Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (21 page)

‘I can’t do anything with her.’

Steve let Helen in, shutting the front door quietly behind her. Jessica was asleep and the last thing they needed now was an inconsolable toddler.

‘I’ve tried to talk to her. To get her to eat something, but …’

‘It’s ok. I’ll take it from here.’ Helen laid a comforting arm on his shoulder and quietly mounted the stairs.

Helen had been to Charlie’s house many times and knew exactly where to go. Ford had been released and had an eight-strong team tracking his every move, so once Helen had checked in with Meredith Walker, her first thought had been for Charlie. She had been keeping a close eye on the Simms family and, knowing her, would take the little girl’s death harder than most.

Charlie was lying on the bed with her face to the wall. She stirred briefly as Helen entered and, on realizing it was her boss, smiled a brave but washed-out smile. Helen smiled back, sitting on the bed next to her and pushing the door to. The pair of them sat in darkness for a second. Helen sought the right words to begin, but before she could do so, Charlie blurted out:

‘I’m not sure I can do this any more. I don’t think I’ve got the strength.’

Tears threatened. Helen let her finish, then said:

‘You’ve had a shock today. We all have. It’s horrible, too horrible, what’s happened. And there’s nothing wrong with feeling like you’re feeling now.’

‘She was doing so well, I was so convinced she was going to make it … What’s going to happen to the rest of them now?’

‘They’ve got a very long road ahead of them,’ Helen agreed. ‘But they have each other. And things will never look as black for them as they do tonight.’

There was another pause, then Charlie said:

‘I really wanted to come back to work. I wanted to
contribute
, but I don’t think I’m up to it. I could just about handle what happened today, but this? I’m a bloody mess. I can’t bear it for them …’

‘I know.’

‘I came back too early. I’m not ready …’

‘Do you think you ever would be ready for something like this?’

It was a good question and for a moment Charlie said nothing.

‘You can’t prepare yourself for tragedies like this, nor is there an easy way to deal with them. I’d be very worried if you
were
able to just shrug them off.’

Charlie looked up at Helen as she continued:

‘You’re a good officer
because
you care Charlie, not in spite of it. You’re the most determined, committed, honest copper I know. You won’t believe me, I know, but you are and that is why whatever you feel now, you mustn’t give up. Because you’re going to be one of the best police officers this Force has seen.’

‘Please –’

‘I mean it, so cry your heart out, cry all night if you want to, but I want to see you back in tomorrow fighting fit. The Simms family will need you and we will need you if we’re going to get justice for them. We
have
to bring their killer to book now.’

Charlie lowered her head, but didn’t fight back.

‘So please don’t give up on me, Charlie.’

Luke Simms lay in bed, listening intently to the voices in the hall downstairs. He’d heard the key turn in the door, then earnest, fast conversation – he could tell by the deep tone of one of the voices that his father had returned from the hospital. He had rushed off there as soon as he got the call. None of them could believe the news and Luke knew that his father would have to see Alice before he could accept that it was true.

There was no way Luke could accompany him, so he’d had to stay where he was, laid up in his aunt’s spare room. Mary and her husband had popped in intermittently to check up on him and to offer him some consoling words, but they didn’t really know him and were tongue-tied anyway. So, after a while, he said he’d try to sleep and they’d left him alone.

But he couldn’t sleep of course. All he could think of was Alice. The games they used to play, the languages they invented, the way she used to fight dirty when they scrapped. She was so much younger than him but had always been mature beyond her years. She often came across as the more sensible of the two – the Grade A student to his football obsessive. She was also a brilliant manipulator, able to wrap their father round her little finger whenever she chose to. Luke had never had that gift and he envied her. For it was just him and his dad now.

He heard the landing creaking and immediately closed his eyes. Moments later, his door opened gently and he heard his father creep in. He had wanted his father to stay, so he could talk to him, be with him, but now he was back he suddenly felt overwhelmed with the misery of their situation. He didn’t want to add to his dad’s worries so, keeping his eyes closed, he pretended to sleep, working hard to calm his breathing to complete the fiction.

His father hovered above him, then suddenly leant in, planting a gentle kiss on Luke’s cheek.

‘Love you,’ he whispered, his voice quivering as he spoke.

