Liar Liar

57

Something was wrong in this house. Charlie had felt it the moment she stepped inside. Everything was in the right place, there were no obvious signs of anything amiss, but the whole place felt unused, like a museum. It looked – and smelt – stale.

Richard Ford had been less than pleased to find Charlie waiting for him on his doorstep. He had been helping out at one of the fire sites, he’d told her, shifting some of the detritus, so the arson team could do their work. He was dirty and sweaty and stank of smoke – clearly he had been looking forward to getting a shower. But instead he found himself answering the gentle questions of a DC, probing him about his work patterns and movements over the last couple of days. Charlie didn’t blame him for being irritated and yet that wasn’t quite it. He seemed to be giving off something else. Suspicion? Anxiety? Something else? Charlie couldn’t put her finger on it.

He’d been carrying a black bin liner, which he made no reference to, stowing it in the hall cupboard, before shepherding Charlie into the old kitchen. He’d put the kettle on for tea, but it laboured to work up a head of steam. It was as if everything was slightly off here – the slow tick-tock of the dusty carriage clock on the mantelpiece giving the dated kitchen the washed-out feel of yesteryear.

‘Do you live alone?’ she asked.

‘Yup. Mum died a few years back. Got a sister, but she didn’t want any of this,’ he replied gesturing to the house. ‘She emigrated to Oz.’

Charlie could hardly blame her. As Ford now made the tea in what looked very much like two dirty cups, Charlie’s eye ran over the Hants Fire and Rescue tattoo that graced his left bicep. The sight set her nerves jangling, but when Ford turned to her, Charlie was all smiles once more.

‘And last night you were home alone?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You didn’t go out at any time? To the shops? Anything?’

‘No. Why?’

‘These are just standard questions. We’ve been asked to verify the movements of everyone on the fire team… So what about Tuesday night? The night of the first fires -’

But Charlie got no further. Her mobile rang out, disturbing the eerie quiet of the house.

‘I’d better take this. Sorry,’ Charlie said as she hurried out into the hall. Ford watched her go, seemingly neither surprised by nor interested in her sudden departure.

‘Charlie Brooks,’ she said cheerily, as she scuttled into the small parlour opposite. It was even more forgotten than the kitchen, and Charlie’s eyes flicked over the dusty surfaces, as Helen filled her in on the latest developments. Charlie responded steadily, giving affirmatives where necessary, keeping calm, but she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck starting to rise. When she rang off, she hesitated for a moment to quieten her breathing. If she played it cool, this would probably work out fine. Helen was on her way, so summoning up her courage, Charlie marched back into the kitchen.

‘Sorry about that. Normal nonsense about being in two places at -’

Then Charlie stopped dead. Richard Ford was nowhere to be seen.