M. Arlidge - Liar Liar

She said his name with the full contempt she felt for him. He glared at her, but said nothing in return.

‘So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go back to your life and I will go back to mine and we’ll pretend it never happened. Deal?’

As Helen walked away from Paine’s building, having gained his begrudging acquiescence, Helen felt her spirits rise. She had been under so much pressure, so hemmed in on all sides, that it felt good to be finally taking positive action. She had messed up big time, but the fault was primarily his and she was damned if she was going to be brought down by the likes of Max Paine. A surge of adrenalin coursed through her now – Helen suddenly felt as if she could take on the world and win, that everything would be ok, and she smiled to herself at this sudden burst of optimism.

A blast of icy wind roared over her now, as if in defiant response to her improving mood, but even this couldn’t dampen Helen’s spirits. It did, however, remind her that she’d forgotten to check whether she had left her much missed scarf at Paine’s flat, as she rather suspected she had. Too late now. Helen had bigger fish to fry and she couldn’t exactly return and ask Paine for it, so she would have to make do without. Pulling up her collar to ward off the chill wind, Helen lowered her head and walked away towards her bike.

‘What the fuck do you want?’

The girl’s nose was wrinkled up in mock disgust, as if the mere sight of a police officer turned her stomach. It was done for effect and it worked – Charlie already wanted to slap her and they’d only been talking for a few seconds. But Charlie swallowed down her irritation, refusing to be deflected from her purpose.

She had risen early after a sleepless night. A worrying thought had kept turning and turning in her head and now she needed to find out if her concerns were justified – or if she was just going mad. She hadn’t known where to find her quarry, except that she lived somewhere near Naomie Jackson. Charlie was on the streets of St Mary’s by 8 a.m. She didn’t expect to find Naomie’s mate up and about then – didn’t look the type – but she couldn’t discount the possibility that she had a job or went to college and would be on the move early.

Predictably, however, there was no sign of her and after an hour Charlie had begun to wonder if she was wasting her time. Then suddenly she saw her – dressed comically in pyjama trousers, fake Ugg boots and a puffa jacket, meandering her way to the corner shop. Moments later, she emerged clutching a carton of milk and began to make her way home.

Charlie approached her at speed. They had last met the day after the Denise Roberts fire, when the ratty little ringleader of a gaggle of girls had pushed Charlie towards Naomie Jackson, claiming her friend had seen their runaway arsonist.

‘Nice to see you again too. What’s your name?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Name.’

‘Danielle Mulligan.’

‘That’s better – see, you can be nice when you want to.’

‘What’s this about? I can’t stand here like this -’

‘You’ll stand there until I’ve finished with you. Got it?’

Danielle shrugged, seemingly determined not to give Charlie the satisfaction of her full acquiescence.

‘Talk to me about Wednesday night.’

‘What about it?’

‘According to Naomie, you all went to a pub near the Common. Which one was it?’

‘The Green Man.’

‘When did you get there?’

‘Around nine, I think.’

‘And Naomie was with you?’

‘Course.’

‘What time did she leave that night?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’

‘She said she left early to go home, is that right?’

‘If she says so.’

‘What do you say?’

‘Yeah, sure, she left early.’

But she didn’t sound sure and Charlie knew she had to press further.

‘When did you leave?’

‘Midnight. Half past maybe. They had a lock-in, so…’

‘And did you see Naomie leaving?’

‘No, I was drinking, having fun with my mates, wasn’t I?’

‘Did you take any pictures that night? On your phone?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You said you were mucking around with your friends so…’

Suddenly Danielle looked evasive and Charlie followed up quickly.

‘Give me your phone.’

‘I haven’t got it on me…’

‘Your hand’s been clamped in your jacket pocket since you left the house. I know you’ve got it and I’d like to see it. And before you kick off, I’m happy to do this at home with your folks, if you’d pref-’

‘All right, all right,’ Danielle said scowling, as she delved into her pocket and dug out her phone. ‘Knock yourself out.’

Charlie took it from her and opened up her photos. Quickly she scrolled back through the days before alighting on Wednesday’s date. Predictably there were dozens of photos. Danielle was part of the generation that lived their lives in public and Charlie was amused to see photos of Danielle’s painted toes, her tattoos, several trial hair-dos, plus a cheeky shot of her mum in her dressing gown among the snaps Danielle had posted that day.

But Charlie was interested in the evening photos and flicked to them now. The gaggle of girls had been in high spirits and there were plenty of stupid, drunken poses. Naomie Jackson was there, not quite in the thick of things but present and enjoying herself, it appeared. Charlie moved through them more carefully now, checking the times that each photo was taken. 10.30 p.m., 10.47 p.m., 10.49 p.m., 11.12 p.m., 11.13 p.m., 11.25 p.m., 11.38 p.m…

And it was with this last one that Charlie had the evidence she needed. Naomie had previously said that she’d left the pub early and headed home, encountering the fleeing arsonist en route, a few minutes before 11.30 p.m. And yet here she was, pictured in the pub with her mates at 11.38 p.m. She had never left the pub – had stayed with them almost to the bitter end, it appeared.

If the timings on Danielle’s phone were correct – and there was no reason to doubt that they were – then it was clear that Naomie had spun them a story about her movements that night. She had been lying when she said she encountered the arsonist. More importantly, she had been lying to them when she said she started the fire in Denise Roberts’s house.

McAndrew stopped in her tracks the moment she saw him.

She’d visited the hospital first thing to speak with Mandy Blayne’s care team, who’d confirmed that mother and baby were doing fine. Satisfied and relieved, McAndrew had decided to visit the ward briefly before leaving. Mandy didn’t have any family locally and, given what she’d been through, McAndrew was keen to spend a few minutes with her before getting back to work. But as she approached her bedside, she realized that Mandy was not alone.

A man in his forties was sitting with her, holding her hand and talking earnestly to her. Normally she would have withdrawn – their conversation was intense and intimate – but this time she had no intention of leaving. There was something familiar about this guy, even though McAndrew was sure she’d never seen his face before. The dark jeans, work boots, puffawaist coat – this was the man whom they had caught on CCTV jogging away from Denise Roberts’s house. It was Naomie Jackson’s father, Darren Betts.

‘Why didn’t you come forward?’

McAndrew had hauled Darren Betts out of the ward and now sat opposite him in a junior doctor’s office. She’d have preferred to interview him back at Southampton Central, but she had no grounds to arrest him – yet.

‘You must have known it was you in that CCTV footage.’