Текст книги "Liar Liar"

Автор книги: M. J. Arlidge

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

41

It was early morning, but already the hospital corridors were packed with people. The breakfast rounds were about to begin and the night shift was just handing over to the day workers, so it was always busy at this time – but still today was different. The hospital had received more walking wounded as a result of last night’s fires – one firefighter, two members of the public and even a foolhardy journalist who’d been hit by falling debris – and everywhere you went concerned health workers were discussing this sudden spate of arson attacks. Six fires in two nights was unheard of in Southampton – everyone was clearly wondering what the next twenty-four hours would bring.

Charlie didn’t linger, ignoring the hopeful looks from staff and patients hoping for titbits from one of the investigating officers. She wasn’t here to gossip. Stepping out of the lift on the third floor, she presented her credentials to the ward nurse, then made her way into the burns unit. As expected, Thomas Simms was sitting where Charlie had seen him so often, keeping a silent watch over his daughter, Alice.

The six-year-old girl was still in a critical condition, but she was stable and with each passing day her chances of survival increased. She had a long road ahead of her and who could predict what kind of life awaited her at the end of it, but there were grounds now for cautious optimism. Thomas Simms looked up as Charlie approached, offering her a brief wan smile, before returning his gaze to his daughter.

‘How’s she doing?’ Charlie asked, as brightly as she could.

‘Up and down. But more up than down. She has her mother’s spirit.’

Charlie nodded and looked at the little girl. She looked so fragile there, wrapped in bandages, her breathing and heart rate controlled by machines – Charlie hoped Thomas Simms was right.

‘And how are you?’ Charlie asked.

Thomas Simms just shrugged, but said nothing in reply.

‘It’s tough, I know,’ Charlie continued and was immediately aware of how hopelessly inadequate her response was. What did she know of what he was going through? Charlie was thinking what to say next – and coming up blank – when Thomas suddenly said:

‘I heard about last night’s fires.’

Once more, Charlie kicked herself. This was why she was here, to make sure Thomas and his family were up to speed with developments and yet in her own blundering way she had left it to Thomas to bring it up.

‘Of course. That’s why I wanted to see you – to answer any questions you may have about them.’

‘Are they connected?’

‘It’s a bit early to say. We’ll know more later when we have the forensics reports. But the MO appears to be similar.’

Everyone at Southampton Central was assuming the perpetrator was the same, but no one would say it publicly.

‘Is there any connection to Spence? With these latest …’

‘Nothing so far. There’s nothing in his accounts to suggest he’d lent to any of last night’s victims and the individuals concerned don’t appear to have heard of him.’

‘So this is something else then?’

Charlie paused, uncertain how best to respond, and before she could do so, Thomas Simms added:

‘Karen’s death and Alice and Luke … they’re all part of something … bigger?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

‘Well perhaps you could fucking hurry up.’

It was spat at her with such venom that Charlie was struck dumb.

‘I don’t think you get it, do you? Any of you. You come in here with your platitudes and good wishes, but I’m dealing with a terrified sixteen-year-old boy whose whole life has been crushed and who is looking to me for answers as to why his mother is dead. Is it something he did? Is it something I did? Or is it because some crazy fucking psychopath wants to burn down the whole city?’

‘Believe me we’re pulling out all the stops –’

‘Well it doesn’t look that way to me. So stop mollycoddling me and do something. Get out there and do your bloody job.’

With that he turned back to Alice, dismissing Charlie once and for all.

On her way out, Charlie kept her head down once more. But this time it wasn’t to avoid entreating glances. It was to hide her shame.

42

Helen awoke with a start. For a moment, she had no idea where she was or how she’d got there. Then slowly the pieces started to fall into place and, taking in the familiar surroundings, she recollected her decision to sleep in her office. There had seemed little point going home given the late finish, and she’d had a day bed installed some time ago for such eventualities.

‘Helen?’

It was softly spoken but still made her jump. Someone was in the room with her. The voice wasn’t familiar or at least not in this context. Straightening up, she was surprised to find Gardam standing in the doorway.

‘Sorry, I did knock three times, but you didn’t seem to hear me.’

His eyes were cast down as he spoke and Helen realized that she was still half dressed. Torn between sitting like an idiot with a sheet pulled across her chest or getting dressed, she chose the latter – scurrying across to the wardrobe and rifling through it for a fresh blouse and suit. As she pulled her clothes on, Gardam carried on speaking, his eyes still fixed to the floor to spare her blushes.

