Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) by M. J. Arlidge Read Free Book Online

and turned the ignition.
    ‘One last question. Are you expecting more fires?’
    As ever, Emilia had saved her best question – her real question – for last.
    ‘I sincerely hope not’ was Helen’s neutral reply, as she slipped on her helmet and sped away. But she had spent half the night wondering the very same thing. The three fires had been so ‘impressive’, so devastating, so
newsworthy
, wouldn’t the perpetrator feel some sense of triumph now? They had achieved their aims and got away scot free. So what was to stop them doing exactly the same thing again?

18
     
    Denise Roberts stood in front of the full-length mirror. She turned this way, now that, appraising herself. She had spent a small fortune on her new underwear and she wanted to be reassured that it had been money well spent. Tonight was important – she’d been thinking about nothing else for days – and she wanted it to be right. No, she wanted it to be perfect.
    Throwing on a dressing gown, she marched down the stairs towards the living room. She lived in a two up, two down in Bevois Mount which was well cared for and pleasant enough – or at least it would have been were it not for the constant presence of her layabout son.
    ‘Get off your arse and tidy this place up,’ Denise ordered, as she bustled into the living room. Her son, Callum, a truculent sixteen-year-old, always acted up when she had someone coming round and today was no different. A half-eaten bowl of Cheerios sat next to a mug of coffee, as usual plonked down on the wooden coffee table without a coaster. Magazines and freesheets littered the floor and her son sat beached on the La-Z-Boy, eyes fixed to the large plasma screen on the wall.
    For a moment, Denise’s eyes strayed from the shambles in the living room to the TV. She was ready to launch another broadside at him for his viewing habits – he couldwaste a whole day watching
Dog the Bounty Hunter
and
Ice Road Truckers
– but momentarily she paused. He wasn’t glued to these staples today – for the first time in living memory he was actually watching the news. The screen was dominated by terrible pictures from last night’s fires. There were reporters at each scene relaying the latest news – overnight a mother of two had died – and this was the national news, not local. Southampton was suddenly on the map for all the wrong reasons.
    ‘A change from your usual rubbish,’ Denise commented drily, casting an eye in her son’s direction. But he seemed not to hear her – his attention was totally fixed on the screen. As was customary now there was endless amateur footage of the fires (not to mention the many eyewitness accounts of publicity-hungry meddlers) being replayed, meaning that the news channels could replay the fires as ‘live’ hour after hour. It was strangely hypnotic to watch – the huge flames from the timber yard exploding upwards as the warehouse roof collapsed – but still her son’s trance annoyed her. She couldn’t have him lying about, cluttering the place up. Not today.
    She gave him a little kick.
    ‘What the fuck?’ he spat out, snarling at his mother.
    ‘You need to shift. I need to be tidying.’
    ‘Big night, is it?’
    ‘Callum …’
    ‘Got something nice in store for him, have you?’
    ‘Watch your mouth,’ Denise replied, her anger colliding with a strange and unnecessary sense of shame. What did she have to be ashamed about? She was a single woman, with many good years left in her, why shouldn’tshe seek out a little affection? A little love? She got precious little from her own family.
    ‘Now shift before I say something I regret,’ she continued, bending to pick up the discarded magazines. ‘Come on, out!’
    Still he didn’t move. Denise could usually predict his every thought, his every action – he was her only child and she had spent her whole adult life raising him. But something was different about him today. He was unreadable.
    ‘Why do you let him come