Liar Liar - [43]

‘I wouldn’t buy the chocolate from here, it’s always past its sell-by date,’ a voice next to him whispered. Thomas Simms turned to find a young woman next to him, clutching a copy of Grazia. She had nice eyes and a pleasant smile but the historic scarring down one side of her face was what really grabbed your attention. She was probably a patient-turned-volunteer and Thomas was struck by the serendipity of this moment. Here he was, lost in self-pitying introspection, forgetful of the fact that everyone suffers and somehow they get through it.

‘I’m Emilia,’ the woman said, extending her hand.

‘Thomas,’ he replied, shaking hers. Oddly her name seemed to fit her perfectly, as if that was what he’d been expecting her to say. Did he recognize her from somewhere?

‘Do you have a minute to talk?’ she continued, her smile never faltering as she subtly changed tack.

‘You’re a journalist?’ he replied sharply, removing his hand from hers.

‘Emilia Garanita, Southampton Evening News.’

‘Look, I know you’re doing your job but I’ve said everything I’m going to say. We’ve issued a statement this morning asking for some space -’

‘I respect that, Thomas. As you can see, I’ve had troubles of my own. I know what it feels like when life stabs you in the back. I’ve no interest in making your life harder.’

‘I wish I could believe that -’

‘In fact, I’d like to help you.’

Thomas paused for the first time in their conversation. He could usually tell when people were beaten. He’d knocked back dozens of journalists and ghouls in the last couple of days. But this one looked utterly unrepentant and totally confident, as if she did have something up her sleeve.

‘There have been some developments. In my experience the FLOs are terrible at keeping the family informed of these things, they don’t tell you a single thing until it’s all done and dusted and tied up with a bow on top. Which is fine – they’re covering their arse – but it doesn’t help you or Luke or Alice. You need to know now. It’s the not knowing that’s torture, right?’

Thomas said nothing. His first instinct had been to tell her to go to Hell, but now he wasn’t so sure.

‘So I am very willing to help you. I’d like to help you. But I need something in return.’

Thomas suddenly felt his temper flare again. What the hell was he doing bartering with a bloody journalist in a hospital shop. His son was waiting for him upstairs. His daughter was still fighting for her life. What was he doing here? Sensing his anger, his pursuer reached out her hand and laid it on his arm, gently arresting his departure.

‘They are going to arrest a firefighter. One of Hampshire’s own,’ she whispered, looking him dead in the eye. Thomas suddenly felt breathless and dizzy. He had wanted the police to make progress desperately, but now a part of him wanted it all just to go away. He was scared to think what the next chapter of their life might hold.

‘I can’t give you his name yet, but I should know more in the next twenty-four hours. I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you as soon as I have it, I swear. Unlike the police, I’ll hide nothing from you.’

Thomas looked at her, but didn’t know what to say. Should he believe her?

‘A witness saw the suspect running from the scene of last night’s fire and picked out the crest of the Hants Fire Service tattooed on his arm. I can give you her name too, if you want.’

But she wouldn’t give it yet – that was clear. Thomas hung his head and once more tears threatened. Everything was telling him not to do this, not to get caught up in this game, but how could he brush her off and go back upstairs now? Knowing that she knew more about his wife’s killer than he did. So after a long pause, he raised his head, looked her dead in the eye and said:

‘What do you want?’

56

‘Simon Duggan wouldn’t have the brains for it. You can definitely rule him out.’

‘How certain are you?’ Helen responded. They had already ruled out three possibles – Duggan was the fourth that seemed to be going the same way – and they were fast running out of options.

‘Look, I know he fits the profile. Bit of a loner, lives at home with his mum and so forth, but he’s a follower. He wouldn’t go to the toilet without someone’s permission. He doesn’t have the nerve or intelligence to pull off something on this scale, nor does he have the anger. He’s a simple soul.’

‘Ok, what about Martin Hughes?’ Helen replied, trying to keep the strain out of her voice.

For the first time, Deborah paused. She rolled this possibility round her brain a few times, then said:

‘Better, but still not right.’

‘How so?’

‘He’s quick to anger and has fallen out with pretty much everyone at one time or another. It’s cost him career-wise, no question, younger guys have progressed faster than he has, he’s divorced…’

‘All of which fits the profile,’ Helen said.

‘But he’s not a young man -’

‘Profiles are just guides, they’re not blueprints.’

‘And he loves his family. They may have split up, but he still loves his ex to bits and dotes on his son. He’s a fuck-up for sure, but his temper blows out as quickly as it comes and the rest of the time he’s a pretty sound bloke. I’m sorry, Helen, but I just can’t see it.’