Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) (17 page)

Helen shot past the red light without hesitation. It was a risky manoeuvre given the heavy rush hour traffic, but Helen felt she could make it. She knew the sequences of every set of lights in this city and judged she would make it across the junction without getting caught by oncoming vehicles. The pursuing squad cars hung back, despite the flashing lights and sirens that should have cleared the way – they were junior officers with their whole careers ahead of them and were not in the business of taking unnecessary risks.

Helen had only one thing on her mind, however, and that was to get to Charlie as quickly as she could. She was across the junction in a flash and now ratcheted up her speed, pulling away from the city centre and blasting into the open road beyond. More vehicles were attending from Southampton Central, but no one would be as fast as Helen on her bike, which is how she liked it. If Ford was dangerous – as he surely must be – then she wanted to be first in line to get her friend out of trouble and resolve the situation swiftly and decisively.

Charlie seemed to have a knack for these things, Helen thought to herself as she leant into a sharp corner, dropping her speed a notch, before pulling the throttle back hard once more. She was a very diligent and able copper, yet she seemed to have the most amazing nose for trouble.
Forever going where angels fear to tread. Helen had every confidence that Charlie could handle herself, but you could never predict how a situation would pan out and everybody’s luck has to run out sometime.

Helen’s knee found the road as she bent in hard to another tight right-hander. The leather that encased her legs protested slightly then sighed as she straightened up. She was driving aggressively but felt completely in control, eating up the miles to Ford’s house in Midanbury. She was only a few minutes away now – minutes away from delivering Charlie and apprehending their man. But minutes could be costly, as Helen knew all too well, and she prayed that she wouldn’t be too late.

‘Mr Ford?’

Charlie’s cry echoed through the house, but remained unanswered.

‘Mr Ford? I have a few more questions for you, so …’

Nothing. Instinctively, Charlie’s hand reached out for her baton, which was holstered discreetly inside her jacket. She half expected Ford to emerge from the toilet, apologetic and contrite. But the other half of her knew he had fled. But where to? The house was a tall, rickety property which backed on to open scrubland. There might be numerous hidey-holes and avenues of escape in houses like these.

‘Mr Ford. I’m going to ask you for the last time to join me. Otherwise I will have to assume –’

Bugger it, Charlie thought, pulling her radio from her pocket. She called for back-up, then moved quickly through the kitchen to the back of the house. There was a small pantry off the kitchen, which was empty save for discarded work clothes, so she moved on to the back door. This would have been Ford’s quickest means of escape, but it was locked from the inside, the key still in place.

Charlie turned quickly. Experience had taught her never to have her back turned for too long – in these situations you had to stay alert to any possible angle of attack.
But there was no one there and the only sound she could hear was the sober tick, tock, of the clock.

Extending her baton now, she marched through the kitchen, towards the parlour, pausing only to tease open the front door. It might facilitate his escape, but it would allow her back-up to get in quicker when they arrived. Charlie hoped they would come sooner rather than later. She had a nasty feeling about this place.

The parlour was empty, so turning she mounted the main staircase. This was one of many dilapidated Georgian houses in this part of town. They had been grand once but decades of neglect had taken their toll and now they were just old and rotten. The boards creaked noisily as she climbed, announcing her presence as if screaming to their master.

She crested the stairs on to the first-floor landing.

‘Mr Ford? Back-up is on its way, so it’s in your best interests to talk to me.’

Still nothing. Charlie pressed on. The master bedroom was straight ahead of her, its contents obscured by the door, which stood ajar. Charlie took a deep breath, darted a look over her shoulder, then nudged the door gently open with her foot. It swung round lazily, coming to an ungainly halt against the edge of the bedstead. Charlie scanned the interior as best she could, then stepped inside.

The whole place stank. It was piled high with newspapers and magazines and seemed to be more of a dumping ground than a night-time retreat. Clothes had been left abandoned on the ground and Charlie could see the remains of past meals, some of which now bloomed with
fungus. Charlie heard a skittering behind her and spun round. But it was just vermin, fleeing the scene of their crimes.

There was a hefty wardrobe placed between two large casement windows. Having checked under the bed, Charlie hurried over to it and, counting to three, yanked it open, her baton raised. Just more papers and old, mouldering clothes.

