‘For God’s sake, Emilia, I’ve promised you the centre spread for your Simms piece! Could you please stop chewing my balls for one minute –’ her beleaguered editor replied. He had given up punishing her for her previous disloyalty some time back and Emilia sensed he now regretted it, as it allowed her to harangue him night and day, pushing for more, more, more.
‘Forget that,’ Emilia interrupted. ‘This is better.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’m currently watching Hampshire’s finest drag a young man from his house in cuffs. According to my source, police think he’s our serial arsonist.’
Silence on the other end, but she could hear him breathing. There was nothing better than having your editor hanging on your every word.
‘Better still, he’s a firefighter. His name is Richard Ford and he’s been with Hants Fire and Rescue Service for most of his life. Bit of a fire nut apparently, but that’s as much as I know. I need people to get on to his colleagues, family, ex-girlfriends, plus I need a bio for him. I’m going to stay at the house and see what I can glean.’
It was the editor’s call as to how he deployed his reporters. They only numbered a handful and most were more used to covering school fetes and Council meetings – Emilia was their only full-time crime reporter. But Emilia knew Gary Rowlands loved the big stories – it reminded him of the good old days when he was a proper editor at Wapping – and she was sure he would throw the scant resources they had at this one. Stories like this didn’t come around very often.
‘I’m going to go big on the hero turned villain, firefighter who became a firestarter, so anything in his private life that might explain this, any past offences, would be really useful as context,’ Emilia continued, slipping under the police cordon and scurrying towards the house. Stark had turned a convenient blind eye and Emilia was keen to get a few shots of the interior before she was discovered.
‘I’m going to have to go now, but let me know how you get on.’
‘As I have it. Stay in touch, ok? No going AWOL on me.’
‘Absolutely, boss. Oh and one last thing …’ Emilia teased, a smile breaking out over her face.
‘Hold the front page for me, will you?’
63
Helen crouched over Charlie as the paramedics gave her the once over in the back of the ambulance. Charlie was insisting she didn’t need to go to hospital, but Helen wasn’t convinced. She had a large bruise rising on her chin, several more on her neck and, though she could walk and appeared compos mentis, her eyes had a strangely glazed look. She was still in shock – as she had every right to be, given what she’d just been through.
‘I’m ok,’ Charlie protested, as the medics shined a torch into her eyes. ‘I know it looks bad but, really, I’m fine.’
‘Let the medics be the judge of that,’ Helen replied calmly.
She had been in this position herself and she knew that one’s first instinct in these situations was denial, batting away concern while attempting to minimize the nature of the trauma you’d been through. It made sense – if you said it wasn’t that bad, then maybe it wasn’t – but it wasn’t rational or truthful. Charlie had been through a terrifying ordeal – she just wasn’t able to admit it to herself yet.
‘She has extensive bruising to the neck, though there’s no sign of fracture. Cuts to the back of the head, facial bruising and mild concussion, I would suggest. She’ll need several days’ bed rest at the very least.’
‘For God’s sake, I’ve said I’m fine,’ Charlie said angrily, trying to rise. But Helen stopped her with a gentle hand. She could see tears pricking Charlie’s defiant eyes now so, having thanked the paramedics for their work, asked them to give her five minutes alone with Charlie.
‘Honestly, boss, I’m …’ but Charlie didn’t have the energy or conviction to finish the sentence now that it was just her and Helen.
‘Listen to me, Charlie. I know Ford was your collar. I know you want to help. But I would be a terrible team leader if I didn’t ask you to heed the medics’ advice and step back from this. I know a few days in bed isn’t realistic, but I want you to stand down for today. I’ll get uniform to take you home. Freshen up, talk to Steve, get some rest and we’ll talk in the morning. Please don’t fight me on this one, Charlie. It’s for your own good.’
Charlie’s body was starting to shake now, as the fear and emotion of the day’s events started to register. She could have been killed today. That would take a while to sink in but when it did it would be hard to shake off. Charlie had responsibilities, loved ones who depended on her. The selfishness of life in a dangerous, front-line job was something you dealt with day after day, but it was hard when you had a nice family to go home to, when events forced you to confront the prospect of your own mortality. Helen didn’t really expect to see Charlie back tomorrow, but she had to offer her that carrot for now, to ensure that she did the right thing in going home to rest.
Charlie nodded gently but said nothing. Helen could tell she was trying not to sob and laid a gentle arm around her shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, Charlie. You made it.’
Charlie leant in closer, seeking Helen’s warmth and support. Helen squeezed her a little tighter in response. Then, having gestured to a uniformed officer to bring a car round, said:
‘Now go home and give that beautiful daughter of yours a big kiss.’
64
‘Tell me exactly what you said to her.’
Deborah Parks stared at her boss, refusing to be intimidated by his aggressive manner.
‘She’s an old friend and she asked me to talk to her off the record. She wanted some background info on certain members of the team, that’s all.’
‘Your team said you were away from duties for over an hour. You must have been in a very talkative mood.’
‘It wasn’t like that!’
