She’d tried to engage Ethan in conversation, thinking it was better for him to be occupied, but he’d only managed five minutes before flaking out. Leaving her alone in this horrible, unfamiliar place. She hoped that Michael would hurry up and come back. She’d never been very good at being on her own. She checked her emails again – a deluge of sympathy messages – and her BlackBerry for a third time. But it was all just distraction – an attempt to pretend that life was going on as normal. But who was she kidding? Someone had tried to kill their son last night, had razed their house to the ground, and she had no idea why. Would they strike again? Or had they achieved all that they hoped for last night?
Not for the first time today, Jacqueline craved a drink. She knew she shouldn’t – couldn’t – but she longed for one nevertheless. She was lonely, miserable and scared – and terrified of what was still to come.
103
Mandy Blayne was smiling, but it was all an act.
She had cooked Darren a full English as usual and he was wolfing it down opposite her. He never left a scrap and always said it was the best breakfast in Southampton. But that never made him stay. He had dropped several hints during the course of last night that he’d be moving on in the morning – he said it was work, but Mandy was sure that was a lie. She knew he had other women on the go. He always denied it of course, angered by the suggestion, but she could smell it on him when he arrived.
He often turned up unannounced, knowing he’d always get a warm welcome. Mandy was a fool to herself, she knew that, but she loved him. Pure and simple. She shouldn’t but she did. And when he did come, when he was here with her, things always seemed better. They’d have a few beers, watch a bit of TV, then go upstairs for a cuddle. And that’s where they’d stay – often spending a whole weekend in bed. Darren always joked that he needed a good breakfast in the morning to regain his strength after what they got up to.
This time had been different of course. She’d been building herself up to telling him she was pregnant since the moment he turned up on her door with a bunch of roses in his hand. He’d been away from her for nearly seven weeks and her depression this time round was compounded by the realization that she’d missed her period. She had put off buying a pregnancy test, hoping against hope that she was just late, but in the end she had to know. The positive result sent her mood plunging still further, then later when she’d had time to think, she’d half wondered if it might be a good thing. Was this the start of a different future for Mandy?
She’d meant to tell him before they had dinner. Then, having failed to do that, she vowed to tell him before they went upstairs. But when it came to it, she didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to risk spoiling the evening, so they’d tumbled into bed together as usual. He never used protection, it never seemed to enter his head to do so. She thought she’d had this covered, but obviously she hadn’t.
After that the moment had passed. If she told him now, it would be like she’d sprung it on him. Accepted the flowers, the booze, the company and then handed him an unpleasant bill for his services. All her fond hopes that he might actually be pleased evaporated and she knew instinctively that he would run a mile if he thought she was trying to tie him down. She couldn’t risk that, so she said nothing.
She had decided to get it dealt with. She would go to the doctor and see what he could give her. He’d try to talk through the options, but she had made up her mind. She wasn’t ready to be a mother. Wouldn’t wish it on the poor kid anyway.
There’d be no one to comfort her afterwards. She’d come back to her little two up, two down, in St Denys, shut the door and hear the silence. Maybe she’d cry for a bit. Or have a smoke. Either way she’d end up spending the night alone, clutching a mug of tea and watching the TV. And that would be her lot.
Nothing interesting ever happened in her life.
104
‘I’d like to start by apologizing.’
Helen was anxious to get this over with so came straight to the point. So much had happened since her awkward interview with Gardam last night that for a while she had put it from her mind. But there was too much going on in the investigation, too much overlap between her and her boss, for the issue not to be addressed.
‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you last night. That was never my intention.’
‘It’s fine, Helen. There’s no need to apologize.’
‘There is and I’ve done so, so I hope we can move on –’
‘And not mention it again. It was just a misunderstanding, nothing more.’
‘I’m glad you see it that way. Thank you.’
‘Of course and the offer still stands. Sarah and I would like to have you round at some point, so we can get to know you in a less formal environment.’
‘That sounds very pleasant. We’ll find a date.’
Helen tried to sound upbeat and enthusiastic, though in truth she had no desire to be given a tour of Gardam’s home and marriage. There seemed no way she could wriggle out of it now, however, so it was probably best to bite the bullet and follow through on her promise.
‘Good. Well that was all I came to say, so I’d better –’
‘Is everything ok, Helen? I don’t mean between us, I mean more generally. I noticed you wincing just now, when you sat down. Have you hurt yourself in some way?’
Helen said nothing, ambushed by Gardam’s question. The truth was she ached all over today. Her back and shoulders were black and blue and her neck felt like it had seized up completely. It was excruciatingly painful and though her stash of painkillers had taken the edge off it, she wasn’t moving any more freely.
‘I know you’re the sort to put a brave face on it,’ Gardam continued. ‘But it’s my job to make sure my best officers are fit and happy. You always put your body on the line, for which I know you receive very little gratitude from the public or indeed our friends in the fourth estate.’
‘I know we’re under scrutiny, sir, but you don’t need to worry about me.’
