Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (32 page)

It was late now and Charlie wasn’t welcome. She hadn’t expected Thomas Simms to answer the door and she had her speech ready, justifying her intrusion on this most difficult of days. But it was cutting no ice with Thomas Simms’s sister, who seemed determined to deny Charlie access, despite her insistence that her business here was both professional and urgent.

‘Mary, it’s ok. I know her and it’s fine.’

Just as the stand-off had threatened to become vocal, a visibly exhausted Thomas Simms intervened, ushering Charlie into the house. Luke was still up, chatting to his grandmother, who seemed to be running the show in a kind and caring manner. Charlie felt bad having to wrench him away from her, but she had no choice. This was too important to duck, despite the terrible timing.

Charlie quickly brought father and son up to speed but, not for the first time, Thomas Simms just looked stunned by the latest developments.

‘I’ve never heard of Naomie Jackson.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t seen her? Hanging around? Walking past the house? Have another look at the picture.’

‘I don’t recognize her,’ Thomas replied wearily. ‘I don’t know the part of town where she lives … I just don’t know her.’

Charlie nodded and handed the photo to Luke.

‘How about you, Luke?’

Helen had dispatched Charlie straight to the Simms house following the conclusion of her interview with Naomie Jackson. Charlie knew that across town Sanderson was asking the exact same questions of the Harris family. The case against Naomie looked good, but their weak spots were the Simms and Harris fires, where there seemed to be no specific motive beyond jealousy and spite. Any extra bite that the Simms or Harris families could give them now would pay dividends later. They needed a more concrete link than the fact that Naomie had called in both fires.

Luke Simms looked at the photo intently, then his expression lifted and he handed it back to Charlie, shaking his head.

‘I’ve not seen her before.’

‘Are you sure, Luke?’

‘Do you think I wouldn’t tell you if I did? Do you think I want whoever did this to go free?’

His tone was suddenly harsh, but immediately he retreated.

‘I’m sorry, it’s been a tough day …’

‘I know.’

‘I just … I just don’t recognize her. I wish I did.’

Charlie had been hoping for more than this, but she believed him. She believed both of them. Which left Charlie with an uneasy feeling. What were they missing here? And what would it cost them?

The heavy door opened and a man exited at speed, his coat pulled up around his face. The door swung slowly forwards, then began to roll back towards the frame. Helen didn’t hesitate, darting from her hiding place in the shadows and jamming her foot into the shrinking gap.

Charging up the stairs, she came to a first-floor door and knocked on it, with a swift, familiar rat-a-tat. Moments later, the door opened to reveal Max Paine. He looked like he was expecting it to be his recent client, who’d forgotten something perhaps, and the blood drained from his face when he saw who it actually was. He moved to slam the door on Helen, but she was expecting this and shouldered it roughly open, sending Paine barrelling back into the room. Helen shut the door firmly behind her, locking them both in.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ Paine demanded angrily. Despite heavy make-up, his bruising was still obvious and unsightly. His eyes darted this way and that, searching for something to defend himself with.

‘I just want to talk,’ Helen replied calmly.

‘So talk.’

‘I want to know what you intend to do.’

Max Paine eyed her warily, then replied:

‘Worried I’m going to report you,
Helen
?’

Helen regarded him for a moment, before responding:

‘You obviously know who I am. And the awkward situation I find myself in. I wouldn’t blame you for reporting me – what I did was wrong – and you could probably get me thrown off the Force if you tried hard enough. But here’s why you’re not going to do that. Because I’m a good officer. Because I’m in the middle of a major investigation. And because, if you do, I’ll be forced to tell the investigating officers what a sadistic, cocaine-snorting, woman-hating little shit you are. I’ll be pushing for attempted murder, but I’d settle for GBH or even ABH at a push. Any one of those would land you in jail, Max.’

She said his name with the full contempt she felt for him. He glared at her, but said nothing in return.

‘So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go back to your life and I will go back to mine and we’ll pretend it never happened. Deal?’

