‘And the other nights?’
‘I was out.’
‘Both nights?’
‘That’s not a crime, is it? I can’t spend my life here, I’ve got things to do, friends and that.’
‘And Naomie was here?’
‘She was when I left. We weren’t really speaking, so I don’t know if she stayed in or not. She said she was going to bed …’
Helen made a mental note to check for signs of internet use at the property, phone calls and so on – it wouldn’t be too hard to work out if Naomie had been at home or not.
‘Why weren’t you talking?’
Once again, Sharon suddenly looked coy.
‘We had a row.’
‘About?’
‘Man trouble.’
‘Hers or yours?’
‘Hers. She’s a moaning little brat. But that’s all she is, I swear. She’s had run-ins with the police before. A bit of shoplifting, but just kids’ stuff. She could never do something like this. She doesn’t have the balls.’
‘Has Naomie mentioned the fires to you?’ Helen continued.
‘No’ was the swift reply.
‘Did that strike you as odd? Everybody else in Southampton is talking about them.’
Sharon shrugged then said:
‘Naomie doesn’t follow the news, she’s not that kind of kid. Probably wouldn’t talk to me about it even if she did. We’ve never been … a good fit.’
It was said so matter-of-factly that for a moment Helen was speechless.
‘Who would she talk to?’ Helen said eventually. ‘Does she have friends? Anyone she hangs out with?’
Sharon thought about it, then said:
‘She doesn’t really have mates, she’s always been a bit of a loner, y’know.’
‘Where does she hang out, then?’ Helen repeated, insistent.
‘She goes to the library sometimes when it’s cold. Other than that she goes where she can get up to mischief. The pubs on Oakland Street, the Common, the skateboard park, the WestQuay centre, the parade …’
The list went on. Clearly Naomie wanted to be anywhere but home. Helen noted down the many locations down – intending to pass them on to the rest of the team at the earliest opportunity – but before she had finished Sanderson returned, clutching several different copies of the Southampton Evening News.
‘Found these in a plastic bag under her bed. A copy of this week’s editions which lead on the fires. There’s also cuttings from several of the national dailies about the attacks as well. I guess Naomie’s a bit more interested in these fires than she lets on.’
Helen was already on her feet and heading for the front door. At long last, they had a prime suspect.
109
‘Do you want to go public with this?’
Helen was on her phone, pacing back and forth outside Sharon Jackson’s house. Gardam was back at base, supervising the investigation into Naomie’s call history, digital footprint, police records, known associates and more. It was important they worked closely together on this one, so Helen had stepped outside and called him straight away.
‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ Helen replied. ‘It’s already gone lunchtime. If she’s planning another attack tonight, then we’ve only got a few hours to stop her. The eyes and ears of the public are our best resource at this point.’
‘Have we got a decent photo?’
‘I’m sending one through to you now. If we can line up media liaison, so they’re ready to go public with it immediately –’
‘I’ve got McAndrew drafting a press release now.’
‘Good.’
Helen took a breath. The last couple of hours seemed to have passed in a flash and she suddenly felt tired.
‘How sure are you? That it’s her.’
‘She’s our best bet. She has deliberately inserted herself into the investigation on three separate occasions. Two phone calls, plus a positive ID after the second fire, which succeeded in sending us off on a wild goose chase with Richard Ford. She may not come across as capable of much, but she’s been instrumental in how this thing has played out. I think there’s a lot more going on under the surface than we give her credit for.’
‘Ok, let’s do it then and see if we can bring her in before nightfall.’
Helen rang off and, gathering herself, marched back towards Sharon Jackson’s house. Finally, the net was closing.
110
‘Twenty Marlboro Gold, please.’
The Asian guy behind the counter barely looked up from his newspaper. Reaching behind him, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the shelves behind him and tossed them on to the counter.
‘Nine pounds fifty.’
It was daylight robbery, but that was hardly the point. The shopkeeper took the ten-pound note, handed over the change and resumed reading the cricket reports. It was all so easy – no suspicions, no interest, nothing. Just a simple exchange, so ordinary in its execution, but presaging so much.