‘So what was it like?’
Deborah squirmed in her seat, privately cursing whichever colleague of hers had dobbed her in. Adam Latham was a canny operator, very political and extremely sensitive about both his reputation and that of the Service. He actively encouraged internal gossip and whistleblowing, as long as the matters arising could be dealt with discreetly. He prided himself on being too smart to be duped and his little network of informers helped him justify that bold claim.
‘You left your designated work to sit down with Helen Grace and within the hour one of our own officers is in cuffs. One of your colleagues. What did you say to her?’
‘She asked me a direct question about Richard Ford. And I answered as honestly as I could.’
‘Saying what?’
‘That he was a good officer, but was socially isolated.’
‘And?’
‘And that he’d failed to make promotion.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘I couldn’t lie, Adam. She’s a Detective Inspector investigating a double murder and she asked me a direct question.’
‘And what would she have done if you’d refused? Arrested you?’
‘That’s hardly the point. I’m loyal to this place, of course I am, but someone is doing this and we all have a moral duty to help find out who.’
Adam Latham eyeballed Deborah silently, while chewing on his biro. She refused to blink, refused to bow her head in contrition – she had to front this out. But already she could feel the ground shifting beneath her feet. Latham was an old-fashioned guy who prized loyalty and solidarity above all things, and she knew that in talking to the ‘enemy’ she had committed a cardinal sin. There was only one way for Latham – his way – and Deborah knew that she would suffer for her close association with Helen Grace.
‘Grace is clutching at straws,’ Latham said suddenly, jolting Deborah out of her thoughts. ‘Time will show that. For now, we’ll take the line that Ford is just helping the police with their enquiries and that we fully expect him to be back at work protecting the people of Southampton in the very near future. I have talked to our press people a
nd they are drafting a statement, which I expect everybody to read and follow to the letter. Is that clear?’
‘Of course.’
‘No more talking out of school. It’s time for the wagon train to circle, Deborah. If you get my drift.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, that’s settled then. Now fuck off.’
It was said with such contempt that for a moment Deborah froze, uncertain if she had heard him correctly. But the way Latham ignored her presence, as he picked up the phone, left her in no doubt as to his opinion of her. She stood quickly and walked out and away down the corridor. With each step, her heart slid a little further into her boots. She had done nothing wrong, but she would be punished nevertheless. Latham would no doubt let it be known that she couldn’t be trusted, that she was a turncoat. Through no fault of her own, she would pay the price for somebody else’s crimes.
65
Helen stood quietly as Meredith Walker went about her work. The stove fire had been extinguished, but the claustrophobic attic room still reeked of smoke, rendering the atmosphere close and unpleasant. There were no windows or vents in this place, the open door was the only means of expelling the pungent smoke that danced around the naked bulb in this strange cocoon.
Emotions swirled through Helen as she took in the scene. Concern for Charlie, irritation at Emilia Garanita, whom she’d had to forcibly eject from the crime scene, but also disquiet at what she now saw. Every room in the house was packed to the rafters – Ford was clearly a hoarder – but the attic was different. This seemed to be a more ordered chaos, a kind of nerve centre, a shrine almost and the object of Ford’s worship was clear.
The walls, the roof, every joint and joist were covered with photos of fire. The floor and every available surface were piled high with boxes overflowing with clippings, while the rickety shelves erected on two of the walls groaned with first-hand accounts of history’s deadliest blazes. The whole room felt like a brain bursting with one man’s obsession. A dark, secret place where he could revel in his private passion.
Helen immediately wondered how long Ford had been living alone in this house. His mother had passed away a few years back, though exactly how long ago she wasn’t sure. Did all this start then? Had he kept it buried inside while she was alive, only to give in to his obsession once there was no one to rein him in? Had his loneliness, his isolation, contributed to the feelings that had pushed him over the edge?
Ford was now in custody at Southampton Central. He’d been passed fit for questioning by their medics, but Helen had decided to let him stew for a while yet. She wanted him to feel the confines of the holding cell, to witness the whispered comments of the screws – she wanted his fear and paranoia to grow. It wasn’t a pleasant way to treat someone, but it often worked. A brief taste of incarceration – and the promise of more to come if convicted – often prompted suspects to confess quickly in the hope of making a deal.
There was another reason Helen wanted to buy some time. His attic was a veritable treasure trove of evidence and she wanted to be fully armed when she sat down opposite Ford. She would never forgive herself if he managed to wriggle off the hook because of a procedural error or some omission in the narrative she presented. It was obvious that some of the photos on the wall were of the fires in Millbrook, Bevois Mount and elsewhere. No doubt the dozens of mini-cam tapes now being bagged by Meredith and her officers would yield similar evidence of an unhealthy interest in these terrible attacks. Everywhere you looked you saw recent events reflected back at you – Helen had only been here an hour but already her unusual surroundings were starting to affect her, seeming to suggest that the world was made of fire and fire alone.
There was one thing that was missing, however, and that was any imprint of Ford himself. No photos, no possessions, no sign of him. It was as if his whole identity had been subsumed by a greater master.
