Tuesday 9 November
Pain wakes Jimmy at dawn, the wounds on his hands pulsing with heat. He peers through the curtains towards Wingletang Down: the old mansion has stood on the skyline since before he was born, but now smoke is billowing from its roof. He remembers Naomi Vine’s low voice pleading for help. If she lies at the heart of the blaze, he’s to blame. Tears course down his cheeks, for the man in the fire, and the woman he failed to set free.
Ben Kitto will ask more questions when morning comes. The tall policeman puts him on edge, his build so huge he looks like a giant from a child’s storybook. Jimmy wants to explain everything he’s seen, but the detective’s dark green stare silences him. He thinks of the pain on Naomi Vine’s face and longs to run back to her house, praying she’s still alive.
Jimmy runs his fingers along the window frame, managing to lever it open. It crosses his mind to swing his legs over the sill and let himself drop, but the distance to the concrete patio is too great. He’d break his legs if he tried to jump. Cold air caresses his face, but there’s no birdsong to comfort Jimmy tonight. Even the owls have deserted him.