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

by M. J. Arlidge

  The road was blocked now with ambling pedestrians, so Thomas pulled over to the kerb and climbed out. Locking the door, he started to jog down the street. The fire was near his house – it had to be given the direction of the smoke and the concentration of people at the far end of the road. His jog now turned into a full-on sprint, as he barged startled onlookers out of his path.

  Breaking through the throng, he found himself at the bottom of his drive. The sight that met him took his breath away and he suddenly ground to a halt. His entire house was ablaze, huge flames issuing from every window. It wasn’t a fire, it was an inferno.

  He found himself moving forward and turned to find his neighbour gripping one of his arms, guiding him gently towards the house. The expression on her face was hideous – a toxic mixture of horror and pity – and it chilled him to the bone. Why was she looking at him like that?

  Then Thomas saw him. His boy – his beloved son Luke – lying on the grass in the front garden. Shaded by the mulberry bush, he lay with his head on the lap of another neighbour, who was talking to him earnestly. It would have been a touching sight, where it not for the crazy angles of Luke’s legs, bent nastily back on themselves, and the blood that clung to his face and hands.

  ‘The ambulance is on its way. He’s going to be ok.’

  Thomas didn’t know whether his neighbour was lying or not, but he wanted to believe her. He didn’t care what injuries his son had sustained as long as he lived.

  ‘It’s ok, mate, Dad’s here now,’ he said as he knelt down next to his son.

  The ground around Luke was covered with leaves and branches from the mulberry bush and in an instant Thomas realized that his son must have jumped. He must have leapt from the house and landed in the bush. It probably broke his fall – may even have saved his life – but why was he jumping at all? Why hadn’t he just run out the front door?

  ‘Where’s Mum? And Alice? Luke, where are they, mate?’

  For a moment, Luke said nothing, the agony racking his body seeming to rob him of the ability to speak.

  ‘Has anyone seen them?’ Thomas cried out, panic rendering his voice high and harsh. ‘Where the hell are they?’

  He looked back at his son, who seemed to be trying to raise himself, in spite of his injuries.

  ‘What is it, Luke?’

  Thomas knelt in closer, his ear brushing his son’s mouth. Luke struggled for breath, then through gritted teeth finally managed to whisper:

  ‘They’re still inside.’

  4

  Helen Grace flashed her warrant card and slipped under the police cordon, walking fast towards the heart of the chaos. Three fire engines were parked up outside Travell’s Timber Yard and over a dozen firefighters were tackling a blaze of monumental proportions. Even from this safe distance, Helen could feel the intense heat – it rolled over her, clinging to her hair, her eyes, her throat, revelling in its power and appetite for destruction.

  Travell’s Timber Yard was one of the largest in Southampton, a prosperous family business, popular with tradesmen and builders the length of Hampshire. But little or nothing of this successful venture would survive the night. From humble beginnings, this city centre outlet had grown year on year, culminating in the construction of a huge warehouse where timber of every variety, shape and size could be found. Helen watched now as this cavernous building raged in flame, its metal skeleton shrieking in the heat, as the windows shattered and fire rained down like confetti from the disintegrating roof.

  ‘Who the hell are you? You can’t be here.’

  Helen turned to see a firefighter from the Hampshire Fire and Rescue Service approaching her. His face was caked in dirt and sweat.

  ‘DI Helen Grace, Major Incident Team, and actually I have every right –’

  ‘I don’t care if you’re Sherlock Holmes. That roof is going to go any second and I don’t want anyone standing nearby when it does.’

  Helen cast an eye over the roof in question. It was buckling now as the fire ripped through it, seeking new fuel and fresh oxygen. Instinctively she took a step back.

  ‘Keep going. There’s nothing for you here.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’

  ‘Sergeant Carter, but he’s a bit busy at the moment …’

  ‘Who’s the Fire Investigation Officer on duty?’

  ‘No idea.’

  He walked back towards the fire engines – two of which were now moving away from the scene.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Helen asked, incredulous.

