Текст книги "Liar Liar"

Автор книги: M. J. Arlidge

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

6

The axe connected sharply with the windowpane, sending shards of glass spiralling into the house. With the central stairwell all but destroyed, Fire Officer James Ward and his partner, Danny Brand, had opted for a first-floor entry, heading through one bedroom window, while their colleagues pumped gallons of water in through the other. Time was of the essence – the fire was on the point of going over, after which the house would be unsafe to access.

Brushing the glass aside, James stepped into the house. Immediately the charred boards beneath his feet groaned, threatening to give way. He hesitated, clinging to the window frame for support, before choosing a different route forward. This time the groan was less pronounced and he moved on swiftly but steadily, testing his path as he went. Danny waited for a while before following. This was standard practice – best to lose one officer rather than two, should the flooring give way.

The heat was savage, buffeting his protective suit. James could feel rivulets of sweat pouring down his body. He was uncomfortable and anxious, but he was calm. He had a job to do. It was highly unlikely that anyone had survived, but they had to look. If they were anywhere they would be on this floor, where the main bedrooms were located. James scanned the master bedroom, but there was no sign of the wife or the girl, so he moved forward. As he did so, his foot shot through the floor. Instinctively he grabbed at a light socket and managed to right himself, dragging himself up from the large hole that had opened up in front of him. He could see through now to the ground floor, a smoking mass of burnt furniture and fragmenting walls. Taking a breath, he leapt forward, clearing the hole and landing on the threshold of the landing. For a moment he teetered perilously on the edge, before he gained his balance once more and pressed on.

He moved into what looked like a child’s bedroom. The letters that had been stuck to the door – A-L-I-C-E – remained there, oddly unaffected by the fire destroying the rest of the house. James eased the door open to afford himself a proper view of the room beyond. A single bed, a few bits of furniture, a teddy bear on the floor – but no sign of Karen or Alice Simms. His first instinct was to move into the room to conduct a more detailed search, but something made him hesitate. There was a sound, a steady insistent sound, drawing his attention away from the bedroom to the bathroom nearby. It was hard to be sure, but it sounded like a kind of hissing. But not the hissing of burning furniture or a smouldering fire. This was different.

He moved towards the sound, one step at a time. Danny hung back once more, alive to the danger, so James gestured that he intended to check out the bathroom. Danny tapped his wrist, the customary signal that they would need to withdraw in a minute or two – with each passing second the strength of the internal fabric of the house was being degraded. James nodded – he knew that the clock was ticking.

Passing through the doorway, navigating by touch as much as by sight, he was surprised to see that the shower was on in the bathroom. No wonder there was so much smoke, the water vapour being consumed by the flames that raged all around. Dropping down to his hands and knees he crawled forward fast, a sudden thought gripping him.

And there they were, Karen Simms and her six-year-old daughter slumped at the bottom of the shower cubicle, the glass door shut to keep the fire out, the water cascading down on them to keep them from burning to death. James still didn’t hold out much hope – they had probably died of smoke inhalation some time ago. Both appeared to be face down in the shower stall, which didn’t bode well.

Reaching up, he located the handle of the shower door and pulled it open. A small cascade of water flooded out, creating another hissing burst of boiling steam. He moved closer to the bodies and was surprised to see that both their mouths seemed to be clamped to the shower drain. Suddenly he got it – they were taking in oxygen through the drainpipe.

Hauling Karen over, he looked into her eyes. She was unconscious, but where there was life, there was hope. Beckoning to Danny, he passed the heavy weight of the comatose woman to him. As he did so, the young girl stirred. No more than a small movement, but enough to send a shot of adrenalin through James. Perhaps there was a chance they would both survive.

Scooping the girl up into his arms, James turned to follow his colleague. The odds were still in the balance. The building was collapsing around their ears and the extra weight they were carrying would seriously compromise their chances of making it out alive, but they had to try.

It was now or never.

7

‘How is she?’

Charlie turned to see Steve silhouetted in the doorway. Jessica, whom Charlie still called her baby despite the fact that she was now sixteen months old, was suffering from a nasty cold. The numerous doses of Calpol and Sudafed had achieved little – Jessica remained resolutely unhappy, her sinuses blocked and painful. Like most small children she had let her parents know that she was suffering – keeping Charlie up into the small hours nursing her.

