Текст книги "Liar Liar"

Автор книги: M. J. Arlidge

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

23

He recognized her immediately. As she put on her protective suit, mask and goggles, he took in her trim figure. She was pretty and well groomed, her glossy chestnut hair always secure in a very professional-looking bun. He had observed her at a number of burnt-out properties over the past year, diligently carrying out her work, and had even looked her up on Facebook. Her name was Deborah Parks and he always felt a little charge when looking at her.

She had been working at Travell’s Timber Yard since lunchtime. The massive site looked like a war zone – the main warehouse had burnt to the ground, as had most of the stock, temporarily turning the skies over this part of town black. It’d been an amazing thing to witness and had drawn big crowds, but now they had all disappeared. Back to X Factor and Celebrity BB. They thought the show was over. They didn’t value what was right in front of them. They couldn’t see what he could see.

Deborah Parks was on the move now, entering the shell of the warehouse and temporarily out of view. A couple of uniformed officers guarded the main gate, but the site was huge and the chain link fence had not been well maintained – they obviously didn’t get too many timber thieves round here. It was a matter of a few seconds to haul up the bottom of the fence and roll underneath.

Dusting himself down, he surveyed the scene, pausing for a moment to breathe in the strong aroma of carbonized wood that rose from the ashes of this once-vibrant business. Moving out of sight, he began filming. A slow panorama at first, taking in the full devastation of the scene, then a series of zoomed-in close-ups. The devil is in the detail at fire sites – the small remnants of the conflagration, the things that survived, tell the story best. A successful family business that had taken years to build – destroyed in less than an hour. Such was the power of fire.

The sound of a voice nearby made him look up from his recording. He had been so wrapped up in his work that he’d failed to notice Deborah Parks leaving the warehouse to make a phone call. Berating himself for his carelessness, he ducked behind the remnants of a timber stack and scuttled along the perimeter fence away from danger.

Finding a new place of safety towards the back of the site, he rested for a minute – to catch his breath and reassure himself that he hadn’t been spotted – putting his camera back in his rucksack. Now he got on with the real business. Crawling on his hands and knees, his eyes darting this way and that, searching, searching, searching. You never knew what you were going to find in these situations – sometimes it took ages to find anything decent – but today fate was smiling on him. Near the fence edge was a fire-damaged sign. As soon as he picked it up and turned it over, he broke into a broad smile. ‘Travell’s Timber Yard’, it proudly announced, but this boastful sign was now smeared with soot and violated by fire. It was ideal. The perfect souvenir of a memorable night.

It was too big to fit in his rucksack, but if he held it to him with the writing facing inwards he would be ok. He didn’t have far to go. Lifting the fence, he slipped it under, then followed himself. Picking it up, he got to his feet and, having checked that there were no police officers about, hurried off down the street.

As he went, he chuckled to himself. It had been a very satisfactory day’s work.

24

When would he ever escape this place?

Luke Simms had only been in hospital for a day, but already it felt like a lifetime. When you cannot move, when there’s nothing you can do for yourself, time passes very slowly. Luke had hardly slept – kept awake by the pain in his shoulder and legs and the dull ache of his loss. But at least at night he had been left alone.

During visiting hours today, he had been besieged – inundated with teary visitors who lavished him with affection or urged him to ‘stay strong’. They left flowers, chocolates, books, DVDs – already his room was a riot of colour. It was like an Aladdin’s cave and, though he was grateful for their kindness and concern, he hated it all. Some people he was glad to see of course, but his misfortune now seemed to be a magnet for anyone who’d ever known him. So in addition to family and close friends, he’d been visited by football mates and their parents, ex-girlfriends, godparents, guys from school, cousins several times removed. Some of them barely knew him, some of them he thought actively disliked him, but suddenly they all wanted a piece of him. Wanted to tell him how brave he was. Wanted to offer their sympathy to him and, worse than that, their praise.

It was all so inappropriate. What had he actually done? He had jumped from a building and broken his legs. In a stroke his home, his life, his future had been shattered – so what exactly was there to be happy or hopeful about? He was always polite, but when they geed him up by telling him how quick-thinking he’d been, how courageous, he wanted to tell them all to go Hell. He hadn’t jumped because he was brave. He had jumped because he was scared.

Had he been a proper son and brother, he would have braved the flames. He would have charged through them to find his mother and sister. He could have got them out of the house ten, twenty minutes earlier perhaps, but he didn’t. Because he was scared by the awful chorus of smoke alarms and the flames devouring the stairs, he had turned and fled, climbing out of his window and jumping to safety.

