Текст книги "Liar Liar"

Автор книги: M. J. Arlidge

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

18

Denise Roberts stood in front of the full-length mirror. She turned this way, now that, appraising herself. She had spent a small fortune on her new underwear and she wanted to be reassured that it had been money well spent. Tonight was important – she’d been thinking about nothing else for days – and she wanted it to be right. No, she wanted it to be perfect.

Throwing on a dressing gown, she marched down the stairs towards the living room. She lived in a two up, two down in Bevois Mount which was well cared for and pleasant enough – or at least it would have been were it not for the constant presence of her layabout son.

‘Get off your arse and tidy this place up,’ Denise ordered, as she bustled into the living room. Her son, Callum, a truculent sixteen-year-old, always acted up when she had someone coming round and today was no different. A half-eaten bowl of Cheerios sat next to a mug of coffee, as usual plonked down on the wooden coffee table without a coaster. Magazines and freesheets littered the floor and her son sat beached on the La-Z-Boy, eyes fixed to the large plasma screen on the wall.

For a moment, Denise’s eyes strayed from the shambles in the living room to the TV. She was ready to launch another broadside at him for his viewing habits – he could waste a whole day watching Dog the Bounty Hunter and Ice Road Truckers – but momentarily she paused. He wasn’t glued to these staples today – for the first time in living memory he was actually watching the news. The screen was dominated by terrible pictures from last night’s fires. There were reporters at each scene relaying the latest news – overnight a mother of two had died – and this was the national news, not local. Southampton was suddenly on the map for all the wrong reasons.

‘A change from your usual rubbish,’ Denise commented drily, casting an eye in her son’s direction. But he seemed not to hear her – his attention was totally fixed on the screen. As was customary now there was endless amateur footage of the fires (not to mention the many eyewitness accounts of publicity-hungry meddlers) being replayed, meaning that the news channels could replay the fires as ‘live’ hour after hour. It was strangely hypnotic to watch – the huge flames from the timber yard exploding upwards as the warehouse roof collapsed – but still her son’s trance annoyed her. She couldn’t have him lying about, cluttering the place up. Not today.

She gave him a little kick.

‘What the fuck?’ he spat out, snarling at his mother.

‘You need to shift. I need to be tidying.’

‘Big night, is it?’

‘Callum …’

‘Got something nice in store for him, have you?’

‘Watch your mouth,’ Denise replied, her anger colliding with a strange and unnecessary sense of shame. What did she have to be ashamed about? She was a single woman, with many good years left in her, why shouldn’t she seek out a little affection? A little love? She got precious little from her own family.

‘Now shift before I say something I regret,’ she continued, bending to pick up the discarded magazines. ‘Come on, out!’

Still he didn’t move. Denise could usually predict his every thought, his every action – he was her only child and she had spent her whole adult life raising him. But something was different about him today. He was unreadable.

‘Why do you let him come here?’ Callum said suddenly. ‘He treats you like shit and still you go back for more.’

‘He does not –’

‘He’s a parasite. He takes what he wants and if you ever stick up for yourself then –’

‘That was just the once.’

‘Still hurt though, didn’t it? If you had any self-respect, you’d shut the door on him.’

‘Callum, I’m warning you –’

‘It’s him that needs the warning, not me. Why do you go on protecting him? Why can’t you see what he is?’

Denise braced herself for more abuse – there was a fire in her son’s eyes today – but Callum just stared at her. Then, dropping his eyes, he said:

‘I pity you.’

Hurt now punched through Denise’s anger – Callum had never spoken to her like that before, despite their many rows. She didn’t know what to say. What was the right way to respond to your son’s contempt?

Callum was now marching towards the front door. Denise stood frozen to the spot, but the sound of the latch lifting prompted her to action and she hurried after him.

‘Don’t you talk to me like that. Don’t you ever talk to me like that!’ she called after his retreating back. But he was already halfway down the road and didn’t look back – her anger had fallen on deaf ears.

