Текст книги "Liar Liar"

Автор книги: M. J. Arlidge

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

55

He’d visited this place a dozen times and it was fast becoming his own personal Hell. Initially he had hoped it might be a sanctuary – somewhere to get a moment’s respite from the horror of everyday life. Later still, he’d imagined it might be the place to buy something nice for Luke, a token of some kind that would offset the terrible guilt he felt about his many failings as a dad. But it was none of these things. It was just a simple shop, staffed by hospital volunteers, and as he stood still, staring at the modest selection of chocolate bars in front of him, he felt so empty, so helpless that for a second he thought he might cry.

‘I wouldn’t buy the chocolate from here, it’s always past its sell-by date,’ a voice next to him whispered. Thomas Simms turned to find a young woman next to him, clutching a copy of Grazia. She had nice eyes and a pleasant smile but the historic scarring down one side of her face was what really grabbed your attention. She was probably a patient-turned-volunteer and Thomas was struck by the serendipity of this moment. Here he was, lost in self-pitying introspection, forgetful of the fact that everyone suffers and somehow they get through it.

‘I’m Emilia,’ the woman said, extending her hand.

‘Thomas,’ he replied, shaking hers. Oddly her name seemed to fit her perfectly, as if that was what he’d been expecting her to say. Did he recognize her from somewhere?

‘Do you have a minute to talk?’ she continued, her smile never faltering as she subtly changed tack.

‘You’re a journalist?’ he replied sharply, removing his hand from hers.

‘Emilia Garanita, Southampton Evening News.’

‘Look, I know you’re doing your job but I’ve said everything I’m going to say. We’ve issued a statement this morning asking for some space –’

‘I respect that, Thomas. As you can see, I’ve had troubles of my own. I know what it feels like when life stabs you in the back. I’ve no interest in making your life harder.’

‘I wish I could believe that –’

‘In fact, I’d like to help you.’

Thomas paused for the first time in their conversation. He could usually tell when people were beaten. He’d knocked back dozens of journalists and ghouls in the last couple of days. But this one looked utterly unrepentant and totally confident, as if she did have something up her sleeve.

‘There have been some developments. In my experience the FLOs are terrible at keeping the family informed of these things, they don’t tell you a single thing until it’s all done and dusted and tied up with a bow on top. Which is fine – they’re covering their arse – but it doesn’t help you or Luke or Alice. You need to know now. It’s the not knowing that’s torture, right?’

Thomas said nothing. His first instinct had been to tell her to go to Hell, but now he wasn’t so sure.

‘So I am very willing to help you. I’d like to help you. But I need something in return.’

Thomas suddenly felt his temper flare again. What the hell was he doing bartering with a bloody journalist in a hospital shop. His son was waiting for him upstairs. His daughter was still fighting for her life. What was he doing here? Sensing his anger, his pursuer reached out her hand and laid it on his arm, gently arresting his departure.

‘They are going to arrest a firefighter. One of Hampshire’s own,’ she whispered, looking him dead in the eye. Thomas suddenly felt breathless and dizzy. He had wanted the police to make progress desperately, but now a part of him wanted it all just to go away. He was scared to think what the next chapter of their life might hold.

‘I can’t give you his name yet, but I should know more in the next twenty-four hours. I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you as soon as I have it, I swear. Unlike the police, I’ll hide nothing from you.’

Thomas looked at her, but didn’t know what to say. Should he believe her?

‘A witness saw the suspect running from the scene of last night’s fire and picked out the crest of the Hants Fire Service tattooed on his arm. I can give you her name too, if you want.’

But she wouldn’t give it yet – that was clear. Thomas hung his head and once more tears threatened. Everything was telling him not to do this, not to get caught up in this game, but how could he brush her off and go back upstairs now? Knowing that she knew more about his wife’s killer than he did. So after a long pause, he raised his head, looked her dead in the eye and said:

‘What do you want?’

56

‘Simon Duggan wouldn’t have the brains for it. You can definitely rule him out.’

‘How certain are you?’ Helen responded. They had already ruled out three possibles – Duggan was the fourth that seemed to be going the same way – and they were fast running out of options.

‘Look, I know he fits the profile. Bit of a loner, lives at home with his mum and so forth, but he’s a follower. He wouldn’t go to the toilet without someone’s permission. He doesn’t have the nerve or intelligence to pull off something on this scale, nor does he have the anger. He’s a simple soul.’

‘Ok, what about Martin Hughes?’ Helen replied, trying to keep the strain out of her voice.

For the first time, Deborah paused. She rolled this possibility round her brain a few times, then said:

‘Better, but still not right.’

