Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) Read online

  ‘I don’t have any detailed forensics for you yet,’ Helen continued, ‘but we are treating all three fires as arson. There was a strong smell of paraffin on the ground floor of the Simms house and at the timber yard. Both Thomas Simms and Dominic Travell have confirmed there was no paraffin stored on site. Presuming the same is true at Bertrand’s Emporium, then we can assume that all three fires were started deliberately by a person or persons unknown. CCTV was deactivated at Travell’s, Bertrand’s didn’t have any and of course there wasn’t any at the domestic property in Millbrook. We’ll see if street cameras picked up anything but it’s likely to have been busy at that time – it was kicking-out time from the pubs. The fires were extremely fierce and extensive so it’s very likely that any on-site traces of the perpetrator – DNA, hairs, fibres – were destroyed, plus the ground outside was frosty and hard, so we weren’t able to find any obvious tyre tracks or footprints. Which means … we’re going to have to rely on some old-fashioned detective work. I’ll pull in as many uniformed officers as I can as we’ll need to be knocking on doors, seeing if anyone saw anything out of the ordinary, anything suspicious. DC Edwards, are you ok to coordinate this for me?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Anything comes up, feed it straight back in. Someone set three major fires last night and got away with it. They might be shocked by Karen Simms’s death or they might be feeling empowered and excited. I want whoever it is to know that we’re tearing the city apart, looking for them. So be visible, make some noise.’

  ‘I’ll try my best.’

  ‘DC Lucas, I’d like you to handle the PNC checks. See if any local arsonists have been active recently.’

  ‘On it.’

  Helen put her file down and addressed the whole team.

  ‘Arson. What are the possible motives?’ she asked.

  ‘To cover up a crime?’ Charlie offered.

  ‘Good. Anything else?’

  ‘Property crime. To claim on the insurance,’ DC Edwards offered.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Revenge. On a former partner or unfaithful spouse.’

  ‘For the thrill of the fire itself?’ Sanderson pitched in.

  ‘Fire gives some people a sexual charge, a feeling of being in control. So we have to put pyromania on the list,’ Helen added.

  ‘What if it’s something to do with the city itself? Someone who feels let down in some way? By the people or the place?’

  Helen nodded, but before she could reply DC McAndrew jumped in.

  ‘Could there be a financial motive? Two businesses were hit. Plus Thomas Simms runs an import/export business. Might that be a connection?’

  ‘It’s certainly possible and in the absence of any hard evidence guiding us towards the perpetrators’ motives, we’re going to have to focus our initial attention on the victims,’ Helen responded. ‘Why would someone want to attack them? What connects the three attacks? It’s not geographical, so there must be another reason why they were chosen. Look at the victims themselves, their spouses, family members, colleagues, lovers. Look at their business affairs, bank accounts, their successes, their failures. McAndrew, I’d like you to coordinate this, paying special attention to the Simms family – they could well be the principal targets of last night’s fires.’

  Helen paused a second, before concluding:

  ‘Leave no stone unturned. There is a reason why these three sites were targeted. And it’s our job to find it.’

  15

  The Simmses’ ruined house was even more sinister in the daylight. It looked hollow – like a skull picked clean of eyeballs, skin and flesh. Deborah Parks, Hampshire Fire and Rescue’s most experienced Fire Investigation Officer, was already hard at work when Helen arrived. Helen had crossed paths with Deborah before and knew her to be a determined and incisive investigator. She was hoping Deborah would be able to give them something – anything – to work with in a case that was already extremely light on leads.

  Deborah was an attractive and intelligent brunette, but encased in her sterile suit, goggles and mask, she looked like a robot, painstakingly picking over the wreckage, minutely sifting the ash for evidence. Pulling on her suit, Helen quickly joined her and they walked the fire site together, starting their journey at the back door of the house.

  ‘I’d agree that our intruder entered by the back door,’ Deborah began in her typically brisk and efficient way. ‘The damage to the glass was made by an implement or a fist, not by the fire. Has Meredith found anything useful on the exterior of the door?’

  ‘Nothing yet. We were hoping for a print or something but …’

  ‘I’m nearly done now, so I’m happy for her to try her luck inside. It’s perfectly safe now that the struts are up.’

  ‘I’ll let her know.’

  ‘I would suggest,’ Deborah continued, ‘that our arsonist then made his or her way towards the stairs.’

  They had reached the ruined stairwell and Deborah now gestured towards what had once been a small understairs cupboard. Helen bent down and was immediately assaulted by a strong scent of paraffin.