Charlie raised a finger to her lips and gestured to Steve to stay where he was. Two hours of cuddling and reassuring had finally paid dividends and Jessica was asleep once more. Charlie made to leave, then paused to look back at Jessica. There was no sweeter sight for her than that of her little girl slumbering happily in her cot, boxed in by soft toys and her old baby blanket. It always warmed her heart to see her like this and she could have gone on staring at her for hours, but wisdom prevailed. Charlie knew she had better get going while the going was good, so avoiding the creaking floorboards, she tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

‘Do you want a glass of water?’

Steve was halfway down the stairs, making for the kitchen.

‘I might have a hot drink,’ Charlie replied, following him down the stairs. She was wide awake now and, despite the late hour, she would need to decompress a little before she could go to bed. It was amazing how stressful it could be, trying to persuade a toddler that it was in her best interests to go to sleep.

While the kettle boiled, Charlie flicked the TV on. Immediately, the rolling-news channel burst into life – a legacy of Steve’s viewing no doubt, as she was more of a Sky Atlantic girl. She was about to flick over to something less real, when she paused. The pictures on the TV surprised and alarmed her. Dominating the screen was live footage from an antiques emporium – a second-hand bric-a-brac-style place on Grosvenor Road. Charlie knew it well – she’d bought a few odds and ends from there in the past; but now the whole place was ablaze, the attending firefighters making little progress in tackling the huge fire. To the right of the screen, in a sidebar, were smaller images from two other incidents – one of a blaze similar in size and scale to the one at the emporium, the other appearing to be a nasty house fire. All of them were in Southampton.

Charlie’s mobile rang, loud and shrill, making her jump. Shooting a look at Steve, who’d now joined her, Charlie scooped up her phone and answered it.

‘Hi, Charlie. It’s DC Lucas here.’

‘Hi, Sarah.’

‘Sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but you’re needed. DI Grace has called everyone in. We’ve got three serious fires in the city centre –’

‘I’m watching them on the TV now.’

‘Half an hour, ok?’

Moments later, Charlie was in Jessica’s room once more. Now smartly dressed, her hair tied back in an approximation of professionalism, Charlie leant in and risked Steve’s wrath by gently kissing her baby girl goodbye. Whenever she went to work she felt guilty – for leaving her baby, for relying so much on Steve to handle things on the domestic front – and the kiss went some way to mitigating those feelings. It was tough and she often felt physically sick leaving the house, but there was nothing else for it. There is one simple rule for working mothers – you have to work harder and longer than everybody else just to be taken seriously. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, but it was the way of the world, which is why, having kissed Steve goodbye, Charlie unchained the front door and stepped out into the night.

8

Detective Superintendent Jonathan Gardam stood stock still, taking in the scene at Bertrand’s Antiques Emporium. He was new to the city – a few months into his tenure as the new station chief at Southampton Central – and if he was honest he was still finding his feet. He had been a front-line officer for so long, a very active and visible DCI in London before his recent promotion, and sitting in meetings all day wasn’t his style. He knew it came with the rank, but privately he was pleased for an excuse to be back in the thick of the action.

He walked in the direction of his DI, who was hard at work marshalling the troops. Helen Grace came with a considerable reputation for both brilliance and truculence, but so far Gardam had found her to be both pleasant and professional. She knew how to lead, how to make decisions, and that would prove crucial in what was already gearing up to be a major investigation. As he approached her, she turned and came towards him.

‘Do we have any casualties?’ Gardam asked.

‘No fatalities so far. We have four injured at the house fire in Millbrook, three seriously. There was no one on site here or at the timber yard, so unless the fire team turn up any unpleasant surprises, we should be ok on that front.’

‘And it’s definitely arson?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Any idea why these three sites might have been targeted?’

‘We’re pulling the owners in and we’ll be talking to the family in Millbrook when we get the chance, but there’s nothing obvious. Two are commercial, one domestic, they’re all in distinctly different parts of town – we can’t even be sure yet that the fires were started by the same person, as they started at very similar times. Ever come across anything like this before, sir?’

‘Not on this scale,’ Gardam replied cautiously. ‘This feels … organized.’

Helen nodded – she’d had the same unsettling feeling since she’d arrived at the antiques emporium. There’d been no reported incident directly preceding the fire, no witnesses to any unusual activity – the site had just gone up in flames.

‘Travell’s was the first fire?’

Helen nodded, then continued:

‘First 999 calls were at eleven fifteen p.m. This place was next – the calls coming in at around eleven twenty-five p.m. The house in Millbrook about fifteen minutes after that.’