‘I know the team’s due in shortly and I wanted to catch you before your briefing, so we can talk about our media strategy. The press conference is scheduled for eleven a.m.’

Smoothing down her clothes, Helen emerged from her impromptu changing area. She had her professional face on now, but felt embarrassed at having been caught out in this way.

‘I meant to talk to you about that,’ she replied evenly. ‘Press liaison isn’t really my thing –’

‘It’s ok. I’m happy to field them if you want, but if you change your mind –’

‘Thank you, sir. I think it’s important that I stay with the team.’

‘I agree. So what have we got for them?’

‘Well, we’re still sifting the intel from last night, but we do have one interesting lead – CCTV footage of a man running away from the house in Bevois Mount shortly before the blaze began. I’ve run off stills that we should share with the media – see if anyone recognizes him. I’m also going to show them to Gary Spence – I’d like to see his reaction, in case the man turns out to be one of his lackeys. But in truth I’m not holding out much hope. We’ve yet to establish any link between Spence and the properties targeted last night and I’m just not sure it’s his style – it’s a very public and messy way to conduct business.’

‘So what are we looking at?’

‘Well, they could be personally motivated attacks, given the concerted effort to kill. Or they could be about the fires themselves – somebody enjoying the chaos they’ve created, without a thought for the human cost.’

‘So what line do we want to take with the press?’

‘We appeal for witnesses, stress the need for vigilance and bring them up to speed with our progress.’

Helen continued in this vein, trying to sound upbeat about their ongoing searches, but truth be told – CCTV aside – there was nothing ‘juicy’ for the press to get their teeth into yet. Helen wasn’t sure how Gardam would react to this. Some station chiefs seemed to relish disappointing the fourth estate – depriving them of sensational titbits they craved – others panicked if they didn’t have anything substantial to lay before them. Helen despised these appeasers, but Gardam didn’t appear to be one of them. He seemed supremely relaxed about the grilling he was about to undergo.

‘How is the team?’ he continued, changing the subject without warning.

‘Tired but determined.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I’m sure you are, but don’t feel you have to take the weight of the world on your shoulders, Helen. I know you like to lead from the front, but we’re a team – or at least we should be.’

‘Of course.’

‘Which is a roundabout way of saying that my door’s always open. It’s important that senior officers have someone they can talk to.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Speaking of which, I was going to ask you if you would like to come round to dinner at our place one evening? Sarah and I would love to get to know you a little better, in less formal surroundings.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘We’ll make a date, then. And of course you should feel free to bring someone with you, if you want.’

It was said in an open, friendly manner, but Helen could sense that a question lay beneath Gardam’s amiable offer.

‘Just me, I’m afraid,’ Helen replied.

‘And are you ok with that?’

For a moment, Helen was silent – surprised by the bluntness of the question.

‘I don’t mean to pry,’ Gardam continued. ‘But I’m aware that you don’t have any family locally and I’ve seen talented officers get eaten up by the pressures of the job, simply because they don’t have anyone to share their burden with. I’d hate to see that happen to you. Do you have someone you can talk to?’

‘I have a very supportive team,’ Helen replied cautiously.

‘And outside of that?’

‘Really I’m fine. But if it ever gets too much, I’ll be sure to let you know.’

‘I’ll hold you to that. And I meant what I said. I’m happy to talk any time – I don’t want there to be any barriers between us. It’s not in your best interests and it’s certainly not in mine.’

Smiling, he patted her on the shoulder and took his leave, bestowing his cheery optimism on the officers who were starting to gather in the incident room as he left. It had been a pleasant enough encounter, but it left Helen with many questions. Why had be been probing her for information? Why was he so interested in her personal life?

And how long had he been standing there before she woke up?

43

‘We’re still waiting on DNA results to confirm the identity of our victim, but we’re assuming for now that it is Denise Roberts. She’s a single mum who lives with her son at the address that was targeted last night. I’ve already spoken to Callum Roberts and got a pretty clear idea of the family situation and her lifestyle. We also have CCTV footage which may be helpful.’

Helen hit the remote control and some grainy footage came up on the screen behind her. The officers shuffled forward, all hoping to see something significant.

‘This was taken from a security camera above a lock-up on Ramsbury Road, which can be reached in under a minute via a cut-through from Denise’s house. The time code shows that it’s around eleven twenty-three p.m. The first 999 call reporting a fire at Denise Roberts’s was logged at just after eleven thirty-five p.m., so who is this man?’

