Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (13 page)

All around him people were screaming and crying. ‘There’s someone in there, there’s someone in there,’ a woman shrieked nearby, as if the repetition of the bloody obvious could somehow affect her rescue. Satisfyingly, her bleating was suddenly cut short by a huge boom, as the front bedroom flashed over, blasting the main window from its casing and sending hot splinters of glass flying towards the crowd. Many present now turned and ran, bumping into him and disturbing his framing. That had pissed him off. Up until then, his recording had been perfect.

Watching the footage from last night’s fires was proving to be a pleasurable experience. He had over an hour’s worth of material from each fire and over time he would edit them into tight, dramatic narratives. But for now he was content to enjoy the raw, uncut recordings.

He had had a busy night, so could afford himself a little R’n’R now. He’d returned home just after midnight and, having changed his clothes and picked up the camera, went straight out again. Meticulous as always, he visited the sites in order, culminating with the smoking house in Bevois Mount. He had lingered there the longest, drinking in the reactions of the shocked neighbours, enjoying the moment.

As dawn broke, he’d chanced his arm. The fire crew
had done all they could do – it was the arson investigator’s scene now – and they departed in short order. The site was roped off and a uniformed police officer was standing guard, but there were enough local gossips and journalists to distract him, so slipping round the back, he vaulted the fence and approached the back of the house.

It was a stupid, reckless thing to do, but somehow he knew he wouldn’t get caught. He’d filmed his approach. It looked like a trick from a cheap horror film and he smiled now as he watched it back. Teasing the fire-damaged back door open, he’d slipped inside.

He knew that Deborah Parks would be on site first thing, so pocketing the camera, he’d set to work, searching for suitable souvenirs. He could hear the chatter at the front of the house. The earnest enquiries of local residents, the pushy questions from the hacks and the self-important PC ordering them to move back. Walking through the living room, he found only devastation, so darting across the hall, he investigated the box room-cum-study.

There had obviously been piles of stuff stored in here – he could see the charred remnants of cardboard boxes – which provided the spreading fire with plenty of fuel. Fortunately – depending on your point of view – the linoleum floor in the hall had delayed the fire reaching this room and the firefighters had managed to extinguish the blaze before the whole room went up. The trinkets of a life half lived now littered this small space and, among the burnt manuals, books and shoeboxes, he’d found a framed photo. The glass was cracked and black with soot, the metal frame bent and awkward, but the photo inside
had survived. Burnt at the edges and buckled with the heat, but you could still make out mother and son smiling awkwardly at the camera. Slipping it into his rucksack he hurried out and across the hall. He’d paused briefly as he departed. There was something strangely moving about standing in the smouldering ruins of the house. Smoke and steam still rose from the floor – hence the need for his work boots – and the whole place reeked of fire. Breathing in the sharp odour one last time, he’d turned and headed for the back door.

The footage was coming to an end now, but his pleasure was not. So flipping the footage back to the start, he settled back in his easy chair, undid his fly and slipped his hand inside his trousers.

‘Do you have
any
leads?’

Detective Superintendent Jonathan Gardam had not met Emilia Garanita before. But he had heard a lot about her. Helen Grace had given him chapter and verse, as had Hampshire Fire and Rescue’s Chief Officer, Adam Latham, who now sat beside him, fielding questions from the press. The major tabloids were represented at their briefing today, but Emilia Garanita was not going to let them bully her or hold her back. Watching her as she tried to lead the questioning, Gardam had the distinct impression that this represented an opportunity for the ambitious young journalist to shine on a bigger stage.

‘Are you making any progress?’ Garanita persisted. Gardam paused, taking a moment to drink in all the small details of this local curiosity – the facial scarring, the dyed hair, the fuck-you attitude – before replying:

‘DI Grace and her team are pursuing a number of leads and we have pulled in every officer available to help with our enquiries. There is currently a greater police presence on the street than at any time in the last five years.’

Gardam let this register. He wanted every journalist to note this surge in manpower. Moreover, he wanted their arsonist to take heed of this when it was reported later today. When you’re struggling for concrete leads,
prevention is often as good as detection. He wanted to make the arsonist think twice before carrying out further attacks.