‘If the fires were set by the same person, it’s an interesting escalation,’ Gardam continued. ‘The first two sites are big and impressive, the third site much smaller, more domestic, yet potentially much more deadly. Whoever set the fire must have assumed there would be people asleep in the house –’

‘Which might suggest they are the real targets,’ Helen interrupted. ‘If they were, then what better way to tie up the fire services than by creating two huge fires in other parts of town? We’ve seen that kind of calculated firestarting in the States. No reason why it couldn’t happen here …’

Even as she said it out loud, Helen’s mind began to turn. It made sense and would be a good way of disguising the true intent of the crime. There was so much more to learn about tonight, so much evidence to be sifted and questions to be asked, but already Helen’s instincts were telling her that this was no ordinary crime. In the sixteen months since the death of Ben Fraser, her life had been pleasantly mundane. But that was all over now.

Once more she was being sucked into someone else’s nightmare.

9

The doors swung open and the paramedics raced through, ferrying three hospital trolleys into the bowels of South Hants Hospital. The ambulances transporting the injured family from the Millbrook house fire had radioed ahead and the staff at A&E were standing by to receive them.

At the front of this fast-moving queue was Karen Simms, now in full cardiac arrest. Her brain and body had been starved of oxygen for a long period of time and her body was now reacting. The attending paramedics had used the paddles in the ambulance, but to no effect, so the team now hurried her towards the cardiac unit. Her life was hanging in the balance and every second was vital.

Next came her daughter, Alice. Like her mother she had suffered extensive second– and third-degree burns and was in terrible pain, but she was conscious at least, her young heart seemingly more able to withstand the pressures put on her body by extensive smoke inhalation. Reports from the scene suggested there were no toxic vapours in the house, so if she could survive the next few days, then the young girl had a decent chance. While her mother’s trolley veered off left, the young girl was taken straight to the lifts. The burns unit was on the third floor and they were awaiting her arrival.

Behind her came Luke, who had minimal burns but had broken two legs and had significant torso and facial injuries from his fall. He was being taken straight to scans and then to theatre. If he had serious internal bleeding or major head injuries, he stood little chance. But if it was just broken bones, he would be fine. Of the three, he was the one who had been least touched by the blaze.

Bringing up the rear, supported by staff, was Thomas Simms. He watched on as his wife, daughter and son’s paths now diverged, all heading in different directions through the hospital. He stood paralysed – like a man frozen in time – suddenly faced with an impossible choice. Who should he go with? Who needed him most? His mind swam, as he processed this dreadful dilemma, but his feet stayed still. There was no right choice.

In that moment, Thomas knew that his life had changed irrevocably and for ever. Nothing would ever be the same and much pain and sadness lay ahead. He didn’t know how they would get through it or what was the right thing to do. He was lost. And haunting him, like an insistent, nagging ache, was the fear that he would never see any of his family again.

10

The imposing Victorian house was now a ruin. The windows had blown out – dirty smears of soot stained the brickwork – and the whole place looked lifeless, haunted and defiled. A family home had become a horrific curiosity, scores of local residents, well-wishers and journalists having turned out to drink in the devastation. Helen Grace struggled to rid herself of the thought that a family had gone to bed here tonight, happy and relaxed, and had woken up to this.

The Fire and Rescue Service had secured the site and a local Fire Investigation Officer was on her way. The house was still too dangerous to enter, so Helen had to content herself with a tour of the perimeter of the building, accompanied by DS Sanderson. Sanderson’s predecessor, DI Lloyd Fortune, had moved on a few months back, allowing Helen the opportunity to promote her accomplished and loyal DC Sanderson was now her second-in-command and Helen was glad of her company.

‘We’re looking for signs of an intruder. Anything unusual or suspicious that might explain what happened here.’

The two women walked in silence, the gutted house casting a long shadow over them, affecting their spirits. The ground was frozen tonight, so there would be little chance of finding any useful footprints or tracks. And if a third party had been responsible for tonight’s blaze, they had obviously been careful. There was no obvious detritus left behind, nothing that could give them a sense of how the fire started.

But there was something that was intriguing. The back garden could be accessed via a passage adjacent to the house, the gate to which was unlocked. Someone could have entered the garden unseen from the street. Furthermore, the glass in one of the panes of the back door had been broken. It hadn’t cracked or blown out like the other windows, perhaps because the fire damage was less severe at the very back of the house. No, this window looked like it had been deliberately broken. More tellingly, the splintered glass from this fracture lay inside the house, suggesting the person responsible was standing outside the house when they struck the glass. The resultant hole would have been big enough for someone to put their hand through and turn the key in the lock on the other side. Donning latex gloves, Helen tested the door and was not surprised to find it unlocked.

‘I’ll get SOC on to this straight away,’ Sanderson piped up, following Helen’s train of thought, pulling her radio from her jacket.

