Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (15 page)

‘This is complete bullshit.’

Adam Latham’s eyes were blazing and tiny flecks of spit shot from his mouth as he spoke. He was known to be a bullish, uncompromising guy, never more so than when he was defending his beloved Fire and Rescue Service.

‘There is no way that one of my guys would do something like that,’ he said. ‘I know each and every one of the men and women who serve under my command. I trained most of them, for God’s sake, and well … it’s just not possible.’

Helen was about to respond, when Gardam cut in. The three of them were gathered in his office for what had been billed as ‘a chat’.

‘I hear where you’re coming from, Adam,’ Gardam soothed. ‘And I sympathize. But you’ll appreciate that we have to follow up every lead and the witness gave a very precise description of the tattoo.’

‘She’s lying then.’

‘And what grounds do you have for saying that?’ Helen interjected.

‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it. She’s after attention, you know what teenage girls are like.’

This last comment was addressed to Gardam and Helen was about to interject, when her boss once more intervened.

‘Well, I’m not sure I share the sentiment, but we’re both saying the same thing. We must investigate this lead quickly and discreetly. If there is nothing in it, we can all move on.’

Helen let Gardam take the lead, but inside she bridled at his constant interventions. It had been her idea to contact Latham in advance to secure his cooperation and she would have happily handled the difficult meeting herself, but Gardam had insisted on hosting it, hoping perhaps that his superior rank and masculine mateyness might help persuade Latham. Perhaps Helen should have felt grateful for his support, but she didn’t. She had never needed or asked for the protection of a man. She didn’t do white knights.

‘And you think that’s possible, do you? That this little line of investigation can be kept under wraps?’ Latham’s tone was witheringly sarcastic. ‘Your station is as leaky as they come – as soon as you start interviewing my officers the press will know about it and then what happens? The public stop cooperating with us. They start impeding our work, abusing our officers, attacking them even. Something like this can cost lives. Is that what you want?’

‘We want to catch the person responsible,’ Helen shot back before Gardam could step in. ‘I cannot let any other considerations distract me from that goal. But there is no need for anyone to get overexcited. We’re not going to go around kicking in doors –’

‘No? I rather thought that was your speciality.’

‘Only when it’s warranted. For now we’re just making enquiries.’

‘I’ll remember that when I’m visiting my officers in
hospital, once you’ve whipped up the mob with your half-baked accusations –’

‘I believe you’re the one jumping to conclusions here, not me. We’ve no reason to believe this girl is lying –’

‘I’m wasting my time, here. Jonathan, can you talk to her?’

Now Helen really wanted to smack him. She hated nothing more than being talked about as if she weren’t in the room. Gardam saw the flash of anger and stepped in decisively.

‘I’m not going to overrule my best officer, Adam. DI Grace must pursue every avenue of investigation. History won’t thank us if we fail to catch our man because of political sensitivities. We’ve heard your concerns and noted them. We will do everything in our power to stop this rebounding on your officers, but we are going to pursue this lead, so I suggest we all start cooperating on the best way to do that, ok?’

There was nowhere for Latham to go now – Gardam held the whip hand in this situation – so very begrudgingly Latham conceded the point, marching from the room without a single look at Helen. Gardam waited until his counterpart was well out of earshot before turning to Helen.

‘At least that’s cleared up,’ he said.

Helen nodded. Gardam was looking at her, but said nothing. Was he waiting for some kind of thanks, for her to congratulate him on rescuing the situation? If so, she wasn’t going to give him the pleasure. She was used to handling worse dinosaurs than Adam Latham.

‘I’ll get on, sir.’

‘You do that, Helen,’ Gardam responded evenly. ‘These sorts of situations require multi-agency cooperation and we’ve just lost the support of one of our key players here. So let’s make the most of it, eh?’

Helen hurried down the corridor towards the incident room, less certain now than ever about her standing with the new station chief. Did he like her? Or dislike her? Was he as progressive as he seemed or an old sexist in sheep’s clothing? Helen had the distinct impression that he wanted to protect her. But to what end? To safeguard the reputation of Southampton Central or for some other reason? Helen’s gut instinct – usually so reliable – was letting her down this time.

