Liar Liar - [11]

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.’