Liar Liar - [78]

There had been several female callers during the course of the three nights who’d reported the fires. Some sounded scared, others sounded panicked, all sounded breathless.

‘There – it’s the same one,’ Helen said, pausing the tape.

They had been listening to the calls from the first night. At around 11.50 p.m., a young woman had called 999, reporting a fire at a house in Millbrook – the Simms residence. And the voice on the tape sounded virtually identical to the early caller from the most recent blaze in Lower Shirley.

‘Do you agree that it’s the same caller?’ Helen asked, turning to McAndrew. A brief pause, then her junior nodded. Helen was pleased – she felt likewise and had a feeling they were about to catch a major break in the case.

They moved straight on to the tapes from the second night of fires. Here they hit a blank, however. There were thirteen female callers. The quality on some of the recordings was better than others, because of bad mobile reception and background noise, so it was hard to say for certain – but neither of them could divine their mystery caller among the collage of anguished voices.

Then suddenly Helen leant forward with purpose, scooping up the recording from the first night. She played their female caller once, then again, listening intently each time. The woman’s voice was clear and authoritative.

‘There’s a fire, like, a big one on Hillside Crescent. You need to get here now.’

‘Are you able to see the fire from where you are?’

‘For real. And there are people in there. So hurry up.’

‘Ok, I need you to step away from the fire now…’

Helen stopped the tape without warning and, flipping open the tape recorder, started to play the woman’s recording from the third night again. McAndrew made no attempt to interrupt her – she could tell Helen was utterly focused on the task in hand, scenting something.

The recording finished. Helen clicked it off, then sat back in her chair.

‘I think I know who it is.’

McAndrew looked up at her.

‘It’s the way she says “For real”, and the accent. I knew I’d heard it before.’

‘Who is it?’ McAndrew asked urgently.

Helen paused for a moment, before replying.

‘It’s Naomie Jackson.’

108

Sharon Jackson’s face turned pale the minute she opened the door. Helen and DS Sanderson had left Southampton Central straight away and raced over to Naomie’s home in the cheaper part of St Mary’s. The look on the officers’ faces betrayed the seriousness of their visit. Normally Sharon would have fobbed them off – she was experienced at dealing with the law – but there was no wriggling off the hook today.

She sat on the sofa, a look of blank incomprehension on her face, as Helen informed her that Naomie was now a person of interest in their investigation. Sanderson had gone upstairs in order to verify Sharon’s assertion that her daughter was not at home. She had not yet returned, but Helen had pressed on nevertheless. For her part, Sharon Jackson was shocked by Helen’s line of questioning and pushed back hard.

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. My Naomie would never do something like that. She loves kids.’

Helen let that non sequitur go and continued with her questions.

‘Where is Naomie now, Sharon?’

‘I’ve told you I’m expecting her back later, but it’s Friday, isn’t it… I don’t keep tabs on her.’

‘Clearly not. I’m going to need you to account for her movements on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights.’

Sharon suddenly looked less bullish, so Helen was quick to follow up.

‘Where were you? And where was Naomie?’

‘Tuesday night I was in and so was Naomie. Then we had a bit of a falling out and she left for a bit.’

‘What time?’

‘Around nine p.m.’

‘When did she return?’

‘Late. I’d gone to bed. I heard her come in, but I don’t know what time it was.’

‘And the other nights?’

‘I was out.’

‘Both nights?’

‘That’s not a crime, is it? I can’t spend my life here, I’ve got things to do, friends and that.’

‘And Naomie was here?’

‘She was when I left. We weren’t really speaking, so I don’t know if she stayed in or not. She said she was going to bed…’

Helen made a mental note to check for signs of internet use at the property, phone calls and so on – it wouldn’t be too hard to work out if Naomie had been at home or not.

‘Why weren’t you talking?’

Once again, Sharon suddenly looked coy.

‘We had a row.’

‘About?’

‘Man trouble.’

‘Hers or yours?’

‘Hers. She’s a moaning little brat. But that’s all she is, I swear. She’s had run-ins with the police before. A bit of shoplifting, but just kids’ stuff. She could never do something like this. She doesn’t have the balls.’

‘Has Naomie mentioned the fires to you?’ Helen continued.

‘No’ was the swift reply.

‘Did that strike you as odd? Everybody else in Southampton is talking about them.’

Sharon shrugged then said:

‘Naomie doesn’t follow the news, she’s not that kind of kid. Probably wouldn’t talk to me about it even if she did. We’ve never been… a good fit.’

It was said so matter-of-factly that for a moment Helen was speechless.

‘Who would she talk to?’ Helen said eventually. ‘Does she have friends? Anyone she hangs out with?’