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

by M. J. Arlidge

  So why did Helen feel so anxious? Under the cover of darkness, terrible things had happened. Three lives had been taken and many more touched by these awful fires and somehow Helen knew in her gut that it wouldn’t end here. Was she missing something? Was there more she could yet do? Helen sensed those familiar feelings creeping up on her again. She didn’t seem to be in control of this situation, she felt hopeless and helpless, and, in spite of everything she’d done, her instincts now told her that more people would die before this thing was over.

  77

  DC Lucas pulled up Google and typed in ‘Kardashian’. Immediately, dozens of links offered themselves, an endless array of portals inviting further dissection of the celebrity family. Lucas didn’t really do reality TV, nor was she a big Kanye West fan, but she thought this was a decent cover. She was dressed in casual clothes, hair down and untethered – she could pass as a bored, lonely twenty-something with nothing to do but stalk the rich and famous.

  She had chosen her position in the café carefully. In the reflection of her screen, she could see Richard Ford at his terminal, tapping away intently. He had been here for a couple of hours now. Lucas, McAndrew and Edwards were in charge of surveillance and had done a decent job so far, dovetailing neatly as they rotated to avoid detection. Shapiro had dropped him off near his home in Midanbury, but as Ford turned the corner to his road, it became clear that going home was not a viable option. The police forensics team had departed, but a small knot of journalists were trawling the street, tapping up neighbours and searching for dirt – sent no doubt by Emilia Garanita, who had aggressively doorstepped Ford as he’d left Southampton Central earlier. Ford wisely thought better of another confrontation with the press and turned on his heel, walking straight past McAndrew, who carried off her role well, seeming to struggle with heavy Lidl bags which were in fact full of empty cereal packets.

  Ford didn’t seem to smell a rat and hurried away, ending up at Al’s Internet Shack ten minutes later. He had been holed up here ever since, barely moving from his seat. What was he up to? Why was he typing so furiously? What was he planning?

  Lucas had been tempted on more than one occasion to get up and pass behind him. She couldn’t see his screen from her seated position – he had chosen a terminal in the far corner of the room – and would only be able to do so by inventing an excuse to pass by. But there was no toilet here, no drinks machine, nothing that could legitimately take her in his direction. She had considered talking to him – asking him for a pen – but had chickened out. If there was any hint in her manner that she was not what she seemed, if she gave herself away by even the briefest of glances at his screen, then she would have blown their cover. They had all worked too hard and too well for her to allow that to happen and, besides, she wouldn’t fancy facing DI Grace to explain that, so she stayed where she was, scrolling through yet more pictures of Kim Kardashian’s backside, wondering to herself what was going through the mind of Richard Ford.

  78

  Blog post by firstpersonsingular.

  Thursday, 10 December, 21.00

  When people come to judge me, they will see that none of this is my fault. Some people have addictive personalities. If you’ve experienced that sense of compulsion, you’ll know what I’m talking about. I’m not in control of this thing any more.

  Just stop.

  Well, I would, but that would hardly be fair. Who would I stop for? There’s no one out there who gives a shit and now that I’m on the side of the angels, why should I stop? Too much has already been done and the road ahead is long. There is so much more to do. It makes me feel funny just thinking about it.

  More boots on the street. As if that can stop this thing. It just gives me more puppets to play with. Do you ever step outside yourself and look down? I do all the time. What do I see? Ants, loads of tiny little ants, scurrying around, crawling all over each other. Panic, panic, panic. And what do you do with ants? You tread on them. Tread on them until they don’t move any more.

  I read an e-book recently called ‘Footprints in History’. By an American dude who took out his entire class with a Mac-10. He was a smart guy with a bitch of a mother and a dad who liked to hold his son’s head to the stove. They told him he was a worm, a germ, a piece of shit who should never have existed. But he did more than any of them. He did something, then wrote a book about it. He’s going to be as famous as Hitler or Jeffrey Dahmer.

  I don’t have a book in me, not got the patience. And my hands get tired with all the typing. Perhaps I should get a speech recognition program??? I would but I can’t say out loud what I’m thinking. I’d say LOL if it wasn’t so dated. Anyway, I’m rambling now, so I’ll sign off. You can talk all you want, but it’s actions that count and I can’t sit here gossiping all day.

  I have work to do.

  79

  ‘So, what’s she like?’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘Strange good or strange bad?’

  Jonathan Gardam sat back in his chair and considered Sarah’s question. They had just finished a late dinner – an exquisitely prepared Dover sole – and were now working their way through what remained of the wine. This was their customary end-of-the-day routine – they weren’t great box set people, nor were they devotees of Facebook. They liked to sit and talk.

  ‘Good mostly. She’s very talented. Very committed and the most fearless officer I’ve met.’

  ‘Probably because she doesn’t have a family to go home to.’

  ‘Perhaps, but, whatever, it works.’

  ‘So why do you say she’s strange?’

  ‘Because she’s so hard to read. She’s a great team leader, good at inspiring the troops, but she’s determined to keep everyone at arm’s length.’

  ‘Some people are like that,’ Sarah said, shrugging.

