Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (16 page)

Lifting the police cordon, he entered the site, his boots crunching satisfyingly on the charred bits of wood that littered the former showroom. Just a day ago, this place had been a popular destination for couples and families seeking a new sofa, dining table or king-size bed. The guys who ran this place must have been making money hand over fist, but not any more. The vast building had gone up in flames and in the early hours of this morning the roof had eventually come down – the final majestic act of destruction ensuring that everything below would be consumed as well.

He had chosen his moment carefully. Deborah Parks had left the site rather suddenly following a phone call and the rest of her team had taken advantage of this to nip off for a cup of tea. There was only one uniformed police officer and he was soon talked round. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

He felt his heart beating faster as he made his way across the deserted space. It looked otherworldly, like a scene of devastation on another planet – you seldom got to see fires on this scale. Pulling the camera from his bag, he executed a slow pan. Right to left, then back again, slow and steady, missing nothing.

Clicking it off, he stowed it back in his bag and pulled a bin liner from his pocket. Encasing his hands in sterile
gloves, he bent down, sifting through the burnt detritus on the surface, looking for the good stuff. Truth be told, it wasn’t such fertile ground as a domestic property, with all the family photos and trinkets, but these larger sites could sometimes surprise you and it obliged now. Buried beneath the ash and protected by a solid metal door were the remnants of a banner poster, advertising a recent flash sale. You could still make out ‘Everything must go’ plumb in the centre. He liked that, given the context, and slipped it quickly in his bag.

‘Can I help you?’

He hadn’t heard anyone approaching and froze momentarily – his adrenaline spiking – before he gathered himself and rose to face his interrogator. It was one of Parks’s crew – where the bloody hell had he sprung from?

‘This is a sealed site. Members of the public are not allowed in here.’

‘It’s ok, mate,’ he replied calmly. ‘I’m the advance guard. I was told you needed some help, shifting fire-damaged obstacles.’

‘And you are?’

‘Hants Fire and Rescue,’ he said confidently, holding up his ID for inspection. ‘It’s supposed to be my day off, but you know firemen …’ He paused briefly before concluding:

‘We’re always happy to help.’

He’d visited this place a dozen times and it was fast becoming his own personal Hell. Initially he had hoped it might be a sanctuary – somewhere to get a moment’s respite from the horror of everyday life. Later still, he’d imagined it might be the place to buy something nice for Luke, a token of some kind that would offset the terrible guilt he felt about his many failings as a dad. But it was none of these things. It was just a simple shop, staffed by hospital volunteers, and as he stood still, staring at the modest selection of chocolate bars in front of him, he felt so empty, so helpless that for a second he thought he might cry.

‘I wouldn’t buy the chocolate from here, it’s always past its sell-by date,’ a voice next to him whispered. Thomas Simms turned to find a young woman next to him, clutching a copy of
Grazia
. She had nice eyes and a pleasant smile but the historic scarring down one side of her face was what really grabbed your attention. She was probably a patient-turned-volunteer and Thomas was struck by the serendipity of this moment. Here he was, lost in self-pitying introspection, forgetful of the fact that everyone suffers and somehow they get through it.

‘I’m Emilia,’ the woman said, extending her hand.

‘Thomas,’ he replied, shaking hers. Oddly her name
seemed to fit her perfectly, as if that was what he’d been expecting her to say. Did he recognize her from somewhere?

‘Do you have a minute to talk?’ she continued, her smile never faltering as she subtly changed tack.

‘You’re a journalist?’ he replied sharply, removing his hand from hers.

‘Emilia Garanita,
Southampton Evening News
.’

‘Look, I know you’re doing your job but I’ve said everything I’m going to say. We’ve issued a statement this morning asking for some space –’

‘I respect that, Thomas. As you can see, I’ve had troubles of my own. I know what it feels like when life stabs you in the back. I’ve no interest in making your life harder.’

‘I wish I could believe that –’

‘In fact, I’d like to help you.’

Thomas paused for the first time in their conversation. He could usually tell when people were beaten. He’d knocked back dozens of journalists and ghouls in the last couple of days. But this one looked utterly unrepentant and totally confident, as if she
did
have something up her sleeve.