The team watched intently as a tall figure jogged past the camera and away down the street.

‘He’s got his back to us, so we can’t see his face, but we can tell that he is white, about six foot tall with dark hair. He wears heavy boots, dark jeans and a puffa waistcoat, so why was he going for a jog? It was pushing midnight, he wasn’t dressed for it, he doesn’t seem to be running away from anyone, so what’s the hurry?’

‘Perhaps he was just late for something?’ DC Lucas chipped in.

‘Maybe, but I’d like to know for sure. Run the rule over Spence’s associates, but let’s start from the top on this one. Clear minds, ok?’

The team nodded. They all knew that Helen was considering releasing Gary Spence on police bail, pending further investigations.

‘Denise’s son confirmed that she was expecting male company that night,’ Helen continued. ‘There were two pizza boxes and an empty bottle of wine in a Tesco’s bag in the outside bin. The receipt in the bag suggests she bought these items yesterday, so let’s assume for now he showed up as planned.’

‘Are we sure he didn’t just have his dinner and go?’ Charlie asked.

‘No, we’re not, but, according to Callum, Denise liked to have someone to warm her bed and was very accommodating in that regard.’

A few wry smiles from the team, but Helen pressed on.

‘DC Brooks and DC Lucas will run with this,’ she said, turning to Charlie. ‘Corral as many uniforms as you can and find out if anyone saw this man last night. I want people on the street within the hour, ok?’

Charlie nodded, catching Lucas doing likewise out of the corner of her eye. Lucas was a young fast-streamer who appeared to have had a sense of humour bypass at birth. Great company for the arduous task that lay ahead.

‘DC McAndrew will look a little deeper into Denise’s private life. She is rumoured to have had a few boyfriends who came and went. I want to know who they are and where they were last night.’

‘Could this guy have any connection to the Millbrook house fire?’ DI Sanderson asked. ‘We know Thomas Simms was working all the hours God sent. Perhaps his wife got lonely and sought other company. Perhaps she and Denise shared a lover? Maybe they thought better of it eventually, kicked him out –’

‘We’d be stupid to rule anything out at this stage, so check it out, but do it tactfully. If we can find a connection between the two principal victims – Karen Simms and Denise Roberts – then we’re halfway towards identifying the perpetrator. In the meantime, let’s think about other possibilities.’

Immediately DC Edwards piped up.

‘The MO seems to be identical. Two diversionary fires to tie up the emergency services, then an attack on a residential property. Very calculated, very precise.’

‘But in a very different part of town,’ DC McAndrew added. ‘Millbrook is aspirational, lower-middle class and upwards. Denise’s housing estate in Bevois Mount isn’t. High unemployment and crime rates, people living off benefits and the black market, very little spare cash to throw around.’

‘So is there a financial motive?’ Lucas asked. ‘Thomas Simms could certainly do with the insurance money and I presume Denise Roberts could too.’

‘Denise Roberts let her home insurance lapse some time ago,’ Sanderson said quickly. ‘And the attacks seemed designed to kill, so I think we can rule that out.’

‘Perhaps there is no connection then,’ DC Lucas returned a little tartly. ‘Perhaps our arsonist is showing us that he can strike whenever and wherever he likes.’

It wasn’t a pleasant thought but Helen knew Lucas might be right.

‘We have to consider that possibility,’ Helen responded. ‘There’s no evidence suggesting these fires were started to conceal a previous crime or to profit financially. They could be personally motivated against the victims but, equally, they could be random acts of arson whose significance lies in the feelings they afford the arsonist. A sexual charge, a God complex, a desire to expel anxiety, to exert control: there are many different ways in which arson can satisfy.’

Helen had done plenty of academic research on serial offenders during her time in the States, knowledge she would now bring to the fore in their hunt for a home-grown offender. She pulled up the bullet point profile on the screen.

‘Your typical arsonist is white and male – over ninety per cent of all arson-related crimes are committed by Caucasian men. He is normally aged between twenty-one and thirty-five, unemployed or in a badly paid job, with low self-esteem and few prospects. He is very likely to exhibit paranoia and is quick to take offence. He may be living at home or in shared, hostel-type accommodation, or may even be homeless. Often the choice of fire site relates to a desire to strike at authority figures, at people or institutions that have wronged them. That doesn’t seem to be the case here, but we ought to be alive to the possibility.’

Several of the team nodded – they seemed to be hanging on Helen’s every word.

