She reached out for something to support herself, but could find nothing. So closing her eyes, she willed herself upright and staggered forwards on to her feet. The searing heat immediately claimed her, crawling over her face, her neck, her hair. It was impossible to breathe up here – every second counted now – so she opened her eyes, searching for something familiar. The outline of the window, the door, anything to help her find a way out.
But she couldn’t see a single thing. The black smoke had consumed everything and she was lost in the centre of her own nightmare. She took three steps forward. The disintegrating boards groaned, her feet picked up fresh blisters with each painful step but on she went. One step, two, three. Her arms swung around wildly expecting – hoping – to connect with something solid, something familiar. But she found only smoke.
Crying now, she turned and went hard the other way. Surely this must be right. Her right foot caught on something and she fell to one knee, but on she went, dragging herself up, driving herself forward. She cannoned off something solid and suddenly filled with hope ran her hands over the surface. Was it a door? A window? She scraped at it, but it came away in her hand. Clawing harder, she now came up against solid brick. Jesus Christ, it was one of the walls. She was in the wrong place. The door must be …
She turned and moved randomly forward, no idea now which way was which. Her head swam wildly and she stumbled again. Which way was left? Which right? Which direction should she go in?
Denise stood still, paralysed by fear, as the fire raged around her and the smoke enveloped her. The decision she was about to make would either cost her her life or save it. So crying quietly and praying to God for help, she picked a direction, swallowed her fears and stumbled slowly forward.
37
Charlie clamped her hand over her mouth, as the bitter fumes filled her nose and throat. Instinctively she recoiled, struggling to breathe. She had never smelt anything like this before – and she hoped she never would have to again. Turning away quickly, she rejoined DI Sanderson, who was marshalling the uniformed officers, attempting to create a secure perimeter around the burning building. Above them a helicopter circled – it wasn’t one of theirs, so presumably was press, no doubt beaming live pictures into homes all round the country. Was this what their arsonist wanted? Charlie rather suspected it was.
This was the biggest blaze yet. A plush furniture showroom stocked to the rafters with foam-filled sofas, raffia tables, wooden dining tables and chairs – the fire wasn’t starved for fuel and the flames now leapt fifty, sixty feet into the air. You could tell from the firefighters’ body language that this was already about containment.
Set against the dark night sky, the fire was an awesome sight, towering over the ghouls who’d come to witness the excitement. Bitterne Park was a nondescript part of town with little to set the pulse racing, hence the heavy crowd of locals. Adults, teenagers, even little kids were braving the heat to take photos and videos, edging dangerously close to the blaze. What the hell were they thinking? Were they really that desperate for entertainment that they would risk their lives and those of their children for a cheap thrill?
‘Back. I want everyone back,’ Charlie barked loudly, corralling the uniformed officers to push the throng away, scooping up any daredevils who seemed minded to ignore their advice. ‘It’s not safe for you here. Move back, back, back.’ Police tape was now being rolled out and looped around the site, distancing the public from the blaze, but Charlie wouldn’t put it past some of them to sneak under it and chance their arm once more. What was it with modern folk that everything – however unpleasant and depressing – has to be recorded and repackaged for others on social media? Charlie had no doubt that Twitter and Instagram would be going nuts tonight, ordinary punters snatching a bit of reflected glory from the arsonist’s work.
Charlie walked the perimeter, her eyes flitting over the faces in front of her. Many were openly awestruck, others were joking and laughing, but hardly a single person there didn’t have some kind of recording device. Were they all there for the fun of it or was there someone among them with more malign intent? Was one of these onlookers responsible for all this? On and on she went, looking for signs of guilt, but she knew she was looking for a needle in a haystack. Even if she alighted on someone who was unnaturally excited by the blaze, that didn’t necessarily prefigure guilt and, besides, something told Charlie that their perpetrator was far too clever and cautious to be caught out so easily.
To her surprise, Charlie now felt an icy chill crawl up her neck. The wind had changed direction and was growing in strength, fanning the flames of the burning superstore. Acrid, green fumes now billowed towards the crowd, stinging eyes and throats as they swept over the onlookers. Suddenly Charlie picked out Sanderson racing towards her.
‘We need to get everyone out of here,’ she half gasped as she gestured to uniform to push the crowd back still further. ‘I need a loudhailer. Has anyone got a loudhailer?’ she shouted half to Charlie, half to the assembled officers.
‘What’s going on?’ Charlie replied, suddenly alarmed.
‘Polyurethane foam in the sofas. When it burns it creates cyanide oxide. These fumes are bloody poisonous. They can’t stay here,’ she continued, gesturing at the crowds, ‘and neither can we.’
Clamping her scarf over her mouth, Charlie surged towards the crowd, grabbing recalcitrant kids by the arms as she went. Strange to think that a few hours ago she was at home, safe and sound with Jessica, and now here she was, hauling small children and grown men to safety in the shadow of an inferno. Suddenly energized, Charlie now took the lead, marshalling her fellow officers, driving the onlookers away from the reach of the bitter fumes. It was punishing physical work, especially in such an unpleasant atmosphere. Was that the arsonist’s intention all along? To put police officers and firefighters in jeopardy even as they battled the flames? It was impossible to tell and there was no time to speculate now. So Charlie fought on, working tirelessly to save the people she was bound to protect, all the while engulfed by the toxic cloud of death.