Because of that his mother had died. His mother who had given up work to raise him. Who had taken him to football practice three times a week. Who had always called him her ‘special one’. He’d abandoned her – as he had abandoned his little sister – to her fate. And for that he would never forgive himself.

Which is why all the bouquets and cards with messages of good will and praise seemed completely obscene. If he had his way, they would all have been thrown straight in the bin.

25

Sanderson punched the button and the wheels spun in front of her. She wasn’t a gambler – didn’t play fruit machines and wasn’t sure what tactics you were supposed to employ – but it passed the time and gave her something to do. Were some of the regulars laughing at her amateur efforts, wasting pound after pound on ill-judged spins? She thought so, but as long as they put her lack of prowess down to her stupidity or her sex, then that was ok. She was happy to live with their casual sexism if it meant they didn’t question her presence here.

Another two hours had passed. She had drained a couple of pints, faked a few phone calls, even smoked a couple of cigarettes in the freezing yard out back. She hated cigarettes and had only managed to get halfway through both of them, taking very intermittent puffs. But she needed to do something and there were no freesheets left to read and no more phone calls she could legitimately fake. Which is why she now found herself at the fruit machine, cherries and bananas spinning in front of her in some strange, surreal dance.

‘All right, Gary, what can I get you?’

Sanderson froze, her finger hovering over the Play button. A voice answered the barman’s jovial welcome – the accent was local and rough – and the conversation carried on in a pleasant enough vein. But there was something in the barman’s tone that intrigued Sanderson. It sounded very much like fear.

She continued playing the machine, trying to get a sight of ‘Gary’ in the reflection on the machine’s glass front. But there was a post in the way and she couldn’t make out the face. Whoever it was, he was now talking in low tones to his fellow drinkers, wry, humourless chuckles occasionally punctuating the conversation. Why had he dropped his voice? Was this normal or had he already clocked the tall woman by the fruit machine whom no one could vouch for?

Perhaps he was watching her right now. If she turned, would she find him staring right at her? Sanderson knew from experience that a quick, darted look over the shoulder was the most suspicious move you could make and that in situations like this it paid to be up front and bold. So abandoning the fruit machine, she picked up her half-drunk pint and marched over to the bar.

‘This lager tastes like cat’s piss. Got anything better?’

The barman broke off his conversation, eyeballing her unpleasantly.

‘We don’t hand out freebies in this pub. That’ll be three pounds.’

‘Daylight robbery,’ she replied, casting an eye towards the other drinkers in search of support. But they weren’t interested in her, still deeply involved in their murmured conversations. Sanderson however was very interested in them and caught a good side view of Gary Spence. She had memorized his mugshot and there was no doubt about it. It was him. He was unshaven and shabbily dressed in old, stained clothes.

Tossing three coins on to the moist beer towel, she said:

‘Fill her up then. And don’t spit in it when I’m gone, eh?’

With that, she turned and headed through the bar door and down the corridor to the Ladies. Pushing inside, she counted to twenty, listening sharply for any signs of pursuit. Then, hearing nothing, she pulled her phone from her pocket and dialled Helen Grace’s number.

26

The car sped through the streets, bullying the traffic out of its way. The sirens weren’t on, but the flashing blue light was having the desired effect. The roads were clogged today – it was less than three weeks until Christmas and Southampton was full of out-of-town shoppers – but their progress was swift nevertheless. It was almost as if people knew how important this was and made way accordingly.

Helen always felt more comfortable on two wheels than four, so she’d let Charlie drive. There were three other cars making their way to the scene – Helen wanted to create a secure perimeter around the pub – meaning that for once Charlie and Helen were travelling alone. The road had opened up now and they were finally entering Millbrook. Helen could see the police incident boards on the pavement, appealing for witnesses to the Simms house fire and it refocused her mind on what lay ahead.

Pulling up around the corner from the Hope and Anchor, Helen took out her police radio. She could see one unmarked car in place and wanted to check that the other two were in their positions. A swift radio round established that they were.

‘Right, let’s do this. Ready?’

Charlie nodded, so they climbed out of the car and hurried round the corner to the pub. Some officers – mostly male – would have advocated a mob-handed approach, going through the front door with a phalanx of uniformed officers in body armour. They thought this was a safer, more effective approach to bringing crooks in than the traditional tap on the shoulder. But Helen didn’t agree. Often you gave the game away before you’d even begun. The people in these sorts of places drink with their eyes and ears open. They are likely to spot a group of coppers gathering in the street. Moreover, such a clumsy approach was, in Helen’s view, more likely to lead to trouble, the disturbed criminals reacting violently to such a sudden and heavy-handed intrusion.