  ‘Nothing we can do here, except contain it. So we’re being sent elsewhere.’

  ‘What are we looking at? Any chance it could have been accidental? An electricity short? Discarded cigarette?’

  The exhausted firefighter cast a withering look in her direction.

  ‘Three major fires on the same night. All starting within an hour of each other. This wasn’t an accident.’ He fixed her with a fierce stare. ‘Someone’s been having a bit of fun.’

  The lead fire engine paused as it passed, allowing the firefighter time to clamber up into the passenger seat. He didn’t look back at Helen – she was already forgotten, he and his team discussing the trials that still lay ahead. Helen watched the flashing blue lights disappear down the road, before returning her attention to the huge conflagration behind.

  Seconds later, the roof collapsed inwards, sending a vast cloud of hot smoke and ash billowing towards her.

  5

  Thomas held up his hand to shield his face, then plunged through the front door into the house. Immediately his mouth and lungs filled with a thick, sooty smoke and he began to choke. It was impossible to see – the smoke collecting under the hallway ceiling formed an impenetrable cloud. He had only taken a few steps and already he felt himself succumbing to the foul atmosphere, the carbon monoxide steadily driving out the evaporating oxygen.

  Gasping, he fell to the floor. The carpet had already burnt out and though it was agony to touch, the air down here was free of smoke and breathing was a little easier. Scrabbling forward, he made his way to the central staircase. The bedroom he shared with Karen was on the second floor – Alice’s bedroom right next to theirs. Somehow he had to get up there. Karen was in sole charge of the kids tonight and there was no way she would have gone out leaving Luke behind. They had to be in here somewhere.

  His hands were blistering, his clothes starting to smoulder and fizz, but on he went. Eventually he collided with something hard and realized he was at the bottom of the stairs – or what remained of them. The basic shell of the staircase was intact but the whole thing was transformed – instead of a dull, polished brown, the boards now glowed a fierce orange, the burning wood spitting and crackling at him.

  ‘Karen?’ His voice was hoarse and weak. In spite of the intense heat that burnt his mouth and throat, he shouted again, louder this time.

  ‘Karen? Alice? Where are you?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Please, love. Talk to me. Daddy’s her—’

  He suddenly petered out, a deep, wretched anxiety paralysing him. He coughed again, more violently this time. Time was running out – he had to do something. Summoning his courage, he moved forward on to the first step. His foot went straight through it as if it were made of dust and he stumbled slightly. Righting himself quickly, he tried the next step up, but this collapsed too. Dear God, what was happening? Could this be real?

  He scrambled at the third, fourth, fifth step, but could find no purchase.

  ‘Karen?’

  His voice was limp now and drained of hope. He hung his head, overcome and exhausted, his mind starting to spin as the lack of oxygen took hold. As he stood there, not moving, a new smell filled his nostrils. It smelt like burning leather and looking down Thomas was surprised to see that his shoes were on fire. As were his trousers. And his jacket. He was now a walking flame.

  Turning, he stumbled back towards the front door. He would never forgive himself for abandoning his wife and his baby girl
, but he knew now that he would die if he stayed here a moment longer. He had to get out for Luke’s sake, if not his own.

  Bursting from the front door, he collapsed upon the soft grass. Before he knew what was happening, he was turning over and over, dozens of hands rolling him on the grass to extinguish the flames. As he lay there, his head hanging upside down, he glimpsed the arriving fire engines and ambulances. The firefighters sprinted past him and moments later Thomas found a paramedic helping him to sit up.

  ‘My son,’ Thomas whispered. ‘Go to my son.’

  The paramedic said something back, but Thomas couldn’t hear her. The whole world was strangely muted, though whether this was through injury or shock Thomas couldn’t tell. The paramedic was shining a torch into his eyes now, then his throat, assessing the extent of the damage. Thomas didn’t care what became of him – were it not for Luke, he’d have happily succumbed to death rather than face the prospect of losing his girls. But even so – even as he dismissed his own existence out of hand – he was still surprised by the sight that greeted him when the attending paramedic lifted his arm to take his pulse. His jacket had burnt clean off, his watch had disappeared and when the paramedic reached over to touch his horribly blistered wrist, the melting skin came away in her hands.