As Helen walked away from Paine’s building, having gained his begrudging acquiescence, Helen felt her spirits rise. She had been under so much pressure, so hemmed in on all sides, that it felt good to be finally taking positive action. She had messed up big time, but the fault was primarily his and she was damned if she was going to be brought down by the likes of Max Paine. A surge of adrenalin coursed through her now – Helen suddenly felt as if she could take on the world and win, that everything would be ok, and she smiled to herself at this sudden burst of optimism.

A blast of icy wind roared over her now, as if in defiant response to her improving mood, but even this couldn’t dampen Helen’s spirits. It did, however, remind her that
she’d forgotten to check whether she had left her much missed scarf at Paine’s flat, as she rather suspected she had. Too late now. Helen had bigger fish to fry and she couldn’t exactly return and ask Paine for it, so she would have to make do without. Pulling up her collar to ward off the chill wind, Helen lowered her head and walked away towards her bike.

‘What the fuck do you want?’

The girl’s nose was wrinkled up in mock disgust, as if the mere sight of a police officer turned her stomach. It was done for effect and it worked – Charlie already wanted to slap her and they’d only been talking for a few seconds. But Charlie swallowed down her irritation, refusing to be deflected from her purpose.

She had risen early after a sleepless night. A worrying thought had kept turning and turning in her head and now she needed to find out if her concerns were justified – or if she was just going mad. She hadn’t known where to find her quarry, except that she lived somewhere near Naomie Jackson. Charlie was on the streets of St Mary’s by 8 a.m. She didn’t expect to find Naomie’s mate up and about then – didn’t look the type – but she couldn’t discount the possibility that she had a job or went to college and would be on the move early.

Predictably, however, there was no sign of her and after an hour Charlie had begun to wonder if she was wasting her time. Then suddenly she saw her – dressed comically in pyjama trousers, fake Ugg boots and a puffa jacket, meandering her way to the corner shop. Moments later, she emerged clutching a carton of milk and began to make her way home.

Charlie approached her at speed. They had last met the
day after the Denise Roberts fire, when the ratty little ringleader of a gaggle of girls had pushed Charlie towards Naomie Jackson, claiming her friend had seen their runaway arsonist.

‘Nice to see you again too. What’s your name?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Name.’

‘Danielle Mulligan.’

‘That’s better – see, you can be nice when you want to.’

‘What’s this about? I can’t stand here like this –’

‘You’ll stand there until I’ve finished with you. Got it?’

Danielle shrugged, seemingly determined not to give Charlie the satisfaction of her full acquiescence.

‘Talk to me about Wednesday night.’

‘What about it?’

‘According to Naomie, you all went to a pub near the Common. Which one was it?’

‘The Green Man.’

‘When did you get there?’

‘Around nine, I think.’

‘And Naomie was with you?’

‘Course.’

‘What time did she leave that night?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’

‘She said she left early to go home, is that right?’

‘If she says so.’

‘What do you say?’

‘Yeah, sure, she left early.’

But she didn’t sound sure and Charlie knew she had to press further.

‘When did you leave?’

‘Midnight. Half past maybe. They had a lock-in, so …’

‘And did you see Naomie leaving?’

‘No, I was drinking, having fun with my mates, wasn’t I?’

‘Did you take any pictures that night? On your phone?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You said you were mucking around with your friends so …’

Suddenly Danielle looked evasive and Charlie followed up quickly.

‘Give me your phone.’

‘I haven’t got it on me …’

‘Your hand’s been clamped in your jacket pocket since you left the house. I know you’ve got it and I’d like to see it. And before you kick off, I’m happy to do this at home with your folks, if you’d pref—’

‘All right, all right,’ Danielle said scowling, as she delved into her pocket and dug out her phone. ‘Knock yourself out.’

Charlie took it from her and opened up her photos. Quickly she scrolled back through the days before alighting on Wednesday’s date. Predictably there were dozens of photos. Danielle was part of the generation that lived their lives in public and Charlie was amused to see photos of Danielle’s painted toes, her tattoos, several trial hair-dos, plus a cheeky shot of her mum in her dressing gown among the snaps Danielle had posted that day.

