84
Buzz, buzz, buzz. The phone was on silent mode and appeared aggrieved to be neutered in this way, buzzing its irritation angrily over and over again. It lay in a Marc Jacobs bag underneath the small table, temporarily forgotten by its owner.
Jacqueline Harris drained her glass and reached over towards the bottle. She pulled it out of the ice bucket, a few drops of icy water spilling on to the white tablecloth, and was aggrieved to find that it was empty. She cast a suspicious glance at her husband, Michael. He had been in ebullient mood, telling stories, joking and refilling his companions’ glasses at every opportunity. Wouldn’t it be like him to finish the bottle without ordering another – he wouldn’t want to break the flow of his delivery, now that he had a captive audience.
Signalling to the waiter, Jacqueline sat back in her chair and let out a heavy sigh. It had been a pig of a day – a day when every one of her pet projects had taken a step backwards. She had lost the pitch for the new building at Solent University, a client had complained about rising costs on another project and, to top it all off, she’d run into more planning problems on her luxury flats overlooking Ocean Village. She’d get over them, of course, it was too big a development to be stymied and she was a big enough name locally to cut through the red tape, but still it was irritating. Sometimes it seemed to her as if the world delighted in throwing small-minded pettifogging bureaucrats into her path just to see how she would react. By now it should have known – she reacted badly.
The waiter was on his way over now and Jacqueline relaxed a little. Her eye wandered to Michael, who was building to the end of another of his stories – adventures from the front line of psychiatry. He would never tell stories of current patients of course, but when it came to serving up the gory details of past fruitcakes he’d treated he was utterly shameless. He was currently dissecting the neuroses of a former patient – Katie B – who’d suffered from a condition called Objectum Sexuality, in which the victim became sexually obsessed with inanimate objects. Washing machines, car bonnets and the like were common, but Katie seemed to have a particular flair for her condition, having developed an unhealthy and somewhat unnerving obsession with Ferris wheels. She had been arrested in various states of undress at funfairs up and down the land and seemed to have no desire or ability to combat her addiction, despite the best efforts of her family and Michael too.
Jacqueline regarded her husband – he was expanding his theme now to bring in the real-life cases of two other female sufferers who’d married the Eiffel Tower and Berlin Wall, respectively. Despite her mild irritation with him and her high stress level, she couldn’t help smiling. When he was in this mood he was kind of irresistible – he would happily entertain their large party deep into the small hours if given the chance.
Jacqueline ordered another bottle of Sancerre and gave in to the flow of the evening. As the crisp white wine hit the back of her throat, she felt her whole body relax. She’d only had a couple of glasses and they hadn’t done much, but this one landed. It was late and they should probably be getting home, as they both had hectic days tomorrow, but somehow she knew they wouldn’t. They were night birds and didn’t really do sleep – they were never happier than when entertaining together. So she refilled her glass, launched herself into the conversation and forgot all about the woes of her day.
All the while, her phone buzzed violently underneath the table, out of sight and out of mind.
85
Adam Latham stood in front of the blaze, trying to stem the fierce anger rising inside him. Ever since his crew had arrived on the scene – their third fire of the night – they had been on the receiving end of catcalls and abuse. A knot of young lads hung on the cordon, swearing at them and accusing them of being killers, firestarters and more besides. A plastic bottle had been thrown at one of his officers, at which point the police had finally done their job, dragging the offender away for a night in the cells. But in general the boys in blue had done nothing to protect his team. No doubt they were in thrall to DI Grace, believing every ugly lie that came out of her mouth.
Every instinct was urging him to charge over to those scrawny kids and teach them a lesson they’d never forget. But he wasn’t an excitable rookie any more, he was Southampton’s Chief Fire Officer, which meant that though it stuck in his craw, he had to suck it up for now. They had more urgent priorities as the imposing house in Lower Shirley continued to rage, but he made a private vow to himself that if any of his officers were harmed or hampered in fulfilling their duties tonight, he would have Grace’s head on his wall before the month was out.
‘What shall we do, boss?’
Simon Cannon, the team captain, hurried up to him. His face was smeared with dirt and riven with tension.
‘Have we had any joy reaching the parents?’
Cannon shook his head.
‘Their car’s not here and Mrs Harris’s PA confirmed that she and her husband have gone out to dinner tonight. But we’ve got no way of knowing if they’ve got their son with them or not.’
‘How mobile is he? Could he get out himself? Call for help?’
‘Hard to say. He’s epileptic and has some physical disabilities according to the neighbours. He can get around, but he might have been asleep when this started. Even if he was awake, the stress of the situation might get to him and …’
‘Jesus Christ.’
Adam Latham had recurring nightmares about moments like these. He had faced enough of them over the years but they still haunted him – those moments when you had to make the big calls, when innocent lives were at stake and it was down to you to decide which way to jump. His team had already been in the building for upwards of ten minutes and it was touch and go as to how much longer the structure would hold. The fire appeared to have started in the basement and ripped through the old terraced house – it was a very real risk that the flooring would collapse, sending four officers to their deaths. He couldn’t have that on his conscience, but if they pulled out too early and allowed a disabled boy to die in the conflagration, they’d be slaughtered. And rightly so.
