Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (10 page)

Callum Roberts took a big drag, inhaling the smoke slowly and letting it hang in his mouth, before exhaling. He felt the rush immediately and drew heavily on the joint again, before offering it to Dave, who was waiting impatiently for it. As his friend reached over to take it, Callum pulled it away again, having one last toke from it and earning himself a punch on the shoulder for his cheek.

Slowly his mood was lifting. He hated it when his mum had that man over. It was bad enough just thinking about what they got up to. It was even worse having to listen to it through the paper-thin walls. His own mother giving it away to someone who wouldn’t hang around once he’d got what he came for. Callum could always tell when her date nights were coming up – a sudden burst of cheerfulness, followed by steadily rising anxiety as the day approached, punctuated all the while by endless trips to buy perfume, dresses, new underwear. The whole thing made him sick to the stomach.

Marching to the fridge, Callum pulled out a can of beer and drank half of it down in one go. He always made himself scarce when his mum had company, seeking refuge with whichever of his mates would have him. As it turned out, Dave’s parents were away for the night, meaning Callum could stay over without having to face their sly looks
and whispered, disapproving comments. Strange really how Dave could be so sound, yet they were such total dicks.

Quite a few people had come round to Dave’s now, word having spread of an impromptu party. With the new arrivals had come booze, dope and more besides, all of which Callum helped himself to, despite the fact that he had arrived empty-handed. To his mind, he deserved it after his shitty day.

He felt pleasantly light-headed as he made his way across the room towards the balcony. Dave lived on the top floor of a sixties apartment block. All the flats here were originally council-owned, but were later snapped up by smug homemakers like Dave’s folks. Now they were pretty plush and every flat came with a small balcony, commanding decent views over Southampton.

From across the room, Callum spotted the pretty blonde again – what was her name? Kerry? Carrie? She had been round Dave’s on previous occasions and, even though she was a stunner, she never seemed to have a boyfriend in tow. Callum had a mind to do something about that, given half a chance.

When he stepped out on to the balcony, he was immediately struck by the noise and energy of the banter – unusual for these potheads. He’d planned to sidle up to the blonde and get to work on her straight away, but everyone seemed to be staring out from the flat towards something that lay beyond. There was a definite charge and excitement to their chat and curiosity now got the better of Callum – he brushed past his intended target in the hope of getting a better view.

There was a fire. Smoke was billowing into the sky nearby, and if you stood on tiptoe, you could just make out the tops of the flames leaping into the night sky. Sirens could be heard in the distance and closer there was a strange buzz, as the fire drew local residents out on to the street. What was that buzz? Fear? Or excitement?

Already a disquieting thought was starting to arrow its way through Callum’s brain and he pushed his way further forward, straining to get a better sense of the exact location of the fire. He got a few muttered
Fuck’s sake
s from the people he barged aside, but he didn’t care. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead now, despite the bitter cold, as dread slowly crept over him.

He suddenly realized Dave was at his side – he too had been drawn out by the sight of the fire. And he seemed to echo Callum’s growing fears, as he turned hesitantly to his friend and muttered:

‘Looks like it’s over your neck of the woods, mate.’

A large crowd had gathered already and Helen had to shout to be heard, as she barged her way to the front. The burning house was a detached two up, two down on a run-down housing estate. The front garden wasn’t well kept and the house was little better. But whatever unsightliness it offered was now obscured – the whole house was ablaze, huge flames punching out of the shattered windows.

Helen had made it across town in record time, kicking herself all the way for taking her eye off the ball at such a crucial time. Her blood had run cold when Sanderson called her with the news – three more fires had broken out. Helen had detailed other officers to investigate the first two, a furniture showroom in Bitterne Park and an outdoor car park in Nicholstown, while she’d biked straight to the residential blaze in Bevois Mount. This was the third fire that had been called in and instinct drew Helen to it.

Firefighters were battling to get into the property, but the fire was at its peak now. Stalking round the house to see if the crews on the other side were faring any better, Helen was alarmed to see how completely the fire had taken hold. Cheap plywood walls, synthetic flooring, worn-down carpeting – the whole place was a fire hazard. Helen prayed that there was no one left inside it when it went up.

The firefighters at the back were having no more joy than their colleagues. They battled manfully, but it seemed hopeless and Helen could see the weariness on the faces of many of them – they probably hadn’t had any rest since last night’s fires.