Gardam was referring to the latest edition of the Southampton Evening News, a copy of which languished in his bin. Pretty much the entire paper was a hatchet job on Helen’s handing of the investigation. It had riled Helen when she first saw it – Emilia Garanita revealing her true colours by choosing the very worst moment to break their truce – but she had put it from her mind now. There was too much going on to worry about tomorrow’s chip paper.
‘I’m not concerned about what the papers say,’ Gardam assured her, ‘or what our two-faced MP is accusing us of on the phone-ins. What I do care about is the smooth and effective running of our investigations and hand in hand with that the health and well-being of my best officer.’
Helen nodded, as Gardam asked:
‘So is everything ok? I don’t want to overstep the mark here, but is anything bothering you? Is there anything I can do to help?’
Helen looked at Gardam, knowing she had to make a split-second decision. The right thing to do was to tell Gardam about her confrontation with Max Paine and let him decide what to do about it. If she didn’t and her leadership of their present investigation was compromised by subsequent revelations, then he would have to suspend or sack her – and rightly so. It wouldn’t be fair on him, the investigation or the victims’ families to lie about her actions, but even as she opened her mouth to begin, she found herself saying:
‘Old war wound. I’ll be better in a day or so.’
Gardam asked her a few more questions – he seemed to be genuinely concerned for her – but eventually appeared satisfied with her explanation. As Helen left she knew that whatever the rights and wrongs of it, she didn’t feel able to let someone else into her own private – largely dysfunctional – world. She knew that she would have to deal with Paine herself and already had a sense of what needed to be done. She was so deep in thought, turning the various possibilities over in her mind, that she initially didn’t realize McAndrew was standing in front of her, blocking her path.
&nb
sp; ‘Sorry to disturb you, boss. But I think I may have found something.’
105
Helen and McAndrew were closeted away in Helen’s office, a list of dates and times in front of them. The door was closed, the blind down – this was a private conversation for now.
‘So I went back over the witness statements, the call operator logs, emergency service reports, and I found something interesting about the most recent fire. Agnieszka Jarosik crashed out on her sofa after a busy day’s work and while she was watching TV sent a few texts, posted a little on Facebook. The last text was sent at eleven fourteen p.m. The text looks genuine, so we can assume that she was still awake at that point. She probably fell asleep soon afterwards. Not long after that our arsonist entered the house.’
Helen nodded – so far nothing unexpected. They had found partial footprints outside the back door, but nothing that was of any tangible use.
‘Several people called the fire in. They were mostly neighbours who saw the smoke and flames and were worried that their own million-pound houses were about to go up.’
Helen let that one go – she knew McAndrew lived in a one-bed flat and was vocally bitter about it.
‘These calls came in in a flurry. Call operator logs show that they came in at 11.50, two at 11.51, 11.53, 11.54 – pretty much the whole street got in on the act.’
‘I’m sure they did.’
‘But one call came significantly earlier than that. At eleven thirty-eight – a full twelve minutes before the others.’
Now McAndrew had Helen’s attention.
‘Interestingly, this call didn’t come from a neighbour, it came from a payphone. And here’s the thing. It came from a payphone two streets away – there’s no way the caller could have seen the fire from there.’
‘So they saw the fire and ran to the nearest payphone?’
‘Possibly, but how come they saw this fire a full twelve minutes before anyone else? And why didn’t they stick around to help? If Agnieszka stopped texting at eleven fifteen p.m., she probably didn’t go to sleep immediately, so the arsonist gained entry at, what, eleven twenty-five p.m.? Eleven thirty? The fire was initially contained in the basement. The sofa burnt well, but it took a while for the fire to spread upwards as the basement stairwell did not connect with the main stairs.’
‘So on that basis,’ Helen said, picking up McAndrew’s thread, ‘the most likely explanation is that the arsonist set the fire at around eleven thirty p.m., left and walked the five-minute walk to the nearest payphone and called it in.’
‘It’s a theory,’ McAndrew replied calmly.
‘Ok, get me the audio from every fire over the last few days. I want to see if our arsonist has been in on the act from day one.’
McAndrew was halfway to the door when Helen called out:
‘One other thing. You didn’t say if the caller was male or female?’
There was a small pause, before McAndrew looked up at her and said:
‘Female.’
106
Thomas knelt down, so that he was at eye level with his son. Luke smiled awkwardly at him and in that moment Thomas saw that Charlie Brooks had been right. He had been guilty of neglecting his son, just when he needed his father most. He felt deep shame and sadness rise up in him and, not trusting himself to speak, simply stroked his son’s cheek. Tears immediately appeared in his son’s eyes, mirrored now in his own and he dropped his gaze to his son’s tie, which was characteristically askew. Gently, he straightened it for him.
‘I messed up today, son,’ Thomas said eventually. ‘I should have been here with you, but I wasn’t. Instead I let my emotions get the better of me and well … this is the result.’
He grimaced ruefully, as he gestured to the scratches on his face.