‘What are the boys saying? What’s it like in there?’
His deputy pulled a face.
‘They’re getting barbecued. They’ve got three or four minutes at best.’
Cannon paused and looked at his boss. Latham looked at him, then up at the house, before saying:
‘Give them two more minutes. If they haven’t found the boy by then, tell them to pull out.’
Cannon was immediately on his radio, as he hurried back towards the house. Adam Latham watched him go, hoping and praying that he’d just made the right call – and that he’d be able to live with the consequences.
86
The fire swirled around him, but still he pushed on. He had to keep going. The temperature in the house was savage now – it wouldn’t be long before his protective suit started to melt – but he had no choice. The intelligence was that there was a teenage boy in the house and he was damned if he was leaving without him. The order to pull out could only be seconds away – their bosses were very cautious when it came to officer safety and he was profoundly grateful for that.
Yet still Leroy Friend marched on, climbing the stairs to the top of the house, despite fully expecting them to give out at any moment. He was recently married with a young baby – if there was a child in here, he would move heaven and earth to get him out. But this place no longer resembled either of those – it looked like more like hell. Everything was ablaze, coming at them from below, from the sides and even more alarmingly from above. The roof had caught, was weakening and might come down at any second.
Distracted by this alarming sight, Leroy missed his step and stumbled as he moved forward. His arm shot out to right himself but the weakened bannister came away in his hand. Suddenly he was pitching forward, his heart skipping a beat as he sailed through the air, powerless to stop himself. He collided hard with the staircase and to his horror part of it gave way. Ly
ing spread-eagled on his front, he could look through the stairs now to the inferno awaiting him below. And in that moment, he knew he had to turn back.
Levering himself up cautiously, he called it in and turned to retrace his steps. It would be hard going – he would have to resist the temptation to run despite the intense heat, testing each foothold before he put his weight on it. If he brought the whole staircase down, he’d not only put his own life in jeopardy, but the lives of the rest of the team too.
Tentatively he moved his right foot forward, hoping to jam it into the corner of the staircase which still seemed solid. But halfway to his foothold, he paused. He could hear something. Something that frightened and alarmed him.
You hear all sorts of things when you’re in the midst of a fire and you become attuned to what each sound means, used to processing every small noise in case it poses a danger or a threat. And these sounds become your friends, the soundscape of emergencies that become familiar through repetition. But this sound he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t the usual roar or crackle or shriek. This sounded more like a wounded animal. Like some kind of keening.
Cursing himself for his stupidity and calling on all the saints he could think of, Leroy turned and continued to climb. Immediately his radio crackled and nearby he could hear the rest of the team calling to him. He gestured for them to get out, but didn’t turn or engage them in conversation – he didn’t want to drag them into his madness.
The sound was getting louder now as he mounted the stairs. Was it to the left or the right? As he stood, straining to hear, a roar above him made him dive to the left. A flaming wooden beam came crashing down where he’d just been standing, sending a vast column of white hot sparks leaping up into the air.
Now he was scrambling to his feet, racing to his left. There was no time to hesitate and think, he just had to act. In front of him was a door. He turned the handle and pushed with all his might, but immediately he met resistance. Was it fallen debris behind there or something else?
His head was beginning to throb, the oxygen in his tank draining fast. Muttering his baby son’s name, he shouldered the door once, twice, three times. And now finally it did move. Pushing it roughly open he stepped inside. There on the floor in front of him was a teenage boy in the midst of a full-blown seizure.
It was what Leroy had been hoping to find, but still this discovery filled him with dread. There was precious little chance of him getting out now, let alone two of them. But there was no time to hesitate, so scooping the quivering boy up, he placed him over his shoulder and strode back to the stairs.
Time was against them, there was little hope for either, but Leroy Friend had to try. If this boy was his boy, he would expect nothing less.
87
Charlie lay in bed and listened to the sirens. Another night, another set of fires. It was unbelievable but it was true. She had tried to avoid anything work-related given the horrific day she’d endured, but Southampton’s news was now national news, so even though she’d flicked her DAB radio to a classical station in an effort to relax, the news bulletins still brought real life crashing back into her world. In the end, she’d turned the radio off, pulling the duvet up around her chin, hoping against hope that she could block out the madness and get some sleep.
But old habits died hard. And even as she lay there tossing and turning, there was a part of Charlie that wanted to text Sanderson or McAndrew to find out what was going on. In normal circumstances she would have done so already, probably while driving to the station to pitch in, regardless of whether it was her shift or not. As a police officer you just want to know the details – to find out if you can help, if there is anything that can be done. Even now, with Steve counselling her not to dwell on recent events, with Charlie herself trying to wrench her mind towards more mundane, domestic matters, there was a part of her that craved the detail. What was happening out there?
When you’re wallowing in ignorance, your mind conjures up the very worst kind of images. Who’s to say that their arsonist hadn’t exceeded himself tonight, visiting his most serious night of chaos on Southampton? Charlie shook her head to ward off such morbid thoughts, but suddenly all sorts of nightmarish images presented themselves. Charlie knew she was disturbing Steve and didn’t want to have to explain why, so she fled their room, heading past Jessica’s bedroom and downstairs to the kitchen.