Turning to leave, the hooded figure suddenly stopped. The yawning shopkeeper continued to turn the pages, blissfully unaware of who he’d just come into contact with. But the TV on the wall behind him was better informed.
Breaking News: Police name suspect in Southampton arson attack.
The caption was brief and to the point, but it was what was beneath that was more alarming. An extreme close-up of a family snap in which all Naomie’s imperfections – as well as her crooked smile – were revealed in perfect definition. Turning quickly, the figure fled, before the owner even looked up.
111
All was quiet in Mandy Blayne’s house, except for the TV news, which played quietly in the living room. Naomie Jackson’s face stared out from the screen, but looked on to an empty room. Mandy Blayne had briefly vacated the sofa to make herself a much needed cup of tea.
As she stared out of the window into the scrubby garden, Mandy could feel her mood edging ever lower. She had made the call to the doctor’s surgery and booked an appointment for next week, but even now she wondered if she would actually go. She had to get rid of this baby, obviously. What would she do with it? How would she support it? And yet suddenly the thought of disposing of it so casually filled her with sadness and doubt. What if this was her only chance of having a baby? What if she never found someone to be with and ended up alone? She didn’t want either outcome and the choice made her miserable. Why did her life always seem to end up in no-win situations?
She poured the boiling water into the cup and grabbed the milk from the fridge. She had bought value teabags to save a few pennies, but it had been a mistake. They were weak and the resulting tea was bland and milky. Another small disappointment to add to her larger reversals. Odd to think though that there was a small thing inside her that would feed off the food and drink she took in tonight. Strange to imagine that it was already dependent on her. It was getting dark outside now, but she could still make out the small strip of grass, bordered by neat beds, and for a moment had a vision of a small child playing outside. Hands covered in sand, face sticky with dirt, a broad smile on its face. Like she had been, when she was a child. An outdoors kid never happier than when dirty and pleasantly exhausted. Mandy found herself smiling at the thought. It would be crazy to keep the baby, wouldn’t it?
Cradling her cup of tea, Mandy walked through the hall and into the lounge. Picking up the remote, she flicked the TV off and went upstairs. She couldn’t be bothered to watch the news – she just wanted to relax in a bath and switch off for a while. She would read a book, disengage her brain, and try and con herself into feeling tired. Pretend that this was just another cosy Friday night in. But, for all her efforts, Mandy couldn’t rid of herself of the feeling that – however hard she tried to distract herself – she was in store for a sleepless night.
112
‘I’m getting tired of this game. So either you answer me now, or I drag you out of here in cuffs.’
Helen didn’t like threatening people, but
she had had her fill of Sharon Jackson’s lies and obfuscations. Sharon had finally confessed that her daughter had taken to doing her own laundry of late, wasting unnecessary amounts of fabric conditioner in washing a single hooded top and a pair of trousers. Add this to the number of newspaper cuttings Sanderson had found stored under her bed and the fact that Sharon couldn’t find a packet of matches she’d only bought last week and a clear picture was starting to emerge.
But Naomie’s motive remained unclear, which concerned Helen. Sharon Jackson insisted her daughter didn’t know any of the victims, but Helen could tell she was lying and was determined to find out why.
‘Don’t push me on this. I’m more than happy to do it, but it wouldn’t look too good in tomorrow’s newspapers.’
Sharon finally looked up at her.
‘Take a peek out of your front curtains, Sharon.’
Unnerved, Sharon did as instructed. Helen had heard the press trucks start to pull up outside a few minutes ago. She knew they’d be here within the hour, once Naomie’s name was released.
‘They won’t be going anywhere until this is over. So we have three choices. I can lead you out in front of them. I can leave here and let them loose on you. Or I can get a uniformed officer on the door, so there’s a chance you might get a moment’s peace. The choice is yours.’