‘And we’re confident that progress in the investigation
will
be swift. Alongside this, we have been liaising with our colleagues in the Fire and Rescue Service who have now drafted in extra fire response vehicles as well as additional firefighters from neighbouring forces.’

‘We are now confident,’ Adam Latham added, overlapping with his police colleague, ‘that we can deal with any emergency quickly and effectively, however complicated the situation may be.’

Another tacit warning to the arsonist. They had more police, more firefighters, more resources. Diversionary fires would be of little help to him now. Privately Gardam wondered how he would react to this challenge. Would he back down or respond in kind – upping his game as they upped theirs?

‘I’ll ask the question again – do you have any suspects?’

Garanita was a dog with a bone, revelling in her self-appointed duty of holding the police to account. Gardam had heard that the
Southampton Evening News
had been going gently on them for a while – thanks in part to a temporary truce between Garanita and Helen Grace – but that respite appeared to be over now, as Southampton’s pre-eminent crime reporter sniffed a juicy new story.

‘There are several persons of interest whom we are trying to trace, but chief among them is a man seen running from the scene of the Bevois Mount house fire at around eleven twenty-five p.m. last night. You are being handed
printed images of the CCTV still now and we would urge your readers, your viewers, to take a good look at it. Do they recognize this man? If so, we would ask them to get in touch via the special incident hotline, which is manned twenty-four hours a day, so we can eliminate him from our enquiries. In the meantime, I would ask the public to remain calm and take sensible precautions, especially after dark.’

‘So lock your doors and sit tight. Is that the best you can do?’

‘It’s the
sensible
thing to do. I appreciate that these attacks have caused alarm, but the best thing the public can do is be vigilant, be sensible and let us go about our business.’

‘In the police we trust?’

‘Exactly, Emilia. As you know, DI Grace has an exemplary record in running investigations of this scale and complexity. And I have every confidence in her,’ Gardam responded forcefully, pausing a little for effect before concluding:

‘She’s delivered before and I’m sure she’ll do so again.’

Enveloped in a sterile suit, Helen climbed the ladder to the first floor. The fabric of the house was so unstable that a temporary scaffold and gantry had been erected to help the fire investigation officers navigate the gutted property safely. Cresting the ladder, Helen found Deborah Parks already hard at work in what had once been the master bedroom. It was a profoundly depressing site – the place looked like it had been bombed – and Helen’s feelings of anxiety were only amplified by the insistent thrumming noise of the plastic sheeting which now covered the shattered main window. The wind was strong today, rattling the temporary covering vigorously and ensuring that everyone working on site was chilled to the bone. Last night temperatures in here would have topped 600 degrees Celsius, now it was touching freezing.

Swallowing down her anxiety, Helen navigated her way along the walkway of planks towards Deborah. The Fire Investigation Officer rose as she approached, nodding soberly at her. Deborah was a scientist first and foremost, but she was also a mum to three boys and Helen knew from experience that she always felt the human cost of the tragedies she investigated. In many ways their lives were pretty similar – both spent their working lives immersed in the worst things that human beings could imagine or endure.

‘Your victim was found here, bang in the middle of the room. It’s very likely the smoke and the panic got to her and she just froze. You often see that in these situations. House fires are things that happen to
other
people. When it happens to you, people lose their wits, their sense of direction, everything.’

‘It must have been terrifying.’

‘The smoke would have been so thick in here that she wouldn’t have known which way was up.’

It was a horrific way to die. Terror, confusion and horror all colliding at the same time. Was this what their killer intended?

‘Any thoughts on why her body was so …’ Helen paused, not quite finding the appropriate word.

‘Carbonized?’

Helen smiled a brief thanks. It was hard to put into words what Denise’s body had looked like.

‘Oxygen basically,’ Deborah Parks continued. ‘There are massive scorch marks around the border of the bedroom door. The fire was started downstairs, rising upwards, consuming whatever it could. It met an obstacle at the door, which is solid and fire-resistant to a basic level. The heat built up –’

‘And then Denise opened the door as she tried to escape?’ Helen asked.