Pushing through the door, Helen was immediately assaulted by a wall of noise. They had had to draft in more phone operators to deal with the flood of leads to their incident hotline. Nothing significant had come out of this so far, but it showed the public were engaged with the issue and remaining vigilant, which might make their arsonist think twice. It was already mid-afternoon – not long now until darkness stole over Southampton once more. In reality, they were still no nearer to apprehending a suspect and the nagging question of what he might do next was forever at the front of Helen’s mind.

Spurred on by this fear, Helen waved Sanderson into her office. Shutting the door gently but firmly, Helen asked her deputy to sit. Already Sanderson had a pen and pad poised, which cheered Helen – they had a lot to do today.

‘So we need staff rotas and post-incident reports from
Hants Fire and Rescue for the last few days. They won’t like it but they’ll have to play ball, so don’t be coy in asking.’

Sanderson suppressed a small smile. She always looked forward to squeezing the pen pushers and bureaucrats who delighted in trying to hold up vital investigative work.

‘Once you’ve got them, pull in McAndrew – just McAndrew, no one else – and quietly go through the staff lists, rota patterns, etc. and find out who was working the last couple of nights and just as importantly
who wasn’t
. Prioritize male officers for now. We are looking for opportunity and motive. Focus specifically on those who are young, single, possibly isolated. Anyone who’s had disciplinary problems, or been turned down for a promotion recently, or had marital or family problems. Whoever is doing this is angry, they want to make a point to the world, but perhaps also to someone closer to home – to colleagues, family, their ex. Go over it once, twice, however many times you have to, then give me some names. I need this done quickly and discreetly, ok. You can use my office for now.’

Sanderson was already on the phone before Helen was out of the door. They had achieved nothing concrete yet, but they had the first major lead now and Helen was determined to make the most of it. Having been on the back foot so far, it was time to wrest back the initiative.

She padded softly behind them without being seen. She had followed them halfway across Southampton – her red Fiat tucked three cars back from the dark Megane, hidden by the heavy rush hour traffic – but this was the most dangerous bit, now that they were on foot. If they were going to spot her, they would spot her here, when she was out in the open and exposed.

They were heading deep into St Mary’s now. People who’d never been to the city had heard of St Mary’s thanks to Southampton Football Club, who’d moved to a swanky new stadium there in 2001. The move was supposed to be part of big regeneration for the area, but truth be told nothing much had changed. The streets flanking the giant stadium seemed to be somehow in its shadow – neglected, forgotten and more than a little depressed.

It was a description that could have aptly fitted Emilia Garanita over the past year or two. She was a talented and ambitious reporter who had underachieved so far. There was no point dressing it up as anything else. She had overplayed her hand during previous investigations and ended up back at the bottom of the heap, the victim of a particularly unscrupulous game of snakes and ladders.

Many held her responsible for this, but Emilia never had. She had been made promises, promises that hadn’t been kept. This was the story of her life in many ways and
in this particular instance the irony wasn’t lost on her. She had trusted a journalist and look where it had got her.

The pair she was following slowed now. The woman was instantly recognizable – DC Charlene ‘Charlie’ Brooks – an honest and determined copper whom Emilia had crossed swords with many times. The girl she didn’t know, but Charlie Brooks had been incredibly solicitous to her since leaving the police station – driving her home, buying her drinks and magazines, pep talking her every step of the way. This girl wasn’t some truant or teen runaway – she was someone
important
.

Emilia snuck into a greasy spoon and found a table by the window. Ignoring the unfriendly assertion by the owner that she couldn’t sit there without buying anything, Emilia kept her eyes glued on the dumb show playing out opposite. The girl looked nervous, even a little anxious, but Brooks was working hard to soothe her. Emilia couldn’t hear the words but the body language – the hand gently squeezing the girl’s arm – spoke volumes.

Removing her tablet from her bag, Emilia pulled up the link for the electoral register. She shouldn’t have it of course – it was for internal Council use only – but no self-respecting local journalist could do without it. She’d already clocked the road name as they turned into it, now she added the house number. Instantly she had her answer. Two people registered to the address: Sharon Jackson, aged forty-two, and Naomie Jackson, aged seventeen.