‘How so?’

‘He’s quick to anger and has fallen out with pretty much everyone at one time or another. It’s cost him career-wise, no question, younger guys have progressed faster than he has, he’s divorced …’

‘All of which fits the profile,’ Helen said.

‘But he’s not a young man –’

‘Profiles are just guides, they’re not blueprints.’

‘And he loves his family. They may have split up, but he still loves his ex to bits and dotes on his son. He’s a fuck-up for sure, but his temper blows out as quickly as it comes and the rest of the time he’s a pretty sound bloke. I’m sorry, Helen, but I just can’t see it.’

‘Which leaves Richard Ford,’ Helen replied, more in hope than expectation. But this time, there was genuine hesitation from Deborah. Prior to this, she’d been assertive, confident even, knocking back Helen’s suspicions about her colleagues. But now she seemed troubled.

‘Talk to me, Deborah. What’s he like?’

‘I don’t really know him that well …’ she answered.

‘But what you do know gives you doubts?’ Helen asked. She didn’t want to lead Deborah to any conclusions, but she had something for her here – Helen was sure of it.

‘Yes,’ she eventually said. ‘He’s one of those guys that as a woman you just steer clear of. Something about the way he looks at you. Like you’re some sort of foreign species.’

‘Does he have friends?’

‘Not within the team. He avoids crowds, pubs, that kind of thing. He doesn’t take part in all the usual macho posturing you get from fire guys, he doesn’t really take part in anything at work, except … work.’

‘How long’s he been working for the Fire and Rescue service?’

‘Since leaving school, I think.’

‘Does he have a tattoo – with the Hants Fire crest?’

‘Sure – a lot of the guys do.’

‘Is he a hard worker?’

‘Very. Happy to come in on his days off to help out. I don’t think he has a girlfriend.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘What about family?’

‘He’s never mentioned anyone. He’s a loner. New guys try to engage with him, then give up after a while. That’s the way he wants it, so …’

‘And if he’s so diligent and experienced, why is he still at a relatively junior rank?’

‘Can’t do the exams. He’s great on all the practical stuff, but the theory, the homework … And as for his interview technique …’

‘Has he been passed over for promotion?’

Another moment of hesitation, then:

‘Yes. He failed his fire sergeant’s interview for the third time recently. Which means … that he can’t apply again.’

Helen tried to suppress the excitement growing within her, as she asked the next question.

‘And when was this?’

All Deborah’s confidence – her resistance – seemed to have deserted now as she replied.

‘A month ago.’

Helen marched away from the café, her phone clamped to her ear. As soon as Sanderson answered, she launched in without introduction.

‘We need to check out Richard Ford. Who was doing the initial chat with him?’

There was the briefest intake of breath from Sanderson, before she replied.

‘Charlie. She’s with him right now.’

57

Something was wrong in this house. Charlie had felt it the moment she stepped inside. Everything was in the right place, there were no obvious signs of anything amiss, but the whole place felt unused, like a museum. It looked – and smelt – stale.

Richard Ford had been less than pleased to find Charlie waiting for him on his doorstep. He had been helping out at one of the fire sites, he’d told her, shifting some of the detritus, so the arson team could do their work. He was dirty and sweaty and stank of smoke – clearly he had been looking forward to getting a shower. But instead he found himself answering the gentle questions of a DC, probing him about his work patterns and movements over the last couple of days. Charlie didn’t blame him for being irritated and yet that wasn’t quite it. He seemed to be giving off something else. Suspicion? Anxiety? Something else? Charlie couldn’t put her finger on it.

He’d been carrying a black bin liner, which he made no reference to, stowing it in the hall cupboard, before shepherding Charlie into the old kitchen. He’d put the kettle on for tea, but it laboured to work up a head of steam. It was as if everything was slightly off here – the slow tick-tock of the dusty carriage clock on the mantelpiece giving the dated kitchen the washed-out feel of yesteryear.

‘Do you live alone?’ she asked.

‘Yup. Mum died a few years back. Got a sister, but she didn’t want any of this,’ he replied gesturing to the house. ‘She emigrated to Oz.’

Charlie could hardly blame her. As Ford now made the tea in what looked very much like two dirty cups, Charlie’s eye ran over the Hants Fire and Rescue tattoo that graced his left bicep. The sight set her nerves jangling, but when Ford turned to her, Charlie was all smiles once more.

‘And last night you were home alone?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You didn’t go out at any time? To the shops? Anything?’

‘No. Why?’