Slamming the door shut, she stalked along the corridor into the kitchen. Her nerves were already shattered and it was only mid-morning. Would Callum stay out as she’d requested? Or would he return later to deliberately sabotage her evening? Denise could feel her anxiety rising, so she reached over and looked for her cigarettes in her bag. She pulled out her work pass, her phone, her make-up – but there was no sign of her cigarettes. Little bastard, she thought to herself. It had been virtually a full packet – she’d only bought them yesterday morning. Her son was a thief as well as a slob, it seemed. Muttering to herself, she started tidying and cleaning the house, but her mind continued to turn on the missing cigarettes. Just one more crime to add to her son’s growing rap sheet.

19

‘For God’s sake, do something. There’s a little girl in there. Where are those bloody fire engines?’

The woman looked crazed and desperate, scanning the horizon wildly for blue flashing lights. Sanderson paused the footage to study the scene, then wound it forward, stopping at intervals to study faces, expressions and body language. She had been at it for several hours now, trawling through the amateur footage from the fires and it was beginning to get to her. Not just because of fear and anxiety etched on the faces of many of the onlookers, but also because of the blank expressions on many of the others. These gawpers exhibited nothing more than a casual curiosity – as if a dead woman or a family home reduced to rubble might be momentarily diverting.

‘Found anything?’

Sanderson turned to see Helen Grace standing next to her. She had an alarming way of approaching without making a noise, leaving you no time to put on your professional face. Sanderson managed to stifle a yawn – the viewing suite was airless and hot – before bringing her boss up to speed.

‘Nothing so far. I’ve done Travell’s and I’m halfway through the Millbrook footage. Lots of people keen to have a look but no one displaying any overt signs of excitement. Just the opposite if anything.’

‘Recognize any faces?’

Sanderson shook her head.

‘What about our local arsonists? Have we run them down?’ Helen continued.

‘We’ve got seven on our list – all of whom have committed fire-related offences in the County in the past twelve months. The majority of them did it for insurance fraud and the others are just kids. We’ve chased down four – verifiable alibis so far – and we’re on to the last three. But there’s no one on the list who’s attempted anything of this magnitude before.’

‘Keep trying. Also let’s run a national search to see if there have been any other instances of coordinated arson attacks in the last two to three years. This guy’s MO is pretty specific, not to mention well executed. I’d say he’d had practice.’

Sanderson nodded, promising to expedite this search, then resumed her viewing. In truth she just wanted to be away from here. She wanted fresh air, light, happiness. She wanted to be away from the stench of death.

Helen strode into the incident room and was pleased to see the team was hard at work. Everyone at Southampton Central had been shocked by last night’s crimes – many were fearful of what they might presage – so they were pulling out all the stops. It always cheered Helen to see how her officers were willing to cancel their plans and put their personal lives on hold when the job demanded it. It was inconvenient for family and loved ones, but a woman had died. Karen Simms deserved justice and Helen was hopeful her Major Investigation Team would deliver exactly that.

As she was scrolling through a mental list of important tasks that lay ahead, Helen noticed DC McAndrew approaching. She could tell by her face and the spring in her step that she had something of note to tell her.

‘Something for you, boss.’

McAndrew handed Helen a sheaf of papers. They appeared to be a bundle of bank statements and credit card bills.

‘I’ve been running the rule over the Simms family like you suggested. Thomas Simms runs a small business – “AEK trading” – from a warehouse on the Grawston industrial estate. It’s a practical spot and the rents are fair –’

‘But?’ Helen interrupted, keen to get to the point.

‘But the business is on the brink of going under. He’s been paying staff wages via his credit cards, withdrawing cash on them at extortionate rates.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘Exactly, but he’s just not getting the business any more. He lost a contract with a couple of high street stores twelve months ago and has never managed to find replacements. Bigger players can bring in the clothes cheaper – basically he’s too small to get noticed, but too big to stay afloat financially. Just too many outgoings.’

Helen felt a twinge of sympathy for Thomas Simms. His wife didn’t work, so the family’s financial welfare was down to him. What must it have felt like to watch a business of over ten years’ standing slowly dying in front of you?