Sharon sat down hard on the nearest armchair and ran her fingers through her long, lank hair. She seemed to be ageing in front of Helen, as if buried fears were now burrowing their way to the surface.
‘She’s never met Denise Roberts but she might know of her,’ she said finally and with great reluctance.
‘How?’
There was another long pause, and then:
‘Naomie’s father. His name’s Darren Betts. I was at school with him and we’ve been knocking around on and off for twenty years now.’
‘He’s your boyfriend?’
Sharon snorted, then said:
‘When he feels like it.’
‘He has other girlfriends?’
Sharon nodded.
‘Denise Roberts,’ Helen asked, suddenly making the connection. Callum Roberts had mentioned a ‘Darren’ too.
‘When he’s not here, Darren sometimes goes … there.’
Sharon Jackson said the last word with utter disdain, as if Roberts were shit on her shoe. Sanderson was sure Roberts probably felt the same way about her.
‘Is that what your row with Naomie was about?’
‘Guess so.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. We argued, that’s all.’
‘What happened, Sharon?’
‘She drove Darren away, didn’t she,’ Sharon responded, her tone suddenly plaintive and self-pitying. ‘She fusses around him, trying to get him to do stuff he doesn’t want to do, gets in his face, you know?’
‘What did you do?’
‘I shouted at her a bit.’
‘And?’
Sharon said nothing, staring at the floor.
‘AND?’
‘I gave her a bit of a slap, all right.’
‘You hit her?’
‘I shouldn’t have, but she’s just so fucking clingy … and sometimes I lose it. I hit her a bit –’
‘More than once? Did you beat her? Sharon, I’m asking you a question –’
‘Yes, I’ve told you. I took a belt to her, but I didn’t do any permanent harm. It’s no more than what I had done to me when I was a kid –’
‘And she knew this Denise Roberts, she knew that her father went there when he wasn’t here?’
‘Yes, she heard me and Darren talking about it. She’s not stupid.’
‘Jesus Christ. What about the other places? The Simms house in Millbrook or the Harris place in Shirley? Does he go there?’
Sharon suddenly laughed.
‘Are you crazy? Folk like that wouldn’t let him in the front door. He wouldn’t be knocking around in those parts of town.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Be sensible, will you?’
Helen didn’t like her tone, but let it go.
‘Do you have any other boyfriends?’
‘No.’
‘Sharon –’
‘I don’t, ok, I’m not like that. Darren … well, he’s all I’ve got. And I’ve only got him part-time.’
Her bitterness and loneliness shone through clearly now. Though Helen didn’t want to believe her – didn’t want to lose the connection between Naomie and her victims – what she said seemed genuine and made sense. The worlds inhabited by the various victims were all so different.
Helen stared at Sharon, her mind whirring. Then suddenly she said:
‘Is there anywhere else Darren goes? You said he had other girlfriends on the go.’
This time Sharon hesitated and Helen knew immediately that she’d hit a nerve.
‘I know this isn’t nice, but I need to know. It’s the last thing I’ll ask you.’
‘There’s one other girl that I know of. Lives over in St Denys.’
‘What’s her name?’
There was another long pause, then, as Sharon debated how to respond:
‘What’s her name, Sharon?’
‘Her name is Mandy Blayne.’
113
She had been in the bathroom for over twenty minutes now. Was she having a bath? The lights were all off downstairs and she’d drawn the bathroom curtains, so it seemed a safe assumption. Normally it would be better to wait until she’d definitely gone to bed, but there was no time for that now and this seemed like too good an opportunity to miss.
Crossing the road quickly, the hooded figure pushed the side gate open and made its way towards the back of the house. There was no hesitation – the house had been recced a number of times and there was one obvious entry point. The French doors that opened on to the garden were old and flimsy, made of decrepit wood and glass. Mandy liked her gardening and often left the doors open. Today they were closed and locked, but it was still only a couple of moments’ work to put an elbow through one of the panes and release the latch from the other side.
