Truth or Dare: Pre-order the nail-biting new Helen Grace thriller now

by M. J. Arlidge

  Helen would’ve loved to be able to give her friend and mentor better news, but there was no point offering false hope. In truth, they were no further on than they’d been this morning, but even so, Helen was glad of the call. Grace Simmons was a fitful presence at Southampton Central these days, but she remained a firm friend and ally.

  ‘We’ve got so many lines running that, honestly, we’re a bit thin on the ground at the moment. I keep hoping Charlie will get bored of changing nappies and return to the fray …’

  ‘I’m working on getting you some reinforcements. But you know what Peters is like, always keeping a close eye on the pennies.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Helen reassured her. ‘We just need to get a break, something to give us some forward momentum.’

  This was only partially true. There was much more Helen could have shared with her boss – her problems with Hudson, a growing sense of discontent within the team – but she wasn’t ready to confess these just yet.

  ‘Well, you have my full confidence,’ Simmons replied warmly. ‘If anyone can do it, you can.’

  DCI Simmons rang off shortly afterwards, leaving Helen alone with her thoughts. Their brief conversation had cheered her, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to relax just yet, nagging fears and anxieties continuing to circle. Abandoning the TV, she marched into the kitchen to grab a drink of water, before heading out onto her small terrace.

  Her flat was on the top floor, commanding fine views of the city. Helen often ended her evenings here, letting the warm breeze comfort her, as she listened to the muffled sound of the shipping in the Solent. Southampton was a boisterous city, but nights like this could be very still, soothing even, a necessary tonic after a tough day’s work.

  Gripping the rail, Helen looked out over the city, eerily beautiful tonight in the glow of the full moon. The wind was strong, the hot air smothering her, and normally she would have found its warmth comforting. But tonight the breeze carried a disturbing note in her direction, the sound of sirens. Listening intently, Helen oriented herself, turning slowly in the direction of the sound. And now she saw it. Not as she’d expected, a collection of flashing lights speeding through the streets, but something much more alarming. For even at this late hour, in the silvery half-light, Helen could make it out – a huge plume of smoke rising up into the night sky.

  Day Two

  Chapter 9

  The morning sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the kitchen. The Miele appliances glistened, the quartz worktop sparkled, even the Quooker was getting in on the act, winking sunbeams around the spacious room. It was an impressive sight – a bright, welcoming modernization of an attractive period kitchen – but generally this vista depressed Robert Downing, especially when it was so devoid of life.

  Previously, it had been the heart of the family, Alexia, he and the boys spending many happy hours together, making pancakes, throwing soap bubbles, tucking into a Sunday roast. Then the marriage had foundered, with the result that it was usually just him and the boys, and occasionally, as today, just him, the twins having spent last night with their mother. Usually this isolation put Robert in a funk, gripped by a low-level feeling of anger and dissatisfaction, which often lasted the whole day. Today it seemed worse still, as if the opulent, echoing room was a vision of the future, a snapshot of what his life might be like if he came off second best in their forthcoming custody hearing. It didn’t bear thinking about – the serenity, the silence in the large room, was crushing.

  Plonking the coffee pot on the hob, Robert fired up the burner, then angled a look at his watch before flicking on the radio, keen to distract himself from these negative thoughts. It still seemed impossible that his life had unravelled so quickly, so completely. Often, he couldn’t help himself, poring over the details, the cracks he should have seen, the things that had gone unsaid. Yes, he’d had his suspicions that Alexia wasn’t happy, but he’d never have guessed that she would seek affection elsewhere and that before long that bastard Graham would be playing daddy to his boys. Even now the thought made him seethe …

  In a flash, Robert had gone from being the thrusting, successful barrister with the glamorous wife, lovely boys and desirable home to being the lonely bachelor carving up ownership of the house and custody of the twins, even as he tried to be a good dad to two very confused boys. He was now the kind of man women took pity on, bringing food, comfort and plenty of advice on how to cope. It all seemed so wrong, yet somehow this was the bitter reality – a man alone with his thoughts, staring down the barrel.