‘And here’s the really interesting bit,’ McAndrew continued. ‘There seem to be other payments to staff – cash payments again – that don’t come from credit card withdrawals.’

Helen looked down a line of payroll transactions that McAndrew was indicating.

‘All in all it totals over fifteen thousand pounds.’

‘Any invoices? Did he make this from sales?’

‘Can’t see any. He hasn’t taken in that kind of money in ages. He seems to have been buying a new line of clothes from Malaysia –’

‘Hoping that something will finally stick.’

McAndrew shrugged.

‘Either way, he was heavily in debt. I’ve checked – the house insurance was renewed three months ago and there’s a hefty payout in case of fire.’

‘Even so, I can’t see it, can you?’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ McAndrew replied calmly.

‘He’s got a solid alibi, he’d be a fool to do it when his family were there and, besides, it was so obviously arson – the insurance company would never pay out.’

‘Desperate times prompt desperate acts.’

Helen pondered this new line of enquiry. She had seen men lose everything and destroy their families rather than face up to it – one incident particularly was burnt in her memory. If Thomas Simms was in the throws of a nervous breakdown, it was possible he might have done something desperate and foolhardy. He seemed so smitten with his family though and so devastated by the loss of his wife. Had a crazy plan gone badly wrong somehow? Had an accomplice set the fire and messed it up?

As Helen thanked McAndrew and headed for the exit, she knew there was no point speculating about it. There was only one way to find out the truth about Thomas Simms.

Ask him.

20

‘I don’t see what this has to do with Karen’s death. I’m sorry, but I really don’t.’

Thomas Simms was hostile and defensive. He had been since the moment they’d suggested it would be best to conduct their interview away from the wards in a private room. His evident frustration could be down to his anger at having been pulled away from Alice’s bedside or it might be something else. Helen was determined to find out which.

She was flanked by Charlie, who already seemed to have a good rapport with the family. This was her forte – the human side of an investigation – and Helen was glad to have her here. It had been a while since they’d worked so closely together on a case.

‘We’re just trying to establish a full and accurate picture of the family situation.’

‘The family situation?’ Thomas countered incredulously.

‘So we can ascertain why your house was targeted,’ Helen continued unabashed. ‘We’re not judging anyone or prying, but we do need to know what was happening in your lives.’

‘Best do this now, Thomas,’ Charlie interjected softly, ‘then we can leave you alone to support your family. If there was any reason why someone might have targete—’

‘What makes you think it wasn’t random?’ was the assertive response. ‘You see it all the time on the news. Messed-up kids, setting things alight because they’ve had a rough time or are bored or –’

‘That may well be the case, but there are several aspects of this attack which suggest otherwise. Petty acts of vandalism are seldom carried out on residential properties. It’s nearly always derelict buildings, playgrounds, schools – somewhere out of the way where there’s no CCTV, no possible witnesses. Family homes are very rarely targeted randomly.’

For once Thomas Simms had no comeback.

‘Furthermore, whoever attacked your house broke in. They had to access your garden first – which presented a risk – then they had to break the glass in the back door, while people were at home. In setting the fire centrally within the house, they took another risk – all of which indicates that this was not a random crime. Whoever did this was organized and determined, and I would suggest had probably scoped out the house beforehand. They appear to have been very committed to targeting your house, despite the very real possibility of discovery and apprehension.’

Helen let her words settle. The strain was showing now on Thomas and Helen didn’t want to break him with a barrage of questions or insinuations. She had to proceed but needed to do so cautiously – it was horrifying to have to process the idea that someone had gone to such effort to decimate your family. Simms sat silent now, rubbing his face with his hands. Already the fight had gone out of him and Helen knew from many years of interrogating suspects that this was her opportunity.

‘We’ve discussed the difficulties your business faced – none of them of your own making – and the way you maximized your credit to stay afloat.’

‘We know you took your responsibilities to your staff very seriously,’ Charlie said, overlapping. ‘Many of them had families just like you and they needed to be paid. But the money just wasn’t there, was it?’

