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

by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘No delay timer?’

  ‘I haven’t found any evidence of one and, believe me, I’ve looked.’

  ‘And you think Agnieszka Jarosik was on the sofa when this happened?’

  ‘Best guess is that the fire started just before midnight. If Agnieszka was on the sofa, we can guess she didn’t fight back because she didn’t have time or –’

  ‘Or because she was asleep,’ Helen interrupted, earning a measured nod from Deborah. ‘She’d had a busy day, sticks the TV on, falls asleep on the sofa. And the next thing she knows she’s being doused in paraffin …’

  ‘It’s all supposition,’ Deborah replied. ‘But it’s our best guess. The body was directly over the seat of the fire. She never moved.’

  ‘She burnt to death,’ Helen said, her heart sinking even as she said it.

  ‘Jim Grieves will be able to tell you more,’ Deborah added, ‘but if you were an optimist you might think that she died of shock. When an individual is set on fire like that, their heart often gives out straight away, the initial conflagration proving too much for them.’

  ‘What a way to die.’

  There was silence for a moment, then Helen continued:

  ‘What makes you think the arsonist came in through the back?’

  Deborah gestured at the back door and the pair of them picked their way cautiously through the wreckage towards it.

  ‘It’s an old-fashioned wood and glass door with a solid, traditional lock. The bolts weren’t across, but when we turned up this morning, the door was locked – from the outside. Look, the key is as we found it.’

  Helen peered through the devastated door and sure enough the key was poking out of the heavy iron lock on the wrong side of the door.

  ‘Our arsonist was taking no chances,’ she muttered. ‘So why the change in MO? Why not carry on as before?’

  ‘Who’s to know? We’ve a different house layout here. No cupboard under the stairs, plus the stairs down to the basement do not link up to the main staircase. That could be relevant or it could be there was some other factor driving such a direct attack.’

  ‘A particular hatred for the victim?’

  ‘Or some kind of time pressure. Perhaps the extra boots on the street have made him nervous. Perhaps he was worried about getting caught and wanted to get this one done as fast as possible.’

  ‘Perhaps they’d had a close shave earlier in the night?’ Helen offered.

  ‘Very possibly. Either way, dousing another human being in paraffin and then discarding the empty bottle nearby represents a definite escalation. Whether it’s fear, desperation or sadism driving them, I really couldn’t say.’

  And Deborah wasn’t saying it, but the implication was clear. It was down to Helen to answer this. She thanked Deborah and picked her way towards the front door, her mind whirling. The nation’s press were camped outside waiting for a statement, but what was she supposed to say about a case that still had far more questions than answers?

  Helen had never felt under so much pressure, but there was no point putting these things off. When you’re leading an investigation of such magnitude and complexity there always comes a point when you are called to account. So, summoning her courage, Helen put on her most authoritative face and walked out of the house towards the awaiting press pack.

  It was time to face the music.

  94

  ‘Can you give us an update on the number of casualties?’

  The first question was from the BBC’s South of England correspondent. Helen was surprised that she couldn’t see Emilia Garanita present. This was her patch – she was adept at elbowing her way to the front of the pack and always asked the first question. Detective Superintendent Jonathan Gardam flanked Helen, as did the station’s media liaison officer, but apart from that there were a lot of unfamiliar faces in the crowd today.

  ‘I am sorry to have to report that a young woman died in last night’s fire. She has yet to be identified formally. Beyond that we only had minor injuries at this site and those of the other fires. The fire at the PlayTime Nursery was contained very effectively by the fire services but the blaze at the First Buy cash and carry was extremely severe, gutting most of the property.’

  ‘Do we take it from that that you are critical of the way the fire services have dealt with these blazes?’ the correspondent continued.

  ‘Not at all,’ Helen replied calmly. ‘This is a unique set of circumstances and very challenging for us all.’

  ‘Do you have a suspect in custody?’ Sky’s reporter piped up. It was said innocently, but everybody knew that Richard Ford had been released.

  ‘We have several active lines of enquiry, but no suspect in custody currently.’

  ‘Have the extra boots on the street made any difference at all?’

  ‘We’re still evaluating that –’

  ‘Can the public be assured that they are safe?’ A journalist from The Times was now attempting to get in on the act.

  ‘We’re reiterating the advice we gave to the public earlier. Which is to make sure all windows and locks are secure at night and to remain vigilant at all times.’

  ‘Are you any closer to catching the perpetrator?’

  ‘Our understanding of this individual is growing day by day.’ Helen knew it was baseless flannel and got the response it deserved.

  ‘I’ll ask again, are you any closer to catching the perpetrator?’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can –’

  ‘Would you consider a curfew?’

  From the Telegraph this time and the question Helen had been dreading.

  ‘We’re ruling nothing out at this point.’

  ‘You’re that worried that you would consider imposing a curfew in Southampton?’