  ‘The fire started here, directly beneath the main stairwell. There’s no trace of paraffin anywhere else in the house and look there …’

  Helen followed the line of Deborah’s index finger to see a small, black, crumpled box, lying amid the ash on the floor.

  ‘It’s a carbonized cigarette packet. It was used to ignite the fire, which then spread upwards – as fire always does – meaning that though the cigarette packet was burnt in the fire, it wasn’t destroyed.’

  ‘Why would you use a packet of cigarettes to start a fire, why not a match or a lighter?’ Helen responded.

  ‘Look closer.’

  As Helen did so, Deborah continued:

  ‘The cigarette packet has something wrapped around it, something which melted in the heat and is now fused to it permanently. My guess is that it was a rubber band. It’s a common arsonist’s trick. You lay down your accelerant. Then you take a cigarette out and attach it to the packet with a rubber band, not forgetting to stick a few matches under the band for good measure. You lay the box on the accelerant, then light the cigarette. The cigarette burns down until it hits the matches, sparking a fire flare –’

  ‘Which sets the accelerant alight.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And how long would the cigarette take to burn down to the matches?’

  ‘Ten to fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Leaving our arsonist plenty of time to get away before the fire ignites.’

  Deborah Parks nodded. Helen digested this development – struck by the care and intelligence of the perpetrator – as the FIO continued:

  ‘There were old cardboard boxes, a couple of brooms, other detritus in the cupboard – plenty of fuel to help the fire grow. If the cupboard door was closed the temperature would have risen quickly. Hot gases would have built up above the flames and when the temperature in the cupboard reached a certain level, the gases themselves would have ignited, causing a flashover. And, of course, the stairs above are made of wood that’s over a hundred and fifty years old –’

  ‘So it would have gone up like a candle. And the fact that the stairs would be ablaze before anyone was the wiser, means there would be little chance of escape.’

  This crime became more unpleasant the more Helen learnt about it. This was a calculated attempt to kill the Simms family.

  ‘Any room for doubt?’ Helen offered, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘No. There are no electrics under the stairs and clear evidence of paraffin having been poured on the floor. This wasn’t accidental or vandalism, it was murder.’

  Helen took this in, then:

  ‘What does such a calculated attempt on their lives suggest? In your experience?’

  ‘Well, if you’d wanted to make it look like an accident you would have started the blaze by the fuse box or in the kitchen perhaps, where there are plenty of appliances that could cause
a fire. Your arsonist isn’t interested in that. He or she doesn’t care that people know it’s a deliberate act of arson. Perhaps they want people to know.’

  ‘So it’s an act of hatred? Revenge of some kind?’

  ‘Could be. If I was a betting woman I would wager that the arsonist was known to them. Someone they’d crossed swords with, wronged in some way perhaps.’

  Deborah Parks paused before concluding her train of thought.

  ‘This was personal.’

  16

  Luke Simms looked broken in every way. He was putting a brave face on things for his dad’s sake, answering Charlie’s questions patiently and politely, but his eyes gave the lie to his performance. As he lay with his legs suspended in his hospital bed, he seemed to stare past Charlie to some unspecified spot on the wall, as if he was still struggling to take in what had happened.

  By all accounts, Luke was a bright lad with a promising future. He was a pupil at St Michael’s Secondary, a prestigious fee-paying school in Millbrook. He was studying for his A-Levels – Maths, Biology and Sports Science – but his real dream was to play football. He practised five times a week and was a key player for a semi-professional team. He had twice been scouted by the Saints and like many local boys harboured hopes of playing for his hometown club. But that seemed a very distant possibility now.

  Luke had sustained compound fractures to his legs – both were now encased in plaster and raised on hoists, making it virtually impossible for him to sit up. A dislocated shoulder made matters even more awkward, meaning Luke lay flat on his back hour after hour, supine and defeated. He had a digital radio and a packet of his favourite Percy Pig sweets to cheer him up, but both remained untouched. This young man was thinking only of his mother, his sister and his own broken body. Charlie’s instinct was to reach out and comfort him – she couldn’t bear the fact that his hopes and dreams had been so brutally shattered – but that wasn’t her place, nor her priority. She was here to do a job.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Luke, when you have so much else on your plate, but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm you or your family?’

  Luke looked at her blankly. For a moment, Charlie thought he hadn’t heard the question, but then something changed in his expression. A look of utter incomprehension settled across his features.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Is there anyone you’ve argued with? Anyone you’ve seen threatening your mum or your sister? Do you remember anything that worried you or made you suspicious?’

  ‘No. I … I don’t pick fights with people. And even if I did, they wouldn’t do this.’