A beat, then Thomas nodded.

‘What were you going to do?’ Charlie continued softly. ‘How were you going to keep going?’

There was a long pause as Thomas Simms struggled for an answer. Then:

‘Keep digging.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Keep digging myself a bigger fucking hole to jump into.’

‘I don’t follow, Thomas. What do you mean by that?’ Charlie prompted. She could tell Helen was following the conversation intently, waiting for Thomas Simms’s next move.

Another long pause. A furious internal debate seemed to be taking place within the bereaved husband. Charlie half expected a bitter ‘No comment’ but then suddenly Thomas blurted out:

‘I kept borrowing, didn’t I?’

‘More credit cards?’ Helen replied.

‘No. I … I couldn’t get any more. Too many unpaid bills. Bad credit history.’

The bitterness oozed from him. Helen could tell he blamed the moneymen for his current predicament.

‘Who did you borrow from, Thomas?’ Helen pressed gently but insistently. ‘Those unaccounted-for cash payments – where did they –’

‘A loan shark,’ Thomas interrupted. ‘A bloody loan shark.’

His face was turned to the floor – the full extent of his shame was now becoming clear.

‘We’ll need a name,’ Helen said as neutrally as she could. The mere mention of loan sharks had her alarm bells ringing.

‘I can’t give you a name.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just can’t.’

‘Not good enough, Thomas,’ Helen replied. ‘If you’ve borrowed money from an unregistered lender, then we need to know. If you’ve been threatened, we can offer you protection –’

‘I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?’ was the bitter response.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing,’ he replied after a brief pause. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘ Were you threatened?’ Helen persisted.

Still nothing from Thomas Simms.

‘Give us a name and we can help you. If there’s been any harassment or threats, we can have them for intimidation. We have the powers to deal with these people. Please, Thomas. Tell us what happened.’

‘I … I borrowed five grand from a guy – just to tide me over. The business was in trouble, Luke’s school fees are astronomical, then there’s Karen, Alice … I thought it would be a one-off. But then I borrowed another five. Then another.’

He paused, but neither woman felt the need to jump in. Whatever was coming was coming now – he needed to confess.

‘I tried to pay him back but suddenly the interest payments went up. I couldn’t meet them. And …’

His voice caught as a deep misery stole over him. Charlie could feel her heart pounding inside her chest, her anxiety rising in sympathy with each word.

‘And he came to the house one night. When I was out. He … he threatened Karen. She didn’t know anything about my … problems. I’d kept all that crap from her and the kids. And now … and now this.’

Thomas Simms buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed.

‘Dear God,’ he whispered suddenly. ‘Is this my fault?’

Helen watched him as he wept, nodding to Charlie who extended a hand to comfort him. Helen had never really bought Thomas Simms as a suspect for the arson attack, but it was clear now that he still might be responsible for the attacks. It was their best lead and he had kept it from them. Helen knew that if that meant Karen’s killer escaped justice, it would go hard with him. As Helen knew herself, your soul is never at ease when you have another person’s death on your conscience.

21

‘The loan shark’s name is Gary Spence.’

Helen was marching away from the hospital, her phone clamped to her ear. She’d opted to bring Gardam up to speed immediately – knowing the kind of character he was, she was sure he’d expect nothing less.

‘What do we know about him?’

‘Nasty piece of work,’ Helen went on. ‘Convictions for ABH, GBH, extortion, extracting money with menaces. He also escaped a possible conviction for attempted murder – because of an eyewitness pulling out at the last minute.’

‘Any history of firestarting?’

‘A couple of juvenile offences, plus an insurance fraud five years ago. Burnt down a warehouse he owned to cash in on the £150,000 policy on it.’

Gardam digested this but said nothing. Helen was still making up her mind about her new boss. He was less political than his predecessor, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be trouble. Some bosses were lazy, some too concerned with self-promotion, others were micro-managers. Helen had already filed Jonathan Gardam in the latter camp. He wanted to be fully involved in investigations. Was he a control freak? Did he miss life on the front line? Or did he not trust his new colleagues?