Luke returned the smile, but it was unconvincing – riven with anxiety and fear. Once again Thomas felt deep guilt at having put his own needs – his own anger – before his son’s happiness.
‘We’ll need to be off in a little while, so I wanted to have a little chat with you first.’
Luke nodded cautiously, so Thomas proceeded:
‘I … I haven’t been a very good dad the last few days. I won’t try to excuse my behaviour, all I will say is that I’ve been struggling a bit. I never prepared for … this.’
Luke stared at him, but Thomas was pleased to see there was no judgement in his expression.
‘So we’re going to have to find our way together, if that’s ok. Starting with today. You’ll never have to face anything as hard as what you’re about to do. There will be a lot of people at the funeral, there will be others – journalists, well-wishers – on the periphery. They will all want to talk to you, they’ll all want to offer you support, to ask you questions, to check that you’re ok. The answer is of course not, but they’ll ask anyway. And in the middle of all that, we’re going to have to … to say goodbye to Mum and Ali. A boy your age should never have to face something like this and I’m so, so sorry that you have to now. But – and this is the important bit – you won’t have to face it alone, ok? I’m going to be by your side every step of the way. Everything we face from now on, we face together.’
Luke said nothing, simply folding his father into an embrace and nestling his wet face into his shoulder. Thomas held him as he cried and for the first time since that awful night felt some strength returning to him.
As he hugged his son tight, he said a silent prayer for his wife and daughter. For his lovely son. And for the sage counsel of Charlie Brooks.
107
The pair of them sat in total silence.
Helen had commandeered an interview suite and asked McAndrew to join her. The table was covered with tapes from the call operators from the fire, police and ambulance services. The simple tape player in the centre of the table had been connected to speakers and McAndrew had turned the volume up high as they listened to the recordings.
There had been several female callers during the course of the three nights who’d reported the fires. Some sounded scared, others sounded panicked, all sounded breathless.
‘There – it’s the same one,’ Helen said, pausing the tape.
They had been listening to the calls from the first night. At around 11.50 p.m., a young woman had called 999, reporting a fire at a house in Millbrook – the Simms residence. And the voice on the tape sounded virtually identical to the early caller from the most recent blaze in Lower Shirley.
‘Do you agree that it’s the same caller?’ Helen asked, turning to McAndrew. A brief pause, then her junior nodded. Helen was pleased – she felt likewise and had a feeling they were about to catch a major break in the case.
They moved straight on to the tapes from the second night of fires. Here they hit a blank, however. There were thirteen female callers. The quality on some of the recordings was better than others, because of bad mobile reception and background noise, so it was hard to say for certain – but neither of them could divine their mystery caller among the collage of anguished voices.
Then suddenly Helen leant forward with purpose, scooping up the recording from the first night. She played their female caller once, then again, listening intently each time. The woman’s voice was clear and authoritative.
‘There’s a fire, like, a big one on Hillside Crescent. You need to get here now.’
‘Are you able to see the fire from where you are?’
‘For real. And there are people in there. So hurry up.’
‘Ok, I need you to step away from the fire now …’
Helen stopped the tape without warning and, flipping open the tape recorder, started to play the woman’s recording from the third night again. McAndrew made no attempt to interrupt her – she could tell Helen was utterly focused on the task in hand, scenting something.
The recording finished. Helen clicked it off, then sat back in her chair.
‘I think I know who it is.’
McAndrew looked up at her.
‘It’s t
he way she says “For real”, and the accent. I knew I’d heard it before.’
‘Who is it?’ McAndrew asked urgently.
Helen paused for a moment, before replying.
‘It’s Naomie Jackson.’
108
Sharon Jackson’s face turned pale the minute she opened the door. Helen and DS Sanderson had left Southampton Central straight away and raced over to Naomie’s home in the cheaper part of St Mary’s. The look on the officers’ faces betrayed the seriousness of their visit. Normally Sharon would have fobbed them off – she was experienced at dealing with the law – but there was no wriggling off the hook today.
She sat on the sofa, a look of blank incomprehension on her face, as Helen informed her that Naomie was now a person of interest in their investigation. Sanderson had gone upstairs in order to verify Sharon’s assertion that her daughter was not at home. She had not yet returned, but Helen had pressed on nevertheless. For her part, Sharon Jackson was shocked by Helen’s line of questioning and pushed back hard.
‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. My Naomie would never do something like that. She loves kids.’
Helen let that non sequitur go and continued with her questions.
‘Where is Naomie now, Sharon?’
‘I’ve told you I’m expecting her back later, but it’s Friday, isn’t it … I don’t keep tabs on her.’
‘Clearly not. I’m going to need you to account for her movements on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights.’
Sharon suddenly looked less bullish, so Helen was quick to follow up.
‘Where were you? And where was Naomie?’
‘Tuesday night I was in and so was Naomie. Then we had a bit of a falling out and she left for a bit.’
‘What time?’
‘Around nine p.m.’
‘When did she return?’
‘Late. I’d gone to bed. I heard her come in, but I don’t know what time it was.’
Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) Page 23
