Chapter 14

Roy’s cellphone jolted him awake at 7.20. He flailed an arm toward the nightstand, knocked it twice, then finally found the phone. “Sonia, what’s happened?”

Her voice was taut but clear. “Nothing new — I just couldn’t sleep. Combination of the fire and the realisation that I’m going to have to front up to work early. The station wants a report ... not knowing I was away. Or that I was in the thick of it — and that’s something I’m keeping very close to my chest.”

Roy blinked hard, trying to piece his thoughts together. “They rang you?”

“5.30,” she said. “Standard drill — the newsroom rings the cops for their overnight log, and guess what was at the top of the list. They want a live cross at the top of the 8am news, and I’m the one who’s doing it. I’m on my way to the Reliabuild yard now, with a camera crew.”

Roy sat up, groaning. “They don’t know you were with me yesterday?”

“No. And it stays that way. I’ll have to recap what’s public, but nothing more. So record the 8 o’clock bulletin — and be ready to repel boarders. The newspaper crowd monitor the police logs too. You’ll probably have someone on your doorstep within the hour.”

“Whatever happened to sleep? Or a private life?” Roy muttered.

“It’s not the first time I’ve sacrificed sleep for this job,” Sonia replied, without self-pity. “Thankfully, I’ve got a strong constitution — I’ll survive. Must go. I’ll be in touch again later, when it’s ... safe.” She hung up.

Roy had scarcely placed the phone down when there was a knock at the door. He shuffled to answer, barefoot and bleary-eyed, to find a reporter and photographer waiting expectantly.

“No prizes for guessing why you’re here,” he muttered.

“Sorry to disturb you so early...” the reporter began, all fake contrition.

(Liar, Roy thought.)

“ ... but we need a comment about the fire at your plant. Can we come in?”

“I’m equally sorry you’ve disturbed me this early,” he said flatly. “But I’ve had a very disturbed night, and all I want now is some peace. Here’s what I can tell you: I’m deeply concerned about what’s happened. It appears Reliabuild was the target of deliberate arson. I don’t know why. I’ve got no clue who was behind it. That’s all I can say right now — except to thank the Fire Service for their prompt response, and the Police for their help. They’ll be issuing their own statement later this morning.”

The reporter pressed. “Do you think this is retaliation from the boy racer community?”

“I don’t know,” Roy replied, his voice firm. “And I’m not going to speculate. It’s a police matter now. If there’s any development, I’ll issue a statement — if appropriate. Good morning.”

He closed the door, catching the flash of a camera as he did so. “Can’t be helped,” he muttered. “Nobody’s a pin-up at this hour.”

The clock on the wall nudged toward eight. He switched on the TV, hit record, and poured himself a quick black coffee.

As expected, the bulletin opened with images of the burned yard, filmed at dawn — scorched timber, blackened siding, and curling smoke in the frosty morning air.

Sonia’s voice came in, crisp and measured:
“Early this morning, at around 1.45 am, several individuals broke into the yard of Reliabuild, a Christchurch construction company. Two separate fires were lit — one in the barn behind me to the left, and one in the yard office to the right. Police say the barn fire appears to have ignited a container of flammable liquid, but thankfully, it didn’t spread to the rest of the building.”

Cut to an interview with a police sergeant and then a fire officer, both tight-lipped, offering little beyond official platitudes.

Sonia concluded with, “It remains to be seen whether the arson is connected to recent tensions involving local boy racer groups and the impoundment of their vehicles. We’ll bring more as the investigation continues.”

No mention of Methven. No hint she’d spent the weekend at Roy’s side.

“Well played,” Roy said quietly. “Could’ve been worse.” He eyed the clock. “But it’s probably forlorn to hope I’ll get any more sleep.”