Making her way back towards the uniformed officers who were keeping the crowd at bay, Helen’s mind turned on these latest disturbing developments. This was an impoverished part of Southampton – which could provide some sort of link to Gary Spence and the loan sharks who preyed on desperate people. The furniture showroom currently burning in Bitterne Park might also be connected if they had borrowed unwisely, but an outdoor car park? That would be council-owned and the cars there would presumably have been parked at random – no, that smacked of being a diversionary fire. Already Helen had a nasty feeling that both the larger fires were simply there to draw resources away from this smaller, potentially more catastrophic blaze.

‘We’ve got a name, ma’am,’ one of the uniformed officers was now saying.

‘Go on,’ Helen replied, snapping out of her thoughts.

‘The house is owned by a Denise Roberts, forty-two years old, single mother to a teenage boy, Callum Roberts. We know him – he’s got form for possession, a bit of shoplifting – but we’ve nothing on her. Just your average single mum.’

Helen thanked the officer and turned back to the house. If there was anyone in there, they stood little chance of survival. The fire had been going for thirty minutes or more now and still the fire crews hadn’t been able to gain access. It was a bleak scene to behold.

A second spate of arson attacks in twenty-four hours. It was bold to be sure, but did something else lie behind it? Was their arsonist on a mission? Did they feel compelled to start these fires? If not, why the hurry? What alarmed Helen most was the realization that the perpetrator of these attacks was committed, precise and well organized. The three fires were all in different parts of town, yet tightly timed to make fighting them near impossible. Whoever did this was intent on creating death and destruction on a scale Helen had never seen before.

It was as if they wanted to raze Southampton to the ground.

The heat was so intense, the smoke so dense, that for a brief moment Denise thought she had died and gone to Hell. Having blacked out as the wall of fire swept over her, she now came to on the floor, stunned, confused and ripped through with pain. But she was alive. Against the odds, she was still alive.

She tried to raise her head from the floor, but immediately felt so faint that she let it drop once more. What was happening? Where was Callum? Why wasn’t anyone coming to help her? Closing her eyes, she gingerly raised her head once more, working herself up on to her elbows. A wave of nausea swept over her, her vision swam, but she could support herself now and, feeling a little more confident, slowly opened her eyes.

Darkness surrounded her. It was as if she was at the centre of some terrible storm cloud that had blocked out the sun. Pushing herself up further, she looked around her, but she couldn’t find her bearings. Was she still in her bedroom? She assumed she was, but how could she tell?

Looking down, she could just make out that she was naked. Lifting her arm, she ran her hand over her body. There was no sign of her night clothes – they must have burnt clean off. Her skin felt mottled and unfamiliar and as she ran her fingers over her torso, caressing the fresh burns, a huge spasm of pain ran through her. This time
she was sick, bringing up the whole contents of her stomach on the floor next to her. It fizzed as it hit the surface.

Denise knew in that instant that she had to move. She was dying by degrees, her body slowly cooking, while her lungs filled with thick sooty smoke. Coughing violently, she brought up another heave of watery bile, then slowly, agonizingly, pushed herself up on to her knees. She had to get out. If not for herself, at least for Callum.

She reached out for something to support herself, but could find nothing. So closing her eyes, she willed herself upright and staggered forwards on to her feet. The searing heat immediately claimed her, crawling over her face, her neck, her hair. It was impossible to breathe up here – every second counted now – so she opened her eyes, searching for something familiar. The outline of the window, the door, anything to help her find a way out.

But she couldn’t see a single thing. The black smoke had consumed everything and she was lost in the centre of her own nightmare. She took three steps forward. The disintegrating boards groaned, her feet picked up fresh blisters with each painful step but on she went. One step, two, three. Her arms swung around wildly expecting – hoping – to connect with something solid, something familiar. But she found only smoke.

Crying now, she turned and went hard the other way. Surely this must be right. Her right foot caught on something and she fell to one knee, but on she went, dragging herself up, driving herself forward. She cannoned off something solid and suddenly filled with hope ran her hands over the surface. Was it a door? A window? She scraped at it, but it came away in her hand. Clawing harder,
she now came up against solid brick. Jesus Christ, it was one of the walls. She was in the wrong place. The door must be …

She turned and moved randomly forward, no idea now which way was which. Her head swam wildly and she stumbled again. Which way was left? Which right? Which direction should she go in?

