‘So talk.’
‘I want to know what you intend to do.’
Max Paine eyed her warily, then replied:
‘Worried I’m going to report you, Helen?’
Helen regarded him for a moment, before responding:
‘You obviously know who I am. And the awkward situation I find myself in. I wouldn’t blame you for reporting me – what I did was wrong – and you could probably get me thrown off the Force if you tried hard enough. But here’s why you’re not going to do that. Because I’m a good officer. Because I’m in the middle of a major investigation. And because, if you do, I’ll be forced to tell the investigating officers what a sadistic, cocaine-snorting, woman-hating little shit you are. I’ll be pushing for attempted murder, but I’d settle for GBH or even ABH at a push. Any one of those would land you in jail, Max.’
She said his name with the full contempt she felt for him. He glared at her, but said nothing in return.
‘So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go back to your life and I will go back to mine and we’ll pretend it never happened. Deal?’
As Helen walked away from Paine’s building, having gained his begrudging acquiescence, Helen felt her spirits rise. She had been under so much pressure, so hemmed in on all sides, that it felt good to be finally taking positive action. She had messed up big time, but the fault was primarily his and she was damned if she was going to be brought down by the likes of Max Paine. A surge of adrenalin coursed through her now – Helen suddenly felt as if she could take on the world and win, that everything would be ok, and she smiled to herself at this sudden burst of optimism.
A blast of icy wind roared over her now, as if in defiant response to her improving mood, but even this couldn’t dampen Helen’s spirits. It did, however, remind her that she’d forgotten to check whether she had left her much missed scarf at Paine’s flat, as she rather suspected she had. Too late now. Helen had bigger fish to fry and she couldn’t exactly return and ask Paine for it, so she would have to make do without. Pulling up her collar to ward off the chill wind, Helen lowered her head and walked away towards her bike.
124
‘What the fuck do you want?’
The girl’s nose was wrinkled up in mock disgust, as if the mere sight of a police officer turned her stomach. It was done for effect and it worked – Charlie already wanted to slap her and they’d only been talking for a few seconds. But Charlie swallowed down her irritation, refusing to be deflected from her purpose.
She had risen early after a sleepless night. A worrying thought had kept turning and turning in her head and now she needed to find out if her concerns were justified – or if she was just going mad. She hadn’t known where to find her quarry, except that she lived somewhere near Naomie Jackson. Charlie was on the streets of St Mary’s by 8 a.m. She didn’t expect to find Naomie’s mate up and about then – didn’t look the type – but she couldn’t discount the possibility that she had a job or went to college and would be on the move early.
Predictably, however, there was no sign of her and after an hour Charlie had begun to wonder if she was wasting her time. Then suddenly she saw her – dressed comically in pyjama trousers, fake Ugg boots and a puffa jacket, meandering her way to the corner shop. Moments later, she emerged clutching a carton of milk and began to make her way home.
Charlie approached her at speed. They had last met the day after the Denise Roberts fire, when the ratty little ringleader of a gaggle of girls had pushed Charlie towards Naomie Jackson, claiming her friend had seen their runaway arsonist.
‘Nice to see you again too. What’s your name?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Name.’
‘Danielle Mulligan.’
‘That’s better – see, you can be nice when you want to.’
‘What’s this about? I can’t stand here like this –’
‘You’ll stand there until I’ve finished with you. Got it?’
Danielle shrugged, seemingly determined not to give Charlie the satisfaction of her full acquiescence.
‘Talk to me about Wednesday night.’
‘What about it?’
‘According to Naomie, you all went to a pub near the Common. Which one was it?’
‘The Green Man.’
‘When did you get there?’
‘Around nine, I think.’
‘And Naomie was with you?’
‘Course.’
‘What time did she leave that night?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘She said she left early to go home, is that right?’
‘If she says so.’
‘What do you say?’
‘Yeah, sure, she left early.’
But she didn’t sound sure and Charlie knew she had to press further.
‘When did you leave?’
‘Midnight. Half past maybe. They had a lock-in, so …’
‘And did you see Naomie leaving?’
‘No, I was drinking, having fun with my mates, wasn’t I?’
‘Did you take any pictures that night? On your phone?’
‘Dunno.’
‘You said you were mucking around with your friends so …’
Suddenly Danielle looked evasive and Charlie followed up quickly.
‘Give me your phone.’
‘I haven’t got it on me …’
‘Your hand’s been clamped in your jacket pocket since you left the house. I know you’ve got it and I’d like to see it. And before you kick off, I’m happy to do this at home with your folks, if you’d pref—’
‘All right, all right,’ Danielle said scowling, as she delved into her pocket and dug out her phone. ‘Knock yourself out.’
Charlie took it from her and opened up her photos. Quickly she scrolled back through the days before alighting on Wednesday’s date. Predictably there were dozens of photos. Danielle was part of the generation that lived their lives in public and Charlie was amused to see photos of Danielle’s painted toes, her tattoos, several trial hair-dos, plus a cheeky shot of her mum in her dressing gown among the snaps Danielle had posted that day.