‘He’s obviously not above this kind of thing, but does he fit the MO?’ Gardam finally replied.

‘MOs develop over time,’ Helen responded, ‘so we can’t rule it out. And we know for a fact that Spence had also lent money to Bertrand’s Antiques Emporium. It’s a very hand-to-mouth business. It’s dressed up as antiques but actually it’s a glorified rag and bone shop. Bertrand Senior operates on the edge of legality – he’s had problems with HMRC and others – and on a few occasions he’s borrowed money from Spence. He swears he paid the last lot back –’

‘But he might be lying to avoid trouble with his insurance company,’ Gardam interjected.

‘Precisely. Spence is our best bet, so I’ve scrambled the team to his home, office, known associates, mistresses – everything. We’ll have him in custody before the day’s out.’

‘See that we do. We’ve already had a sustained assault by the press on this one and we owe it to the family to solve this brutal crime quickly. So no excuses from your team. We need to bring him in.’

Helen agreed and, ringing off, climbed on to her bike. Gardam had tactfully aimed his warning at her team, but really it was aimed at her. It had taken a while to come, but her new chief had finally bared his teeth.

22

Sanderson sipped her drink and cast a discreet look at her watch. She had been here for over an hour now and she had the distinct impression she was starting to arouse the regulars’ curiosity. The Hope and Anchor was a pub on the edges of Millbrook that had seen better days. The wallpaper was bubbling, the carpets were worn and the whole place had the feel – and smell – of a waterhole gone to seed. The lager was cheap and the clientele cheaper, so it still attracted a certain type of crowd. Sanderson had dressed down to try and fit in with the ex-cons and wannabe villains who patronized this establishment, but she had the feeling she still stood out too much. Her clothes were a bit too new, a bit too clean in comparison to the stained tracksuits and hoodies worn by the other drinkers. Moreover, she’d washed her hair last night, which couldn’t be said for the gaggle of girls touting for free drinks and cigarettes at the bar. Their lank hair and scruffy appearance suggested they didn’t think much of other people’s opinions and probably not much of themselves either.

Sanderson picked at one of the corners of her coaster and cursed her luck. What was the point in her arranging dates? Something always seemed to come up to put the kibosh on it. It wasn’t Helen’s fault – someone senior needed to be running the stakeout and her boss didn’t know she had dinner plans – but still. The simple truth of it was that she was tired of being single and irritated by the fact that work always got in the way. Before she’d joined the Force she’d had a run of boyfriends – handsome, fun, likeable guys whose company she’d enjoyed. But as soon as you put on the uniform, something changes. It’s not just that your life is not your own any more or that you often work nights. It’s something to do with being a copper. Women are supposed to like men in uniform, but it doesn’t work the other way round. Are men intimidated by female police officers? Are they uncomfortable with the authority they have over them? Are they worried that they will be pulled up for every minor vice or misdemeanour? Whatever the reason, they seem to back off. No doubt about it, the uniform was a massive turnoff.

Sanderson finished her drink and returned to the bar for a refill. She chided herself for being so negative. Surely it was possible to find someone – Charlie and many others like her had managed it. Privately, Sanderson rather envied Charlie – her happy home, her baby girl. She knew it meant sacrifices on a personal and professional level, but at least it meant something. Charlie’s life seemed very grounded compared to hers. But she was never going to get there unless she tried and she had been looking forward to meeting Will tonight. He sounded fun from his emails, had an interesting job and he was certainly easy on the eye.

The question was whether she would make it. Helen had told the team that finding Gary Spence was their top priority and a number of his known haunts were now under surveillance. His home, his mates, a couple of snooker halls and this pub – a place he liked to frequent at the end of stressful day, extorting money from desperate debtors who hadn’t read the small print properly. As Sanderson returned to her seat in the corner, she felt several sets of eyes following her progress. Did they suspect her? Or did they just like the look of her? It was feasible that they had already called Spence and warned him not to come. It was impossible to tell and as with all stakeouts there was only one way to find out.

Watch and wait.