Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (25 page)

Smoke rose gently from the ashes. Only the shell of the building now remained – everything inside it had been consumed by the fire. Twenty-four hours ago this had been an expensive terraced house in the one of the most desirable parts of the city. Now it was a smouldering wreck and, worse still, a murder scene.

The body of a young woman had only recently been removed from the scorched basement flat. The fabric of the building was still impressively hot and Helen had to wear protective boots, as she carefully traversed the site with Deborah Parks. The latter had been on site for a couple of hours already, braving the unpleasant atmosphere and risk of falling debris, in order to try and gain an understanding of what had happened last night.

‘Our arsonist is developing his or her MO,’ Deborah said, after the formalities had been concluded.

‘In what way?’ Helen asked, alarmed by Deborah’s concerned expression.

‘The seat of the fire was here,’ Deborah answered, gesturing towards an area in the middle of the small, basement living room. A partially melted TV stood nearby, surrounded by the remnants of charred furniture. ‘The smell has cleared now that we’ve ventilated the site, but when we first arrived, we had to wear these,’ she
explained, tapping her mask. ‘The aroma of cyanide oxide was still very strong.’

‘Burning foam?’

‘This leather sofa – or what remains of it – would have been stuffed with polyurethane foam. Highly flammable and highly toxic.’

‘Is that what would have killed Agnieszka?’

‘Nothing so pleasant, I’m afraid,’ Deborah said, pulling a face. ‘We found a melted paraffin container about five yards from the sofa. My suspicion is that your arsonist entered via the back door and poured the paraffin directly on to the sofa before setting light to it.’

‘No delay timer?’

‘I haven’t found any evidence of one and, believe me, I’ve looked.’

‘And you think Agnieszka Jarosik was on the sofa when this happened?’

‘Best guess is that the fire started just before midnight. If Agnieszka was on the sofa, we can guess she didn’t fight back because she didn’t have time or –’

‘Or because she was asleep,’ Helen interrupted, earning a measured nod from Deborah. ‘She’d had a busy day, sticks the TV on, falls asleep on the sofa. And the next thing she knows she’s being doused in paraffin …’

‘It’s all supposition,’ Deborah replied. ‘But it’s our best guess. The body was directly over the seat of the fire. She never moved.’

‘She burnt to death,’ Helen said, her heart sinking even as she said it.

‘Jim Grieves will be able to tell you more,’ Deborah added, ‘but if you were an optimist you might think that
she died of shock. When an individual is set on fire like that, their heart often gives out straight away, the initial conflagration proving too much for them.’

‘What a way to die.’

There was silence for a moment, then Helen continued:

‘What makes you think the arsonist came in through the back?’

Deborah gestured at the back door and the pair of them picked their way cautiously through the wreckage towards it.

‘It’s an old-fashioned wood and glass door with a solid, traditional lock. The bolts weren’t across, but when we turned up this morning, the door was locked – from the outside. Look, the key is as we found it.’

Helen peered through the devastated door and sure enough the key was poking out of the heavy iron lock on the wrong side of the door.

‘Our arsonist was taking no chances,’ she muttered. ‘So why the change in MO? Why not carry on as before?’

‘Who’s to know? We’ve a different house layout here. No cupboard under the stairs, plus the stairs down to the basement do not link up to the main staircase. That could be relevant or it could be there was some other factor driving such a direct attack.’

‘A particular hatred for the victim?’

‘Or some kind of time pressure. Perhaps the extra boots on the street have made him nervous. Perhaps he was worried about getting caught and wanted to get this one done as fast as possible.’

‘Perhaps they’d had a close shave earlier in the night?’ Helen offered.

‘Very possibly. Either way, dousing another human being in paraffin and then discarding the empty bottle nearby represents a definite escalation. Whether it’s fear, desperation or sadism driving them, I really couldn’t say.’

And Deborah wasn’t
saying
it, but the implication was clear. It was down to Helen to answer this. She thanked Deborah and picked her way towards the front door, her mind whirling. The nation’s press were camped outside waiting for a statement, but what was she supposed to say about a case that still had far more questions than answers?