  The coffee pot was starting to bubble, even as the local weathercaster droned on, confirming that it would be another sweltering day in the city. That was all he needed, another stultifying session in an airless court, but at least there was one small crumb of comfort today. He was picking up the boys later and bringing them home. How long he would continue to do so was in question, but he would make sure they had a great time tonight. Once they had done their homework, he would spoil them rotten – cookie dough ice cream, a family-size pack of Sours and whatever they wanted on Netflix. The thought made his heavy heart sing.

  The weather report had finished, replaced by the sombre tones of the newsreader, reminding Robert that he had to get a move on – he was due in court at ten. Scooping up his brief, he slid it into his case. Then he moved over to the worktop to grab his phone from the charger, but even as he did so, something grabbed his attention, the newscaster’s words cutting through his self-absorption.

  ‘… attended a major fire in the Locks Heath area of the city.’

  He paused in his preparations.

  ‘The blaze, which took hold in a scrapyard, burned for several hours, driving local residents from their homes, but is now under control. Hampshire Police have confirmed that there was one casualty, forty-two-year-old Declan McManus …’

  Robert hurried over to the radio to turn it up.

  ‘He is currently being treated in the burns unit of Southampton University Hospital and though there has so far been no update on his progress, hospital staff have confirmed that his condition is critical …’

  He stood stock still, uncertain whether to be worried or pleased. He had never wished harm on anyone, but he made an exception for McManus, who was a blood-sucking parasite. And now he was on the verge of death, crippled by life-changing injuries. The reporter continued, outlining the police response and the possible theories concerning the provenance of the blaze, most of which seemed to centre on foul play. Robert remained where he was, drinking in the detail, even as the coffee pot clanked and bubbled noisily in the background, spilling its sticky, boiling contents all over the immaculate surface. He had no interest any more in this kitchen, his breakfast, or indeed the court hearing that he was due to attend. Now he had only one question on his mind.

  Would Declan McManus live or die?

  Chapter 10

  She took in the scene in front of her, scarcely believing what she was seeing. It was a picture of utter desolation.

  Helen had called Southampton Central as soon as she spotted the conflagration last night – the hassled desk sergeant confirming that a major fire was raging in Locks Heath. Helen’s initial hope was that the incident would be of interest purely to Hampshire Fire Service, but once the identity of the victim had been established, it immediately became clear that her team would need to investigate. Declan McManus was an ex-Met copper, drummed out of the Force following a lengthy corruption investigation, who’d now taken up residence in Southampton, working as a private detective. Helen had run into him on a couple of occasions over the past few years, but had never been sure where he operated from. Until now.

  Dispatching DS Hudson to interview McManus’s shocked girlfriend, Helen had headed to the site. The yard, which up until two years ago had been owned by a scrap-metal merchant, was littered with the wreckage of a major blaze. Picking her way through the charred detritus, her scarf over her face to shield her lungs from the acrid aroma, Hel
en moved cautiously towards the Portakabin, keen to see if anything had survived of what she now assumed was McManus’s nerve centre. Hovering in the doorway, however, taking in the smouldering ashes, Helen knew she was destined to be disappointed.

  ‘Well, it’s not to everyone’s taste, but it’s cheap and with careful renovation …’

  Helen looked up to see their chief forensics officer, Meredith Walker, approaching. As ever, she was clad in a sterile suit, latex gloves and mask.

  ‘Think we’ll be able to salvage anything?’ Helen responded, smiling.

  ‘Not sure. We haven’t had a chance to conduct a fingertip search yet. But by the looks of things, nothing in this place was fire retardant …’

  Helen surveyed the burnt desk, the ravaged sofa.

  ‘Any sign of any files? Computers? Hard drives?’