‘Our perpetrator is obviously feeling confident, having committed major acts of arson on consecutive nights. They are clearly not panicked by Karen Simms’s death – they haven’t contacted any media outlets expressing remorse for their actions. They may even be enjoying themselves. A large percentage of arsonists try to insert themselves into the narratives of their crime, so let’s compare all the footage from last night’s fire with that from the night before. See if there’s anyone present on both nights who’s making themselves especially visible, trying to help in the rescue effort, playing the hero, what-have-you. It may be they were tucked up safely in bed by the time the fire reached its peak, but somehow I doubt it.’

Helen was in her element now – this was why people were queuing up to join her team.

‘Let’s keep an eye out for self-aggrandizing statements on social media, the internet. Also anyone talking repeatedly to journalists or the TV. But let’s not forget about the basics too. Many a killer has been caught through mundane slip-ups. So talk to local businesses – find out if anyone has been stockpiling paraffin or washing smoke-damaged clothes in the laundrette. Any unusual behaviour or tiny changes in someone’s routine could be significant, so remember to ask the small questions as well as the big ones.’

More nods from the team.

‘Admin support have run off print-outs of the best CCTV image we have of our fleeing male, complete with time code, so get out there and jog some memories. You can’t commit crimes of this scale and just vanish into thin air. So let’s find someone who saw our perpetrator.’

Within five minutes, the incident room was clear. As Helen strode out herself, shutting the door, she felt a quiet surge of satisfaction. The hunt was on.

44

All around him people were screaming and crying. ‘There’s someone in there, there’s someone in there,’ a woman shrieked nearby, as if the repetition of the bloody obvious could somehow affect her rescue. Satisfyingly, her bleating was suddenly cut short by a huge boom, as the front bedroom flashed over, blasting the main window from its casing and sending hot splinters of glass flying towards the crowd. Many present now turned and ran, bumping into him and disturbing his framing. That had pissed him off. Up until then, his recording had been perfect.

Watching the footage from last night’s fires was proving to be a pleasurable experience. He had over an hour’s worth of material from each fire and over time he would edit them into tight, dramatic narratives. But for now he was content to enjoy the raw, uncut recordings.

He had had a busy night, so could afford himself a little R’n’R now. He’d returned home just after midnight and, having changed his clothes and picked up the camera, went straight out again. Meticulous as always, he visited the sites in order, culminating with the smoking house in Bevois Mount. He had lingered there the longest, drinking in the reactions of the shocked neighbours, enjoying the moment.

As dawn broke, he’d chanced his arm. The fire crew had done all they could do – it was the arson investigator’s scene now – and they departed in short order. The site was roped off and a uniformed police officer was standing guard, but there were enough local gossips and journalists to distract him, so slipping round the back, he vaulted the fence and approached the back of the house.

It was a stupid, reckless thing to do, but somehow he knew he wouldn’t get caught. He’d filmed his approach. It looked like a trick from a cheap horror film and he smiled now as he watched it back. Teasing the fire-damaged back door open, he’d slipped inside.

He knew that Deborah Parks would be on site first thing, so pocketing the camera, he’d set to work, searching for suitable souvenirs. He could hear the chatter at the front of the house. The earnest enquiries of local residents, the pushy questions from the hacks and the self-important PC ordering them to move back. Walking through the living room, he found only devastation, so darting across the hall, he investigated the box room-cum-study.

There had obviously been piles of stuff stored in here – he could see the charred remnants of cardboard boxes – which provided the spreading fire with plenty of fuel. Fortunately – depending on your point of view – the linoleum floor in the hall had delayed the fire reaching this room and the firefighters had managed to extinguish the blaze before the whole room went up. The trinkets of a life half lived now littered this small space and, among the burnt manuals, books and shoeboxes, he’d found a framed photo. The glass was cracked and black with soot, the metal frame bent and awkward, but the photo inside had survived. Burnt at the edges and buckled with the heat, but you could still make out mother and son smiling awkwardly at the camera. Slipping it into his rucksack he hurried out and across the hall. He’d paused briefly as he departed. There was something strangely moving about standing in the smouldering ruins of the house. Smoke and steam still rose from the floor – hence the need for his work boots – and the whole place reeked of fire. Breathing in the sharp odour one last time, he’d turned and headed for the back door.

The footage was coming to an end now, but his pleasure was not. So flipping the footage back to the start, he settled back in his easy chair, undid his fly and slipped his hand inside his trousers.