M. Arlidge - Liar Liar

‘There is a number you can call free of charge…’

His father continued in his familiar stumbling way. Had he been drinking this morning? He wouldn’t put it past him. If he and Jacqueline were ever to acknowledge the extent of their problems, they would probably classify themselves as high-functioning alcoholics. What a misguided label that was. They were successful professionally but there was nothing high-functioning about them. They were cold, cruel and self-absorbed.

He had always strived to get their attention, and when he didn’t get it, he screamed louder. And when that didn’t work, he resorted to more desperate measures. Abuse, petty acts of violence and later some firestarting. These had always been chalked up as acts of characteristic clumsiness, as the truth was rather harder to swallow. They had tried to control him through medication and later through bitches like Agnieszka, who’d shout at him then lock him in his room when she became bored of his behaviour. Still, good things come to those who wait. They had all been repaid in fine style.

His mother, still stunned from her ‘brush with death’ had now taken centre stage and was in the midst of a lachrymose appeal. Who, he wondered, was she crying for? Herself? Her marriage? Her life? Or were they tears of regret for her son? That was the only emotion he had ever inspired in her. Not love, not compassion, not even pity – just regret. For one drunken, unprotected screw that had cost them all dear.

Ethan’s eye drifted away from the screen to find the café owner staring at him once more, curious no doubt as to why his attention was fixed so raptly on the screen. The man dropped his eyes as soon as Ethan looked over, but it made Ethan think. There was one more thing to do – one last act. How long could he move undetected, now that the city was looking for him? How long before someone became suspicious? Or, worse, recognized him?

Things hung in the balance now. They were so close to the end and as Ethan turned his gaze once more to his pitiful parents, he vowed that he would not be beaten. If Naomie held her nerve, then all would be well. It was only a matter of time now, until the circle was complete.

‘How did you two meet?’

Now that Naomie was talking, Helen was determined to get chapter and verse.

‘I found him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was walking home and… I found him. He was lying face down in the street. I saw a couple of other people walk round him, like he was a drunk. But he didn’t look that way to me.’

‘He was having a fit?’

Naomie nodded.

‘He’d been out late, walking the streets. And he can feel these things when they come on – he gets a tingling in his hands and feet, his vision goes funny – but that doesn’t mean he can stop them. He’d fallen, hit his head. So I put his head in my lap and looked after him until an ambulance came. He felt he owed me, but I never felt like that.’

‘And you became friends?’

‘Didn’t have anyone else, did we? His parents liked to keep him inside, boss every second of his life, but he found his way out at night and we used to meet at the same time, same place – we used to joke that it was our ten o’clock shot. A kind of fuck you to my mum and his folks, who thought we were tucked up in bed. Not that they ever bothered to check.’

‘What did you get up to?’

‘Talked, smoked, walked a bit. We just liked being together.’

It was said so sweetly that in other circumstances Helen would have smiled. It was hard to believe that Naomie and her lover were multiple murderers, with four deaths on their conscience. Even now that didn’t seem to faze Naomie as much as it should. She seemed more concerned about her boyfriend.

‘Was it his idea? The fires?’

‘I’m not saying anything about that. You’ll have to ask him yourself.’

‘I’d very much like the opportunity, but I’m going to need specifics. Where did you go with him? Where would he go now when he needs time and space to think? Where does he go at night?’

Naomie looked at Helen. She could tell even now that Naomie was torn – she’d never thought she’d be in the position of having to betray her lover. So it was softly and with some regret when she finally said:

‘Itchen Bridge – there’s a spot under that where we used to go. Sometimes to Pear Tree Garden. Mayfield Park. The pitch and putt by Weston Hard. Chamberlayne leisure centre. Millers Pond. He’ll be at one of those tonight.’

The fight had gone out of Naomie now and for a brief moment Helen felt relief. She was sure she had been the junior player in their deadly enterprise.

‘Thank you, Naomie. You’ve done the right thing.’

‘Well, it’s all you’re going to get from me. I’ve done more than enough already,’ she said, rising suddenly. ‘I want to go back to my cell now.’

‘Sure.’

‘I want some hot food and another blanket, it’s bloody freezing in there.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Naomie was staring at Helen with real hostility now – it was amazing how quickly her mood could change. Was she angry with Helen for making her give up her boyfriend? Or did her attitude mask her fear of what might happen next? Either way, Helen was glad she had pushed her. They had the information they needed and, at long last, the end was in sight.

‘Let the others go, we need you here.’

Gardam said it gently, but firmly, leaving Helen no choice but to comply. Her first instinct as always had been to lead the search, but Gardam had argued that someone senior needed to stay at base to coordinate proceedings. The locations Naomie had listed covered a wide area of the city in Itchen, Woolston and Weston. They would throw all the resources they could at it and it was easy in these situations for the search to become diffuse and unfocused. They would need to do it square mile by square mile, guiding those on the ground from Southampton Central, ensuring no stone was left unturned.

Privately, Helen wondered why Gardam didn’t take point on this one – he seemed to be spending enough time in the incident room to do her job for her. He had a peculiar gift for becoming your shadow, monitoring your every move without ever actually intervening. Helen still couldn’t work him out. Perhaps he didn’t trust her instinct after all, despite all his words to the contrary? Perhaps he was just a voyeur, uncomfortable at being excluded from the heart of the action? Or perhaps he was just the wrong guy in the wrong job? Helen feared the last option the most. She had never needed or wanted a chaperone.

The hours flicked by – 6 p.m., 7 p.m., 8 p.m. The team on the ground had covered half of their allotted grid and still there was no sign of Ethan Harris. With each passing minute, Helen’s fears grew. Had Naomie told them the truth? Was she really prepared to collude in the capture of the guy who was her ‘family’ now? How strong a stranglehold did he have on her?

Gardam was a calming influence, moving around the incident room with coffee and words of encouragement.

‘Do you think he’ll come quietly?’ he said to Helen, seizing a lull in operations to pick her brains.

‘That depends on how much he loves Naomie,’ Helen replied. ‘If he really cares for her, then he won’t leave her to face this alone. But if he’s been using her for his own ends, if he only truly believes in himself and his own destiny, then he could become violent. He might want to make one last stand – he’s got a lot of prison time ahead of him. But the guys on the team know how to handle it – they’ll allow him to think he’s surrendering on his terms.’

Even as she said it, Helen wished she was on the ground with them. She knew Sanderson and Charlie could handle it, but there was something in her that was never comfortable taking a back seat. That’s why she had never taken the promotions that had been regularly offered her. She was a front-line soldier, never the general on the hill. Even now she itched to get out there with the team, but she did her best to disguise it, answering Gardam’s probing questions patiently, before returning to direct operations.