Incinerator by Niall Leonard Page A

Apocalypse.
    “Do I know you?” Her voice was hard flinty South London.
    “Finn Maguire. We met at Nicky Hale’s office. I’m a client of hers. Trying to track her down.”
    “She’s not hiding out here, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    “I’m trying to get in touch with all her former clients.”
    I could see that she took me for an idiot, and would have shut the door except she was enjoying mocking me.
    “What, you trying to start some sort of protest group or something, to demand compensation?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “What, then?”
    “It’s a long story.”
    “Don’t have time for long stories, sorry.” She stood back to close the door without even the perfunctory smile the middle class give to doorsteppers they wish would drop dead.
    “I thought it might have something to do with that squatter,” I said.
    She held the door back an inch at the last second, looking alarmed and angry.
    “The one who died in that fire at your development,” I went on, though I guessed she’d known what I’d meant. “Or maybe the one who had his face burned off. I thought maybe someone was out for revenge.”
    Maybe she thought I was talking bull, but I could see her wondering if it was a good idea to turn me away without finding out what I knew.
    “What do you mean, revenge?”
    “Like I said, it’s a long story.”
    Bisham led me through a dim warren of hard-board partitions and peeling paint to a kitchen decorated with patches of damp and equipped with units so warped they no longer fitted. In her sharp slim business-like trouser suit she looked out of place, and I wondered how she kept up appearances while living in a house no self-respecting crack dealer would cook up his shit in.
    “Nice house. Lots of character,” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic, and failing.
    “It’s a dump,” said Bisham. “But once it’s been refurbished I should get more than I paid for it.” She lit a cigarette and leaned against the counter with her arms crossed over her bony chest. I was glad she didn’t offer me a drink, because I could see pellets of mouse shit on the corners of the worktop and I guessed there was plenty more in the cupboards, and on thecrockery, and in the kettle too by the looks of things. Maybe my place wasn’t so bad after all.
    “Yes, I’m sure it has a lot of potential.” I was trying to be polite but I thought I sounded like an estate agent, and Bisham seemed to think so too, and to hate estate agents as much as I did. “What were you saying about this dead squatter?” she demanded.
    I didn’t actually know where I was going with that so I didn’t answer it, although I could tell her patience was wearing thin. I nodded instead at a small camera perched on top of a cupboard, a single blue light glowing beside its lens. “I see you have a CCTV camera,” I said. “Is that in case of burglars?”
    “You see anything worth burgling?” She took a deep drag of her cigarette.
    “The camera?” I joked feebly.
    Bisham tapped her ash into the sink, stared coldly at me, and finally deigned to answer. “It’s my son’s. He put it up there so he can see when I’m in, and when his dinner’s ready. His room’s right at the top—saves me climbing five flights of stairs.”
    She had a son? “How old is he?” I was hopingsmall talk might warm Bisham up a bit—I always thought parents loved boasting about their children, or complaining about them, or both at the same time. But this one didn’t seem to.
    “I’m still waiting to hear this long story,” she said.
    “Did you know Nicky Hale was getting threatening messages?” I said. “Via email and Twitter?”
    Bisham’s dangly golden earrings jangled faintly when she shrugged. “She never said nothing to me. Was it something to do with my case?”
    “Hard to tell. They were mostly just threats.” Luridly descriptive and obscene threats, but I wasn’t going to go into detail. I had managed to read about fifty messages on