  ‘But how does she do it? How does she take the hits and then go back to an empty flat?’

  ‘That’s for her to know. It’s not your place to ask.’

  ‘But I’m curious. I know I couldn’t do it. You need someone to come home to, someone to change the mood music in your life, to distract you from yourself.’

  ‘You say the sweetest things, honey,’ Sarah mocked as she rose, taking their plates to the sink. ‘Now finish up that wine and come upstairs. I’m going to run a bath and there’s room for two if you’re interested …’

  Jonathan did as he was told, placing his empty glass on the marble top. Upstairs, he could hear the hot water thundering into the tub and it made him think. Here he had warmth, love and more besides. Out there in the dark somewhere was Helen Grace. What did she have? Who did she have? How did she make her world work? Their discussion earlier had been embarrassing but also illuminating. Brilliant as she was, she was terribly alone and who could say what the eventual cost of that might be? He never felt paternalistic towards his staff but he did worry about her. She was the bedrock of Southampton Central, if she broke they would all suffer.

  Sarah was calling for him now, so turning he headed upstairs. He wondered if Helen had ever enjoyed such simple pleasures. Who was out there for her?

  80

  Helen cried out in pain and her body slumped forward. The impact of the blow had temporarily winded her and for a moment she struggled to breathe. But then the feeling subsided, though her heart was already thundering out a terrifying rhythm.

  Max Paine raised the paddle and brought it down hard on her back. Helen bucked fiercely but straight away ordered him to strike again. He obliged, harder this time and Helen felt it go right through, piercing pain from her temples to her feet and back again. But still it wasn’t enough.

  She couldn’t dispel those familiar feelings of hopelessness tonight. Was this because Max was new to her? That she wasn’t comfortable in his presence? There was an edge to things tonight for sure. He seemed in a heightened, energized mood, barely bothering to conceal the lines of cocaine he took in the back room before their session, and Helen’s instincts told her that he enjoyed
looking at her. He kept a professional face on at all times, playing the role he was paid for, but she could feel his eyes on her nevertheless, tracing the contours of her body, no doubt asking himself questions about the many abrasions and scars that covered her.

  ‘Again.’

  Why couldn’t she stop thinking tonight? Why couldn’t she relax into it, as she had with Jake so many times previously? Why did she suddenly feel self-conscious and stupid, parading herself in her underwear for a man she neither knew nor cared for? Was she really that lost?

  The paddle slammed into her back once more, pushing her hard against the wall. Max seemed not to be waiting for instructions any more and, as Helen regained her footing, the paddle struck again. Helen closed her eyes and swallowed the pain. She wanted this to work. So gritting her teeth, she took the beating, hoping that Max could drive her dark thoughts away. For an hour or two at least, she needed to be free of the world and, more importantly, free of herself.

  81

  It was raining. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on her, yet still she was getting soaked. The rain swirled around her, saturating her clothes, getting in her ears and eyes, dripping from her hair. Where had this sudden storm come from? And why was she the only one getting wet? None of it made any sense.

  The cloud seemed to be hovering directly above her, shadowing her every move. It was as if it had been created just for her. She tried to run away from it but now realized she was horizontal, her legs moving ineffectually back and forth in thick, heavy mud where she lay. The more it rained, the more the mud clung to her. Her legs felt so heavy. Soon she wouldn’t have the strength to move at all.

  Then as suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped. And in the aftermath she drank in that smell – the bitter, dank aroma that storms leave before the ground dries off and the deluge is forgotten. But this rain smelt different. What was it that made it smell so odd? It smelt like petrol or …

  Now Agnieszka knew she was dreaming. She had kind of known it all along, but it had been so vivid that for a while she had gone with it, indulging herself in the harmless craziness of it all. She didn’t want to remain in this space any more, but part of her didn’t want to wake either. She had had a hard day – there was precious little respite in this job – and she didn’t want to be back in the real world just yet. But something was tugging at her now, forcing her awake. It was that smell, so strong, so suffocating, so sharp …

  And a noise too now. Like an overflowing water pipe dropping its load on concrete paving. Splatter, splatter, splatter. No, not that. It was liquid bouncing off leather. The leather she was lying on.

  Through her grogginess, she remembered now that she had been watching Breaking Bad on the TV. She remembered the episode finishing but little after that – she must have fallen asleep on the old leather sofa. Sitting up, she shook her head, trying to dispel her curious dream. And, as she did so, she felt her wet hair swing round, sticking to her face. Opening her eyes, she realized that she was saturated. But not with water. With something much worse. The smell of paraffin was overpowering, filling the small room completely.

  Blinking furiously, she tried to make sense of what was happening. The paraffin ran off her, off the sofa on to the floor below. Across the room there was a figure. In the gloom she couldn’t make out his face, his head shrouded in a dark hoodie. She tried to call to him but no words came out. And now she saw something in his hand. She blinked again and looked closer. And as he came towards her, she saw it. It was a match. He had a lit match in his hand.

  She watched it leave his hand, somersaulting slowly through the air on its way towards the sofa. She could see it but was powerless to stop it. And as it made contact with the soft leather, the entire room seemed to burst into flames.