Denise stood still, paralysed by fear, as the fire raged around her and the smoke enveloped her. The decision she was about to make would either cost her her life or save it. So crying quietly and praying to God for help, she picked a direction, swallowed her fears and stumbled slowly forward.

Charlie clamped her hand over her mouth, as the bitter fumes filled her nose and throat. Instinctively she recoiled, struggling to breathe. She had never smelt anything like this before – and she hoped she never would have to again. Turning away quickly, she rejoined DI Sanderson, who was marshalling the uniformed officers, attempting to create a secure perimeter around the burning building. Above them a helicopter circled – it wasn’t one of theirs, so presumably was press, no doubt beaming live pictures into homes all round the country. Was this what their arsonist wanted? Charlie rather suspected it was.

This was the biggest blaze yet. A plush furniture showroom stocked to the rafters with foam-filled sofas, raffia tables, wooden dining tables and chairs – the fire wasn’t starved for fuel and the flames now leapt fifty, sixty feet into the air. You could tell from the firefighters’ body language that this was already about containment.

Set against the dark night sky, the fire was an awesome sight, towering over the ghouls who’d come to witness the excitement. Bitterne Park was a nondescript part of town with little to set the pulse racing, hence the heavy crowd of locals. Adults, teenagers, even little kids were braving the heat to take photos and videos, edging dangerously close to the blaze. What the hell were they thinking? Were they really that desperate for entertainment that they
would risk their lives and those of their children for a cheap thrill?

‘Back. I want everyone back,’ Charlie barked loudly, corralling the uniformed officers to push the throng away, scooping up any daredevils who seemed minded to ignore their advice. ‘It’s not safe for you here. Move back, back, back.’ Police tape was now being rolled out and looped around the site, distancing the public from the blaze, but Charlie wouldn’t put it past some of them to sneak under it and chance their arm once more. What was it with modern folk that everything – however unpleasant and depressing – has to be recorded and repackaged for others on social media? Charlie had no doubt that Twitter and Instagram would be going nuts tonight, ordinary punters snatching a bit of reflected glory from the arsonist’s work.

Charlie walked the perimeter, her eyes flitting over the faces in front of her. Many were openly awestruck, others were joking and laughing, but hardly a single person there didn’t have some kind of recording device. Were they all there for the fun of it or was there someone among them with more malign intent? Was one of these onlookers responsible for all this? On and on she went, looking for signs of guilt, but she knew she was looking for a needle in a haystack. Even if she alighted on someone who was unnaturally excited by the blaze, that didn’t necessarily prefigure guilt and, besides, something told Charlie that their perpetrator was far too clever and cautious to be caught out so easily.

To her surprise, Charlie now felt an icy chill crawl up her neck. The wind had changed direction and was
growing in strength, fanning the flames of the burning superstore. Acrid, green fumes now billowed towards the crowd, stinging eyes and throats as they swept over the onlookers. Suddenly Charlie picked out Sanderson racing towards her.

‘We need to get everyone out of here,’ she half gasped as she gestured to uniform to push the crowd back still further. ‘I need a loudhailer. Has anyone got a loudhailer?’ she shouted half to Charlie, half to the assembled officers.

‘What’s going on?’ Charlie replied, suddenly alarmed.

‘Polyurethane foam in the sofas. When it burns it creates cyanide oxide. These fumes are bloody poisonous. They can’t stay here,’ she continued, gesturing at the crowds, ‘and neither can we.’

Clamping her scarf over her mouth, Charlie surged towards the crowd, grabbing recalcitrant kids by the arms as she went. Strange to think that a few hours ago she was at home, safe and sound with Jessica, and now here she was, hauling small children and grown men to safety in the shadow of an inferno. Suddenly energized, Charlie now took the lead, marshalling her fellow officers, driving the onlookers away from the reach of the bitter fumes. It was punishing physical work, especially in such an unpleasant atmosphere. Was that the arsonist’s intention all along? To put police officers and firefighters in jeopardy even as they battled the flames? It was impossible to tell and there was no time to speculate now. So Charlie fought on, working tirelessly to save the people she was bound to protect, all the while engulfed by the toxic cloud of death.