‘These are just standard questions. We’ve been asked to verify the movements of everyone on the fire team … So what about Tuesday night? The night of the first fires –’

But Charlie got no further. Her mobile rang out, disturbing the eerie quiet of the house.

‘I’d better take this. Sorry,’ Charlie said as she hurried out into the hall. Ford watched her go, seemingly neither surprised by nor interested in her sudden departure.

‘Charlie Brooks,’ she said cheerily, as she scuttled into the small parlour opposite. It was even more forgotten than the kitchen, and Charlie’s eyes flicked over the dusty surfaces, as Helen filled her in on the latest developments. Charlie responded steadily, giving affirmatives where necessary, keeping calm, but she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck starting to rise. When she rang off, she hesitated for a moment to quieten her breathing. If she played it cool, this would probably work out fine. Helen was on her way, so summoning up her courage, Charlie marched back into the kitchen.

‘Sorry about that. Normal nonsense about being in two places at –’

Then Charlie stopped dead. Richard Ford was nowhere to be seen.

58

Helen shot past the red light without hesitation. It was a risky manoeuvre given the heavy rush hour traffic, but Helen felt she could make it. She knew the sequences of every set of lights in this city and judged she would make it across the junction without getting caught by oncoming vehicles. The pursuing squad cars hung back, despite the flashing lights and sirens that should have cleared the way – they were junior officers with their whole careers ahead of them and were not in the business of taking unnecessary risks.

Helen had only one thing on her mind, however, and that was to get to Charlie as quickly as she could. She was across the junction in a flash and now ratcheted up her speed, pulling away from the city centre and blasting into the open road beyond. More vehicles were attending from Southampton Central, but no one would be as fast as Helen on her bike, which is how she liked it. If Ford was dangerous – as he surely must be – then she wanted to be first in line to get her friend out of trouble and resolve the situation swiftly and decisively.

Charlie seemed to have a knack for these things, Helen thought to herself as she leant into a sharp corner, dropping her speed a notch, before pulling the throttle back hard once more. She was a very diligent and able copper, yet she seemed to have the most amazing nose for trouble. Forever going where angels fear to tread. Helen had every confidence that Charlie could handle herself, but you could never predict how a situation would pan out and everybody’s luck has to run out sometime.

Helen’s knee found the road as she bent in hard to another tight right-hander. The leather that encased her legs protested slightly then sighed as she straightened up. She was driving aggressively but felt completely in control, eating up the miles to Ford’s house in Midanbury. She was only a few minutes away now – minutes away from delivering Charlie and apprehending their man. But minutes could be costly, as Helen knew all too well, and she prayed that she wouldn’t be too late.

59

‘Mr Ford?’

Charlie’s cry echoed through the house, but remained unanswered.

‘Mr Ford? I have a few more questions for you, so …’

Nothing. Instinctively, Charlie’s hand reached out for her baton, which was holstered discreetly inside her jacket. She half expected Ford to emerge from the toilet, apologetic and contrite. But the other half of her knew he had fled. But where to? The house was a tall, rickety property which backed on to open scrubland. There might be numerous hidey-holes and avenues of escape in houses like these.

‘Mr Ford. I’m going to ask you for the last time to join me. Otherwise I will have to assume –’

Bugger it, Charlie thought, pulling her radio from her pocket. She called for back-up, then moved quickly through the kitchen to the back of the house. There was a small pantry off the kitchen, which was empty save for discarded work clothes, so she moved on to the back door. This would have been Ford’s quickest means of escape, but it was locked from the inside, the key still in place.

Charlie turned quickly. Experience had taught her never to have her back turned for too long – in these situations you had to stay alert to any possible angle of attack. But there was no one there and the only sound she could hear was the sober tick, tock, of the clock.

Extending her baton now, she marched through the kitchen, towards the parlour, pausing only to tease open the front door. It might facilitate his escape, but it would allow her back-up to get in quicker when they arrived. Charlie hoped they would come sooner rather than later. She had a nasty feeling about this place.

The parlour was empty, so turning she mounted the main staircase. This was one of many dilapidated Georgian houses in this part of town. They had been grand once but decades of neglect had taken their toll and now they were just old and rotten. The boards creaked noisily as she climbed, announcing her presence as if screaming to their master.

She crested the stairs on to the first-floor landing.

‘Mr Ford? Back-up is on its way, so it’s in your best interests to talk to me.’

Still nothing. Charlie pressed on. The master bedroom was straight ahead of her, its contents obscured by the door, which stood ajar. Charlie took a deep breath, darted a look over her shoulder, then nudged the door gently open with her foot. It swung round lazily, coming to an ungainly halt against the edge of the bedstead. Charlie scanned the interior as best she could, then stepped inside.