‘Probably. The frustrated fire would have gobbled up the fresh oxygen in the bedroom – these marks here show how the fire literally exploded into the new space.’

Deborah pointed to a number of long, livid scorch marks across the ceiling.

‘Denise may or may not have regained consciousness
after that initial explosion. Either way, if she was motionless in the middle of the room, the fire would have consumed her, setting light to her nightclothes, her hair … If she was still conscious at this point, her body would have gone into a massive state of shock. Cardiac arrest, smoke inhalation, there are many things that might have spared her the worst.’

‘Please God.’

Deborah was already making her way across the gantry and down the ladder to the ground floor. Helen was glad of a moment’s respite from this narrative of destruction. She was used to being at crime scenes, of seeing unspeakable things, but this was different to anything she’d experienced before. Denise Roberts’s attacker was not human and there was no opportunity to escape, defend herself or fight back, as there would have been in a common murder scenario. Hers was an enemy that could not be beaten. Helen, who feared nobody, shivered slightly at the thought of what Denise had faced last night.

Descending the ladder, Helen found Deborah Parks crouching down by the bottom of the stairs. Helen joined her.

‘Your arsonist’s MO is pretty similar,’ Deborah outlined. ‘You can smell the paraffin for yourself and I found a charred packet of Marlboro Gold here. There’s no understairs cupboard, so the arsonist went directly for the stairs themselves, soaking the bottom three steps in paraffin before presumably lighting the delay device and leaving.’

Helen nodded, then said:

‘What are these things here?’

She was pointing at a handful of numbered forensic markers laid out by Deborah around the foot of the stairs.

‘Sodium flares,’ Deborah replied.

‘Matches?’ Helen queried.

‘Exactly. I’d expect to find them on the bottom step, where the delay timer was positioned, but there seem to have been a number of other matches scattered around the base of the stairs and on the floor.’

‘Was that to amplify the spread of the initial fire?’

‘Unlikely. There would be no point putting matches on carpet already soaked in paraffin – our arsonist would know that.’

‘So he or she was just clumsy?’

‘Or in a hurry. We think of these guys as being ice-cool, but they are human beings. Their victim was asleep upstairs but could have woken up at any moment. The arsonist would have wanted to be in and out of the house as soon as possible and when you rush …’

Helen nodded. It was a disturbingly human moment in the midst of a horribly premeditated crime.

‘Other than that it’s pretty much a carbon copy of Tuesday night’s fires. There’s more work to do, but I’m ninety-nine per cent certain it’s the same perpetrator.’

‘Any idea how they gained access?’

‘Looks likely it was via the back door. The front door had the chain on and as yet I’ve found no broken windows or other obvious means of access. The back door was unlocked when we arrived. You’d have to ask family members if the back door was left unlocked as a rule –’

‘Or whether someone unlocked it on their way out.’

If the fire had been started by whoever shared Denise’s
bed last night, then it would make sense that he would exit via the more hidden back door to effect his escape. But they were still no nearer finding her mystery lover, so it was all supposition. Perhaps she was just careless of domestic security? Or perhaps just this one time she forgot?

‘Anything else that leaps out at you?’ Helen said, as she made her way to the back door.

‘Nothing tangible yet in terms of our perpetrator. The safety boys putting up the scaffolding disturbed the site anyway, so it would be hard to prove in court that any evidence hadn’t been cross-contaminated or brought in by them.’

Helen swore – that was all they needed.

‘My feelings exactly,’ Deborah returned before moving off to continue her work. ‘I’ll call you when I’m done.’

Helen thanked Deborah and went out through the back door. She did a quick tour of the garden, but, finding nothing of interest on the hard ground, turned to look back at the house. She shivered as she took it in – a modest, family home had been desecrated by fire, turned into a grim curiosity for local youths who lined the streets now, camera phones raised in approval. Denise Roberts hadn’t had many breaks in life, but the cruellest blow had been saved for the very end.

There was only one, tiny glimmer of light in this whole awful story. She had argued with her son and had probably regretted it subsequently, as parents were wont to do. But in doing so she had done him the greatest service a mother can do for her child. She had booted him out of the house to serve her own interests last night, but in doing so she had ended up saving his life.