Out of the Ashes

For the Criminal Minds. PrologueThe house looks normal. A small bungalow, surrounded by a neat garden, the lawn trimmed, the flower beds blooming. The windows are dark; there is no movement behind the panes, the curtains drawn.And then, the first glimpse. A curtain, devoured by red and orange. A bright burst, dazzling in the black. In the silence of the night it’s eerie, merely a suggestion of the horror contained within.He’s seen it up close. The beauty when the spark takes hold, smoke growing into flame as it hungrily devours its quarry. Fire is indiscriminate; it doesn’t care who or what is in its way. Its only priority is to grow. To consume. To destroy. He envies its simplicity.The sound of smashing glass fractures the peace. The window has splintered in the heat; thick black smoke billows from the space, followed by a torrent of red and yellow as the flames enjoy the new injection of oxygen. The other windows in the house have turned black; he shifts his attention to one at the rear. The bedroom.He sees the curtains move. A face behind the pane, a palm flattened against the window. The man’s mouth is open – in surprise, in fear – but he remains still. The man thumps on the glass, frantic, but his efforts are pointless, his exit denied.He’s been watching a while. Alone.Now, satisfied, he takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and places one in his mouth. He clicks the lighter into flame – this one contained, a prisoner – and breathes in deeply. He only allows himself this habit at times like these. More pleasures to be savoured.Sirens divert his attention, blue flashes in the distance. He sighs; they’re quick. A neighbour must have phoned. Alerted by the smell of smoke drifting through a window left open for the summer breeze. It’s disappointing. The fire engines arrive in a flurry of blue lights, disgorging the men in their khaki and fluorescent yellow, their protective helmets and breathing apparatus. They know how to stay alive in these conditions.He switches his attention back to the house. All he can see now is the flicker within, the flames progressing, relentless. The sound of more smashing glass, the crash as walls and ceilings fall, coupled with shouting from the firefighters as they force their way inside.He stands up, inhaling the last fragment of nicotine from his cigarette. He would like to stay, but this isn’t the part he enjoys. The suffocation, the smothering of the beast.And it’s risky. More people are out, woken by the excitement. He doesn’t want to be seen.He crushes his cigarette under his trainer. He takes one last look back, trying to summon guilt, any sort of emotion for what has happened here tonight. But he fails. He’s washed out, numb from life.The people that inherit this house will have insurance policies, money. They will rebuild their lives from the ashes.If only he were so lucky. Part 1 MONDAY 1‘Twat,’ she mutters as she stomps down the corridor. ‘That fucking twat.’DS Freya West pauses outside a set of double doors, forcing herself to calm down. She takes the last swig of her coffee. Smooths down her shirt. She’d been looking forward to a productive morning. Recently promoted to detective sergeant, Freya had plans. Wrap up last week’s stabbing, send the case across to the CPS in time for the offender’s hearing. Maybe get her hands on something juicy and new – she’d heard there had been an arson across town, persons reported.But no.DI Matthew Ratcliffe doorstepped her the moment she arrived at the nick.‘There’s a woman at the front desk. Says she’s being stalked.’Freya met his gaze, her stance determined. ‘Wouldn’t we normally deploy a PC in the first instance?’ she challenged.Ratcliffe sighed, visibly annoyed. ‘I’m not in the mood for your theatrics. Times have changed since you and Butler ran around doing what you liked. I’m your superior officer and I need you to go and speak to this woman. Besides, she asked for you. By name, DS West,’ he finished, then left her with her scowl.It’s the latest in a long line of shitty jobs well below her rank, but Freya pulls herself together. If this woman’s come in to see her, then she has a job to do. That’s all there is to it. She takes a deep breath and pushes through the door to the front desk.She doesn’t need to ask who she’s there to see. A woman stands up, eager. Dressed in a smart grey business suit, she grips a posh black Mulberry bag tightly in both hands.Freya recognises her instantly. ‘Emily?’ she says, confused. She’s older, thinner, but unmistakably the same woman Freya knew from her university days.Freya greets her with a hug; her shoulders feel frail.‘I’m sorry to have come, but I heard you were a detective here and I thought…’ Her hands grasp at her bag. ‘I thought it would be easier to talk to you.’‘Of course. Follow me.’Freya escorts her through the main double doors into the closest interview room. A nice one – reserved for witnesses and family, rather than the blank boxes in the bowels of the building. Someone’s tried to make an effort with furnishings – a few grubby cushions decorate the scratchy blue chairs. Freya gestures to the most comfortable and sits opposite. Despite the more informal setting, Emily’s nerves don’t appear to abate; she looks like she’s going to cry.‘Would you like a drink? Tea?’ Freya gestures with her empty travel mug. ‘Coffee?’‘No, no. I’m fine. I shouldn’t be wasting your time—’‘Not at all.’ Freya smiles warmly. ‘Tell me why you’re here.’Freya pulls the MG11 witness statement form out of her folder and waits, pen poised. The woman doesn’t know where to start. She chews her lip, staring down at her hands balled in her lap.‘What have you been doing since uni?’ Freya asks, trying to put her old friend at ease.‘I’m a solicitor,’ Emily replies. ‘Family law.