Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (30 page)

She jumped from plank to plank, enjoying the simple pleasure of the game. When she’d been little, she’d played it with other truants, pretending that if you misjudged your jump and landed on the stones that separated the railway sleepers, then you’d fall through the tracks and straight down to Hell.

Later, when Naomie was older, the game had taken a more sinister turn. She would walk the railway track alone, challenging a train to appear in front of her. To alleviate her boredom she would set herself challenges, determining to walk to a certain point on the track, regardless of whether a train appeared or not. No train ever did, so she’d never had the chance to test her courage, to see whether she would have held her nerve. But she always thought she would’ve seen it through, if the cards had fallen that way.

But now things were going her way and suddenly she felt the vibrations on the tracks and, moments later, the unmistakable growl of a train approaching. It was like she could do no wrong at the moment and she laughed out loud – had
she
summoned the train? Was the world finally dancing to her tune? This was nonsense of course but it was a nice fantasy to indulge in. She paused to listen, revelling in the slow but steady growth in volume, as the train hastened towards her.

Now it was coming into view, arcing round the curved
track a hundred feet ahead, before straightening up to charge directly at her. Still she didn’t move. She felt in control of the situation, as if the train were just a character in her movie. Her feet were glued to the tracks as they had been so many times before. But she felt no fear now, only exhilaration and joy.

A sharp blast of the train’s horn made her look up. The driver had spotted her and was sounding his horn frantically. She made no attempt to move, so now he applied the emergency brake, metal colliding with metal in a hideous scream. But it was too little, too late. Naomie had chosen her spot well and there was no way he would be able to stop in time.

So many times she’d dreamt of this moment, had seen her own destruction in a shattering explosion of blood and bone. Whenever the world was black and her bruises smarted, she had
longed
for this moment. But things were different now so even as the train careered towards her, as the driver repeatedly gestured to her to move, she simply smiled, raised her middle finger and stepped out of the way of the screeching train, before calmly walking away.

Things
were
different now. Now she had something to live for.

‘They’ll be here in five minutes. What do you want to do?’

Sanderson’s voice was as tense as her expression. Following Sharon Jackson’s tipoff, she and Helen had raced over to Mandy Blayne’s house, gaining a head start on the emergency services. Helen had called them in as a precaution, but as reports of a house fire in St Denys began to filter through via police radio, it became clear to both of them that they had been too slow to stop Naomie’s latest attack.

Helen paused, before responding to Sanderson’s question. Mandy’s house was ablaze and there was no sign of its unfortunate owner. Smoke billowed out of the windows on both floors, but more so on the lower level suggesting the fire had not fully taken hold yet. Was Mandy even in there? Helen couldn’t be sure, but Naomie hadn’t put a foot wrong so far, so they had to assume the worst. Waiting for the emergency services to arrive was the sensible thing to do, but the whole house might have gone up by then, by which point any chance of rescuing Mandy would have passed.

‘We’ve got to go in,’ Helen replied, already marching towards the back of the house. The front door was locked from the inside and Helen felt sure that Naomie would have entered the house from the rear, where her
trespassing would go undetected. ‘But I’m going in alone. You wait here and –’

‘No chance,’ Sanderson replied firmly. She had let Helen go into a fire on her own before and the memory still haunted her. ‘If you’re going in, so am I.’

Helen nodded her assent – there was no time to argue now – and they marched round to the back door. As Helen expected, one of the panes had been broken and the open door lolled on his hinges. Helen hurried inside, Sanderson close behind. Immediately, they were assaulted by an intense heat and smothered by a cloud of thick smoke that made it impossible to see each other, let alone the geography of the room. Grabbing Sanderson before she lost sight of her completely, Helen dragged her junior officer back out of the house to safety.

‘What now?’ Sanderson barked through a coughing fit.

Helen was already casting her eyes over the back of the house for another means of entry. There was no shed, no sign of anything that might contain a ladder, so acting on instinct Helen grabbed a wheelie bin and rammed it up against the wall.

‘Climb on and give me a hand up,’ she said quickly.

