Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (28 page)

Helen and McAndrew were closeted away in Helen’s office, a list of dates and times in front of them. The door was closed, the blind down – this was a private conversation for now.

‘So I went back over the witness statements, the call operator logs, emergency service reports, and I found something interesting about the most recent fire. Agnieszka Jarosik crashed out on her sofa after a busy day’s work and while she was watching TV sent a few texts, posted a little on Facebook. The last text was sent at eleven fourteen p.m. The text looks genuine, so we can assume that she was still awake at that point. She probably fell asleep soon afterwards. Not long after that our arsonist entered the house.’

Helen nodded – so far nothing unexpected. They had found partial footprints outside the back door, but nothing that was of any tangible use.

‘Several people called the fire in. They were mostly neighbours who saw the smoke and flames and were worried that their own million-pound houses were about to go up.’

Helen let that one go – she knew McAndrew lived in a one-bed flat and was vocally bitter about it.

‘These calls came in in a flurry. Call operator logs show
that they came in at 11.50, two at 11.51, 11.53, 11.54 – pretty much the whole street got in on the act.’

‘I’m sure they did.’

‘But one call came significantly earlier than that. At eleven thirty-eight – a full twelve minutes before the others.’

Now McAndrew had Helen’s attention.

‘Interestingly, this call didn’t come from a neighbour, it came from a payphone. And here’s the thing. It came from a payphone two streets away – there’s no way the caller could have seen the fire from there.’

‘So they saw the fire and ran to the nearest payphone?’

‘Possibly, but how come they saw this fire a full twelve minutes before anyone else? And why didn’t they stick around to help? If Agnieszka stopped texting at eleven fifteen p.m., she probably didn’t go to sleep immediately, so the arsonist gained entry at, what, eleven twenty-five p.m.? Eleven thirty? The fire was initially contained in the basement. The sofa burnt well, but it took a while for the fire to spread upwards as the basement stairwell did not connect with the main stairs.’

‘So on that basis,’ Helen said, picking up McAndrew’s thread, ‘the most likely explanation is that the arsonist set the fire at around eleven thirty p.m., left and walked the five-minute walk to the nearest payphone and called it in.’

‘It’s a theory,’ McAndrew replied calmly.

‘Ok, get me the audio from every fire over the last few days. I want to see if our arsonist has been in on the act from day one.’

McAndrew was halfway to the door when Helen called out:

‘One other thing. You didn’t say if the caller was male or female?’

There was a small pause, before McAndrew looked up at her and said:

‘Female.’

Thomas knelt down, so that he was at eye level with his son. Luke smiled awkwardly at him and in that moment Thomas saw that Charlie Brooks had been right. He had been guilty of neglecting his son, just when he needed his father most. He felt deep shame and sadness rise up in him and, not trusting himself to speak, simply stroked his son’s cheek. Tears immediately appeared in his son’s eyes, mirrored now in his own and he dropped his gaze to his son’s tie, which was characteristically askew. Gently, he straightened it for him.

‘I messed up today, son,’ Thomas said eventually. ‘I should have been here with you, but I wasn’t. Instead I let my emotions get the better of me and well … this is the result.’

He grimaced ruefully, as he gestured to the scratches on his face.

Luke returned the smile, but it was unconvincing – riven with anxiety and fear. Once again Thomas felt deep guilt at having put his own needs – his own anger – before his son’s happiness.

‘We’ll need to be off in a little while, so I wanted to have a little chat with you first.’

Luke nodded cautiously, so Thomas proceeded:

‘I … I haven’t been a very good dad the last few days. I won’t try to excuse my behaviour, all I will say is that I’ve been struggling a bit. I never prepared for … this.’

Luke stared at him, but Thomas was pleased to see there was no judgement in his expression.

‘So we’re going to have to find our way together, if that’s ok. Starting with today. You’ll never have to face anything as hard as what you’re about to do. There will be a lot of people at the funeral, there will be others – journalists, well-wishers – on the periphery. They will all want to talk to you, they’ll all want to offer you support, to ask you questions, to check that you’re ok. The answer is of course not, but they’ll ask anyway. And in the middle of all that, we’re going to have to … to say goodbye to Mum and Ali. A boy your age should never have to face something like this and I’m so, so sorry that you have to now. But – and this is the important bit – you won’t have to face it alone, ok? I’m going to be by your side every step of the way. Everything we face from now on, we face together.’