But Charlie was interested in the evening photos and flicked to them now. The gaggle of girls had been in high spirits and there were plenty of stupid, drunken poses. Naomie Jackson was there, not quite in the thick of things
but present and enjoying herself, it appeared. Charlie moved through them more carefully now, checking the times that each photo was taken. 10.30 p.m., 10.47 p.m., 10.49 p.m., 11.12 p.m., 11.13 p.m., 11.25 p.m., 11.38 p.m….

And it was with this last one that Charlie had the evidence she needed. Naomie had previously said that she’d left the pub early and headed home, encountering the fleeing arsonist en route, a few minutes before 11.30 p.m. And yet here she was, pictured in the pub with her mates at 11.38 p.m. She had never left the pub – had stayed with them almost to the bitter end, it appeared.

If the timings on Danielle’s phone were correct – and there was no reason to doubt that they were – then it was clear that Naomie had spun them a story about her movements that night. She had been lying when she said she encountered the arsonist. More importantly, she had been lying to them when she said she started the fire in Denise Roberts’s house.

McAndrew stopped in her tracks the moment she saw him.

She’d visited the hospital first thing to speak with Mandy Blayne’s care team, who’d confirmed that mother and baby were doing fine. Satisfied and relieved, McAndrew had decided to visit the ward briefly before leaving. Mandy didn’t have any family locally and, given what she’d been through, McAndrew was keen to spend a few minutes with her before getting back to work. But as she approached her bedside, she realized that Mandy was not alone.

A man in his forties was sitting with her, holding her hand and talking earnestly to her. Normally she would have withdrawn – their conversation was intense and intimate – but this time she had no intention of leaving. There was something familiar about this guy, even though McAndrew was sure she’d never seen his face before. The dark jeans, work boots, puffawaist coat –
this
was the man whom they had caught on CCTV jogging away from Denise Roberts’s house. It was Naomie Jackson’s father, Darren Betts.

‘Why didn’t you come forward?’

McAndrew had hauled Darren Betts out of the ward and now sat opposite him in a junior doctor’s office. She’d
have preferred to interview him back at Southampton Central, but she had no grounds to arrest him – yet.

‘You must have known it was you in that CCTV footage.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t take me for a fool, Darren. The whole of Southampton has seen that footage. Just like they’ve seen mugshots of your daughter, thanks to her role in these arson attacks.’

‘Kids, eh?’

‘Why were you running away from Denise Roberts’s house the night it went up?’

‘I had
nothing
to do with that. I like Denise.’

‘When it suited you. Did you know that your daughter hated her?’

‘Of course not, I would have straightened her out if I’d known.’

‘Tell me about your relationship with Callum Roberts.’

The sudden change of subject seemed to unnerve Betts and he said nothing in reply.

‘He hated you, didn’t he? And I bet he made his feelings plain. Did you want to teach him a lesson?’

‘I don’t go about setting people’s houses on fire. If Naomie’s coughed for that, it’s her business.’

Looking at him across the untidy desk, McAndrew felt nothing but contempt for Darren Betts. Even now that his daughter was facing a life behind bars, he accepted no responsibility for her actions, nor did he seem to care what became of her.

‘What about Mandy Blayne? Getting too clingy, was she? Trying to trap you into being a babyfather?’

‘You’re way off beam, petal. I love these women. I love them too much. That’s always been my problem.’

‘Which is why I find it surprising that you didn’t come forward after Denise Roberts was murdered?’

‘You think I’d willingly come and talk to you lot?’ Betts laughed.

‘I would if I was in the frame for murder.’

‘And give your mob the chance to fit me up? You clearly didn’t have a clue who was behind it and I know how you coppers work when you’re in a fix –’

‘Can you tell me where you were on the night of Tuesday, 8 December?’ McAndrew interrupted, changing tack again. ‘The night the Simms house was attacked? I’m going to need you to account for your movements.’

Darren Betts stared straight at McAndrew. The good humour he’d displayed thus far now vanished in the blink of an eye. His expression was cold and unforgiving. And when he finally spoke, his tone was distinctly hostile.

‘Now you listen to me, girl, and listen
good
. I’ve had it with these questions. My daughter is responsible for this madness – not me – and nothing you do or say is going to change that. So either you arrest me
right now
or you let me go back to my Mandy.’

He fixed her with a withering stare:

‘This conversation is over.’