She poured herself a cool glass of water from the jug in the fridge and, having downed half the glass, held it to her forehead. She was surprised to find that she was sweating and for a moment the cold glass soothed her. Draining the glass, she refilled it and drained it again. She seemed to be locked into some kind of panic now. She felt dizzy and, steadying herself with a hand on the kitchen island, lowered herself to the floor. It was cool down here, the quarry tiles radiating a wintery chill from the frozen ground below, but Charlie liked the sensation, so slowly spread herself out, feeling the coolness seep into her chest, her stomach, her thighs. If Steve found her like this he’d probably ship her straight off to the funny farm, but Charlie didn’t care. She just wanted to be calm, cool and quiet for a moment.
Lying in the darkened kitchen, Charlie felt invisible and momentarily safe from the world. Perhaps this could be her sanctuary for the night, a place where she could process the terrible tragedy of little Alice’s death without disturbing Steve or Jessica. But to do so she’d have to ignore the sirens that wailed outside, ebbing and flowing, but never truly going away. It was as if every emergency vehicle in Southampton was out there right now, chasing shadows. And each time they neared her house, they seemed to accuse Charlie directly, shaming her for her absence. And tonight she felt every bit of that shame. They were right to lambast her – she deserved no mercy from them.
She’d always thought of herself as a dedicated and diligent officer, but tonight she felt nothing of the sort. Tonight she knew in her heart that she was nothing but a coward and a fraud.
88
The house fire in Lower Shirley had attracted so much interest that the roads surrounding the blaze were clogged with emergency workers, journalists and onlookers – so much so that Helen had had to abandon her bike in an alleyway and carry on on foot. She had no worries about doing so: this was an expensive neighbourhood and her bike would still be there in the morning, but it slowed her progress considerably. She was curt with idlers and aggressive in her tactics as she bullied her way to the police cordon.
Swinging underneath it, she made her way towards Adam Latham. He was the last person she wanted to see right now, but she had no choice. She needed to know what they were dealing with here. As soon as Latham turned to her, she could tell it was bad news. He usually had a rosy, corpulent complexion, he was one of those desk jockeys who had happily let himself go since retiring from front-line action, but tonight his face was ashen. He looked sick with worry and more than a little scared.
‘I was wondering if you’d show your face,’ he said, failing to disguise his contempt for her. ‘But I’m glad you’re here. Now you can see what your baseless allegations mean to officers on the ground. The shit that they have to put up with because of you.’
He turned towards the fire, offering Helen his back. Helen’s eyes flitted across the scene, taking in the kids idly abusing the fire crew, the journalists taking photos, no doubt wondering if any of the men in uniform was responsible for tonight’s blaze, before they came to rest on Latham once more.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked, drawing level with Latham, refusing to be dismissed.
‘What’s happening is that four of my best officers are in that inferno attempting to save a boy who may – or may not – be in there. Trying to pull innocent people from a blaze that you and your lot are solely responsible for. Have you got even a single genuine lead? Anything that might bring this guy to book?’
‘This isn’t helping, Adam.’
‘Fuck you. If the truth hurts, then don’t ask the question.’
‘Where are your team,
Adam?’
She said it as gently as she could – she didn’t want to provoke him further – and finally Latham seemed to soften a little. A dinosaur he may be, but he did care about his team and would be devastated if anything happened to them.
‘Last we heard they were on the second floor. But that was over five minutes ago and we’ve lost radio contact with them. I can’t risk sending any more of them in until we put this thing out. We’re doing everything we can …’
Helen was suddenly struck by how conversational and intimate his tone was. It was as if he wanted to talk to her – to talk to someone – to alleviate the tension that gripped him.
‘You have to trust in their training. These guys know what they’re doing and if anyone can make it out of there, they can. You have them well drilled – there are no better officers in the country.’
Adam nodded, but said nothing, his eyes still fixed on the blazing house. Helen wasn’t sure if she believed it either – they were good, no question, but the five-storey house was consumed with fire. Could anyone survive an inferno like that?
The pair of them stood there, scanning the scene, as Latham’s deputy repeatedly tried to restore radio contact. The tension was almost too much to bear, then suddenly there was movement from the front of the house. The front door barrelled open, collapsing off its hinges, and the first two men in the team hurried out. Suddenly the whole scene came to life, as paramedics, colleagues and more hurried over to them. The escaping firefighters were already signalling for an ambulance and now Helen saw why. The third and fourth men in the team had now followed their colleagues out of the house, carrying someone in their arms.
The house belonged to Jacqueline and Michael Harris and they shared it with their son, Ethan, and a nanny. The parents were out tonight but the other two were thought to be home. Helen could see the boy was now in the firefighters’ arms and though there was much concern for him – paramedics now rushing him towards the awaiting ambulance – at least he could be accounted for. Of the nanny, Agnieska Jarosik, there was no sign.
Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) Page 19
