M. Arlidge - Liar Liar

Helen grabbed the fire officers as they presented themselves, urging them to get people moving faster. She couldn’t smell burning, but instinct told her that Ethan Harris was here somewhere, plotting his final move in the game. McAndrew had alerted Helen to Ethan’s latest and possibly final post as ‘firstpersonsingular’, and as soon as Helen read the text of it, she knew that his mother would be his last victim.

Jacqueline Harris was a workaholic and reading between the lines probably an alcoholic too, so unless he was going to burn down her favourite bar, there was one obvious place to strike. The business she had spent twenty years building up. The realization had sent a chill down Helen’s spine: the number of innocent victims from a fire in this building would be pushing a hundred – and Helen was determined not to let that happen.

The human flow seemed to be picking up pace now and Helen scanned the faces that went by. If she were Ethan, where would she go? What would be the best place to start a fire? Ethan had taken the lift up, according to the receptionist, but had never arrived at his mother’s office. So where? The floor beneath? Possible but that was an open-plan office – how easy would it be for Ethan to talk his way in there and start a fire?

Something told Helen that that was too localized anyway, not grand enough for Ethan’s finale. And as her mind turned on this, her eyes alighted on the lift bank. That was more like it. The fire would spread quickly that way, fanning out on to the other floors. If you started a decent enough blaze at the bottom…

The basement. If he was smart, he would have gone to the basement. Helen’s eyes moved to the left of the lift bank, then to the right. And there it was. A simple, unassuming door marked ‘Staff Only’.

Helen took a step forward, but suddenly cannoned backwards. Immediately, she raised her arms to defend herself – but it was just a tearful PA racing for the main exit. The mood in the building had changed now, as the fire wardens scoured the floors, accompanied by uniformed officers, urging people to leave. The sight of a police presence had obviously spooked the building’s occupants – perhaps now they were making the connection between this alarm and the spate of recent fires. They looked scared, confused and very keen to be elsewhere.

Now Helen was fighting a torrent of humanity, surging past her, knocking her this way and that, as she fought her way towards the basement door. She did her best to let them pass, but instinct told her to move fast, so she dodged the fleeing workers as best she could, stumbling as she went. She was so involved in the fight, so determined to get through the human barrier in front of her, that she didn’t see the young guy, dressed in the dirty overalls and cap of the building’s maintenance team, gliding past her on his way to the exit and liberty.

‘Where is he?’

Naomie looked from Helen to Sanderson, then back to Helen again. Was she looking for a soft touch – a place of sanctuary? She wouldn’t find one today. Helen had her on the back foot from the moment she revealed the real name of her lover and accomplice – she could see Naomie trying to work out how they had cottoned on to Ethan when she’d given them nothing – and Helen was determined to press home her advantage.

‘His name’s in the press now. We’ve put out an All Ports Warning. He’s got nowhere to run. He’s obviously not going to go back to his parents, so tell me where he might go.’

‘I don’t know,’ Naomie replied, shaking her head vigorously.

‘Yes, you do, and if you care for him, you’ll tell us now.’

‘Forget it.’

‘Do you have any idea what will happen to him, if we don’t get to him first?’ Sanderson interrupted. ‘The people out there are angry and scared. What if they spot him, confront him. What if others pile in? You’ve seen what happens to paedophiles on estates, you know what mob justice looks like? Do you want that for Ethan?’

It was an unpleasant line of questioning, but for the first time the recalcitrant Naomie looked like she was considering offering them something, so Helen seized the opportunity.

‘I know you have feelings for Ethan. That’s why you called the fire service so quickly after you set light to his parents’ house, isn’t it?’

Naomie hesitated, then offered a brief, reluctant nod.

‘You love him and you wanted to save him.’

‘And I did the right thing. Neither of us thought it would spread that fast.’

‘So help us to help him. Only we can guarantee his safety now.’

Naomie was teetering now between her loyalty to Ethan and the force of Helen’s logic. Helen tried one last throw of the dice.

‘Despite everything, I know that you’re not a bad person. I know you have goodness in you. We found a half-built bonfire in the basement of his mother’s office block today. Ethan was about to put the lives of a hundred people in danger. Did you really sign up for that?’

Naomie shrugged, guilt playing across her features.

‘Of course you didn’t,’ Helen conceded. ‘But Ethan did. And we stopped him. And I’m very worried about what he’ll do now that we’ve stopped his little game. I know you’ve felt powerless and overlooked in your life, but it is now in your gift to help us. So I’m asking you to do the right thing. Help us bring your Ethan in safely.’

Naomie hung her head and sobbed quietly.

‘Think about it,’ Helen told her, determined to make one last push. ‘Think about what you’ve done. Karen Simms, Denise Roberts, Agnieszka Jarosik and little Alice Simms. She was just a little kid, Naomie. Six years old, her whole life ahead of her. You stole that from her – you and no one else. And I think you owe it to her family and all the families you and Ethan have hurt to end this now. I can’t have any more deaths on my conscience and neither can you.’

There was a long pause, during which Naomie continued to stare at the floor. Helen looked at Sanderson – had she even heard what she’d said? – then Naomie suddenly spoke, muttering a single word that changed everything:

‘Ok.’

He brought the cup of coffee up to his lips, but his hand was shaking too much and he put it back down with a clank. The sudden noise made the café owner look up briefly from his work, before he returned his attention to the business of pushing fatty bits of bacon and sausage round a pan. The smell of the grease made Ethan want to vomit and he was very tempted to get up and go, but caution carried the day. This down-at-heel greasy spoon in Nicholstown was a good little hideaway. The only people who came here were dossers and Polish builders, both of whom had enough problems of their own to worry about him.

He cut a ridiculous figure in his dirty overalls, but it couldn’t be helped and came in useful now. The TV that hung from the café wall broadcast Sky News round the clock and Ethan was both alarmed and amused now to see his parents sitting behind a table at Southampton Central Police Station, flanked by DI Grace.

The volume was turned down low, so Ethan shuffled his chair a little closer, straining to hear. He refused to miss this little pantomime.

‘If you can hear this, Ethan, please get in touch. We love you, son, and we just want to know you’re safe and well.’

How much must this be costing them? The lies must stick in their throat but that wasn’t the best bit. They must be cringing inside, being paraded to the world as the parents who bred a killer and never had a clue. Although they had always tried to deny it, he was their flesh and blood. And he would make them pay for that, as they had made him pay.