Surefire by Ashe Barker

tiled corridor, wrinkling my nose at the putrid smell of disinfectant doing battle with vomit and pee. God, I’d just about managed to forget what these places were like. It’s the smell that hits me the most, it always was. The sergeant ushers me into a small interview room where the two officers I met earlier outside my house are seated at a metal table in the middle of the room. To one side is another small table with the ubiquitous tape recorder set up on it. PC Tall and Stupid gestures for me to sit down while his colleague stands up, flicks the switch on the tape machine.
    “Interview commenced at eighteen fifteen, those present PC Stuart Bragg.”
    Not Tall and Stupid then? I can’t help thinking his official name suits him almost as well.
    He turns to his colleague, still hovering beside the tape machine, who recites his name, PC George Graves. PC Bragg fixes his gaze on me. “Please state your name, for the tape.”
    My turn, then. “Ashley McAllister.”
    He glares at me, but having given my name, I remain silent. Bragg has to fill in his own gaps. “Miss McAllister, were you previously known by any other name?”
    “Yes, I was. I was previously known as Sharon Spencer. But my name is now Ashley McAllister. I’d prefer it if you use my correct name please, PC Bragg. It’ll be more straightforward.”
    He glares at me again, I’m clearly not endearing myself here. But he’s got other fish to fry it seems, and decides to move on.
    “Miss Spencer—McAllister, can you tell us please where you were between the hours of ten p.m. yesterday evening and four a.m. this morning?”
    Well, that’s simple enough. “Yes, I had dinner with friends.”
    “Friends? Do these ‘friends’ have names, Miss McAllister?”
    “They do.” I rattle off Tom, Nathan and Eva’s names, and provide their contact details too. Upstanding citizens all, company directors and a doctor of something or other. Eva’s a doctor of several something or others in fact. At least my alibi should stand up to scrutiny.
    Undaunted, PC Tall and Stupid, sorry, Bragg, presses on with his line of inquiry. Line of total and crass idiocy if you ask me, but still, if there were prizes to be had for effort and determination, he’d be in the center of the podium. “Earlier, when you were arrested, you mentioned needing to contact your insurers. Do you remember that, Miss McAllister?”
    “Of course.”
    “Could you tell us the details of your insurance, Miss McAllister? How much do you stand to gain as a result of this fire?”
    Ah, so that’s it. The penny drops. They think this is some sort of insurance scam. I could almost laugh out loud it’s so totally ridiculous. “No, I don’t know the insurance details. I need to dig out my policy, talk to the insurance company. I expect the repairs should be covered though.”
    “Unless the fire was started deliberately, Miss McAllister. That would make your insurance void, would it not?”
    So this is what they meant by a crime scene. “Was it started deliberately? If so, how?”
    “You tell us, Miss McAllister.”
    “I know nothing about how the fire started. The first I knew of it was when my solicitor phoned me this morning. That’s Mr Miller at Miller and Hampson. They handle things for me, collect the rent and so on. I don’t live in this area anymore.”
    He makes a point of studying the papers in front of him, including the personal details taken down by the custody sergeant. “And where is it you live now? Greystones, West Yorkshire. You’re a long way from home.”
    “Yes. Because my solicitor phoned me to tell me that my house, the house I grew up in, the house that belonged to my mother, and to my grandparents before her, had been on fire. I was worried. I wanted to see the damage for myself. I wanted to start putting it right. And I was concerned about my tenants, the students. Someone could have been killed. Or seriously hurt. So yes, I am a long way from home.” I speak with