Helen had never felt under so much pressure, but there was no point putting these things off. When you’re leading an investigation of such magnitude and complexity there always comes a point when you are called to account. So, summoning her courage, Helen put on her most authoritative face and walked out of the house towards the awaiting press pack.

It was time to face the music.

‘Can you give us an update on the number of casualties?’

The first question was from the BBC’s South of England correspondent. Helen was surprised that she couldn’t see Emilia Garanita present. This was her patch – she was adept at elbowing her way to the front of the pack and always asked the first question. Detective Superintendent Jonathan Gardam flanked Helen, as did the station’s media liaison officer, but apart from that there were a lot of unfamiliar faces in the crowd today.

‘I am sorry to have to report that a young woman died in last night’s fire. She has yet to be identified formally. Beyond that we only had minor injuries at this site and those of the other fires. The fire at the PlayTime Nursery was contained very effectively by the fire services but the blaze at the First Buy cash and carry was extremely severe, gutting most of the property.’

‘Do we take it from that that you are critical of the way the fire services have dealt with these blazes?’ the correspondent continued.

‘Not at all,’ Helen replied calmly. ‘This is a unique set of circumstances and very challenging for us all.’

‘Do you have a suspect in custody?’ Sky’s reporter piped up. It was said innocently, but everybody knew that Richard Ford had been released.

‘We have several active lines of enquiry, but no suspect in custody currently.’

‘Have the extra boots on the street made any difference at all?’

‘We’re still evaluating that –’

‘Can the public be assured that they are safe?’ A journalist from
The Times
was now attempting to get in on the act.

‘We’re reiterating the advice we gave to the public earlier. Which is to make sure all windows and locks are secure at night and to remain vigilant at all times.’

‘Are you any closer to catching the perpetrator?’

‘Our understanding of this individual is growing day by day.’ Helen knew it was baseless flannel and got the response it deserved.

‘I’ll ask again, are you any closer to catching the perpetrator?’

‘We’re doing everything we can –’

‘Would you consider a curfew?’

From the
Telegraph
this time and the question Helen had been dreading.

‘We’re ruling nothing out at this point.’

‘You’re that worried that you would consider imposing a curfew in Southampton?’

The gloves were off and the questions rained down now. There was a reason they called it the press pack. Once one became emboldened to attack, then they all piled in. It was a relentless assault, calling into question Helen’s competency, Southampton Central’s reputation, the course of the investigation. No stone was left unturned as they hunted for a scapegoat. When people are scared,
they look for someone to blame and Helen had the distinct impression that it was going to be her. This was not surprising and in some ways was justified, but as Helen defended herself and her colleagues as best she could, one thing puzzled and worried her. There was one person who should be here and wasn’t and this could only mean trouble.

Where
was
Emilia Garanita?

Emilia’s finger hovered over the Send button. She had been on the job since the moment Latham ended their call. His testimony was incendiary stuff, a chapter and verse evisceration of Helen Grace both as a human being and as a police officer. He had accused her of gross incompetency and blind prejudice in pursuing members of Hampshire’s Fire and Rescue Service who were – and always had been – innocent of any wrongdoing. In the process, much damage had been done and the real perpetrator had been left alone to
kill
again. According to Latham, the death of the Harrises’ nanny, Agnieszka Jarosik, was on Helen’s conscience and she would have to answer for it.

Emilia had had one ear on the live TV feed from the police statement outside the Harrises’ house in Lower Shirley, but her mind was really on her own copy. In the background she could hear the aggressive questioning, could hear the mood turning against the police, and it chimed with the mood of her piece. There
were
legitimate questions to be asked about the way Hampshire Police, and Helen in particular, had run this investigation. Hundreds of thousands of pounds of damage, four people dead, several others injured. For the first time that Emilia could remember it appeared that Helen was struggling – from an outsider’s point of view the investigation seemed
unfocused and floundering with no real handle on the how, why or who of these terrible crimes.

Normally, Emilia would have pounced on the populist bandwagon. Fear, confusion and a good scapegoat – all of these things sold newspapers. These crimes were not isolated, they appeared to threaten anyone and everyone. For that reason, copies of the
Southampton Evening News
were flying off the shelves. Everything was pushing Emilia to print Latham’s allegations, to do a hatchet job on Helen Grace and yet still Emilia hesitated. She had taken on Helen before and lost, narrowly escaping prosecution for illegally tracking the celebrated officer’s movements. Since then, the former enemies had enjoyed an extended truce, managing to work together, helping one another to do their jobs to the best of their respective abilities.