  ‘I can’t see any evidence of a filing cabinet. Be just our bad luck if he kept his files in cardboard boxes. Computers and hard drives wouldn’t have survived a blaze of this magnitude … We can only hope that somewhere underneath all this mess there’s a safe that he kept his paperwork in …’

  Helen nodded, but knew Meredith was scrabbling to find something upbeat to offer.

  ‘And are we saying the Portakabin was the seat of the fire?’ Helen replied, sniffing the air.

  ‘Yes. There’s fragments of glass and a strong residual odour of petrol. I’m guessing it was arson, though I’ll have to do some more digging to be sure.’

  ‘If it was,’ Helen said, taking in the blackened interior, ‘the place would have gone up like a tinderbox.’

  ‘Taking Mr McManus with it.’

  Helen nodded, but said nothing. She had encountered arson attacks before and they always left her unnerved. It was such a callous, cowardly crime.

  ‘What about the rest of the yard? Was that torched as the attacker left?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Meredith replied, gesturing to Helen to follow her away from the Portakabin.

  The pair descended back to ground level, picking their way through the burnt carcasses around them.

  ‘The team haven’t found any traces of petrol outside the cabin, but there are fragments of burnt clothing – burnt denim, to be precise – at several spots where the cardboard boxes and packing cases went up, sparking secondary fires.’

  ‘So, presuming the arsonist wasn’t incredibly clumsy during his retreat,’ Helen added, ‘we can assume the clothing belonged to McManus.’

  ‘Looks that way. The guy’s on fire, in agony, desperate. In his attempt to escape the blaze, he cannons into several obstacles …’

  ‘… setting the rest of the yard on fire.’

  ‘That’s more or less the face of it,’ Meredith confirmed. ‘In fact, you can get a pretty good picture of his progress by looking at the course of the fire, not to mention the scattered fragments of clothing.’

  Helen followed Meredith’s gaze, picking up the evidence markers that did seem to illuminate the injured man’s erratic progress away from the Portakabin. And even as she did so, something struck her.

  ‘The main gates were open when uniform arrived, right?’ she asked, turning to Meredith once more.

  ‘Yup. The padlock had been broken.’

  ‘So why didn’t McManus head directly for them? That would have been his quickest route to safety, to the street …’

  Meredith followed Helen’s gaze, noting how McManus had started out towards the gate, then veered abruptly left, towards the far corner of the yard.

  ‘Perhaps he lost momentum, lost focus? His injuries were pretty severe by all accounts …’

  ‘Or perhaps he saw something more interesting over there …’

  Helen was already moving in the direction of the perimeter fence on the eastern edge of the yard, following McManus’s crazy dance. Soon she had reached the spot where McManus had face-planted, his clothes still alight, his life hanging by a thread. The paramedics had reported finding him face down in the dirt, unconscious, his skin blistered and raw. Given that, it seemed incredible, impossible almost, that McManus was still alive, battling for his life at Southampton University Hospital. The ex-copper was clearly a fighter, though there was no question that the outlook was uncertain for him, even if by some miracle he did manage to survive.

  Crouching down in the dirt, Helen examined the earth, mentally outlining the shape of McManus’s prostrate body.

  ‘What were you after, Declan …?’

  Helen was aware that Meredith was watching her; moving forward, she examined the ground just beyond the fall site. And now she spotted something. The weather had been punishingly hot of late – a proper summer heatwave – but two nights ago there had been a vicious storm, the like of which you seldom see in the UK. Rain had lashed the city, leaving it dirty and besmirched and here in the cracked, dusty yard, residual traces of the storm remained. Just in front of McManus’s resting place, just out of reach, was a small muddy puddle, on the fringe of which was what looked like a partial footwear mark.

  ‘Look here.’

  Meredith did as she was bid, crouching down to investigate.

  ‘It’s a trainer of some kind, I’d guess. Size eight, size nine?’

  Already she was gesturing to a photographer to join them.