He rose and Luke heard his footsteps receding as he crept from the room. His father hesitated in the doorway and Luke kept stock still, willing himself not to blow it now. Then his father pulled the door to and Luke was alone once more. He lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering if Alice was at peace.

As his thoughts turned on his beloved sister, he was startled by a new noise. Something he’d not heard before in his short life.

His father, in the room next door, crying his heart out.

Helen walked briskly away from Charlie’s house. She had left her old friend in a decent place, despite the traumas of the day. Charlie had agreed to rest up and think about things – Helen didn’t want her making any snap decisions that she would come to regret. It was very easy in the heat of the moment to make the wrong call. Better to sleep on it and come again at the problem the following day. Helen hoped she would return to help the team, but she couldn’t be sure. It was a long time since she’d seen Charlie as shaken as this.

It was all a far cry from the happiness that she, Steve and Helen too had enjoyed in their cosy family home. Jessica’s arrival had transformed all their lives and Helen had enjoyed her role as godparent. She didn’t really do the religious side of things – she had long since given up believing in anything like that – but she took the rest of her duties seriously – buying her toys and books and spoiling her with treats when her parents weren’t looking.

Helen had no children of her own, had never had younger siblings or nephews and nieces to care for and she had found it an oddly moving experience holding the tiny little girl in her arms. Helen had taken delight in watching Jessica blossom into a cheeky little girl, marvelling at her ability to walk and ‘talk’. Human beings really were little miracles when you thought about it. She had taken plenty of snaps of the growing girl, many of which
now decorated her flat, giving the formerly sterile space a sense of life and hope. But the joy they all felt towards her, towards life in general, had been tarnished by recent events. The death of little Alice would stay with them all for a long time.

A bitter wind was ripping through the city tonight and Helen realized she didn’t have her scarf. Charlie had given it to her this time last year and Helen was vexed now to think that she couldn’t remember where she’d left it. She’d kick herself if she’d lost it for good. She would need it in the days that lay ahead.

Southampton was now swathed in darkness. Night had settled upon it, bringing with it a distinct air of menace. Helen felt it keenly, as did the many officers who were out on the streets now, keeping a watchful eye for fresh trouble. Helen had pulled every uniformed officer back from leave and even requested auxiliary numbers from neighbouring Forces. Along with the extra fire service resources, it was a big show of strength and Helen hoped that it would be enough to prevent more devastation. Ford was under surveillance, the city was on red alert, everything should be ok.

So why did Helen feel so anxious? Under the cover of darkness, terrible things had happened. Three lives had been taken and many more touched by these awful fires and somehow Helen knew in her gut that it wouldn’t end here. Was she missing something? Was there more she could yet do? Helen sensed those familiar feelings creeping up on her again. She didn’t seem to be in control of this situation, she felt hopeless and helpless, and, in spite of everything she’d done, her instincts now told her that more people would die before this thing was over.

DC Lucas pulled up Google and typed in ‘Kardashian’. Immediately, dozens of links offered themselves, an endless array of portals inviting further dissection of the celebrity family. Lucas didn’t really do reality TV, nor was she a big Kanye West fan, but she thought this was a decent cover. She was dressed in casual clothes, hair down and untethered – she could pass as a bored, lonely twenty-something with nothing to do but stalk the rich and famous.

She had chosen her position in the café carefully. In the reflection of her screen, she could see Richard Ford at his terminal, tapping away intently. He had been here for a couple of hours now. Lucas, McAndrew and Edwards were in charge of surveillance and had done a decent job so far, dovetailing neatly as they rotated to avoid detection. Shapiro had dropped him off near his home in Midanbury, but as Ford turned the corner to his road, it became clear that going home was not a viable option. The police forensics team had departed, but a small knot of journalists were trawling the street, tapping up neighbours and searching for dirt – sent no doubt by Emilia Garanita, who had aggressively doorstepped Ford as he’d left Southampton Central earlier. Ford wisely thought better of another confrontation with the press and turned on his heel, walking straight past McAndrew, who carried
off her role well, seeming to struggle with heavy Lidl bags which were in fact full of empty cereal packets.

Ford didn’t seem to smell a rat and hurried away, ending up at Al’s Internet Shack ten minutes later. He had been holed up here ever since, barely moving from his seat. What was he up to? Why was he typing so furiously? What was he planning?