As they stood on the threshold, Helen looked to Charlie once more – a silent nod returned – then she pushed the door firmly and went inside. The pub was filling up now – scallywags drinking a ‘well-earned’ pint at the end of another day of ducking and diving – and was noisy and lively as a result. As soon as the two smartly dressed women stepped into the pub, however, the atmosphere changed. Heads turned, voices were lowered – everyone present wondering who had done something wrong.

Gary Spence hadn’t looked to see who these intruders were, but Helen could tell by his body language that he had tensed up. Was he expecting them?

‘Gary Spence?’

There was long pause – nobody was talking now – before Gary slowly put down his pint and turned to face her.

‘Have we met, darling?’

‘I’m DI Grace, this is DC Brooks. We’d like a word with you, please.’

Gary stared at her, saying nothing. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his pint, then said:

‘Fire away.’

‘Not here. We’ve got a car outside.’

‘Serious, is it?’

‘I’d prefer to do this at the station, so when you’re ready.’

Gary looked at her once more. A thin smile spread across his mouth.

‘Have it your way.’

At which he flung his pint in Helen’s face and bolted for the back of the pub. Helen was too startled to react and Charlie a nanosecond too slow. He brushed past her outstretched hand and sprinted for the saloon door. Immediately he came face to face with Sanderson who had sprung from her position.

‘Police. You are –’

But she didn’t get any further. Spence launched himself at her, his beefy shoulder connecting with her head on, sending them both reeling backwards through the door and into the dingy passage outside. Sanderson tried to get up first but felt an elbow slam into her stomach, knocking the wind from her. She was left clutching at thin air as the escaping Spence raced away towards the emergency exit nearby.

Before Sanderson could rise, Helen Grace sped through, hurdling her grounded officer and setting off after the fleeing crook. Charlie paused momentarily to check Sanderson was ok, before following suit. Moments later they were both in the freezing courtyard outside. Spence was nowhere to be seen but the fixed gaze of a couple of startled smokers now revealed his position. He was climbing the fire escape – Helen had expected him to head out and away, but actually he was heading up.

Helen turned to Charlie.

‘Tell the others he’s making for the roof.’

As Charlie radioed this in, Helen ran up the fire escape, taking the steps two at a time. Spence had a head start on her, but carried considerably more weight than Helen and she was hopeful of hunting him down.

One flight, two, three, then finally Helen crested the fire escape, spilling out on to the gravel roof. Immediately she spotted Spence sprinting towards the far edge. She gave chase but he was thirty feet ahead and as he came to the edge of the roof, leapt from it, straining every sinew to get across the large gap that separated the pub from its nearest neighbour. He made the other side, but only just, his right foot sliding off the slippery ledge, threatening to unbalance him, before he righted himself and raced on.

Despite the forty-foot fall that awaited her if she misjudged the jump, Helen didn’t hesitate. The buildings round here were detached, flat-roofed commercial properties. If Spence was quick and lucky he could escape their net altogether via the rooftops. Helen launched herself across the divide, landing safely on the other side. But as she landed, she skidded on the scattered gravel, her legs giving out from underneath her. Feeling herself go, she wrenched her torso round, rolling swiftly and elegantly on the ground, before flipping back up on to her feet.

She was slowly gaining on Spence, those many hours spent busting her lungs round Southampton Common finally paying off. She was lean and agile, cresting the next gap with ease, landing safely on the other side. Spence was visibly tiring now – he was full of cheap lager and had been expecting an easy night – so Helen upped her speed.

Then suddenly Spence ground to a halt. Helen did likewise, keeping herself at a safe distance. She could see why Spence was hesitating. The next gap was wider – nearly ten feet – and he lacked the puff to be confident of making it. Slowly he turned. As he did so, she cast an eye over her shoulder. Charlie was a couple of properties back – Helen couldn’t rely on help from that quarter in time, so she would have to handle Spence alone.

As he stared at her, reeking anger, she pulled out her baton and extended it.

‘Well, that’s hardly a fair fight, is it?’

‘Needs must, Gary. Shall we call time on this one?’

‘Fuck you’ was the terse reply as Spence burst forward, trying to dodge past Helen, back in the direction of Charlie.

He had a nanosecond’s advantage, but Helen had been expecting this move. She lunged left to stop him, bringing her baton down hard on his kneecap. Spence yelped in pain, stumbling forward and into Helen’s shoulder, which was braced low against him. For a moment, he took off then landed flat and hard on the roof floor, the gravel scraping the skin off his cheeks. Helen was on top of him in a flash and before he could rise, she had her knee in his back and the cuffs on. As Spence swore and spat gravel from his bleeding lips, Helen afforded herself a brief smile.

‘I think it’s time we had a little chat, don’t you?’

27

‘So, how’s business?’