  It was a fair point and the boy’s protestations seemed genuine, so Charlie asked a couple more questions, before moving the conversation on. Luke’s dad, Thomas, had been present throughout, keeping a watchful eye over his son. He divided his time now between Luke’s bedside and the burns unit, where his daughter Alice continued to defy her injuries. There seemed to be no time in this punishing schedule for sleep and Charlie decided to keep her preliminary questions to the point, such was Thomas Simms’s exhaustion and desperation.

  ‘So you were heading home around midnight last night, Mr Simms?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that normal?’

  ‘It shouldn’t be, but it is’ was the swift response. ‘I import clothes and sell them on. Teenage fashion from China, Hong Kong, Asia. Margins have always been tight but since the recession …’

  Charlie nodded, but said nothing. The deep worry lines on Thomas Simms’s face told their own story.

  ‘I’ve had to lay off a lot of staff, so most nights I’m there late. I hadn’t planned to be packing and unpacking stock at my time of life, but I’ve invested too much in this business to let it fail.’

  ‘And you had no inkling that there would be trouble last night?’

  ‘No. It was just another day. I’d spoken to Karen earlier in the day and she seemed fine. She was just about to put Alice in the bath when I spoke to her and … and she was happy.’

  Thomas Simms wept now, holding his face in his hands, as his grief ambushed him once more. Charlie turned away from him only to find that Luke was also crying, tears running down cheeks that were already livid and raw. Charlie felt the emotion rise in her throat and she stared hard at the floor, determined not to give into the tears now pricking her eyes. After a moment, Thomas’s silent sobbing subsided and Charlie looked up once more, determined not to be weak. She was pleased that her voice didn’t betray her as she resumed her questioning:

  ‘And Karen hadn’t confided in you about anything – or anyone – that she had concerns about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And Alice had seemed ok? Nothing worrying her?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  Some of the vigour seemed to be returning to Thomas now, as he gathered himself.

  ‘And what about you, Thomas? Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to do this to you and your family?’

  For the first time Thomas paused, before replying.

  ‘No. I’ve no idea who might have done this to us.’

  Charlie nodded and moved the conversation on. But she had seen the pause – that brief moment where something might have been said and wasn’t – and it left her wondering. What was he about to say? What did he know? And, most importantly, why was he lying to her?

  17

  An experienced journalist knows when to pounce. Those who’ve been around the block know not to fight for scraps with the press pack – better to bide your time and hit a police officer once they think they’ve escaped the mob, when their guard is down.

  Helen was just about to climb on her bike, when she saw Emilia Garanita approaching. The Crime Correspondent for the Southampton Evening News was no stranger to Helen and they had been through a lot together – some of it good, some of it bad, some of it downright unpleasant. But they were currently enjoying an extended truce, so for once Helen didn’t cut and run.

  ‘You’ve got two minutes, Emilia. I’m needed back at Southampton Central.’

  ‘Same old same old,’ Emilia replied, smiling broadly. It never ceased to amaze Helen how brazenly unaffected Garanita was by the things she reported on. A woman had died here, three other family members had been injured, yet still Emilia seemed happy, excited even, about the story that lay ahead.

  ‘What can you tell me? I’m presuming all three fires were arson?’

  ‘They were,’ Helen replied quickly. She had already discussed their media strategy with Gardam and they both agreed that there was no point concealing the fact from the press or public, given their need for witnesses and the continuing threat posed by an arsonist at large. ‘I’m happy for you to print that, as I want the public to be vigilant and to ask themselves if they saw anything suspicious last night. But …’ Helen continued, fixing the young woman with a beady eye … ‘I don’t want this arsonist glamorized or sensationalized in any way. I want you to report facts, Emilia, not speculation.’

  ‘That’s the creed I live and die by.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

  ‘So you think you’re after a glory hunter here? Someone who wants the headlines?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll try to contact you? Contact the press?’

  ‘It’s happened before, but, like I say, we have no idea what the motivation behind these fires might be. That’s why we print the facts, appeal for help and no more, right?’

  Helen climbed on to her bike and turned the ignition.

  ‘One last question. Are you expecting more fires?’

  As ever, Emilia had saved her best question – her real question – for last.

  ‘I sincerely hope not’ was Helen’s neutral reply, as she slipped on her helmet and sped away. But she had spent half the night wondering the very same thing. The three fires had been so ‘impressive’, so devastating, so newsworthy, wouldn’t the perpetrator feel some sens
e of triumph now? They had achieved their aims and got away scot free. So what was to stop them doing exactly the same thing again?

  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.