Surefire by Ashe Barker Read Free Book Online Page A

road. A naturally careful driver, I give myself a talking to and get a grip. The last thing I need right now would be to find myself catapulted into the central reservation for good measure.
    And accordingly, three fraught hours later, I’m pulling up outside my mother’s house, my house now. Or what’s left of it. I should have gone to the offices of Miller and Hampson, but my autopilot instinct brought me straight here. I need to survey the damage for myself, assure myself there isn’t still some unfortunate student cowering under his bed, burnt to a crisp.
    Of course the front is blackened, the door completely destroyed. There’s yellow and black police crime scene tape across it, and a policeman standing solemnly beside the remains of the door. A fire service incident investigation unit van is parked in my driveway, so I assume the fire investigators are inside now. I need to talk to them, I need to know what happened. I fumble with my seat belt and manage to scramble out of the car. I walk down the path in something of a daze. My house, my beautiful house. What a mess.
    “Sorry, Miss, you can’t go in there.” The solemn policeman places himself firmly in front of me just as I would have clambered past the police tape. I look up at him, bewildered. “But it’s my house. I own it. I used to live here. I need to go in.”
    “Sorry, Miss, it’s a crime scene. I can’t let you pass.”
    “But…” Then it sinks in. Crime scene. “What crime? It was a fire. Just a fire…”
    “Who did you say you are, Miss?”
    “I’m Ashley, Ashley McAllister.” Then, “Or Sharon Spencer. I was Sharon Spencer. My mother lived here, Susan Spencer. She died…” My voice trails off, I’m babbling. And PC Solemn is on his radio, no doubt reporting to higher authorities that a mad woman with more names than anyone should rightly lay claim to is demanding entry to his crime scene. Sure enough, he turns back to me.
    “Someone will be along to talk to you soon, Miss. If you’d just like to wait here. They won’t be long.”
    I spend the next five minutes fruitlessly quizzing PC Solemn about everything. When did it start? How did it start? How many students were inside? Where are they now? I’d have gotten more sense out of Fred and Wilma, my kittens back at Greystones. He was quite deadpan, and totally tight lipped. Always the same answer, whatever the question. “I’m sorry, Miss, I have no information I can share with you at this time.”
    Sure enough, reinforcements are not long in arriving. The police patrol car pulls up behind my Clio within a few minutes, and two uniformed officers swagger in my direction. I suddenly have a really bad feeling. I’m a victim, surely. My property has been attacked in some sort of as yet unspecified crime. So how come they’re looking at me like something usually encountered at the bottom of a pond?
    “Miss Spencer?” The first officer, a tall, stocky chap plants himself in front of me, his thumbs hooked in his ant-stab jacket and his tone definitely aggressive as he regards me down his nose.
    His companion, smaller, less imposing but somewhat brighter looking if you were to ask me, is tugging his notebook out of one of his many pockets. My first reaction is just to stare at them. I know a bully when I see one. Two even. And for the life in me I can’t fathom out why they’re picking on me.
    “Yes, I’m Sharon Spencer. Except I’m not, not any more. I’m Ashley McAllister now. I changed my name.”
    “Oh. And why would you want to do that then, Miss Spencer?”
    “McAllister. It’s Miss McAllister now.” Assertive, that’s what’s needed, I tell myself. Polite but firm.
    “I see. So, Miss Spencer, are you the owner of these premises?”
    I grit my teeth, decide to let it go, for now. My instinct tells me I need to pick my battles carefully. “Yes, I told this officer”—I gesture toward my dear friend PC Solemn—“it was my mother’s house, and now it’s mine.