38
It was only a small movement in the corner of her eye, but Helen spotted him before anyone else did. He was just a blur, speeding towards the fire, running straight through anything that stood in his path. Helen was already on the move, and as the young man hurdled the police cordon she was on to him. She only had a second before he would be past her, so she dived at his legs, clamping her arms tight around them.
He hit the deck hard, but seemed to bounce off it, the scrubby grass breaking his fall. Despite Helen’s best efforts to restrain him, he was already clambering to his feet. Shouting at him to stop, Helen got a solid grip on his jacket and pulled sharply down. Immediately she felt something connect with her chest, temporarily knocking the wind out of her. The man lashed out again, but this time Helen dodged the blow, using his movement to unbalance him, sending him spiralling to the floor once more. She had caught him off guard and was quickly on top of him, pinning him firmly down.
‘Get off me. Get the fuck off me,’ the young man roared, struggling violently.
‘Not until you calm down.’
‘Get OFF!’ he shouted back, twisting again.
‘If I have to restrain you, I will.’
‘My mum’s in there. Please, she’s still in there.’
So this was Callum Roberts. Even now, Helen refused to relinquish her grip. Denise’s son was desperate with worry, consumed by the idea that his mother was alone in that terrible fire, but there was nothing he could do and Helen couldn’t risk further injuries or fatalities by letting him go.
‘The firefighters are doing everything they can, Callum. Jesus –’
The young man had sunk his teeth into Helen’s hand and was bucking violently once more. Helen removed her hand quickly, but as she did so brought Callum’s right arm up sharply behind his back. He screamed out in pain.
‘I’m not letting you go, so unless you want to be charged with assaulti
ng a police officer, I suggest you calm down. Ok?’
Finally the fight seemed to go out of him.
‘Where is she? Is she ok?’ he begged.
‘We don’t know, but we’re doing everything we can, believe me.’
She tried to sound upbeat, but Helen already feared the worst. There had been no sign of Denise Roberts since the fire was reported and neighbours said she was very much a homebody. Even more concerning was the fact that when the firefighters had managed to gain entry to the house through the front door – not three minutes ago – the chain and deadlock had been secured from the inside. They had had to barrel charge their way in. It looked very much like someone had been in the house when the blaze started.
‘Jesus Christ, what have I done?’
‘What do you mean, Callum?’
‘Oh God …’
‘Talk to me. What’s worrying you?’
‘I … I told her I pitied her. That was the last thing I said to her. Jesus Christ, she must have thought I fucking hated her …’
Now the floodgates opened, the devastated young man sobbing on to the dusty ground beneath him. Finally, Helen relinquished her grip, helping the young man up on to his haunches and wrapping her arms around him. He refused to look at the fire and seemed powerless to move now, so he just sat there, sobbing into his hands. Helen gave what comfort she could, but he barely seemed to register her presence. So they sat there silently, entwined together in desperation and sadness, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames that continued to consume his home.
39
Ensuring the car was centrally placed in his viewfinder, he gently pressed Record. The little red dot appeared at the side of the screen and a small smile spread across his face. There it was – in perfect definition. If he did his job right, if he got all the footage he needed, he’d be able to enjoy this little baby for many years to come. His smile stretched wider, then as quickly as it had appeared, he swallowed it back down. No point drawing attention to himself. So flattening his expression into one of general concern he carried on recording.
The vehicles were parked cheek by jowl in this lonely outdoor car park. Eight separate vehicles were now ablaze, the fire having spread from one to another, fanned by the rising wind. A sign claimed that the site was owned and maintained by Southampton City Council, but it was nothing of the sort. It was just a dusty piece of wasteland. Parking was so expensive in the city centre that those in the know came here. It was dirt cheap by day and at night the wardens weren’t around to enforce payment, so if you were smart you could park up here and head into the city, saving yourself a parking fee. Security was non-existent, but that didn’t seem to deter people. Perhaps this fire would.
A sudden jolt from the side nearly knocked the camera from his hand – some oaf pushing his way to the front of the crowd. In a flash, he’d turned on him, spitting bile in his direction – but the idiot didn’t even notice, too caught up in his own pathetic universe. Firing a parting shot of abuse, the man moved on, seeking a better vantage point from which to view this event.
Skirting the perimeter, he found a decent spot and once more pressed the little red button. He had a good shot of three different cars here, nicely positioned at intervals, their interweaving flames creating pretty patterns in the sky. This was more like it.
Relaxing, he started to rotate the camera, taking in the full panorama of the scene – the cars, the coppers, the rubberneckers, the paramedics, TV journalists, press photographers and local hacks. So much activity, so many people, all drawn here by the flames. It was strangely moving to behold.