The whole place stank. It was piled high with newspapers and magazines and seemed to be more of a dumping ground than a night-time retreat. Clothes had been left abandoned on the ground and Charlie could see the remains of past meals, some of which now bloomed with fungus. Charlie heard a skittering behind her and spun round. But it was just vermin, fleeing the scene of their crimes.

There was a hefty wardrobe placed between two large casement windows. Having checked under the bed, Charlie hurried over to it and, counting to three, yanked it open, her baton raised. Just more papers and old, mouldering clothes.

Leaving the main bedroom, she darted left into a small side bedroom, but she could barely gain access. It was stacked to the ceiling with boxes marked ‘Mum’ and the window appeared to be totally inaccessible. There was no means of escape from here, so Charlie crossed the landing to the other bedroom. This had clearly once belonged to a child. It was full of Beano annuals, rolled-up posters and a rocking horse, damaged by years of hard toil. Its lifeless eye seemed to stare at Charlie as she entered. But there was nobody here. Which only left one place to look.

Back on the landing, Charlie looked up the stairwell to the top floor of the house. She couldn’t hear anything, but was that smoke she could smell? Alarmed by this thought, Charlie walked quickly up the steps. Creak, creak, creak. She was careless now as there was no chance of ambush and nowhere left for Ford to run.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she grasped the door handle and wrenched it round, flinging the door open. A small attic room lay in front of her. Like the other rooms, it was piled high with junk, but this room had a small sofa, an easy chair and an old coffee table, on which sat a couple of mugs. This cramped, remote room looked the most lived in of the house.

The smell of smoke was stronger now and stepping inside Charlie spotted its source. A small wood-burning stove stood in the corner, connected directly to a flue which pierced the roof. And in front of it was Richard Ford. The doors to the stove were open and to her horror Charlie realized that Ford was now feeding the blaze – with pieces of paper, videotapes, photos. He scrabbled through a cardboard box, pulling out anything he could find and throwing it into the fire.

Charlie charged towards him. He turned as she approached but too late. Charlie brought her baton down and it connected hard with his collar bone. He staggered back, howling in pain, so Charlie followed up with a huge arcing cut to the back of his legs. He seemed to take off briefly, hanging in the air, before crashing to the ground, sending up a thick cloud of choking dust.

As he lay there groaning, Charlie spun and raced to the fire. Pulling her jacket off, she encased her hand in it, then delved into the open furnace, flicking whatever she could out of the flames. A videotape and some books fell to the floor. But there was more in there, so Charlie delved deeper –

She cannoned sideways away from the fire, surprised by Ford’s sudden charge. He had rugby tackled her at speed and she crashed hard to the ground now. Winded, she tried to rise, but he was quickly upon her now. A fist seemed to come out of nowhere, connecting with her jaw – she felt the back of her head hit the floor with a crack that went right through her. Now his hands were seeking out her throat, wrapping themselves around, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. She tried to shake him, but his knees were pinning her down and he tightened his grip now, his eyes bulging with fury and hatred. He meant to kill her and Charlie knew in an instant that this time there would be no escape.

60

Helen dumped her bike and sprinted up the path. The back-up vehicles were only a few moments behind but something told Helen that she couldn’t afford to waste a minute. Seeing the front door ajar, Helen paused to remove her baton, then kicked the door open and ran inside. The hallway was deserted and Helen stood stock still, her senses primed for danger.

But there was nothing. The whole place was deathly quiet.

‘Charlie?’

Helen strained, listening for a response, but none was forthcoming.

‘CHARLIE?’

Helen stalked forward, darting her head first into the pantry, then the parlour as she charged towards the back door. The place was deserted, the door locked, so turning on her heel, Helen sprinted back towards the small parlour across the way. Her disquiet was growing with each passing second – the absence of both Charlie and Richard Ford couldn’t be explained in a way that augured well. Why was the front door open? Had Ford fled and Charlie followed in pursuit? Surely not – she would have radioed in in that case? So what had happened here?

Helen took the stairs two at a time and was soon on the landing above. She explored the side rooms first, wary of ambush, but found only the detritus of Ford’s sorry life, so she pushed into the front bedroom. The room was gloomy and unloved, reeking of mould and rotten food and Helen yanked the heavy curtains open. As she did so, she saw the squad cars pull up outside, sirens blaring and lights flashing. The cavalry had arrived, but to what end? They’d be able to do nothing for Charlie if they couldn’t find her. Where the hell was she?

Turning once more, Helen sprinted from the room. Every second counted now.