  6

  The axe connected sharply with the windowpane, sending shards of glass spiralling into the house. With the central stairwell all but destroyed, Fire Officer James Ward and his partner, Danny Brand, had opted for a first-floor entry, heading through one bedroom window, while their colleagues pumped gallons of water in through the other. Time was of the essence – the fire was on the point of going over, after which the house would be unsafe to access.

  Brushing the glass aside, James stepped into the house. Immediately the charred boards beneath his feet groaned, threatening to give way. He hesitated, clinging to the window frame for support, before choosing a different route forward. This time the groan was less pronounced and he moved on swiftly but steadily, testing his path as he went. Danny waited for a while before following. This was standard practice – best to lose one officer rather than two, should the flooring give way.

  The heat was savage, buffeting his protective suit. James could feel rivulets of sweat pouring down his body. He was uncomfortable and anxious, but he was calm. He had a job to do. It was highly unlikely that anyone had survived, but they had to look. If they were anywhere they would be on this floor, where the main bedrooms were located. James scanned the master bedroom, but there was no sign of the wife or the girl, so he moved forward. As he did so, his foot shot through the floor. Instinctively he grabbed at a light socket and managed to right himself, dragging himself up from the large hole that had opened up in front of him. He could see through now to the ground floor, a smoking mass of burnt furniture and fragmenting walls. Taking a breath, he leapt forward, clearing the hole and landing on the threshold of the landing. For a moment he teetered perilously on the edge, before he gained his balance once more and pressed on.

  He moved into what looked like a child’s bedroom. The letters that had been stuck to the door – A-L-I-C-E – remained there, oddly unaffected by the fire destroying the rest of the house. James eased the door open to afford himself a proper view of the room beyond. A single bed, a few bits of furniture, a teddy bear on the floor – but no sign of Karen or Alice Simms. His first instinct was to move into the room to conduct a more detailed search, but something made him hesitate. There was a sound, a steady insistent sound, drawing his attention away from the bedroom to the bathroom nearby. It was hard to be sure, but it sounded like a kind of hissing. But not the hissing of burning furniture or a smouldering fire. This was different.

  He moved towards the sound, one step at a time. Danny hung back once more, alive to the danger, so James gestured that he intended to check out the bathroom. Danny tapped his wrist, the customary signal that they would need to withdraw in a minute or two – with each passing second the strength of the internal fabric of the house was being degraded. James nodded – he knew that the clock was ticking.

  Passing through the doorway, navigating by touch as much as by sight, he was surprised to see that the shower was on in the bathroom. No wonder there was so much smoke, the water vapour being consumed by the flames that raged all around. Dropping down to his hands and knees he crawled forward fast, a sudden thought gripping him.

  And there they were, Karen Simms and her six-year-old daughter slumped at the bottom of the shower cubicle, the glass door shut to keep the fire out, the water cascading down on them to keep them from burning to death. James still didn’t hold out much hope – they had probably died of smoke inhalation some time ago. Both appeared to be face down in the shower stall, which didn’t bode well.

  Reaching up, he located the handle of the shower door and pulled it open. A small cascade of water flooded out, creating another hissing burst of boiling steam. He moved closer to the bodies and was surprised to see that both their mouths seemed to be clamped to the shower drain. Suddenly he got it – they were taking in oxygen through the drainpipe.

  Hauling Karen over, he looked into her eyes. She was unconscious, but where there was life, there was hope. Beckoning to Danny, he passed the heavy weight of the comatose woman to him. As he did so, the young girl stirred. No more than a small movement, but enough to send a shot of adrenalin through James. Perhaps there was a chance they would both survive.

  Scooping the girl up into his arms, James turned to follow his colleague. The odds were still in the balance. The building was collapsing around their ears and the extra weight they were carrying would seriously compromise their chances of making it out alive, but they had to try.

