Free Bleed for Me by Michael Robotham Page A

It’s a nice thought, if hopelessly optimistic.
    At five o’clock I turn on the news. A blonde newsreader with Bambi eyes stares unblinkingly from the screen.
    A fire investigator today described how he found five bodies in a Bristol boarding house, three of them children, all belonging to the same family of asylum seekers.
    The camera cuts to an equal y wel -groomed reporter, struggling to record a piece to camera as the wind tosses her hair.
    Giving evidence at a murder trial at Bristol Crown Court, Fire Officer Jim Sherman told the jury that the house was well alight by the time the first fire crews arrived at the scene.
    The family, who were all sleeping upstairs, were trapped by the blaze, except for Marco Kostin, aged eighteen, who managed to climb out of a second-floor window and jump to safety.
    Fire officers discovered traces of petrol in the downstairs hallway of the house and evidence that a fuel-filled bottle had been thrown through the front window.
    The footage changes and reveals police manning barricades and forcing back protesters outside the court.
    Amid extraordinary security, the three accused arrived at the court this morning where they were heckled by protesters and cheered by supporters. British National Party candidate Novak Brennan waved briefly to the crowd as he and his fellow accused, Tony Scott and Gary Dobson, were led into court. Scott and Dobson are former BNP activists with links to neo-Nazi organisations. All have pleaded not guilty to charges of murder and conspiracy to commit arson with the intent to endanger life.

    Emma wants to watch something else because this is ‘boring’.
    ‘You might see Mummy,’ I tel her.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘She was there today.’
    Her brow creases and she concentrates on the TV for twenty seconds, before announcing, ‘Nope, I can’t see her.’
    Losing interest, she tries to wake Strawberry, who is curled up on a chair.
    Charlie should be home. I try to cal her mobile but get her voicemail. Perhaps she missed the bus.
    When the phone rings I’m sure it’s her. Instead a male voice asks for ‘Charlotte’s father’.
    My insides seem to liquefy. Nobody ever cal s her Charlotte. He’s a constable from Bath Police Station and he begins explaining that Charlie has been arrested for assaulting a minicab driver and failing to pay a fare.
    ‘There must be some mistake. She’s on her way home from school.’
    ‘I’m holding her student card.’ He reads her ful name.
    The rushing sound in my ears is partly relief. Mistakes can be rectified. At least she’s safe.
    ‘Where are we going?’ asks Emma.
    ‘To pick up Charlie.’
    I put a coat over her Snow White dress and lace up her boots. I look at my watch. Julianne should be here soon. I decide not to cal her.
    Bath Police Station is in Manvers Street, just up from the railway station. It takes fifteen minutes to drive, during which I have to field Emma’s questions, wishing somebody could answer mine. What on earth was Charlie doing?
    I find her slouching on a plastic chair in the custody suite, schoolbag between her knees. The only other person in the room is a middle-aged Indian man holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose.
    Charlie looks at me briefly and lowers her eyes to her scuffed shoes. She’s been crying, but the overriding emotion is frustration rather than sorrow.
    ‘What happened?’
    Her answer comes in a rush.
    ‘I was going to see Sienna, but I didn’t have enough money. I thought I did, but it cost too much. And then he got angry.’ She points to the Sikh cab driver. ‘I was three pounds short.
    Three lousy pounds. I said I’d get him the money. I gave him my phone number. My address. But he wouldn’t let me go.’
    The driver interrupts. ‘She cal ed me a Paki bastard. Such a foul-mouthed girl. Truly terrible.’ His head wobbles.
    ‘He had his hands al over me!’
    ‘She broke my nose!’
    ‘I hardly touched him.’
    ‘She’s a thug.’
    ‘And you’re a pervert!’
    A