Liar Liar - [61]

The phone rang on, bringing her to her senses. Dropping the paddle like a hot coal, she ran to her clothes, tugging them on roughly as she answered the phone.

‘Yes?’ Her voice was cracked and weak.

‘It’s Sanderson, boss. We’ve got three more fires.’

Helen’s head spun. Could this be happening?

‘Text me the details,’ she replied and rang off. Seconds later, she was out of the door. Max Paine lay on the floor where she left him, silent and still.

83

Helen sprinted to her bike, berating herself every step of the way. Why, why, why was she such an enormous fuck-up? Was her loneliness so severe that she would willingly take her eye off the ball at such a crucial moment in the investigation? What the hell was she doing?

Her mind was already scrolling forward. If Paine reported her assault on him, then she would be off the investigation and probably out of the Force too. Given her good track record, she could possibly ride out the disciplinary proceedings if she was contrite, agreeing to a demotion, community service and a large helping of humble pie. But would it be worth it? Once her extracurricular activities became common knowledge, she would be a dead woman walking as far as top brass were concerned. They would correctly surmise that it would be impossible for her to maintain authority over her unit, when everyone would be cracking ribald jokes about what she got up to after hours. Some would be repelled by her activities, others still might be attracted to her because of them – either way it would be an impossible circle to square and she would be put under heavy pressure to step down.

It seemed as though Helen had been walking a tightrope for years. Keeping her private and professional lives totally separate, hoping in her own muddled way that she could find the strength to keep doing what she did. Suddenly a crushing wave of sadness swept over her. This was all she’d ever done, all she’d ever been good at. And she was good it – she had saved numerous lives, ended a number of brutal killing sprees. She loved her job and felt she made a difference to people’s lives. Was all that about to be taken away from her?

Brushing these thoughts aside, Helen climbed on to her bike and fired it up. Her fate would have to be addressed later, there was important work for her to do now and she had to focus. Three more fires had been set. One at a nursery, one at a cash and carry and the third at a terraced house in nearby Lower Shirley. It wasn’t hard to work out the exact location of the last fire. Not half a mile away, a giant plume of black smoke climbed ever higher, blocking out the moon’s gaze and casting a shadow over Southampton.

Helen raced towards it now, all thoughts of her own future temporarily forgotten. Their killer was at play once more.

84

Buzz, buzz, buzz. The phone was on silent mode and appeared aggrieved to be neutered in this way, buzzing its irritation angrily over and over again. It lay in a Marc Jacobs bag underneath the small table, temporarily forgotten by its owner.

Jacqueline Harris drained her glass and reached over towards the bottle. She pulled it out of the ice bucket, a few drops of icy water spilling on to the white tablecloth, and was aggrieved to find that it was empty. She cast a suspicious glance at her husband, Michael. He had been in ebullient mood, telling stories, joking and refilling his companions’ glasses at every opportunity. Wouldn’t it be like him to finish the bottle without ordering another – he wouldn’t want to break the flow of his delivery, now that he had a captive audience.

Signalling to the waiter, Jacqueline sat back in her chair and let out a heavy sigh. It had been a pig of a day – a day when every one of her pet projects had taken a step backwards. She had lost the pitch for the new building at Solent University, a client had complained about rising costs on another project and, to top it all off, she’d run into more planning problems on her luxury flats overlooking Ocean Village. She’d get over them, of course, it was too big a development to be stymied and she was a big enough name locally to cut through the red tape, but still it was irritating. Sometimes it seemed to her as if the world delighted in throwing small-minded pettifogging bureaucrats into her path just to see how she would react. By now it should have known – she reacted badly.

The waiter was on his way over now and Jacqueline relaxed a little. Her eye wandered to Michael, who was building to the end of another of his stories – adventures from the front line of psychiatry. He would never tell stories of current patients of course, but when it came to serving up the gory details of past fruitcakes he’d treated he was utterly shameless. He was currently dissecting the neuroses of a former patient – Katie B – who’d suffered from a condition called Objectum Sexuality, in which the victim became sexually obsessed with inanimate objects. Washing machines, car bonnets and the like were common, but Katie seemed to have a particular flair for her condition, having developed an unhealthy and somewhat unnerving obsession with Ferris wheels. She had been arrested in various states of undress at funfairs up and down the land and seemed to have no desire or ability to combat her addiction, despite the best efforts of her family and Michael too.