Panning still further, he came to rest on the face of a young, pretty woman. Dressed in a smart suit, with her hair neatly tied up in a bun, she was bossing the uniformed coppers about. CID obviously, though he didn’t recognize her. It wasn’t Grace or the other one, but she would do. He drank in the anxiety on her face, the stress crumpling her pretty brow and making her voice tight and strangulated. Already he could feel his arousal growing, there was something about the way fire changed people that always provoked a physical reaction. This officer – whoever she may be – had had no idea that she would be here tonight, doing this, dancing to somebody else’s tune.
He realized he was smiling again. Shaking his head at his stupidity, he rubbed his tired eyes and looked into the viewfinder again – only to find that the female officer was staring straight at him. Immediately his body froze, all thoughts of arousal evaporating. Had she spotted him smiling? Was there something in his body language which had given him away? She was looking directly at him, her eyes seeming to bore into his brain, his soul. Now she was taking a step towards him. Should he turn and run? Or bluff it out? He suddenly felt tongue-tied, sweat dotting his back, unsure what to say or how to say it. The officer took another step, then suddenly darted off in another direction, having been hailed by a fellow officer.
In a flash, he had finished his recording and stowed the camera back in his rucksack. Now he was walking away at pace. He half expected her to cry out, to call him back, but no cry came.
He had been stupid to linger. Excited as he was, he must learn to be disciplined – to take what he needed and no more. If he was lucky he would be able to return tomorrow to garner some souvenirs, but for now he had other things to do. The Roberts house fire would probably be extinguished soon and he’d have to move quickly if he didn’t want to miss it. Checking once more that he had escaped undetected, he pulled his hood up on to his head and disappeared into the night.
40
He stared at the floor, refusing to look at her. Helen was well aware that she had just shattered this poor boy’s world, but she’d had no choice. She owed him the truth. When the firefighters had finally worked their way up to the first floor of the Roberts residence, they’d found a woman’s body in the main bedroom. She was curled up in the classic pugilist pose you so often see with fire victims. Oddly she was found plum in the middle of the room, seemingly having made no concerted move towards the windows or the door. There was precious little else Helen could pass on at the moment – Deborah Parks would have to wait until the site cooled before she could do her work. They hadn’t even managed to formally ID the body yet – that would happen later – but it seemed highly unlikely that another, unknown female had made her way into Denise’s bedroom and perished in the blaze. It looked for all the world like Callum’s mum was the arsonist’s second victim.
They were holed up together in a relatives’ room at Southampton Central police station. It hadn’t taken long for the press to gather outside the burning house and they soon zeroed in on Helen and the weeping boy, hoping for a photo and some good copy. Helen had bustled Callum to the nearest police vehicle and got him back to base safe and sound. He obviously couldn’t go home and, until they unearthed some friends or relatives to take him, it was down to Helen and her colleagues at Hampshire Social Services to ensure that he was ok.
A cup of tea and a Wagon Wheel sat untouched on the table. Callum had barely said a word since they’d got here, resisting the overtures of both Helen and the Family Liaison Officer she’d tasked with babysitting him. Helen would have to return to operational duties – there was much to do now – and she didn’t want Callum palmed off on a total stranger once she did.
The young man stared at his feet, occasionally biting his nails in aggressive little bursts. He was clearly still trying to process the awful events of the last few hours and this made it all the harder for Helen to have to probe him for information now, but she had no alternative. Two devastating attacks on consecutive nights. Two people dead. Several more injured. Hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of damage to property and possessions. And still not a single eyewitness to point them towards the perpetrator. Gary Spence had been in police custody when the second set of fires began. True, he had associates to do his bidding, but surely he wouldn’t be so foolish as to carry out more attacks when the police spotlight was so firmly on him?
‘You sa
id your mother had company tonight, Callum. Can you tell me who that might have been?’
The boy flinched slightly but said nothing.
‘Callum?’ Helen continued gently. ‘I know you don’t want to talk right now, but we really need your help. I want to find out what happened so anything you can tell me –’
‘Darren something. I don’t know his surname,’ he said abruptly.
‘Was he your mum’s boyfriend?’
‘Just someone who comes round now and again.’
‘She didn’t have a long-term partner.’
‘No.’
‘So you just got out of the house?’
Callum nodded.
‘Where did you go?’
‘To Dave’s – I’ve told you. Dave Spalding, right? Lives in the Lynwood flats?’
‘What time did you go there?’
‘Around four p.m.?’
‘And you stayed there until you noticed the fire? Around midnight?’
Callum nodded.
‘And someone can vouch for your presence there for all of that time?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I have to ask these questions, Callum.’
Helen’s tone was gentle but firm and Callum quickly backed down, shrugging his shoulders as he replied:
‘Dave was there and a few others. You can ask them.’
Helen nodded and jotted a note to herself to do just that.
‘What about your father? Where’s he at the moment?’
A long, heavy silence ensued.
‘It’s really important we find him, Callum. He’s probably very worried about –’
‘I don’t know who my father is. She never told me.’
It was muttered quickly, but landed heavily with Helen nevertheless. This poor kid only had his mother. Despite all the rows and problems, they were everything to each other. His mother had sought affection elsewhere to quell her loneliness and Callum had a loose collection of acquaintances to distract him from his empty existence. But at the end of the day it was mother and son alone against the world. And now she was gone.
Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) Page 9