  The gloves were off and the questions rained down now. There was a reason they called it the press pack. Once one became emboldened to attack, then they all piled in. It was a relentless assault, calling into question Helen’s competency, Southampton Central’s reputation, the course of the investigation. No stone was left unturned as they hunted for a scapegoat. When people are scared, they look for someone to blame and Helen had the distinct impression that it was going to be her. This was not surprising and in some ways was justified, but as Helen defended herself and her colleagues as best she could, one thing puzzled and worried her. There was one person who should be here and wasn’t and this could only mean trouble.

  Where was Emilia Garanita?

  95

  Emilia’s finger hovered over the Send button. She had been on the job since the moment Latham ended their call. His testimony was incendiary stuff, a chapter and verse evisceration of Helen Grace both as a human being and as a police officer. He had accused her of gross incompetency and blind prejudice in pursuing members of Hampshire’s Fire and Rescue Service who were – and always had been – innocent of any wrongdoing. In the process, much damage had been done and the real perpetrator had been left alone to kill again. According to Latham, the death of the Harrises’ nanny, Agnieszka Jarosik, was on Helen’s conscience and she would have to answer for it.

  Emilia had had one ear on the live TV feed from the police statement outside the Harrises’ house in Lower Shirley, but her mind was really on her own copy. In the background she could hear the aggressive questioning, could hear the mood turning against the police, and it chimed with the mood of her piece. There were legitimate questions to be asked about the way Hampshire Police, and Helen in particular, had run this investigation. Hundreds of thousands of pounds of damage, four people dead, several others injured. For the first time that Emilia could remember it appeared that Helen was struggling – from an outsider’s point of view the investigation seemed unfocused and floundering with no real handle on the how, why or who of these terrible crimes.

  Normally, Emilia would have pounced on the populist bandwagon. Fear, confusion and a good scapegoat – all of these things sold newspapers. These crimes were not isolated, they appeared to threaten a
nyone and everyone. For that reason, copies of the Southampton Evening News were flying off the shelves. Everything was pushing Emilia to print Latham’s allegations, to do a hatchet job on Helen Grace and yet still Emilia hesitated. She had taken on Helen before and lost, narrowly escaping prosecution for illegally tracking the celebrated officer’s movements. Since then, the former enemies had enjoyed an extended truce, managing to work together, helping one another to do their jobs to the best of their respective abilities.

  But that seemed to Emilia like the cosy collaboration of peacetime and there was a war raging now. A war in which there would be winners and losers. Emilia could tell which way the wind was blowing and had never been the sentimental type, so really there was only one thing to do. Taking a breath, she scanned her copy once more then hit the Send key.

  Let the games begin.

  96

  He had never felt this bad in his life. The pain was unremitting, surging through his body from his battered torso to his pulsing head. Sleep was impossible, the super-strength painkillers had no effect and he looked a total mess. He had lost a tooth, had deep, purple bruises on his face, neck and chest and was as white as a sheet. He’d had to cancel his appointments for the entire week – inventing a plausible excuse – and now lay on his bed, moaning quietly and cursing his fate.

  He had considered getting a cab to A&E, then thought better of it. He had contemplated phoning a friend, even his sister at one point, but in the end had decided against that too. He couldn’t face the welter of questions. Max Paine knew his family disapproved of his lifestyle. An attack such as the one he had endured last night would give his parents the perfect excuse to stage another of their crude ‘interventions’, in a vain and self-serving attempt to save Max from himself. He didn’t want to be saved – though he could have done with their help last night.

  There was one point during the attack on him when he really thought she was going to kill him. He realized now that even as he was taking the blows, he wasn’t unduly alarmed – initially at least. The tables had turned and he was expecting a beating as his due. It wasn’t the first time that had happened and he rather feared it wouldn’t be the last. But this time it had been different. She had been so unrelenting, so fired up by her violence, that a part of him had already started to resign himself to death. He had always had a premonition that he would end his days like this, in some after-hours encounter gone badly wrong. He had just never pictured it as being at the hands of a woman.

  He wasn’t ashamed that he lost out in the fight – she was a fit, strong and aggressive character who was clearly no stranger to violence – but he was unnerved by it. He had always traded on misanthropy, flaunting his disgust at the vulgar parade of a pointless existence in front of his disapproving parents, teachers, girlfriends and more. And, of course, the more they chided him, the more he hammed it up, venting his anger on them, lacerating them for their petty-minded and bourgeois attitudes. But now, faced with a sudden and violent end, he realized that he actually valued life. Parts of it at least.

  As he lay in his sick bed, drifting between watching the TV and trying to sleep, his mind had turned slowly on her. She had booked in under a false name: Eleanor Noel. Subsequent attempts to google that name, looking for local connections, had come up with a complete blank. Perhaps she was married? Or in an important job? Or perhaps there was another less savoury reason why she concealed her identity?

  Round and round he went, remembering her voice, her face, the way she held herself, the clothes she wore. He was searching for clues, anything however small that might give him a steer as to who this weird angel of violence was. Occasionally he laughed at the absurdity of it – beaten black and blue by a female client – but he knew that this was a defence mechanism, trying to rob the situation of its seriousness and the fear it engendered. What would he do if he ever came face to face with her again? He had no idea, but he desperately wanted to know more, wanted to put a name to the face that dominated and bullied him the night before. He wanted her to know what she’d done and call her to account for it.