Stepping inside, the hooded figure paused. Upstairs, music played on the radio – a cheesy power ballad designed to uplift and inspire – and accompanying it was the distinct sound of someone bathing, water splashing on plastic as Mandy Blayne tried to wash away her mediocrity. If she were clever Mandy would stay in the bath once she smelt the fire, but even that wouldn’t save her – she would just be cooked alive rather than burnt to death.
Teasing open the understairs cupboard, the figure bent down to examine the contents. It was depressingly empty – like Mandy’s life – but there were a few wooden garden chairs that would do the job. Dragging them together into a pile, the figure pulled a bottle of paraffin from a side pocket and emptied the whole contents over the wood. No point in caution or finesse now.
Retrieving the pack of Marlboro Gold, the figure removed a single cigarette and bound it to the pack with a pink rubber band. Moments later, the matches were out. The match head was soon poised against the rough side of the box, ready for ignition, when suddenly the landline rang out, shrill and loud. Startled, the figure dropped the match and in bending down to retrieve it succeeded in spilling the entire contents of the box on to the floor.
‘Shit.’
The phone continued to ring and for a moment the intruder stood stock still, straining to hear if Mandy would leave the bath to answer it. The volume of the radio was suddenly turned down, as the phone rang on. The figure tensed, turning its body in the direction of the back of the house, ready to run if need be. Still the phone rang on – it must have been twenty-five, possibly thirty rings already. Someone was clearly very keen to get hold of Mandy.
Then suddenly the ringing stopped. The figure could hear its own breathing, could feel the blood pounding in its ears. Backing out now was unthinkable – Blayne had it coming to her – but there was no virtue in getting caught either. What would Mandy do now? It
felt as if the whole enterprise had come down to this moment. Would Mandy mess everything up by coming down the stairs? Or would the stupid whore stay put?
The music rose in volume again and now the figure didn’t hesitate, grabbing at the matches. They were wet and sticky, clinging doggedly to the floor that was now saturated with paraffin. It was hard to get any purchase on them with gloves, so throwing caution to the wind, the figure pulled the gloves off and picked up a match. Even now, though, the match seemed determined to resist, falling to the floor once more from the figure’s unsteady hand.
Now Mandy’s mobile started ringing, urgent and insistent. It was on the hall table not five feet away. Would this finally pique Mandy’s curiosity? There was no point hanging around to find out so, snatching up the match, the figure dragged it down the side of the box. It flared up impressively, thanks to its soaking in paraffin, and the figure suddenly found itself laughing – with relief as much as joy. Seconds later, the match hit the pile of chairs and instantly they were consumed by flames. This had been an amateur performance, a travesty of all the careful planning and preparation – the Marlboro pack tossed in casually as an afterthought – but the job had finally been done.
RIP Mandy Blayne.
114
How do you sum up a life?
It was a question Thomas Simms had asked himself repeatedly as he’d made plans for the girls’ funeral. When you’re deep in shock and assaulted by grief, how do you find the right way to pay tribute to someone – to two people – whom you loved more than life itself? It was an impossible task, but it had to be done – the thought of drying up while making the funeral oration was too horrific for words.
For a long time the answer had eluded him. There were so many amazing things he could say about Karen and Alice, but each time he gathered their many virtues – the many happy memories – together, he was crippled by his sense of loss, unable to think or say anything that wasn’t steeped in bitterness and regret. And nobody wanted to hear that.
But now, as Thomas pushed his son up the church aisle in a wheelchair, he suddenly knew what he would say. There was one thing that had struck him with real force this morning as he’d straightened his son’s tie and wiped the tears from his freckled face. And that was that Karen and Alice, though gone, would live on – through Luke. They all had the same colouring and shared many of the same mannerisms. His hazel eyes were identical to Alice’s and when he laughed his nose crinkled up – that was pure Karen. They had similar beliefs and shared the same daft sense of humour – many was the time they had all been reduced to hysterics by the Airplane movies. They were so similar in so many ways and Thomas was surprised at how much comfort that now gave him.
Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) Page 24
