Bowman nodded, slowly and rather theatrically. ‘It seems complicated,’ he said eventually. ‘If all you want to do is destroy the shop, why not just blow it up after it’s shut? Why not pour petrol through the letter box in the middle of the night and throw a match in?’

Reid leant back in his chair. He could have pointed out that the shop had a metal grill which ensured that no one could poor petrol through its letter box at night, but he doubted that such an observation would be well received by Bowman. He responded with another question. ‘Why did the girl and the man who was with her come to the shop? There must have been a reason. Someone or something must have drawn them there. Presumably it was something to do with Ms Rogers. Anyway, if we knew the answer to that, then the chances are we’d also know the motivation behind the bombing.’

Reid fell silent. The carriage clock on Bowman’s desk whirred into life.

‘And what about the smoke bombs?’ This time Bowman was looking at Reid when he asked the question.

‘Different from the firebomb, sir. Manual timers set to go off simultaneously. Designed to cause confusion rather than damage.’

‘I understand the thinking behind smoke bombs, Inspector,’ Bowman said tartly. ‘But what was the point of them yesterday?’

Reid tried not to react, though he could feel the muscles down the right side of his face doing a Jumping Jack Flash impression. ‘Ms Rogers is the common theme as you know, sir. She was working in the Italian café next to the bookshop that was targeted. She appears to have been very helpful getting people out of the premises. Very cool in the circumstances. Too cool perhaps.’

‘Too cool? What the hell do you mean by that? Do you have some reason for saying that? Like evidence?’ Bowman had half risen to his feet. His face was flushed. Reid realised with a start that Bowman was on the verge of losing his rag. That was something he had never seen before.

Reid shrugged. ‘I merely meant that Ms Rogers didn’t seem exactly surprised by the turn of events. It was almost as if she was expecting it.’

‘You mean she may have been responsible for the smoke bombs herself?’

‘I didn’t say that, sir.’

Bowman opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say remained unsaid. Instead he loosened his tie and released the top button of his shirt. This, Reid knew, was not a good sign.

‘What about the CCTV coverage? Can anyone enlighten me on that? His eyes flicked around the room and settled, as before, on Ashcroft.

‘That was interfered with, sir. In the bookshop the cable had been cut and in the newsagent someone had poured superglue into the recording mechanism.’

Bowman was still standing, rocking on his feet from left to right.

‘What about the other CCTV cameras in the street? They can’t all have been malfunctioning. I want to know what Ms Rogers did yesterday from the time she turned up for work until the time she left. Now get out of here, all of you.’

They stood up as one, anxious to escape.

‘Not you, Evans,’ Bowman snarled. ‘I want a word with you.’

* * *

Maggie stood over the bed and looked down at Beth. The girl had finally and definitely fallen asleep, curled up on her side in a foetal position. With her number one haircut she could have been a boy, but the defiantly pink nightie gave the lie to that. Her breathing was effortless and even. In profile her nose was slightly up-turned and her chin jutted forcefully out. Maggie shivered with grief and long-buried memories. The girl looked so like her mother it was scary. And like her mother, she would turn heads throughout her life. Maggie had no doubts about that.

‘I miss my mum.’ That had been the last thing Beth had said before collapsing into sweet oblivion.

‘I miss your mum too,’ Maggie had replied. ‘She was my best friend ever.’

‘So where have you been all these years?’ That was what Beth could have said. But she didn’t. Maggie was grateful for that.

‘Sweet dreams,’ she whispered and retreated from the oasis of Beth’s room and shut the door behind her with a click. She remembered her own mother saying that to her. She had liked it.

Sam was on the edge of his bed, rocking backwards and forwards again.

‘Sam,’ she said, trying to getting his attention.

He continued rocking. His eyes were fixed on the wall.

‘Talk to me,’ she said, her voice rising sharply in tone and volume.

No response.