  82

  She couldn’t breathe now. The blows were raining down on her, faster and faster, depriving her of the time to recover and robbing her of oxygen.

  ‘Stop.’

  It came out as no more than a whisper – that was all she could muster. Max Paine raised the paddle and brought it down again. Helen’s whole body swung forward with the impact, her chest crunching into the wall.

  ‘STOP!’ she repeated, finding the breath from somewhere to raise her volume.

  ‘You don’t want me to stop,’ Max called back, delivering another duo of heavy blows.

  This had stopped being enjoyable some time ago. Helen had come here for relief but had found none and their encounter was now turning into a beating.

  ‘Stop right now,’ she gasped.

  ‘Beg me,’ he replied aggressively. ‘Beg me to stop.’

  ‘I want you to stop.’

  ‘BEG ME!’ he screamed, raising the paddle threateningly.

  ‘Release,’ Helen finally gasped. This was their code word for a full cessation of their session. In a pursuit where consent can be a grey area, where people sometimes protest in the hope of incurring more punishment, it was vital to have a code word that would bring proceedings to a sudden close. It was standard practice in any S&M scenario and Helen was glad to have uttered it.

  The next blow caught her completely by surprise and she cannoned into the wall at speed.

  ‘Release,’ she cried as she rebounded, but another blow caught her between the shoulder blades. She looked up just as he brought the paddle down again and was horrified to see that Max had no intention of stopping. He looked like he was enjoying himself.

  Helen lurched to the left, but she was still shackled to the wall and the blow connected as it glanced off her, jarring her rib cage. Helen tugged hard at the shackles, suddenly alive to the danger she was in.

  ‘Stop, God damn y—’

  The next blow cut her off. She tugged harder – her body was slumping now under the weight of the blows and she wasn’t sure how long she could go on. She had already taken terrible punishment.

  As the next blow descended, her right arm suddenly came free. A split second before the paddle landed, she flung her elbow backwards. It connected sharply with Max’s chin. Stunned, he rocked for a moment, then stumbled forward. With one hand still tethered, Helen’s options were limited, but she twisted quickly, ramming her knee into his groin. It struck home and he collapsed to the floor gasping. Helen tugged her other hand free now and before she knew it was holding his discarded paddle. Max was trying to rise now and Helen was quickly upon him, bringing her weapon down hard on the back of his neck. He slumped once more but Helen’s blood was up and she hit him once, twice, a third time. Still he wouldn’t lie down, so she hit him again and again.

  Helen swung freely, driven by anger and fear, determined to break this man who’d tried to hurt her. But as she raised her hand to strike him again, a strange noise startled her. Something familiar, but strange. Something unexpected and oddly jaunty. It was a ring tone – her ring tone. She must have forgotten to turn her phone off.

  The phone rang on, bringing her to her senses. Dropping the paddle like a hot coal, she ran to her clothes, tugging them on roughly as she answered the phone.

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice was cracked and weak.

  ‘It’s Sanderson, boss. We’ve got three more fires.’

  Helen’s head spun. Could this be happening?

  ‘Text me the details,’ she replied and rang off. Seconds later, she was out of the door. Max Paine lay on the floor where she left him, silent and still.

  83

  Helen sprinted to her bike, berating herself every step of the way. Why, why, why was she such an enormous fuck-up? Was her loneliness so severe that she would willingly take her eye off the ball at such a crucial moment in the investigation? What the hell was she doing?

  Her mind was already scrolling forward. If Paine reported her assault on him, then she would be off the investigation and probably out of the Force too. Given her good track record, she could possibly ride out the disciplinary proceedings if she was contrite, agreeing to a demotion, community service and a large helping of humble pie. But would it be wort
h it? Once her extracurricular activities became common knowledge, she would be a dead woman walking as far as top brass were concerned. They would correctly surmise that it would be impossible for her to maintain authority over her unit, when everyone would be cracking ribald jokes about what she got up to after hours. Some would be repelled by her activities, others still might be attracted to her because of them – either way it would be an impossible circle to square and she would be put under heavy pressure to step down.

  It seemed as though Helen had been walking a tightrope for years. Keeping her private and professional lives totally separate, hoping in her own muddled way that she could find the strength to keep doing what she did. Suddenly a crushing wave of sadness swept over her. This was all she’d ever done, all she’d ever been good at. And she was good it – she had saved numerous lives, ended a number of brutal killing sprees. She loved her job and felt she made a difference to people’s lives. Was all that about to be taken away from her?

  Brushing these thoughts aside, Helen climbed on to her bike and fired it up. Her fate would have to be addressed later, there was important work for her to do now and she had to focus. Three more fires had been set. One at a nursery, one at a cash and carry and the third at a terraced house in nearby Lower Shirley. It wasn’t hard to work out the exact location of the last fire. Not half a mile away, a giant plume of black smoke climbed ever higher, blocking out the moon’s gaze and casting a shadow over Southampton.

  Helen raced towards it now, all thoughts of her own future temporarily forgotten. Their killer was at play once more.