M. Arlidge - Liar Liar

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t take me for a fool, Darren. The whole of Southampton has seen that footage. Just like they’ve seen mugshots of your daughter, thanks to her role in these arson attacks.’

‘Kids, eh?’

‘Why were you running away from Denise Roberts’s house the night it went up?’

‘I had nothing to do with that. I like Denise.’

‘When it suited you. Did you know that your daughter hated her?’

‘Of course not, I would have straightened her out if I’d known.’

‘Tell me about your relationship with Callum Roberts.’

The sudden change of subject seemed to unnerve Betts and he said nothing in reply.

‘He hated you, didn’t he? And I bet he made his feelings plain. Did you want to teach him a lesson?’

‘I don’t go about setting people’s houses on fire. If Naomie’s coughed for that, it’s her business.’

Looking at him across the untidy desk, McAndrew felt nothing but contempt for Darren Betts. Even now that his daughter was facing a life behind bars, he accepted no responsibility for her actions, nor did he seem to care what became of her.

‘What about Mandy Blayne? Getting too clingy, was she? Trying to trap you into being a babyfather?’

‘You’re way off beam, petal. I love these women. I love them too much. That’s always been my problem.’

‘Which is why I find it surprising that you didn’t come forward after Denise Roberts was murdered?’

‘You think I’d willingly come and talk to you lot?’ Betts laughed.

‘I would if I was in the frame for murder.’

‘And give your mob the chance to fit me up? You clearly didn’t have a clue who was behind it and I know how you coppers work when you’re in a fix -’

‘Can you tell me where you were on the night of Tuesday, 8 December?’ McAndrew interrupted, changing tack again. ‘The night the Simms house was attacked? I’m going to need you to account for your movements.’

Darren Betts stared straight at McAndrew. The good humour he’d displayed thus far now vanished in the blink of an eye. His expression was cold and unforgiving. And when he finally spoke, his tone was distinctly hostile.

‘Now you listen to me, girl, and listen good . I’ve had it with these questions. My daughter is responsible for this madness – not me – and nothing you do or say is going to change that. So either you arrest me right now or you let me go back to my Mandy.’

He fixed her with a withering stare:

‘This conversation is over.’

Naomie Jackson had a rich internet history. Hunched over her laptop, Helen was climbing inside her other life now and was pretty depressed by what she saw. There were the usual celebrity and reality TV websites, Amazon, Netflix, but darker elements too – suicide websites, the Samaritans, ChildLine and posted pictures of her injuries, shared with teenagers in similar predicaments.

It was the latter that interested Helen the most and she had zeroed in on Naomie’s online ‘friends’, starting with those she had chatted to most recently. There were scores of acquaintances – people she’d never actually met but seemed happy to converse with about matters trivial or grave – but their conversations were sporadic at best, there was no stand-out friend or confessor.

There was, however, one unusual pattern: a cyberfriend whom she had chatted to repeatedly over the last six months, before suddenly dropping them three weeks ago.

Helen looked at the username. Naomie’s correspondent went by the handle of ‘firstpersonsingular’ – no first name or surname was ever referred to in their chats. It was an intriguing choice – implying a sense of difference, a unique quality perhaps but also showcasing a high level of education and exhibiting a degree of wit and sophistication in choosing a grammatical pun as their user name. This immediately concerned Helen – Naomie was not educated, not massively bright per se, whereas this person clearly was – given their vocabulary and the considered, acerbic style of their insults and character assassinations.

As a disturbing thought took hold, Helen searched for other sites or postings linked to firstpersonsingular. There were a few to choose from, but Helen homed in on a blogsite that had been recently added to.

‘When people come to judge me, they will see that none of this is my fault.’

‘Whatever, it’s important that you know I’m not mad, or bad. I’m just reacting to circumstances. Actions have consequences, my friends…’

‘They told him he was a worm, a germ, a piece of shit who should never have existed. But he did more than any of them.’

‘I saw what people said about the fire at the Millbrook – they said it was hideous, ugly, an abomination. But not to me. I thought it was beautiful.’

The posts had all been written in the last four days – after the spate of arson attacks had begun. Firstpersonsingular’s interest in the fires was telling, as was the fact that there had been no formal break-off in their online friendship with Naomie Jackson. What had happened? Had they met at some point? Decided face to face to drop online communication to attempt to conceal their connection?

Suddenly it all made sense. The reason why they couldn’t find a motive for the Simms and Harris fires. And why they couldn’t place their prime suspect at the Roberts and Blayne fires. She had hidden it pretty well, but now it was as plain as day.

Naomie Jackson had a partner in crime.

‘Can I just double-check these timings? So there’s no mistake in your statement?’

Helen was back in the interview suite, flanked by Charlie, who had just arrived back from St Mary’s. Helen had asked her to sit in, tasking Sanderson with chasing down the mysterious ‘firstpersonsingular’. It was a slight break in the chain of command, but Helen wanted Charlie’s input and, besides, it felt good to have her old friend back at her side as the case reached its climax.

‘So on Wednesday night, you left the Green Man around eleven-ish and made your way home?’

Naomie looked tired and wrung out, the product of a sleepless night in the cells. Part of Helen was pleased – it’s harder to keep your guard up when you’re exhausted.

‘More or less.’

‘I’m going to have to press you, Naomie. You left the pub around eleven, walked to Denise Roberts’s house and then what?’

‘I set the fire, like I said.’

‘So that would have been around eleven fifteen p.m.?’

‘Right.’

‘Wrong. Because you were in the Green Man with your friends,’ Helen replied, all the warmth suddenly evaporating from her tone.

Naomie’s brief shot a concerned look in her direction, but Charlie leapt in before she could intervene.

‘I’ve spoken to Danielle this morning. I’ve seen the photos, placing you there until gone midnight. We’ve also had a little look at your movements on Friday – the day Mandy Blayne’s house was targeted. The movement of your mobile signal suggests you didn’t go near St Denys.’

Charlie could see Naomie was about to kick back, so carried on quickly:

‘That doesn’t prove anything of course. You might have lost your phone or had it stolen. However, we have tallied your mobile movements with street cameras and guess what – they match.’

‘I’m now showing the suspect some CCTV stills time-coded to the hours between two and four p.m. on Friday,’ Helen said, taking over. ‘Your face can be clearly seen in a couple of them, in spite of your cap. I take it you’re not going to deny that it’s you?’

Helen pushed the stills across the table towards Naomie and her brief, but the former refused to look at them. She looked ashen.