Before she had finished her sentence, Sanderson was on top of it, holding out her hand to pull Helen up. Helen climbed up and pressing her heel into Sanderson’s interlinked hands made a sudden, upwards lunge for the first-floor windowsill. Her fingers scrambled up the rough brickwork and just as she felt her body begin to fall again after its swift ascent, she caught hold of the windowsill with three fingers of her left hand. She hung there for a moment, out of Sanderson’s reach now and suddenly
exposed, before, swinging her body to the right, she managed to get some purchase with her other hand. Now the momentum was with her and, using her legs to push herself up the brickwork, she jammed first one elbow, then the other on to the narrow sill.

The window was a cheap double-glazed unit and Helen was relieved to see that the small ventilation window at the top was ajar. Manoeuvring her right knee on to the sill, Helen pushed upwards and, catching hold of the lip of the open window, hauled herself upright. Reaching down inside, she levered the main window open and seconds later she was crawling along the floor of what appeared to be the spare bedroom, keeping her head as low as possible and her eyes pointed down, moving in the thin layer of clear air underneath the blanket of smoke.

‘Mandy?’

Her shout was loud, but seemed to rebound off the dense smoke. There was no reply. Crawling out on to the landing, Helen made to move towards what she assumed was the master bedroom, then stopped in her tracks, her eyes drawn to another door which remained firmly shut. Instinct now guided her towards it and as she neared it she heard a strange noise from inside. Signs of life? It was the most unnatural, animalistic noise she had ever heard, but as she reached the door Helen realized that the sounds emanating from behind the door were
human
– a grotesque mixture of coughing, gasping and crying.

‘Mandy?’

Still no reply, so moving up into a crouched position, Helen covered her hand with her sleeve and forced the
handle down. Pushing inside, she was relieved to see a young woman cowering in the bathtub in front of her.

She had made the right call in coming here, but their escape now depended on swift and decisive action. Helen was already beginning to feel light-headed as the smoke crept into her mouth and nose, despite her attempts to shield herself from its effects. It took her back to her last major case and a scene she’d rather forget.

‘Mandy, I’m a police officer. I’m here to help you, but we need to go now.’

The naked woman in the bathtub looked at her as if she was mad. She stared at Helen uncomprehendingly, stunned by this sudden apparition in her bathroom.

‘Mandy,
please
.’

Helen took another step towards her, offering her hand. But to Helen’s alarm, Mandy backed away, crouching down into the water, raising her arms to fight off her attacker. She was screaming now, high and keening, her whole body trapped in a suffocating panic that would be the death of her – and possibly Helen too.

Helen reached forward but was beaten back. Flicking Mandy’s flailing arm aside, Helen lunged for her now, but as she did so felt the woman’s teeth sinking into her arm. Withdrawing her arm sharply, she now feinted to the left, drawing Mandy’s defence that way, before slamming the open palm of her right hand on to her antagonist’s face.

The connection was hard and true and for a moment Mandy just blinked at Helen, rocked by the severity of the blow. Helen seized the moment, leaning in to grasp the woman under both arms.

‘If you want to live, Mandy, you need to come with me. But you need to do it quickly and you need to do it
now
.’

And with that she hauled the young woman up and out of the bath. Seconds later the pair stumbled back into the inferno, disappearing into the thick, black smoke.

Everybody loves a love rat.

The journalist in Emilia bridled at that sentence – the use of the word ‘love’ twice in quick succession – but it was true nevertheless. Love rats made good copy, offering up plenty of salacious material while playing on the fears of their female readers. Throw a series of major crimes into the mix and the story becomes irresistible.

Helen Grace had kept the fourth estate away from Sharon Jackson for now, posting uniformed coppers front and back to keep the hacks away. Emilia hadn’t wasted any time there, taking off immediately to do door-to-doors in the neighbourhood, before visiting the local GP’s surgery, as well as Naomie’s former school. In Emilia’s experience, the professionals – head teachers, doctors, social workers – always remained tight-lipped, but those who assisted them were more willing to talk. Many a story had been culled from the loose lips of a PA, receptionist, nurse or even school caretaker, especially when flattery and a few free drinks were offered. And so it proved now as Emilia quickly put together a picture of a lonely, disenfranchised young woman who had often arrived at school with unexplained bruises. She would never point the finger at her mother, but, then again, why would she? The poor kid had nowhere else to go.

And when she was at home, what did she find? Her
mother fawning over a man who just wanted to get his leg over without offering anything in return. The other mothers on Sharon Jackson’s estate had been only too glad to talk about their neighbour, who it now turned out had been harbouring a serial killer – painting a picture of her as an insecure, needy woman who had never managed to hold on to a man and took what pleasures she could when they were offered.