  ‘You’re thinking it’s our arsonist?’

  ‘Makes sense. He does the deed, retires to a safe distance to watch the blaze, then, against the odds, McManus escapes. Perhaps he makes for the gates, then changes course when he spots someone standing here. Perhaps he thinks this person’s going to help him. Or perhaps he knows that this person wants him dead and means to confront him …’

  ‘He would have been quite a sight, heading towards you, his clothes on fire, his hair ablaze.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Helen murmured, even now looking for signs of retreat.

  Stepping away from the puddle, Helen scanned the ground. It was harder here, the slope rising towards the perimeter fence, but even so the progress of the fleeing arsonist was obvious, the disturbed dust patterns and partial prints of that familiar trainer illuminating his escape route.

  ‘Now we just need to discover how he got out …’

  Helen petered out, having already answered her own question. The footwear marks led straight to the boundary, where she spotted a tear in the chain-link fence. Soon they were both crouched down by it, scanning the torn wire, the ground beyond it, hoping for some further evidence of the arsonist’s retreat. In the event, it was Meredith who spotted it first.

  ‘There.’

  Helen followed the line of her outstretched finger. At first, she couldn’t see what Meredith was trying to indicate, then, suddenly, she spotted it. Caught on the ragged edge of one of the torn wires was a single, navy-blue thread.

  Chapter 11

  Sandra Keaton was teetering on the edge, liable to break at any moment.

  Sucking hard on a king-size cigarette, McManus’s youthful girlfriend stared at DS Joseph Hudson, her red-rimmed eyes threatening more tears. As far as Hudson had been able to make out, her relationship with McManus had been on and off at best, but she’d nevertheless taken news of the attack on him hard, unable to rid herself of the image of her lover lighting up the night sky, his skin and hair crackling in the intense heat.

  ‘So, when were you last with Declan?’ Hudson continued gently, trying to refocus the conversation.

  The young woman sniffed, wiping her nose aggressively, as she considered her answer.

  ‘Couple of days ago, but he didn’t stay or nothing. He was in a right strop—’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ she countered defensively. ‘He’d been having a few problems at work, that’s all. Comes with the territory, I guess …’

  ‘What kind of problems?’

  ‘Someone had been trying to get at him.’

  ‘Who?’ Hudson replied, leaning forward.

  ‘That was just it, he didn’t know …’

  She took anothe
r drag on her cigarette, running a hand through long, lank hair. They were an odd couple, no question; she was a good twenty years younger and considerably more attractive than McManus. She was, however, criminally lacking in confidence and might have been impressed by Declan’s past career as a police officer and the mysterious ‘glamour’ of his current incarnation as a private detective.

  ‘What exactly had happened?’

  ‘Nothing major. About a week ago someone tried to break into his house. He’s got a flat he rents over in Thornhill—’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘Well, someone tried to force the window when he was out. Made a pretty shit job of it, by all accounts – still needs replacing though …’

  She lingered on the thought, perhaps wondering if Declan would ever again be fit to supervise the repair, whether she should perhaps do something about it.

  ‘What were they after?’

  ‘His laptop. Keeps all his files on there.’

  ‘Why are you so certain that’s what they were after?’

  ‘Cos they got it two days ago.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Him, She, It, whatever …’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Forced the boot of his car. He’d left it in there, when he came in to visit me.’

  Clearly McManus didn’t stay long with Sandra, making Hudson wonder what the exact nature of their relationship was, but he knew he couldn’t afford to get distracted.

  ‘Someone stole his laptop?’

  ‘All of his work, his records, gone, just like that …’ she said knowingly, as if she was contributing a major piece of the jigsaw to the case. ‘He had some paper files elsewhere, but they were mostly of old investigations.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

  ‘He told me bits and bobs.’

  ‘Details of his investigations?’

  ‘Not names or nothing, he said that wouldn’t be “professional”.’

  She wrapped her mouth around the word, as if it was something exotic.