Leaving the main bedroom, she darted left into a small side bedroom, but she could barely gain access. It was stacked to the ceiling with boxes marked ‘Mum’ and the window appeared to be totally inaccessible. There was no means of escape from here, so Charlie crossed the landing to the other bedroom. This had clearly once belonged to a child. It was full of
Beano
annuals, rolled-up posters and a rocking horse, damaged by years of hard toil. Its lifeless eye seemed to stare at Charlie as she entered. But there was nobody here. Which only left one place to look.

Back on the landing, Charlie looked up the stairwell to the top floor of the house. She couldn’t hear anything, but was that smoke she could smell? Alarmed by this thought, Charlie walked quickly up the steps. Creak, creak, creak. She was careless now as there was no chance of ambush and nowhere left for Ford to run.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she grasped the door handle and wrenched it round, flinging the door open. A small attic room lay in front of her. Like the other rooms, it was piled high with junk, but this room had a small sofa, an easy chair and an old coffee table, on which sat a couple of mugs. This cramped, remote room looked the most lived in of the house.

The smell of smoke was stronger now and stepping inside Charlie spotted its source. A small wood-burning stove stood in the corner, connected directly to a flue which pierced the roof. And in front of it was Richard Ford. The doors to the stove were open and to her horror Charlie realized that Ford was now feeding the blaze – with pieces of paper, videotapes, photos. He scrabbled through a cardboard box, pulling out anything he could find and throwing it into the fire.

Charlie charged towards him. He turned as she approached but too late. Charlie brought her baton down and it connected hard with his collar bone. He staggered back, howling in pain, so Charlie followed up with a huge arcing cut to the back of his legs. He seemed to take off briefly, hanging in the air, before crashing to the ground, sending up a thick cloud of choking dust.

As he lay there groaning, Charlie spun and raced to the fire. Pulling her jacket off, she encased her hand in it, then delved into the open furnace, flicking whatever she could out of the flames. A videotape and some books fell to the floor. But there was more in there, so Charlie delved deeper –

She cannoned sideways away from the fire, surprised by Ford’s sudden charge. He had rugby tackled her at speed and she crashed hard to the ground now. Winded, she tried to rise, but he was quickly upon her now. A fist seemed to come out of nowhere, connecting with her jaw – she felt the back of her head hit the floor with a crack that went right through her. Now his hands were seeking out her throat, wrapping themselves around, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. She tried to shake him,
but his knees were pinning her down and he tightened his grip now, his eyes bulging with fury and hatred. He meant to kill her and Charlie knew in an instant that this time there would be no escape.

Helen dumped her bike and sprinted up the path. The back-up vehicles were only a few moments behind but something told Helen that she couldn’t afford to waste a minute. Seeing the front door ajar, Helen paused to remove her baton, then kicked the door open and ran inside. The hallway was deserted and Helen stood stock still, her senses primed for danger.

But there was nothing. The whole place was deathly quiet.

‘Charlie?’

Helen strained, listening for a response, but none was forthcoming.

‘CHARLIE?’

Helen stalked forward, darting her head first into the pantry, then the parlour as she charged towards the back door. The place was deserted, the door locked, so turning on her heel, Helen sprinted back towards the small parlour across the way. Her disquiet was growing with each passing second – the absence of both Charlie and Richard Ford couldn’t be explained in a way that augured well. Why was the front door open? Had Ford fled and Charlie followed in pursuit? Surely not – she would have radioed in in that case? So what had happened here?

Helen took the stairs two at a time and was soon on the landing above. She explored the side rooms first, wary of
ambush, but found only the detritus of Ford’s sorry life, so she pushed into the front bedroom. The room was gloomy and unloved, reeking of mould and rotten food and Helen yanked the heavy curtains open. As she did so, she saw the squad cars pull up outside, sirens blaring and lights flashing. The cavalry had arrived, but to what end? They’d be able to do nothing for Charlie if they couldn’t find her. Where the hell was she?

Turning once more, Helen sprinted from the room. Every second counted now.

Stars studded her vision, as the fight went out of her. Charlie had struggled for all she was worth, but he was too strong, too determined to crush the life out of her. The lack of oxygen was having an effect now, waves of darkness washing over her – she knew she was close to losing consciousness for good. She could smell the smoke on his hands, could feel flecks of his spit landing on her face, as he shouted and screamed at her. Was this it then? Would his livid face be the last thing she saw?