‘There have been some developments. In my experience the FLOs are terrible at keeping the family informed of these things, they don’t tell you a single thing until it’s all done and dusted and tied up with a bow on top. Which is fine – they’re covering their arse – but it doesn’t help you or Luke or Alice. You need to know
now
. It’s the not knowing that’s torture, right?’

Thomas said nothing. His first instinct had been to tell her to go to Hell, but now he wasn’t so sure.

‘So I am very willing to help you. I’d like to
help
you. But I need something in return.’

Thomas suddenly felt his temper flare again. What the hell was he doing bartering with a bloody journalist in a hospital shop. His son was waiting for him upstairs. His daughter was still fighting for her life. What was he doing
here
? Sensing his anger, his pursuer reached out her hand and laid it on his arm, gently arresting his departure.

‘They are going to arrest a firefighter. One of Hampshire’s own,’ she whispered, looking him dead in the eye. Thomas suddenly felt breathless and dizzy. He had wanted the police to make progress desperately, but now a part of him wanted it all just to go away. He was scared to think what the next chapter of their life might hold.

‘I can’t give you his name yet, but I should know more in the next twenty-four hours. I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you as soon as I have it, I swear. Unlike the police, I’ll hide nothing from you.’

Thomas looked at her, but didn’t know what to say. Should he believe her?

‘A witness saw the suspect running from the scene of last night’s fire and picked out the crest of the Hants Fire Service tattooed on his arm. I can give you her name too, if you want.’

But she wouldn’t give it yet – that was clear. Thomas hung his head and once more tears threatened. Everything was telling him not to do this, not to get caught up
in this game, but how could he brush her off and go back upstairs now? Knowing that she knew more about his wife’s killer than he did. So after a long pause, he raised his head, looked her dead in the eye and said:

‘What do you want?’

‘Simon Duggan wouldn’t have the brains for it. You can definitely rule him out.’

‘How certain are you?’ Helen responded. They had already ruled out three possibles – Duggan was the fourth that seemed to be going the same way – and they were fast running out of options.

‘Look, I know he fits the profile. Bit of a loner, lives at home with his mum and so forth, but he’s a follower. He wouldn’t go to the toilet without someone’s permission. He doesn’t have the nerve or intelligence to pull off something on this scale, nor does he have the anger. He’s a simple soul.’

‘Ok, what about Martin Hughes?’ Helen replied, trying to keep the strain out of her voice.

For the first time, Deborah paused. She rolled this possibility round her brain a few times, then said:

‘Better, but still not right.’

‘How so?’

‘He’s quick to anger and has fallen out with pretty much everyone at one time or another. It’s cost him career-wise, no question, younger guys have progressed faster than he has, he’s divorced …’

‘All of which fits the profile,’ Helen said.

‘But he’s not a young man –’

‘Profiles are just guides, they’re not blueprints.’

‘And he loves his family. They may have split up, but he still loves his ex to bits and dotes on his son. He’s a fuck-up for sure, but his temper blows out as quickly as it comes and the rest of the time he’s a pretty sound bloke. I’m sorry, Helen, but I just can’t see it.’

‘Which leaves Richard Ford,’ Helen replied, more in hope than expectation. But this time, there was genuine hesitation from Deborah. Prior to this, she’d been assertive, confident even, knocking back Helen’s suspicions about her colleagues. But now she seemed troubled.

‘Talk to me, Deborah. What’s he like?’

‘I don’t really know him that well …’ she answered.

‘But what you do know gives you doubts?’ Helen asked. She didn’t want to lead Deborah to any conclusions, but she had something for her here – Helen was sure of it.

‘Yes,’ she eventually said. ‘He’s one of those guys that as a woman you just steer clear of. Something about the way he looks at you. Like you’re some sort of foreign species.’

‘Does he have friends?’

‘Not within the team. He avoids crowds, pubs, that kind of thing. He doesn’t take part in all the usual macho posturing you get from fire guys, he doesn’t really take part in anything at work, except … work.’