‘Any personal mementoes? Any family snaps? Passing-out parades?’ Helen asked.
‘Only this,’ Meredith replied, scooping an evidence bag from the floor and passing it to her. ‘Found it down the back of a chest of drawers.’
It was a clipping for the local paper showing a fire crew visiting a school. Two officers were featured in the large photo, surrounded by adoring, curious kids. One of them was a female officer whom Helen didn’t recognize. The other one, as the caption beneath confirmed, was Richard Ford.
Helen froze as she looked at the picture. She hadn’t really taken Ford in properly when arresting him. She was more concerned with Charlie’s well-being and had passed the shell-shocked Ford on to her colleagues quickly. But there could be no doubt about it now – she had met Ford before.
Helen was still processing this development when her phone buzzed loudly. Her mind was elsewhere, but somehow she knew exactly who it would be.
Jonathan Gardam.
66
Helen threw her coat and scarf down on the chair and turned to face her boss, who reclined on the sofa in her office.
‘DS Sanderson’s waiting for me in the interview suite, so I’m going to have to be relatively brief, I’m afraid.’
Gardam either missed or ignored the note of irritation in Helen’s voice. When he replied it was in an open and friendly manner.
‘Of course. Questioning Ford has to be our top priority. How sure are you that he’s our man?’
‘Pretty sure,’ Helen replied, without elaborating further.
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s in love with fire. Because he’d know what to do. Because he was there. I think these fires have been fuelling his fantasies.’
Gardam nodded.
‘Do you think he’ll talk to you?’
‘Doubt it, but you never know how people will react under interview. Thanks to Meredith we’ve got a lot of evidence to lay before him and his lawyer.’
‘You heard about that. The Fire Service have paid for the best, so expect a rough ride.’
‘I can handle myself. I’ve done a few rounds with Ms Shapiro before now.’
‘I dare say you have,’ Gardam answered, once more breaking out into a broad smile. ‘Well, let me know how you get on. If she is being deliberately obstructive, I can have another word with Latham. Though the gloves might come off a bit now that we’ve got one of theirs in custody. Do the press know about it?’
‘Garanita was there ten minutes after we were.’
Gardam nodded as if he weren’t in the least bit surprised, then made to leave:
‘Let me know what you get out of him.’
‘Before you go, sir …’
Gardam stopped and, turning, walked back towards Helen. They were separated now only by the battered desk which Helen had come to know well over the last few years.
‘May I speak freely?’
‘Of course, Helen, say whatever you want,’ Gardam replied, a cloud of concern creasing his features now.
‘Well, you seem to be rather … present at the moment. And I was wondering why that was.’
‘Present?’
‘You’re on my shoulder, sir. If you have any concerns about my work, then I’d rather you were up front about it –’
‘Of course not. You know I have a high opinion of you. This is a tricky case, but we’re making progress, so …’
He petered out and the pair of them stood there, framed by Helen’s drab office. Gardam was looking at Helen quizzically as if trying to fathom her, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
‘Is it something else then?’ Helen found herself saying.
‘I don’t follow …’
‘Well, I mean that you seem to be very interested in my personal life – my relationship status and so on – and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to infer from that …’
There was a brief silence, then Gardam half laughed as the import of Helen’s words dawned on him.
‘You think I’m attracted to you?’ he said. ‘Dear God, Helen, is that what’s been worrying you? I’m a
happily married man and, believe me, I wouldn’t betray Sarah for all the tea in China.’
‘Right,’ said Helen, trying to stem the colour that was fast rising to her face.
‘I’m sure you’re a lovely person, Helen, but it would be grossly unprofessional of me to think of you in that light and I can assure you that I don’t. The only reason I have been so … present … is because I’m trying to be supportive. This is a big case for you, for the team, and it’s my first major investigation as station chief, so …’
‘Enough said,’ Helen replied. ‘I’m sorry I raised it.’
‘That’s quite all right. You must never feel concerned about being open and honest with me. Trust is a two-way street, Helen.’
‘Of course. I’ll endeavour to remember that,’ Helen said quickly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better …’
Helen didn’t wait to be dismissed, marching from her office and across the incident room as fast as she could. She just wanted to be away. She had embarrassed herself in front of her new boss, looking like a foolish schoolgirl in the process. But she had to put that behind her and gather herself. The investigation now stood at a vital crossroads and she had important work to do.
Richard Ford was waiting for her.
67
Charlie clutched Steve’s hand tightly as they approached the nursery. He had urged her to stay at home and rest up, but Charlie had insisted on picking up Jessica today. Pick-up time at Grasshoppers Nursery was 6 p.m. sharp and this was usually Steve’s duty, as the garage he worked at always shut before then. In the face of his resistance, Charlie had argued that she seldom got the chance to see Jessie properly at the end of the day and wanted to take advantage of her ‘early finish’ today. But they both knew this was a lie. In reality, she just wanted to hold her husband and her little girl close and prove to them – and to herself – that she hadn’t gone anywhere.
Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) Page 15