But Charlie was interested in the evening photos and flicked to them now. The gaggle of girls had been in high spirits and there were plenty of stupid, drunken poses. Naomie Jackson was there, not quite in the thick of things but present and enjoying herself, it appeared. Charlie moved through them more carefully now, checking the times that each photo was taken. 10.30 p.m., 10.47 p.m., 10.49 p.m., 11.12 p.m., 11.13 p.m., 11.25 p.m., 11.38 p.m….
And it was with this last one that Charlie had the evidence she needed. Naomie had previously said that she’d left the pub early and headed home, encountering the fleeing arsonist en route, a few minutes before 11.30 p.m. And yet here she was, pictured in the pub with her mates at 11.38 p.m. She had never left the pub – had stayed with them almost to the bitter end, it appeared.
If the timings on Danielle’s phone were correct – and there was no reason to doubt that they were – then it was clear that Naomie had spun them a story about her movements that night. She had been lying when she said she encountered the arsonist. More importantly, she had been lying to them when she said she started the fire in Denise Roberts’s house.
125
McAndrew stopped in her tracks the moment she saw him.
She’d visited the hospital first thing to speak with Mandy Blayne’s care team, who’d confirmed that mother and baby were doing fine. Satisfied and relieved, McAndrew had decided to visit the ward briefly before leaving. Mandy didn’t have any family locally and, given what she’d been through, McAndrew was keen to spend a few minutes with her before getting back to work. But as she approached her bedside, she realized that Mandy was not alone.
A man in his forties was sitting with her, holding her hand and talking earnestly to her. Normally she would have withdrawn – their conversation was intense and intimate – but this time she had no intention of leaving. There
was something familiar about this guy, even though McAndrew was sure she’d never seen his face before. The dark jeans, work boots, puffawaist coat – this was the man whom they had caught on CCTV jogging away from Denise Roberts’s house. It was Naomie Jackson’s father, Darren Betts.
‘Why didn’t you come forward?’
McAndrew had hauled Darren Betts out of the ward and now sat opposite him in a junior doctor’s office. She’d have preferred to interview him back at Southampton Central, but she had no grounds to arrest him – yet.
‘You must have known it was you in that CCTV footage.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t take me for a fool, Darren. The whole of Southampton has seen that footage. Just like they’ve seen mugshots of your daughter, thanks to her role in these arson attacks.’
‘Kids, eh?’
‘Why were you running away from Denise Roberts’s house the night it went up?’
‘I had nothing to do with that. I like Denise.’
‘When it suited you. Did you know that your daughter hated her?’
‘Of course not, I would have straightened her out if I’d known.’
‘Tell me about your relationship with Callum Roberts.’
The sudden change of subject seemed to unnerve Betts and he said nothing in reply.
‘He hated you, didn’t he? And I bet he made his feelings plain. Did you want to teach him a lesson?’
‘I don’t go about setting people’s houses on fire. If Naomie’s coughed for that, it’s her business.’
Looking at him across the untidy desk, McAndrew felt nothing but contempt for Darren Betts. Even now that his daughter was facing a life behind bars, he accepted no responsibility for her actions, nor did he seem to care what became of her.
‘What about Mandy Blayne? Getting too clingy, was she? Trying to trap you into being a babyfather?’
‘You’re way off beam, petal. I love these women. I love them too much. That’s always been my problem.’
‘Which is why I find it surprising that you didn’t come forward after Denise Roberts was murdered?’
‘You think I’d willingly come and talk to you lot?’ Betts laughed.
‘I would if I was in the frame for murder.’
‘And give your mob the chance to fit me up? You clearly didn’t have a clue who was behind it and I know how you coppers work when you’re in a fix –’
‘Can you tell me where you were on the night of Tuesday, 8 December?’ McAndrew interrupted, changing tack again. ‘The night the Simms house was attacked? I’m going to need you to account for your movements.’
Darren Betts stared straight at McAndrew. The good humour he’d displayed thus far now vanished in the blink of an eye. His expression was cold and unforgiving. And when he finally spoke, his tone was distinctly hostile.
‘Now you listen to me, girl, and listen good. I’ve had it with these questions. My daughter is responsible for this madness – not me – and nothing you do or say is going to change that. So either you arrest me right now or you let me go back to my Mandy.’
He fixed her with a withering stare:
‘This conversation is over.’
126
Naomie Jackson had a rich internet history. Hunched over her laptop, Helen was climbing inside her other life now and was pretty depressed by what she saw. There were the usual celebrity and reality TV websites, Amazon, Netflix, but darker elements too – suicide websites, the Samaritans, ChildLine and posted pictures of her injuries, shared with teenagers in similar predicaments.
It was the latter that interested Helen the most and she had zeroed in on Naomie’s online ‘friends’, starting with those she had chatted to most recently. There were scores of acquaintances – people she’d never actually met but seemed happy to converse with about matters trivial or grave – but their conversations were sporadic at best, there was no stand-out friend or confessor.
There was, however, one unusual pattern: a cyberfriend whom she had chatted to repeatedly over the last six months, before suddenly dropping them three weeks ago.