As Sanderson liaised with her colleagues, Helen returned to the front of the house. The crowd had grown considerably in size. Despite the late hour, there appeared to be a few hundred people gawping now. Helen gestured to DC Edwards, who hurried over.

‘Round up a few plain-clothes officers and do a couple of circuits of the crowd. Use your cameras and get whatever footage you can. We’re looking for any suspicious activity, anyone recording the scene on cameras or phones. Also I want to know if you see anyone masturbating –’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Anyone masturbating or displaying any overt interest in the fire site. Got it?’

DC Edwards hurried off to find his colleagues. Helen watched him go, momentarily amused by his discomfort. But the request was a serious one. Arson was one of those rare crimes where the perpetrator could return to the scene of the crime to enjoy their handiwork. Helen wondered to herself if the person responsible for this awful crime was looking at her right now.

A sound made her turn – DI Sanderson was approaching, her face drained and sombre.

‘We just took a call from South Hants Hospital,’ she said quickly. ‘Karen Simms died just before two a.m. this morning. Cardiac arrest and multiple organ failure.’

‘Is anybody down there?’

‘DC Brooks is on site.’

‘Get in touch. Tell her to stick close to Thomas Simms and offer him whatever support she can.’

Sanderson hurried off, pulling her mobile from her pocket. Helen watched her go, a rising feeling of dread creeping over her. This was no longer a nasty case of arson.

This was now a murder enquiry.

11

The hospital was like a maze and with each wrong turn Charlie’s anxiety rose. She hated hospitals. Just the smell of them inspired a deep melancholy in her – a legacy of the many weeks she’d spent in this very hospital, following her abduction three years ago. She should have known the hospital backwards as a result, but every corridor looked the same to her.

She had headed to the fire at Travell’s first, but that had proved to be a waste of time. There had been no eyewitnesses to the start of the blaze, the CCTV had been deactivated some time ago and it was too early for any decent forensics. So, having done a fruitless pass in search of secondary evidence, she’d re-routed to the hospital to check on the Simms family.

As she made her way to the burns unit, Charlie felt her pace slowing. She knew that Karen Simms had died on the operating table and that Alice, the six-year-old, was now fighting for her life. This would always have provoked a strong emotional reaction from Charlie, but she felt it even more keenly now. Ever since Jessica’s birth, she’d been unable to stomach any article or news bulletin that involved children coming to harm. As a copper you had to have a strong stomach and be able to master your emotions, but if she was honest Charlie no longer trusted herself to keep her feelings in check – it was an instinctive and overwhelming reaction for her now.

Pausing outside the entrance to the burns unit, Charlie gave herself a silent talking to. How dare she worry about her own feelings, when this family were in hell? Her job was to help them, not worry about herself.

‘Get a grip, girl,’ Charlie muttered to herself, before opening the doors and stepping inside.

‘DC Charlie Brooks. I’m very sorry for your loss.’

Charlie offered her hand to Thomas Simms, fully aware of the absurdity and pointlessness of the gesture. He looked up and shook her hand before returning his gaze to Alice, who lay beyond the glass in an isolation unit. Her whole body was swathed in surgical bandages and an oxygen mask was secured over her mouth and nose.

‘I can’t believe that’s Alice,’ Thomas said suddenly.

It certainly didn’t look like her. The photos already making their way on to the news and social media sites showed a smiley, fun-loving girl who liked sports and dancing. The mummified figure in front of them bore no relation to that youthful, vibrant spirit.

‘How’s she doing?’

Thomas shrugged.

‘She’s hanging in there. She’s a fighter.’

It was said with a smile but tears now filled his eyes, overcome with the desolation that this shocking night had brought.

‘I hear encouraging things about Luke. The doctors said he should be out of theatre soon – he’s a brave boy,’ Charlie offered.

Thomas nodded, but the smile faded now, as the full cost of the fire made itself felt once more. There was a long silence and Charlie was about to offer Thomas a cup of tea, when he suddenly said:

‘What am I going to tell them? About their mum?’

He looked utterly bereft as he turned to Charlie. Quickly she sat down by him, placing an arm on his shoulder. She wanted to comfort him, to reassure him, but there was no easy solace to give.

‘The truth. That’s all you can do. You have to tell them the truth.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ he replied bleakly, returning his gaze to his daughter.

Charlie left her arm on his shoulder and thought of what to say next. But in truth there was very little to say. She would help him in any way she could of course, would try and lighten the blow felt by Luke and Alice. But how do you dress up something like this? There is no easy way to tell a child that their mother is dead.