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only say that we are investigating a warehouse fire as part of normal police procedure.’
    ‘But it looks like the work of the Fire Ghost, doesn’t it?’ another demanded.
    ‘I have no further comment at this juncture.’
    ‘Are you saying it’s not the Fire Ghost?’
    ‘As I said,’ his annoyance grew a little more, ‘I have no further comment at this juncture. A full statement will be released in due course. Now, if you will excuse me, I have several important matters to attend to.’
    Gage turned and walked away, ignoring the continuing barrage of questions and crossing back into the haven of police tape. Despite his comments to the press, he was depressingly sure that the fire was the Ghost’s sixth strike. The MO was pretty well identical to the others. A rear window had been broken and a petrol bomb hurled through it. Forensic had already identified the shards of the bomb, despite the sea of broken glass inside what remained of the warehouse.
    The difference with this attack was that, instead of landing on material that was merely flammable, the bomb had landed within feet of a pallet of brandy. According to forensic, the cardboard boxes must have caught, burning until the brandy started to boil inside the bottles and then exploded with enough force to blow out the roof and scatter burning debris over everything else. The result was a revolting mess of half-burnt cardboard, shattered wine bottles and charred pallets, all of it swimming in an inch-deep sea of ruined wine and water from the fire hoses. Gas cylinders in the Portakabin that served as an office had also gone up, adding to the mess and completely gutting the office. The smell was abominable, making the normal mixture of smoke and melted plastic seem quite inoffensive.
    The last people to leave had been the owner, Annabella de Vergy, and the manager, Philip Ruddock, who had shut the warehouse several hours before the fire started. Both had been at home when the fire happened. Both lived alone and so could not provide alibis, but Gage hardly felt he needed them to. The arson attack was, after all, too similar to the other Fire Ghost attacks to be anything else.
    As he walked towards his team he saw a pretty female talking to Sergeant Yates. Expecting a pushy reporter, Gage sighed and steeled himself to get rid of her. ‘Excuse me,’ he began as he approached, only to have the sergeant turn and address him.
    ‘This is Susan MacQuillan, guv,’ the sergeant said. ‘Used to be a DC with central, a few years back.’
    Gage turned to her, unable to avoid having his eyes drawn to the lovely swell of her breasts beneath a tight T-shirt. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss MacQuillan. I’m DI Gage.’
    ‘Hi,’ she smiled. ‘Can we have a quick word?’
    ‘Sure.’ Gage found himself immediately drawn to her friendly manner. ‘What is it?’
    ‘It’s to do with the fire,’ Susan began. ‘A friend of mine – a reporter – has been investigating a wine scandal. Now, she took over the investigation from another writer who recently died of food poisoning, leaving Paulette, my friend, with very few leads. One lead was that the original writer had thought that Annabella de Vergy was one of the victims of the fraud. Only yesterday Paulette and I interviewed de Vergy. Given that the warehouse fire occurred only some twelve hours after Paulette and I saw her, it seems highly probable that our transmission of information is in some way linked to the fire. Annabella de Vergy herself appears to have no knowledge of the scandal, although she cannot be ruled out. More probable is a case in which she mentioned that the scandal was still being followed up to a third party, who then panicked and set the fire in an attempt to destroy any evidence. So—’
    ‘Hang on, hang on,’ Gage interrupted, Susan having reeled off the explanation at a speed that had left him far behind. ‘So you’re saying the fire was deliberate and caused by someone involved with de Vergy