And in the end it had cost her. One of her love rivals – Denise Roberts – was already dead, while another had just had her house razed to the ground while she took a bath. Every punch, every clipped ear that Sharon Jackson had given Naomie had been paid back with interest, and though she would never betray this in print, Emilia felt a sneaking regard for the young woman who’d refused to take her punishment lying down. Her mother would rue taking her daughter’s submission for granted.

Emilia typed fast, the adrenaline of a big story driving her on, helping to craft the story by instinct rather than forethought. It was all taking shape very nicely and had played just as she’d hoped. She had been the first one to speak to Naomie and, though she couldn’t locate her now, she would ride that connection for all it was worth. This coup had been the result of clever investigative work – something she prided herself on – and she was pleased to see that her coverage of the arson attacks had already engendered a sea change in relations at the
News
. The national dailies had picked up on her interview with Naomie, she’d been on the radio discussing it and was due to appear on TV later today in an interview with BBC South – all of which had helped raise the paper’s profile
and massively boosted sales. Her editor had certainly changed his tune – offering her a bonus and hinting at promotion. It had all worked out well, and though she had sacrificed her good relations with Helen Grace in the process, it had been worth it. Her career was on the up at last and she was happy to weather any fallout that was coming her way.

‘Bring it on,’ Emilia thought to herself, as she continued to type.

The battle was over. They had survived.

Mandy Blayne was swaddled in an emergency blanket and being loaded into an ambulance. They would need to check her out at the hospital – principally for the effects of smoke inhalation. But the initial tests conducted by the paramedics had been encouraging and Helen knew that she would be fine – shaken up, but fine. During the course of the paramedics’ examination Mandy had admitted she was in the early stages of pregnancy, a revelation that hit home with Helen. They had been so much on the back foot in this investigation that it felt good to have saved not one, but two of Naomie’s intended victims. Did the fact that Mandy was pregnant have anything to do with the attack? Did Naomie know about it? Did she feel threatened? It was a bleak picture that was now emerging.

Helen submitted herself to the paramedics’ attention but refused a hospital visit, despite the fact that her whole body was racked with pain. Her bruises from her beating were still livid and her heroics in rescuing Mandy had only added to her injuries. She had never really liked the phrase ‘walking wounded’ but she was the very definition of it now. Still, she was determined to lead from the front so, having obtained a couple of painkillers from the paramedics, she joined Gardam and Sanderson in conference outside Mandy Blayne’s house.

Gardam was solicitous, offering to run the show for her if she needed rest, but Helen dismissed the idea out of hand. She could tell he had news and wanted to know what it was.

‘We’ve had a sighting of Naomie Jackson,’ Gardam told her. ‘A train driver reported a bizarre game of chicken he’d played with a young girl who refused to get off his tracks until the very last second. He was pretty shaken up by it and caught site of Naomie’s mugshot on the local news as he was resting up back at base. He’s convinced it’s the same girl.’

Helen digested this, then said:

‘Ok, let’s get everyone out – the whole of MIT as well as uniform. How long ago was this?’

‘An hour or so?’

‘Where?’

‘Northam Junction.’

‘Ok, let’s focus on her known haunts near there. We must presume she’s seen the publicity about herself so won’t be returning home any time soon. Her mother mentioned a few places she likes to go – the city library, the pubs on Oakland Street, the Common, the skateboard park, the WestQuay centre. Let’s concentrate our fire on those sites nearest Northam and scroll out from there. If we’re in luck, she’ll still be in the neighbourhood.’

‘Good,’ Gardam replied. ‘In the meantime, we’re liaising with the Transport Police, it’s not impossible she might try to run.’

‘Maybe, but she seems very committed. I think she’ll see this through to the end, so we should check out old friends, former schoolmates, anyone who might be sheltering her
in the local area. Only those who know her well will want to shield her now.’

Which was exactly what was worrying Helen. She didn’t say this to Sanderson or Gardam, but the simple fact was that Naomie didn’t have any friends. So what would she do – now that her latest attack had been foiled? Would she ever contemplate giving herself up or would she be in this to the bitter end? Privately, Helen feared the latter. The question was how it would play out. And, more importantly, who would she take with her?