Slipping her tablet away, Emilia was pleased to see that Brooks was taking her leave. Rising, she allowed her to turn the corner, before hurrying from the café and straight across the road. Once on the doorstep she paused for a
second – to smooth her hair and reapply her lipstick – before confidently ringing the doorbell.

Naomie must have been expecting Brooks again, because her face fell when she saw a stranger standing on the doorstep.

‘Naomie? It is Naomie Jackson, isn’t it?’

The girl nodded cautiously.

‘I was given your name by DI Grace at Southampton Central. She says you’re assisting them with their enquiries?’

Another tiny nod.

‘Well, as you know, the
News
always plays an active role in keeping the wider public informed about matters affecting their safety and well-being. I understand you have new information which is proving very helpful to the police in their hunt for this terrible arsonist and I was wondering if I might come in for two minutes to chat about it?’

The girl was clearly unsure, so Emilia followed up quickly.

‘We don’t have to use your name, anything you tell me is in confidence and, yes, we do pay. So what do you say?’

Moments later, Emilia was settled in the girl’s dreary living room prising information from the monosyllabic teen. She kept her eyes locked on the girl, but her hand worked overtime, scribbling down every tiny detail of her testimony. Already Emilia had the feeling that this was going to play well for her – that this latest case would finally allow Emilia to write her own happy ending.

Deborah Parks marched across the café, turning heads as she went. Out of her work scrubs she was quite something – her svelte figure and flowing hair released from the baggy, sexless suit to impressive effect. Helen was not surprised to see more than one man pause in his conversation as she glided past their tables.

Kissing Helen hello, she sat down and gestured to the waiter for a cappuccino. It was always strange – and refreshing – to meet colleagues away from the workplace. Interaction at crime scenes and on disaster sites was necessarily sombre and professional, but this didn’t really suit Deborah or do justice to her bubbly, optimistic personality. They chatted happily, then Helen elegantly moved the conversation on to more serious matters. This wasn’t a social call – Helen was here to dig for dirt.

Sanderson’s first pass on the Fire and Rescue staff rotas had thrown up six preliminary names. Six men whose shift patterns could have allowed them to start the fires and who fitted the profile in terms of age, marital status and disciplinary history. Helen had already dispatched officers from her team to do the preliminary checks, asking these six individuals standard, routine questions about their movements, their take on the fires and any suspicions they might have – all in the interest of sniffing out small discrepancies in their alibis or something unusual in
their behaviour. These conversations were necessarily anodyne and often brief, but it was surprising what they sometimes threw up. A family member listening in, a girlfriend uncomfortable at providing a false alibi – these visits often served to undermine the perpetrator in unexpected ways.

‘So are you going to tell me what this cloak and dagger stuff is all about?’ Deborah enquired. It was said pleasantly, but was shot through with curiosity. Helen had had no choice but to do this discreetly, given the earlier altercation with Latham, and she knew that if she’d dragged the diligent Deborah away from her work in person, then tongues would have wagged. So she’d asked her to meet in a Caffè Nero near the fire site and suggested she invent a reason for her absence.

‘I told the boys that I had a doctor’s appointment,’ Deborah continued, ‘which set the cat among the pigeons. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that lot come up with.’

‘I appreciate that and I know your time is not your own, so I’ll cut to the chase. I need to talk to you off the record about some of your colleagues. None of it will come back to you – it’s just to help me get some background on them.’

Deborah Parks nodded, then replied:

‘Strictly off the record?’

‘Of course.’

Deborah nodded, a little less convincingly this time, then said:

‘Ok, shoot.’

Helen delved into the folder that lay in front of her. Deborah was Southampton born and bred and had served
at stations all over the city. Attractive, popular and ambitious as she was, every budding firefighter made a friend of her – a fact that Helen now hoped would stand her in good stead.

‘I’m going to show you a list of six names. All male colleagues of yours. I know little more than their ages and job titles at present. I need you to fill me in on the detail – what they’re like, whether you trust them, whether it’s possible,’ Helen went on, lowering her voice, ‘that they could be our arsonist.’

Deborah nodded soberly as Helen slipped the piece of paper across the table towards her. There they were in black and white:

Alan Jackson, John Foley, Trevor Robinson, Simon Duggan, Martin Hughes and Richard Ford.

Was one of these six men their killer?