Luke said nothing, simply folding his father into an embrace and nestling his wet face into his shoulder. Thomas held him as he cried and for the first time since that awful night felt some strength returning to him.

As he hugged his son tight, he said a silent prayer for his wife and daughter. For his lovely son. And for the sage counsel of Charlie Brooks.

The pair of them sat in total silence.

Helen had commandeered an interview suite and asked McAndrew to join her. The table was covered with tapes from the call operators from the fire, police and ambulance services. The simple tape player in the centre of the table had been connected to speakers and McAndrew had turned the volume up high as they listened to the recordings.

There had been several female callers during the course of the three nights who’d reported the fires. Some sounded scared, others sounded panicked, all sounded breathless.

‘There – it’s the same one,’ Helen said, pausing the tape.

They had been listening to the calls from the first night. At around 11.50 p.m., a young woman had called 999, reporting a fire at a house in Millbrook – the Simms residence. And the voice on the tape sounded virtually identical to the early caller from the most recent blaze in Lower Shirley.

‘Do you agree that it’s the same caller?’ Helen asked, turning to McAndrew. A brief pause, then her junior nodded. Helen was pleased – she felt likewise and had a feeling they were about to catch a major break in the case.

They moved straight on to the tapes from the second night of fires. Here they hit a blank, however. There were
thirteen female callers. The quality on some of the recordings was better than others, because of bad mobile reception and background noise, so it was hard to say for certain – but neither of them could divine their mystery caller among the collage of anguished voices.

Then suddenly Helen leant forward with purpose, scooping up the recording from the first night. She played their female caller once, then again, listening intently each time. The woman’s voice was clear and authoritative.

‘There’s a fire, like, a big one on Hillside Crescent. You need to get here now.’

‘Are you able to see the fire from where you are?’

‘For real. And there are people
in
there. So hurry up.’

‘Ok, I need you to step away from the fire now …’

Helen stopped the tape without warning and, flipping open the tape recorder, started to play the woman’s recording from the third night again. McAndrew made no attempt to interrupt her – she could tell Helen was utterly focused on the task in hand, scenting something.

The recording finished. Helen clicked it off, then sat back in her chair.

‘I think I know who it is.’

McAndrew looked up at her.

‘It’s the way she says “For real”, and the accent. I knew I’d heard it before.’

‘Who is it?’ McAndrew asked urgently.

Helen paused for a moment, before replying.

‘It’s Naomie Jackson.’

Sharon Jackson’s face turned pale the minute she opened the door. Helen and DS Sanderson had left Southampton Central straight away and raced over to Naomie’s home in the cheaper part of St Mary’s. The look on the officers’ faces betrayed the seriousness of their visit. Normally Sharon would have fobbed them off – she was experienced at dealing with the law – but there was no wriggling off the hook today.

She sat on the sofa, a look of blank incomprehension on her face, as Helen informed her that Naomie was now a person of interest in their investigation. Sanderson had gone upstairs in order to verify Sharon’s assertion that her daughter was not at home. She had not yet returned, but Helen had pressed on nevertheless. For her part, Sharon Jackson was shocked by Helen’s line of questioning and pushed back hard.

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. My Naomie would never do something like that. She
loves
kids.’

Helen let that non sequitur go and continued with her questions.

‘Where is Naomie now, Sharon?’

‘I’ve told you I’m expecting her back later, but it’s Friday, isn’t it … I don’t keep tabs on her.’

‘Clearly not. I’m going to need you to account for her movements on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights.’

Sharon suddenly looked less bullish, so Helen was quick to follow up.

‘Where were you? And where was Naomie?’

‘Tuesday night I was in and so was Naomie. Then we had a bit of a falling out and she left for a bit.’

‘What time?’

‘Around nine p.m.’

‘When did she return?’

‘Late. I’d gone to bed. I heard her come in, but I don’t know what time it was.’

‘And the other nights?’

‘I was out.’

‘Both nights?’

‘That’s not a crime, is it? I can’t spend my life here, I’ve got things to do, friends and that.’

‘And Naomie was here?’