But that seemed to Emilia like the cosy collaboration of peacetime and there was a war raging now. A war in which there would be winners and losers. Emilia could tell which way the wind was blowing and had never been the sentimental type, so really there was only one thing to do. Taking a breath, she scanned her copy once more then hit the Send key.

Let the games begin.

He had never felt this bad in his life. The pain was unremitting, surging through his body from his battered torso to his pulsing head. Sleep was impossible, the super-strength painkillers had no effect and he looked a total mess. He had lost a tooth, had deep, purple bruises on his face, neck and chest and was as white as a sheet. He’d had to cancel his appointments for the entire week – inventing a plausible excuse – and now lay on his bed, moaning quietly and cursing his fate.

He had considered getting a cab to A&E, then thought better of it. He had contemplated phoning a friend, even his sister at one point, but in the end had decided against that too. He couldn’t face the welter of questions. Max Paine knew his family disapproved of his lifestyle. An attack such as the one he had endured last night would give his parents the perfect excuse to stage another of their crude ‘interventions’, in a vain and self-serving attempt to save Max from himself. He didn’t want to be saved – though he could have done with their help last night.

There was one point during the attack on him when he really thought she was going to kill him. He realized now that even as he was taking the blows, he wasn’t unduly alarmed – initially at least. The tables had turned and he was expecting a beating as his due. It wasn’t the first time that had happened and he rather feared it wouldn’t be the
last. But this time it had been different. She had been so unrelenting, so fired up by her violence, that a part of him had already started to resign himself to death. He had always had a premonition that he would end his days like this, in some after-hours encounter gone badly wrong. He had just never pictured it as being at the hands of a woman.

He wasn’t ashamed that he lost out in the fight – she was a fit, strong and aggressive character who was clearly no stranger to violence – but he was unnerved by it. He had always traded on misanthropy, flaunting his disgust at the vulgar parade of a pointless existence in front of his disapproving parents, teachers, girlfriends and more. And, of course, the more they chided him, the more he hammed it up, venting his anger on them, lacerating them for their petty-minded and bourgeois attitudes. But now, faced with a sudden and violent end, he realized that he actually valued life. Parts of it at least.

As he lay in his sick bed, drifting between watching the TV and trying to sleep, his mind had turned slowly on
her
. She had booked in under a false name: Eleanor Noel. Subsequent attempts to google that name, looking for local connections, had come up with a complete blank. Perhaps she was married? Or in an important job? Or perhaps there was another less savoury reason why she concealed her identity?

Round and round he went, remembering her voice, her face, the way she held herself, the clothes she wore. He was searching for clues, anything however small that might give him a steer as to who this weird angel of violence was. Occasionally he laughed at the absurdity of
it – beaten black and blue by a female client – but he knew that this was a defence mechanism, trying to rob the situation of its seriousness and the fear it engendered. What would he do if he ever came face to face with her again? He had no idea, but he desperately wanted to know more, wanted to put a name to the face that dominated and bullied him the night before. He wanted her to know what she’d done and call her to account for it.

As he half slumbered, the voices from the TV intruded on his thoughts. There had been more fires last night and people were wringing their hands about it as usual. Same old same old. Yet this time something was different about the reports. Something about them was … familiar. Yes, the voice, that was it. It was
her
voice.

Max’s eyes shot open and he sat up in bed. Immediately he was assaulted by a wave of unbearable agony, but he managed to stay upright. He blinked hard, trying to focus on the TV. The news channel was replaying an earlier press briefing, which had been staged outside one of the fire-damaged houses. And, in the midst of it, there she was. For a moment, he sat transfixed, barely taking in what she was saying, his eyes glued to her face. She looked very different with her hair down, with her professional face on, but there was no question it was her. And as she spoke, his gaze drifted towards the caption on the screen beneath her. He nearly choked when he saw it, but in some ways it made perfect sense. He had long ago learnt not to be surprised by the secrets people hold deep and hers was a good one.

The woman who paid for his services, then violently assaulted him, was a police officer.