‘How long’s he been working for the Fire and Rescue service?’

‘Since leaving school, I think.’

‘Does he have a tattoo – with the Hants Fire crest?’

‘Sure – a lot of the guys do.’

‘Is he a hard worker?’

‘Very. Happy to come in on his days off to help out. I don’t think he has a girlfriend.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘What about family?’

‘He’s never mentioned anyone. He’s a loner. New guys try to engage with him, then give up after a while. That’s the way he wants it, so …’

‘And if he’s so diligent and experienced, why is he still at a relatively junior rank?’

‘Can’t do the exams. He’s great on all the practical stuff, but the theory, the homework … And as for his interview technique …’

‘Has he been passed over for promotion?’

Another moment of hesitation, then:

‘Yes. He failed his fire sergeant’s interview for the third time recently. Which means … that he can’t apply again.’

Helen tried to suppress the excitement growing within her, as she asked the next question.

‘And when was this?’

All Deborah’s confidence – her resistance – seemed to have deserted now as she replied.

‘A month ago.’

Helen marched away from the café, her phone clamped to her ear. As soon as Sanderson answered, she launched in without introduction.

‘We need to check out Richard Ford. Who was doing the initial chat with him?’

There was the briefest intake of breath from Sanderson, before she replied.

‘Charlie. She’s with him right now.’

Something was wrong in this house. Charlie had felt it the moment she stepped inside. Everything was in the right place, there were no obvious signs of anything amiss, but the whole place felt unused, like a museum. It looked – and smelt – stale.

Richard Ford had been less than pleased to find Charlie waiting for him on his doorstep. He had been helping out at one of the fire sites, he’d told her, shifting some of the detritus, so the arson team could do their work. He was dirty and sweaty and stank of smoke – clearly he had been looking forward to getting a shower. But instead he found himself answering the gentle questions of a DC, probing him about his work patterns and movements over the last couple of days. Charlie didn’t blame him for being irritated and yet that wasn’t quite it. He seemed to be giving off something else. Suspicion? Anxiety? Something else? Charlie couldn’t put her finger on it.

He’d been carrying a black bin liner, which he made no reference to, stowing it in the hall cupboard, before shepherding Charlie into the old kitchen. He’d put the kettle on for tea, but it laboured to work up a head of steam. It was as if everything was slightly
off
here – the slow tick-tock of the dusty carriage clock on the mantelpiece giving the dated kitchen the washed-out feel of yesteryear.

‘Do you live alone?’ she asked.

‘Yup. Mum died a few years back. Got a sister, but she didn’t want any of this,’ he replied gesturing to the house. ‘She emigrated to Oz.’

Charlie could hardly blame her. As Ford now made the tea in what looked very much like two dirty cups, Charlie’s eye ran over the Hants Fire and Rescue tattoo that graced his left bicep. The sight set her nerves jangling, but when Ford turned to her, Charlie was all smiles once more.

‘And last night you were home alone?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You didn’t go out at any time? To the shops? Anything?’

‘No. Why?’

‘These are just standard questions. We’ve been asked to verify the movements of everyone on the fire team … So what about Tuesday night? The night of the first fires –’

But Charlie got no further. Her mobile rang out, disturbing the eerie quiet of the house.

‘I’d better take this. Sorry,’ Charlie said as she hurried out into the hall. Ford watched her go, seemingly neither surprised by nor interested in her sudden departure.

‘Charlie Brooks,’ she said cheerily, as she scuttled into the small parlour opposite. It was even more forgotten than the kitchen, and Charlie’s eyes flicked over the dusty surfaces, as Helen filled her in on the latest developments. Charlie responded steadily, giving affirmatives where necessary, keeping calm, but she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck starting to rise. When she rang off, she hesitated for a moment to quieten her breathing. If
she played it cool, this would probably work out fine. Helen was on her way, so summoning up her courage, Charlie marched back into the kitchen.

‘Sorry about that. Normal nonsense about being in two places at –’

Then Charlie stopped dead. Richard Ford was nowhere to be seen.