Helen was back in the interview suite at Southampton Central opposite a deeply hostile Gary Spence. He had been seen by a doctor, given time to shower and change and consult with his lawyer – but none of this had improved his mood. He scowled and swore at every opportunity – making a point of firing personal insults at Helen and DI Sanderson whenever he could.

‘You know this will go a lot easier if you just answer the questions, Gary,’ Helen continued. ‘How is the loan shark business?’

‘My client provides credit –’ his lawyer interjected, but Helen wasn’t in the mood to split hairs.

‘Whatever you want to call it,’ she interjected. ‘Is it treating you well?’

‘Keeps the wolf from the door,’ Spence eventually replied.

‘I’d say it’s more than that,’ Sanderson responded. ‘You’ve got a nice big house in Merry Oak. And rumour has it you’re in the market for a place in the New Forest. Business must be good.’

Spence just shrugged, then looked at his watch theatrically.

‘What happens when they don’t pay back what they owe you, Gary? When they can’t pay?’

‘My client will always attempt to renegotiate any problem loan, change the sums or intervals of payment if necessary –’

‘But if they default, then what? I’d like your client to answer that, not you, Ms Fielding.’

Spence’s brief said nothing, but Helen knew she’d antagonized her. She was a young and intelligent brief, keen to flex her muscles against a renowned DI. Helen only wished she’d found a more worthwhile cause on which to bestow her undoubted talents. Spence had four grams of cocaine on him when arrested. He swore blind that this was why he’d done a runner – but Helen wasn’t convinced.

‘They lose their collateral,’ Spence said evenly.

‘Meaning you take their car, their property –’

‘Whatever the money is secured against.’

‘And what about for smaller, unsecured loans? A few grand, ten maybe. What happens if they borrow that from you, then can’t – or won’t – pay it back?’

Spence shrugged – seeming to imply that such sums were beneath him.

‘What about Thomas Simms for example?’

‘Jesus Christ, is that what all this is about?’

‘He borrowed money from you and when he couldn’t pay it back, you threatened his family.’

‘Whoa, whoa. You’re going to have to rewind a bit there. Who says my client threatened the Simms family?’

It was offered aggressively, but Helen could see Fielding hadn’t been expecting this line of questioning and was rattled as a result.

‘Your client came to the door and told Karen Simms that if he had to come back again, she would regret it. Sounds pretty much like a threat to me, wouldn’t you say?’

‘That’s bullshit,’ Spence barked back, earning a silent but pointed look from his lawyer. But Spence didn’t seem to be care. ‘I never went near that bloody house,’ he continued, ‘and anybody who says I did is lying out their arse.’

‘We have the date when you visited – November 30th. Around nine p.m. apparently. What’s the betting that street cameras and your phone signal put you there around that time, Gary?’

For a moment, Spence said nothing.

‘Ok, maybe I went round there for a quick word,’ he offered finally, earning yet another look from his lawyer, ‘but I was looking for Thomas Simms. I never threatened no one.’

‘Of course not. You’re good as gold, aren’t you?’ DI Sanderson said, picking up the baton. ‘Not that you’d know it from your record. ABH, GBH, attempted murder –’

‘I was never convicted of that!’ Spence protested.

‘Lucky break then, because you did throw a live grenade into the property of one of your particularly troublesome debtors, didn’t you?’

‘Don’t answer that,’ Spence’s brief cut in.

‘And you’ve got a bit of form with fire, haven’t you?’ Helen persevered, keeping the pressure on.

‘A one-off mistake,’ Spence dead-batted in return.

‘Is that what you’d call it? I think you like to teach people who won’t pay a lesson,’ Helen continued. ‘I think you like people to know that no one, absolutely no one, gets away with ripping you off. Am I right?’

Spence said nothing in response. Neither did his lawyer.

‘The attack on the Simmses’ house was determined, organized and personal. Let me tell you what I think happened. I think you threatened Simms and when he didn’t pay you, you went back to his house. We’ve applied for a warrant to check your phone records – it won’t take long to find out where you were, Gary.’

Spence just scowled, so Helen carried on:

‘We know you’d had words with Bertrand Senior. Had you also lent money to Travell’s? Was this payback? A one-night spectacular to punish Thomas Simms? A warning to keep all your other debtors in line? I must say, Gary, I admire your style. You think big.’

Spence breathed out slowly. He looked weary and angry now.

‘Keep talking, Inspector. But know this. I was in bed last night. With my wife. And if my Pug could talk he’d tell you he was there too, sitting on the end of my bed from nine p.m. till six a.m. the following morning. I didn’t do it and you can’t say I did. So do your work, run down your dead ends and then let me go. Interview over.’