‘She was when I left. We weren’t really speaking, so I don’t know if she stayed in or not. She said she was going to bed …’

Helen made a mental note to check for signs of internet use at the property, phone calls and so on – it wouldn’t be too hard to work out if Naomie had been at home or not.

‘Why weren’t you talking?’

Once again, Sharon suddenly looked coy.

‘We had a row.’

‘About?’

‘Man trouble.’

‘Hers or yours?’

‘Hers. She’s a moaning little brat. But that’s all she is, I swear. She’s had run-ins with the police before. A bit of
shoplifting, but just kids’ stuff. She could never do something like this. She doesn’t have the balls.’

‘Has Naomie mentioned the fires to you?’ Helen continued.

‘No’ was the swift reply.

‘Did that strike you as odd? Everybody else in Southampton is talking about them.’

Sharon shrugged then said:

‘Naomie doesn’t follow the news, she’s not that kind of kid. Probably wouldn’t talk to me about it even if she did. We’ve never been … a good fit.’

It was said so matter-of-factly that for a moment Helen was speechless.

‘Who would she talk to?’ Helen said eventually. ‘Does she have friends? Anyone she hangs out with?’

Sharon thought about it, then said:

‘She doesn’t really have mates, she’s always been a bit of a loner, y’know.’

‘Where does she hang out, then?’ Helen repeated, insistent.

‘She goes to the library sometimes when it’s cold. Other than that she goes where she can get up to mischief. The pubs on Oakland Street, the Common, the skateboard park, the WestQuay centre, the parade …’

The list went on. Clearly Naomie wanted to be anywhere but home. Helen noted down the many locations down – intending to pass them on to the rest of the team at the earliest opportunity – but before she had finished Sanderson returned, clutching several different copies of the
Southampton Evening News.

‘Found these in a plastic bag under her bed. A copy of
this week’s editions which lead on the fires. There’s also cuttings from several of the national dailies about the attacks as well. I guess Naomie’s a bit more interested in these fires than she lets on.’

Helen was already on her feet and heading for the front door. At long last, they had a prime suspect.

‘Do you want to go public with this?’

Helen was on her phone, pacing back and forth outside Sharon Jackson’s house. Gardam was back at base, supervising the investigation into Naomie’s call history, digital footprint, police records, known associates and more. It was important they worked closely together on this one, so Helen had stepped outside and called him straight away.

‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ Helen replied. ‘It’s already gone lunchtime. If she’s planning another attack tonight, then we’ve only got a few hours to stop her. The eyes and ears of the public are our best resource at this point.’

‘Have we got a decent photo?’

‘I’m sending one through to you now. If we can line up media liaison, so they’re ready to go public with it immediately –’

‘I’ve got McAndrew drafting a press release now.’

‘Good.’

Helen took a breath. The last couple of hours seemed to have passed in a flash and she suddenly felt tired.

‘How sure are you? That it’s her.’

‘She’s our best bet. She has deliberately inserted herself into the investigation on three separate occasions. Two phone calls, plus a positive ID after the second fire, which
succeeded in sending us off on a wild goose chase with Richard Ford. She may not come across as capable of much, but she’s been instrumental in how this thing has played out. I think there’s a lot more going on under the surface than we give her credit for.’

‘Ok, let’s do it then and see if we can bring her in before nightfall.’

Helen rang off and, gathering herself, marched back towards Sharon Jackson’s house. Finally, the net was closing.

‘Twenty Marlboro Gold, please.’

The Asian guy behind the counter barely looked up from his newspaper. Reaching behind him, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the shelves behind him and tossed them on to the counter.

‘Nine pounds fifty.’

It was daylight robbery, but that was hardly the point. The shopkeeper took the ten-pound note, handed over the change and resumed reading the cricket reports. It was all so easy – no suspicions, no interest, nothing. Just a simple exchange, so ordinary in its execution, but presaging so much.

Turning to leave, the hooded figure suddenly stopped. The yawning shopkeeper continued to turn the pages, blissfully unaware of who he’d just come into contact with. But the TV on the wall behind him was better informed.

Breaking News: Police name suspect in Southampton arson attack.

The caption was brief and to the point, but it was what was beneath that was more alarming. An extreme close-up of a family snap in which all Naomie’s imperfections – as well as her crooked smile – were revealed in perfect definition. Turning quickly, the figure fled, before the owner even looked up.