  As he half slumbered, the voices from the TV intruded on his thoughts. There had been more fires last night and people were wringing their hands about it as usual. Same old same old. Yet this time something was different about the reports. Something about them was … familiar. Yes, the voice, that was it. It was her voice.

  Max’s eyes shot open and he sat up in bed. Immediately he was assaulted by a wave of unbearable agony, but he managed to stay upright. He blinked hard, trying to focus on the TV. The news channel was replaying an earlier press briefing, which had been staged outside one of the fire-damaged houses. And, in the midst of it, there she was. For a moment, he sat transfixed, barely taking in what she was saying, his eyes glued to her face. She looked very different with her hair down, with her professional face on, but there was no question it was her. And as she spoke, his gaze drifted towards the caption on the screen beneath her. He nearly choked when he saw it, but in some ways it made perfect sense. He had long ago learnt not to be surprised by the secrets people hold deep and hers was a good one.

  The woman who paid for his services, then violently assaulted him, was a police officer.

  97

  Encouraged by his parents, Ethan Harris leant forward and took the plastic spoon in his mouth. He had been officially released from the burns unit two hours previously and was now tucked away in a private room, where he would remain until a car came to pick him up. He had come off the drip now since dehydration was no longer a concern, but he needed to build his strength up again – he needed to eat – and milky Weetabix was all he could face. His throat had been irritated and inflamed by the hot smoke, so taking anything more solid was out of the question.

  The seventeen-year-old had tried to feed himself but his hand shook too much to guide the spoon properly. This was partly a result of his medical condition – he had suffered from cerebral palsy since birth – but partly due to the shock of his experience. The boy could barely keep still, the rhythm of his trauma seeming to resonate through his shaking body. He had come very close to death last night, and even though in the end he’d had a very lucky escape, the legacy of his experience would linger for years to come.

  Helen knew how he must be feeling. She had stared death in the face, had found herself in situations that took her beyond ordinary fear to a much darker place. So she let the boy take his time, helped and guided by his parents. At least he had his mother and father to support him, Helen thought. Others, such as Luke Simms and Callum Roberts, were not so lucky.

  After a few mouthfuls, Ethan decided that he’d had enough. His parents took the bowl from him and placed it on the side table, then turned to face Helen. They weren’t exactly hostile, but they didn’t seem keen to encourage questions either, which Helen understood. In their shoes, she’d have felt exactly the same.

  ‘I know you need to take it very easy, so I’ll keep this brief. If at any time you want me to stop just say so, ok?’

  Ethan nodded, so she continued.

  ‘According to your parents, you usually turn the light out at around ten thirty p.m. on a school night. Is that what happened last night?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ethan croaked, immediately wincing as he did so. The smoke damage to his larynx and throat was not severe, but it was painful. He had a small burn on his left palm and some abrasions on his face – but overall he’d been remarkably fortunate, given the intensity of the blaze.

  ‘What happened after that? Did you read at all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Until what time?’

  ‘Eleven p.m.’ he replied.

  ‘And then you went to sleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you hear or see anything after that which alarmed or surprised you? Anything out of the ordinary?’

  Ethan shook his head.

  ‘You don’t remember the doorbell ringing? Or a phone call or anything between your turning the light out and discovering
the fire?’

  ‘No.’

  Helen took this in.

  ‘How had Agnieszka been with you that evening? Was she ok in herself? Normal?’

  ‘She was good. Fine.’

  ‘She hadn’t been having any problems recently?’ Helen said, now addressing herself to Jacqueline and Michael Harris. ‘Any boyfriend problems? Money worries?’

  ‘Not that she told us of,’ Michael responded. ‘She seemed very steady. Then again, she’d only been with us for three months, so whether she would have felt comfortable coming to us, I don’t know.’

  ‘So the first thing you encountered that was out of the ordinary was your discovery of the fire?’ she said, turning back to Ethan once more.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you describe to me what happened?’

  Ethan took a deep breath. Whether this was to brace himself for the physical pain that was to come or because of the emotions his memories aroused, Helen wasn’t sure.

  ‘I was in bed. The smell of smoke was very strong and … when I switched on the bedside light, I still couldn’t see anything.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I called for Agnieszka but … I didn’t hear anything. I was panicking – I knew what was happening. So I got out of bed and walked to the door and then I felt it …’

  He paused, asking his parents for some water, which he drank down greedily, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat.

  ‘Felt?’

  ‘I could tell a seizure was coming on. I get a tingling feeling in my hands and feet first and then my vision goes. Everything takes on a kind of glow and well … I guess I knew I had to try to get out before it came on properly.’

  Helen nodded but said nothing. She could see his parents were affected by his description. It must have been terrifying trying to escape the fire with that kind of time pressure hanging over you.

  ‘Next thing I know, someone’s carrying me. And it’s hot, hotter than I could ever have imagined. Did Agnieszka get out ok?’