Liar Liar - [12]

‘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 sense 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.