Soul Fire

That’d help. Mr Ashley throws his
cigarette to the floor after a few breaths, then stubs it out under his shoe. He looks up at the court building once, before walking into the street.
    Something’s moving . I catch a change in the light, out of the corner of my eye. I twist to my right, and focus on the graffiti-covered entrance to a multi-storey car park. The
movement definitely came from that direction.
    Nothing seems to be moving now, yet I’m sure I didn’t imagine it.
    Tim’s father’s shoulders rise and fall. Sighing, or crying? I can’t tell. He walks. I wait. If there is someone in the car park, then it’s as likely that
they’re following him as me, surely?
    But as he walks away, no one emerges from the car park. The coroner’s officer glances at me as he locks the metal gate.
    The car park has five storeys. There’s a barrier, but no signs of life. Round here, the streets are lined with derelict warehouses. All I can see as I look up are the dead black
reflections of the panes.
    No one knows I’m here.
    The thought makes me shudder, but I try to stay calm by thinking it through. The car park is well lit. It’s not even eleven in the morning. If there’s no one in there, then I’m
not in danger, and even if there is someone lurking, nothing bad can happen. It’s not even eleven in the morning.
    I try to tune into my instinct. My heart’s racing, yes, but I don’t feel terror , that paralysing force of evil I felt in Meggie’s room.
    I cross the road, which is gritty with salt and melted ice. That car park smell of petrol and pee gets stronger as I climb over a low wall. Now I’m closer to where I saw something –
no, it has to be someone – move.
    Should I text someone so they know where I am? Lewis, maybe?
    No. If there’s someone hiding in the car park, I don’t want to let them get away. They must be connected to Tim, to Meggie, to Burning Truths.
    It could be the killer.
    The thought makes a pulse throb in my neck. I climb over the wall. From here, I can see the whole ground floor. There are only two cars parked on this level, so there’s nowhere to
hide.
    What was that?
    I turn my head, towards the stairwell and the lift lobby. What’s different?
    The lift light’s come on. Someone must be inside – or calling it from a floor above me.
    I try to move silently towards the lobby, but my boots echo against the concrete. Everything’s loud. The whine of the lift. My breathing.
    There’s an indicator light which shows that the lift is now on the second floor and still moving up.
    My finger hovers over the button. Should I call it back? I don’t know what the hell to do. My knowledge of surveillance techniques comes from 24 . And I didn’t watch how Jack
Bauer operated nearly closely enough.
    The lift light goes out.
    I try to stay calm. It could be anyone. A driver, someone from the coroner’s court.
    I can hear the machinery as the lift moves again. Down . Towards me. I should run. But I don’t. I’m frozen. With fear, yes. But with something else.
    Anticipation . . .
    This could end here. Whoever is in that lift might know everything: who killed Tim, who killed Meggie.
    A trickle of cold sweat drips down my back as I realise that only the person who committed both murders could know for sure.
    The lift brakes squeal like cats fighting at midnight. I flatten myself against the wall. Don’t think . Just be ready.
    Louder. Louder. Then the lift motor stops. Silence. And then it drops into place and I wait for the doors to open.
    This is madness.
    The metal doors groan open. I wait. And wait.
    What are they waiting for?
    Finally, I dare to twist my head to look to the side.
    The lift light that shines back at me is bright and unforgiving. I take a step. Then another step.
    No.
    I look up, around, down, unable to believe it.
    There’s a strong smell of vomit. A crushed can of Red Bull. A cover ripped from a magazine.
    But apart from that, the lift is empty.

16
    I run, and run. Tearing through deserted streets. Down the escalators in the tube station. Along the empty platform.
    I change carriage each stop. It probably makes me more obvious, but it’s the kind of thing they do in the movies. Staying on the move makes me feel less vulnerable.
    Even at Waterloo, I assess the passengers on my train with the wariness of a fugitive. I walk right the way through till I settle on a compartment with an old guy with double hearing aids and a
mother with a crease-faced new