M. Arlidge - Liar Liar

But Naomie’s motive remained unclear, which concerned Helen. Sharon Jackson insisted her daughter didn’t know any of the victims, but Helen could tell she was lying and was determined to find out why.

‘Don’t push me on this. I’m more than happy to do it, but it wouldn’t look too good in tomorrow’s newspapers.’

Sharon finally looked up at her.

‘Take a peek out of your front curtains, Sharon.’

Unnerved, Sharon did as instructed. Helen had heard the press trucks start to pull up outside a few minutes ago. She knew they’d be here within the hour, once Naomie’s name was released.

‘They won’t be going anywhere until this is over. So we have three choices. I can lead you out in front of them. I can leave here and let them loose on you. Or I can get a uniformed officer on the door, so there’s a chance you might get a moment’s peace. The choice is yours.’

Sharon sat down hard on the nearest armchair and ran her fingers through her long, lank hair. She seemed to be ageing in front of Helen, as if buried fears were now burrowing their way to the surface.

‘She’s never met Denise Roberts but she might know of her,’ she said finally and with great reluctance.

‘How?’

There was another long pause, and then:

‘Naomie’s father. His name’s Darren Betts. I was at school with him and we’ve been knocking around on and off for twenty years now.’

‘He’s your boyfriend?’

Sharon snorted, then said:

‘When he feels like it.’

‘He has other girlfriends?’

Sharon nodded.

‘Denise Roberts,’ Helen asked, suddenly making the connection. Callum Roberts had mentioned a ‘Darren’ too.

‘When he’s not here, Darren sometimes goes… there.’

Sharon Jackson said the last word with utter disdain, as if Roberts were shit on her shoe. Sanderson was sure Roberts probably felt the same way about her.

‘Is that what your row with Naomie was about?’

‘Guess so.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. We argued, that’s all.’

‘What happened, Sharon?’

‘She drove Darren away, didn’t she,’ Sharon responded, her tone suddenly plaintive and self-pitying. ‘She fusses around him, trying to get him to do stuff he doesn’t want to do, gets in his face, you know?’

‘What did you do?’

‘I shouted at her a bit.’

‘And?’

Sharon said nothing, staring at the floor.

‘AND?’

‘I gave her a bit of a slap, all right.’

‘You hit her?’

‘I shouldn’t have, but she’s just so fucking clingy… and sometimes I lose it. I hit her a bit -’

‘More than once? Did you beat her? Sharon, I’m asking you a question -’

‘Yes, I’ve told you. I took a belt to her, but I didn’t do any permanent harm. It’s no more than what I had done to me when I was a kid -’

‘And she knew this Denise Roberts, she knew that her father went there when he wasn’t here?’

‘Yes, she heard me and Darren talking about it. She’s not stupid.’

‘Jesus Christ. What about the other places? The Simms house in Millbrook or the Harris place in Shirley? Does he go there?’

Sharon suddenly laughed.

‘Are you crazy? Folk like that wouldn’t let him in the front door. He wouldn’t be knocking around in those parts of town.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Be sensible, will you?’

Helen didn’t like her tone, but let it go.

‘Do you have any other boyfriends?’

‘No.’

‘Sharon -’

‘I don’t, ok, I’m not like that. Darren… well, he’s all I’ve got. And I’ve only got him part-time.’

Her bitterness and loneliness shone through clearly now. Though Helen didn’t want to believe her – didn’t want to lose the connection between Naomie and her victims – what she said seemed genuine and made sense. The worlds inhabited by the various victims were all so different.

Helen stared at Sharon, her mind whirring. Then suddenly she said:

‘Is there anywhere else Darren goes? You said he had other girlfriends on the go.’

This time Sharon hesitated and Helen knew immediately that she’d hit a nerve.

‘I know this isn’t nice, but I need to know. It’s the last thing I’ll ask you.’

‘There’s one other girl that I know of. Lives over in St Denys.’

‘What’s her name?’

There was another long pause, then, as Sharon debated how to respond:

‘What’s her name, Sharon?’

‘Her name is Mandy Blayne.’

She had been in the bathroom for over twenty minutes now. Was she having a bath? The lights were all off downstairs and she’d drawn the bathroom curtains, so it seemed a safe assumption. Normally it would be better to wait until she’d definitely gone to bed, but there was no time for that now and this seemed like too good an opportunity to miss.

Crossing the road quickly, the hooded figure pushed the side gate open and made its way towards the back of the house. There was no hesitation – the house had been recced a number of times and there was one obvious entry point. The French doors that opened on to the garden were old and flimsy, made of decrepit wood and glass. Mandy liked her gardening and often left the doors open. Today they were closed and locked, but it was still only a couple of moments’ work to put an elbow through one of the panes and release the latch from the other side.

Stepping inside, the hooded figure paused. Upstairs, music played on the radio – a cheesy power ballad designed to uplift and inspire – and accompanying it was the distinct sound of someone bathing, water splashing on plastic as Mandy Blayne tried to wash away her mediocrity. If she were clever Mandy would stay in the bath once she smelt the fire, but even that wouldn’t save her – she would just be cooked alive rather than burnt to death.

Teasing open the understairs cupboard, the figure bent down to examine the contents. It was depressingly empty – like Mandy’s life – but there were a few wooden garden chairs that would do the job. Dragging them together into a pile, the figure pulled a bottle of paraffin from a side pocket and emptied the whole contents over the wood. No point in caution or finesse now.

Retrieving the pack of Marlboro Gold, the figure removed a single cigarette and bound it to the pack with a pink rubber band. Moments later, the matches were out. The match head was soon poised against the rough side of the box, ready for ignition, when suddenly the landline rang out, shrill and loud. Startled, the figure dropped the match and in bending down to retrieve it succeeded in spilling the entire contents of the box on to the floor.

‘Shit.’

The phone continued to ring and for a moment the intruder stood stock still, straining to hear if Mandy would leave the bath to answer it. The volume of the radio was suddenly turned down, as the phone rang on. The figure tensed, turning its body in the direction of the back of the house, ready to run if need be. Still the phone rang on – it must have been twenty-five, possibly thirty rings already. Someone was clearly very keen to get hold of Mandy.

Then suddenly the ringing stopped. The figure could hear its own breathing, could feel the blood pounding in its ears. Backing out now was unthinkable – Blayne had it coming to her – but there was no virtue in getting caught either. What would Mandy do now? It felt as if the whole enterprise had come down to this moment. Would Mandy mess everything up by coming down the stairs? Or would the stupid whore stay put?

The music rose in volume again and now the figure didn’t hesitate, grabbing at the matches. They were wet and sticky, clinging doggedly to the floor that was now saturated with paraffin. It was hard to get any purchase on them with gloves, so throwing caution to the wind, the figure pulled the gloves off and picked up a match. Even now, though, the match seemed determined to resist, falling to the floor once more from the figure’s unsteady hand.