Helen looked at the username. Naomie’s correspondent went by the handle of ‘firstpersonsingular’ – no first name or surname was ever referred to in their chats. It was an intriguing choice – implying a sense of difference, a unique quality perhaps but also showcasing a high level of education and exhibiting a degree of wit and sophistication in choosing a grammatical pun as their user name. This immediately concerned Helen – Naomie was not educated, not massively bright per se, whereas this person clearly was – given their vocabulary and the considered, acerbic style of their insults and character assassinations.
As a disturbing thought took hold, Helen searched for other sites or postings linked to firstpersonsingular. There were a few to choose from, but Helen homed in on a blogsite that had been recently added to.
‘When people come to judge me, they will see that none of this is my fault.’
‘Whatever, it’s important that you know I’m not mad, or bad. I’m just reacting to circumstances. Actions have consequences, my friends …’
‘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.’
‘I saw what people said about the fire at the Millbrook – they said it was hideous, ugly, an abomination. But not to me. I thought it was beautiful.’
The posts had all been written in the last four days – after the spate of arson attacks had begun. Firstpersonsingular’s interest in the fires was telling, as was the fact that there had been no formal break-off in their online friendship with Naomie Jackson. What had happened? Had they met at some point? Decided face to face to drop online communication to attempt to conceal their connection?
Suddenly it all made sense. The reason why they couldn’t find a motive for the Simms and Harris fires. And why they couldn’t place their prime suspect at the Roberts and Blayne fires. She had hidden it pretty well, but now it was as plain as day.
Naomie Jackson had a partner in crime.
127
‘Can I just double-check these timings? So there’s no mistake in your statement?’
Helen was back in the interview suite, flanked by Charlie, who had just arrived back from St Mary’s. Helen had asked her to sit in, tasking Sanderson with chasing down the mysterious ‘firstpersonsingular’. It was a slight break in the chain of command, but Helen wanted Charlie’s input and, besides, it felt good to have her old friend back at her side as the case reached its climax.
‘So on Wednesday night, you left the Green Man around eleven-ish and made your way home?’
Naomie looked tired and wrung out, the product of a sleepless night in the cells. Part of Helen was pleased – it’s harder to keep your guard up when you’re exhausted.
‘More or less.’
‘I’m going to have to press you, Naomie. You left the pub around eleven, walked to Denise Roberts’s house and then what?’
‘I set the fire, like I said.’
‘So that would have been around eleven fifteen p.m.?’
‘Right.’
‘Wrong. Because you were in the Green Man with your friends,’ Helen replied, all the warmth suddenly evaporating from her tone.
Naomie’s brief shot a concerned look in her direction, but Charlie leapt in before she could intervene.
‘I’ve spoken to Danielle this morning. I’ve seen the photos, placing you there until gone midnight. We’ve also had a little look at your movements on Friday – the day Mandy Blayne’s house was targeted. The movement of your mobile signal suggests you didn’t go near St Denys.’
Charlie could see Naomie was about to kick back, so carried on quickly:
‘That doesn’t prove anything of course. You might have lost your phone or had it stolen. However, we have tallied your mobile movements with street cameras and guess what – they match.’
‘I’m now showing the suspect some CCTV stills time-coded
to the hours between two and four p.m. on Friday,’ Helen said, taking over. ‘Your face can be clearly seen in a couple of them, in spite of your cap. I take it you’re not going to deny that it’s you?’
Helen pushed the stills across the table towards Naomie and her brief, but the former refused to look at them. She looked ashen.
‘Look at them,’ Helen barked, her voice suddenly harsh. ‘Are you going to deny that’s you?’
Naomie glanced anxiously at her brief, but received nothing in return – it clearly was her in the photos. Now Naomie’s eyes started to fill. Helen could see that the young girl was panicking, clearly torn as to what to do next. Helen cursed herself for ever having believed this scared, downtrodden teenager was the mastermind behind the arson attacks.
‘I know this is not what you wanted, not how you hoped things would pan out, but believe me this is good news, Naomie. There’s a simple reason you can’t provide any clear motive for the fires at the Simms and Harris households – because they weren’t your victims. Your accomplice wanted to hurt them, while you wanted to get at Denise Roberts and Mandy Blayne. Credit to you both, you played it smartly. You set the first and third fires, your accomplice the second and fourth. You had no personal connection to the victims you actually targeted making it virtually impossible that you’d be identified as a suspect.’
Helen let her words hang in the air. The brief looked shocked, whereas Naomie just looked beaten.
‘Now I know you’re a capable girl,’ Helen continued. ‘But an elaborate scheme like this, well it doesn’t feel very you, does it? You’ve been hurt, neglected and belittled more than any girl should be and you’re angry with your dad, your mum, with the world. But ultimately you just want your family back together, don’t you? You don’t want to burn this town down, do you?’
Naomie just stared at her through tear-filled eyes, but didn’t commit either way.
‘All that planning, the endless scouting, the diversionary fires, was that really your idea?’
Helen could tell Naomie had to think for a moment to work out what diversionary meant and in that instant she knew she had her answer.
‘And the idea of putting yourself forward, to sell us the big lie about seeing a guy with a Fire and Rescue tattoo? You came up with that, did you?
Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) Page 27