  It was now or never.

  7

  ‘How is she?’

  Charlie turned to see Steve silhouetted in the doorway. Jessica, whom Charlie still called her baby despite the fact that she was now sixteen months old, was suffering from a nasty cold. The numerous doses of Calpol and Sudafed had achieved little – Jessica remained resolutely unhappy, her sinuses blocked and painful. Like most small children she had let her parents know that she was suffering – keeping Charlie up into the small hours nursing her.

  Charlie raised a finger to her lips and gestured to Steve to stay where he was. Two hours of cuddling and reassuring had finally paid dividends and Jessica was asleep once more. Charlie made to leave, then paused to look back at Jessica. There was no sweeter sight for her than that of her little girl slumbering happily in her cot, boxed in by soft toys and her old baby blanket. It always warmed her heart to see her like this and she could have gone on staring at her for hours, but wisdom prevailed. Charlie knew she had better get going while the going was good, so avoiding the creaking floorboards, she tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  ‘Do you want a glass of water?’

  Steve was halfway down the stairs, making for the kitchen.

  ‘I might have a hot drink,’ Charlie replied, following him down the stairs. She was wide awake now and, despite the late hour, she would need to decompress a little before she could go to bed. It was amazing how stressful it could be, trying to persuade a toddler that it was in her best interests to go to sleep.

  While the kettle boiled, Charlie flicked the TV on. Immediately, the rolling-news channel burst into life – a legacy of Steve’s viewing no doubt, as she was more of a Sky Atlantic girl. She was about to flick over to something less real, when she paused. The pictures on the TV surprised and alarmed her. Dominating the screen was live footage from an antiques emporium – a second-hand bric-a-brac-style place on Grosvenor Road. Charlie knew it well – she’d bought a few odds and ends from there in the past; but now the whole place was ablaze, the attending firefighters making little progress in tackling the huge fire. To the right of the screen, in a sidebar, were smaller images from two other incidents – one of a blaze similar in size and scale to the one at the emporium, the other appearing to be a nasty house fi
re. All of them were in Southampton.

  Charlie’s mobile rang, loud and shrill, making her jump. Shooting a look at Steve, who’d now joined her, Charlie scooped up her phone and answered it.

  ‘Hi, Charlie. It’s DC Lucas here.’

  ‘Hi, Sarah.’

  ‘Sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but you’re needed. DI Grace has called everyone in. We’ve got three serious fires in the city centre –’

  ‘I’m watching them on the TV now.’

  ‘Half an hour, ok?’

  Moments later, Charlie was in Jessica’s room once more. Now smartly dressed, her hair tied back in an approximation of professionalism, Charlie leant in and risked Steve’s wrath by gently kissing her baby girl goodbye. Whenever she went to work she felt guilty – for leaving her baby, for relying so much on Steve to handle things on the domestic front – and the kiss went some way to mitigating those feelings. It was tough and she often felt physically sick leaving the house, but there was nothing else for it. There is one simple rule for working mothers – you have to work harder and longer than everybody else just to be taken seriously. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, but it was the way of the world, which is why, having kissed Steve goodbye, Charlie unchained the front door and stepped out into the night.

  8

  Detective Superintendent Jonathan Gardam stood stock still, taking in the scene at Bertrand’s Antiques Emporium. He was new to the city – a few months into his tenure as the new station chief at Southampton Central – and if he was honest he was still finding his feet. He had been a front-line officer for so long, a very active and visible DCI in London before his recent promotion, and sitting in meetings all day wasn’t his style. He knew it came with the rank, but privately he was pleased for an excuse to be back in the thick of the action.

  He walked in the direction of his DI, who was hard at work marshalling the troops. Helen Grace came with a considerable reputation for both brilliance and truculence, but so far Gardam had found her to be both pleasant and professional. She knew how to lead, how to make decisions, and that would prove crucial in what was already gearing up to be a major investigation. As he approached her, she turned and came towards him.