As her eyes slowly closed, his grip seemed to loosen slightly and suddenly Charlie rolled hard to the right. Where this resistance had come from she couldn’t say. One last instinctive attempt to save herself perhaps, some innate desire to live. Surprised, Ford tried to steady himself, but now off balance toppled over, landing heavily on the floor. Rolling in the dirt, he was on his feet quickly, charging back towards her. He almost left the floor as he virtually leapt at her. Charlie could only hope to defend herself now – her throat raged and she couldn’t breathe properly – so she raised her knee and braced herself for impact. The point of her knee now connected sharply with Ford’s groin, bucking him off balance once more. He half fell, half stumbled to the ground, his chin connecting savagely with the wooden floor, tearing the skin. He tried to rise and couldn’t – he appeared to be
gagging – and suddenly Charlie found herself crawling towards him fast.

Now she was on top of him. He flung an arm back at her, but she had been expecting that and grasped it gratefully, twisting it hard and fast all the way up his back. He screamed in agony, but Charlie didn’t hesitate, drawing her cuffs from her belt and binding both his hands together. Ford writhed underneath her, trying to throw her off, but pressing her knees into the small of his back, she pinned him down, determined to deny him any purchase. After a few moments, the struggle went out of him.

Charlie now became aware of someone else in the room – it was Helen calling to her, approaching fast – but there was no need of reinforcements now. Against all the odds, and somewhat to her surprise, Charlie had carried the day.

‘Drop whatever you’re doing and listen to this.’

Emilia Garanita had a flair for the dramatic and enjoyed bossing people around, but she seldom got the chance these days. The roll call of crime in Southampton usually extended from shoplifting in Tesco’s through drunk-driving offences to a bit of Class B possession – hardly the stuff of banner headlines. But today was different. She wouldn’t normally talk to her editor in this way, but she was on the cusp of a big one here and felt some of her old confidence returning.

She had arrived at the address in Midanbury fifteen minutes after the squad cars. Flashing her press card, she immediately sought out PC Alan Stark, her favourite mole in Hants Police. He was a young man with a fairly serious gambling problem and always welcomed the extra funds Emilia provided. Checking they weren’t overlooked, Emilia had crushed three £50 notes into his hand and as he pocketed them, quizzed him for the details. As he’d relayed his info to her, Emilia had spotted a young man being led from the house in cuffs. From her discreet vantage point, Emilia had fired off a series of headshots with her Nikon SLR – and was pretty pleased with the results.

‘For God’s sake, Emilia, I’ve promised you the centre spread for your Simms piece! Could you please stop
chewing my balls for one minute –’ her beleaguered editor replied. He had given up punishing her for her previous disloyalty some time back and Emilia sensed he now regretted it, as it allowed her to harangue him night and day, pushing for more, more, more.

‘Forget that,’ Emilia interrupted. ‘This is better.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m currently watching Hampshire’s finest drag a young man from his house in cuffs. According to my source, police think he’s our serial arsonist.’

Silence on the other end, but she could hear him breathing. There was nothing better than having your editor hanging on your every word.

‘Better still, he’s a firefighter. His name is Richard Ford and he’s been with Hants Fire and Rescue Service for most of his life. Bit of a fire nut apparently, but that’s as much as I know. I need people to get on to his colleagues, family, ex-girlfriends, plus I need a bio for him. I’m going to stay at the house and see what I can glean.’

It was the editor’s call as to how he deployed his reporters. They only numbered a handful and most were more used to covering school fetes and Council meetings – Emilia was their only full-time crime reporter. But Emilia knew Gary Rowlands loved the big stories – it reminded him of the good old days when he was a proper editor at Wapping – and she was sure he would throw the scant resources they had at this one. Stories like this didn’t come around very often.

‘I’m going to go big on the hero turned villain, firefighter who became a firestarter, so anything in his private life that might explain this, any past offences, would be
really useful as context,’ Emilia continued, slipping under the police cordon and scurrying towards the house. Stark had turned a convenient blind eye and Emilia was keen to get a few shots of the interior before she was discovered.

‘I’m going to have to go now, but let me know how you get on.’

‘As I have it. Stay in touch, ok? No going AWOL on me.’

‘Absolutely, boss. Oh and one last thing …’ Emilia teased, a smile breaking out over her face.

‘Hold the front page for me, will you?’