Lucas had been tempted on more than one occasion to get up and pass behind him. She couldn’t see his screen from her seated position – he had chosen a terminal in the far corner of the room – and would only be able to do so by inventing an excuse to pass by. But there was no toilet here, no drinks machine, nothing that could legitimately take her in his direction. She had considered talking to him – asking him for a pen – but had chickened out. If there was any hint in her manner that she was not what she seemed, if she gave herself away by even the briefest of glances at his screen, then she would have blown their cover. They had all worked too hard and too well for her to allow that to happen and, besides, she wouldn’t fancy facing DI Grace to explain that, so she stayed where she was, scrolling through yet more pictures of Kim Kardashian’s backside, wondering to herself what was going through the mind of Richard Ford.

Blog post by firstpersonsingular.

Thursday, 10 December, 21.00

When people come to judge me, they will see that none of this is my fault. Some people have addictive personalities. If you’ve experienced that sense of compulsion, you’ll know what I’m talking about. I’m not in control of this thing any more.

Just stop.

Well, I would, but that would hardly be fair. Who would I stop
for
? There’s no one out there who gives a shit and now that I’m on the side of the angels, why should I stop? Too much has already been done and the road ahead is long. There is so much more to do. It makes me feel funny just thinking about it.

More boots on the street. As if that can stop this thing. It just gives me more puppets to play with. Do you ever step outside yourself and look down? I do all the time. What do I see? Ants, loads of tiny little ants, scurrying around, crawling all over each other. Panic, panic, panic. And what do you do with ants? You tread on them. Tread on them until they don’t move any more.

I read an e-book recently called ‘Footprints in History’. By an American dude who took out his entire class with a Mac-10. He was a smart guy with a bitch of a mother and a dad who liked to hold his son’s head to the stove. They told him he was a worm, a germ, a piece of shit who should never have existed. But he did more than any of them. He did something, then wrote a book about it. He’s going to be as famous as Hitler or Jeffrey Dahmer.

I don’t have a book in me, not got the patience. And my hands get tired with all the typing. Perhaps I should get a speech recognition program??? I would but I can’t say out loud what I’m thinking. I’d say
LOL
if it wasn’t so dated. Anyway, I’m rambling now, so I’ll sign off. You can talk all you want, but it’s actions that count and I can’t sit here gossiping all day.

I have work to do.

‘So, what’s she like?’

‘Strange.’

‘Strange good or strange bad?’

Jonathan Gardam sat back in his chair and considered Sarah’s question. They had just finished a late dinner – an exquisitely prepared Dover sole – and were now working their way through what remained of the wine. This was their customary end-of-the-day routine – they weren’t great box set people, nor were they devotees of Facebook. They liked to sit and talk.

‘Good mostly. She’s very talented. Very committed and the most fearless officer I’ve met.’

‘Probably because she doesn’t have a family to go home to.’

‘Perhaps, but, whatever, it works.’

‘So why do you say she’s strange?’

‘Because she’s so hard to read. She’s a great team leader, good at inspiring the troops, but she’s determined to keep everyone at arm’s length.’

‘Some people are like that,’ Sarah said, shrugging.

‘But how does she do it? How does she take the hits and then go back to an empty flat?’

‘That’s for her to know. It’s not your place to ask.’

‘But I’m curious. I know
I
couldn’t do it. You need
someone to come home to, someone to change the mood music in your life, to distract you from yourself.’

‘You say the sweetest things, honey,’ Sarah mocked as she rose, taking their plates to the sink. ‘Now finish up that wine and come upstairs. I’m going to run a bath and there’s room for two if you’re interested …’

Jonathan did as he was told, placing his empty glass on the marble top. Upstairs, he could hear the hot water thundering into the tub and it made him think. Here he had warmth, love and more besides. Out there in the dark somewhere was Helen Grace. What did she have? Who did she have? How did she make her world work? Their discussion earlier had been embarrassing but also illuminating. Brilliant as she was, she was terribly alone and who could say what the eventual cost of that might be? He never felt paternalistic towards his staff but he did worry about
her
. She was the bedrock of Southampton Central, if she broke they would all suffer.

Sarah was calling for him now, so turning he headed upstairs. He wondered if Helen had ever enjoyed such simple pleasures. Who was out there for her?