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Book: Liar Liar: DI Helen Grace 4 (A DI Helen Grace Thriller) by M. J. Arlidge
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Authors: M. J. Arlidge
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puffs. But she needed to do something and there were no freesheets left to read and no more phone calls she could legitimately fake. Which is why she now found herself at the fruit machine, cherries and bananas spinning in front of her in some strange, surreal dance.
‘All right, Gary, what can I get you?’
Sanderson froze, her finger hovering over the Play button. A voice answered the barman’s jovial welcome – the accent was local and rough – and the conversation carried on in a pleasant enough vein. But there was something inthe barman’s tone that intrigued Sanderson. It sounded very much like fear.
She continued playing the machine, trying to get a sight of ‘Gary’ in the reflection on the machine’s glass front. But there was a post in the way and she couldn’t make out the face. Whoever it was, he was now talking in low tones to his fellow drinkers, wry, humourless chuckles occasionally punctuating the conversation. Why had he dropped his voice? Was this normal or had he already clocked the tall woman by the fruit machine whom no one could vouch for?
Perhaps he was watching her right now. If she turned, would she find him staring right at her? Sanderson knew from experience that a quick, darted look over the shoulder was the most suspicious move you could make and that in situations like this it paid to be up front and bold. So abandoning the fruit machine, she picked up her half-drunk pint and marched over to the bar.
‘This lager tastes like cat’s piss. Got anything better?’
The barman broke off his conversation, eyeballing her unpleasantly.
‘We don’t hand out freebies in this pub. That’ll be three pounds.’
‘Daylight robbery,’ she replied, casting an eye towards the other drinkers in search of support. But they weren’t interested in her, still deeply involved in their murmured conversations. Sanderson however was
very
interested in them and caught a good side view of Gary Spence. She had memorized his mugshot and there was no doubt about it. It was him. He was unshaven and shabbily dressed in old, stained clothes.
Tossing three coins on to the moist beer towel, she said:
‘Fill her up then. And don’t spit in it when I’m gone, eh?’
With that, she turned and headed through the bar door and down the corridor to the Ladies. Pushing inside, she counted to twenty, listening sharply for any signs of pursuit. Then, hearing nothing, she pulled her phone from her pocket and dialled Helen Grace’s number.
26
The car sped through the streets, bullying the traffic out of its way. The sirens weren’t on, but the flashing blue light was having the desired effect. The roads were clogged today – it was less than three weeks until Christmas and Southampton was full of out-of-town shoppers – but their progress was swift nevertheless. It was almost as if people knew how important this was and made way accordingly.
Helen always felt more comfortable on two wheels than four, so she’d let Charlie drive. There were three other cars making their way to the scene – Helen wanted to create a secure perimeter around the pub – meaning that for once Charlie and Helen were travelling alone. The road had opened up now and they were finally entering Millbrook. Helen could see the police incident boards on the pavement, appealing for witnesses to the Simms house fire and it refocused her mind on what lay ahead.
Pulling up around the corner from the Hope and Anchor, Helen took out her police radio. She could see one unmarked car in place and wanted to check that the other two were in their positions. A swift radio round established that they were.
‘Right, let’s do this. Ready?’
Charlie nodded, so they climbed out of the car and hurried round the corner to the pub. Some officers – mostlymale – would have advocated a mob-handed approach, going through the front door with a phalanx of uniformed officers in body armour. They thought this was a safer, more effective approach to
‘All right, Gary, what can I get you?’
Sanderson froze, her finger hovering over the Play button. A voice answered the barman’s jovial welcome – the accent was local and rough – and the conversation carried on in a pleasant enough vein. But there was something inthe barman’s tone that intrigued Sanderson. It sounded very much like fear.
She continued playing the machine, trying to get a sight of ‘Gary’ in the reflection on the machine’s glass front. But there was a post in the way and she couldn’t make out the face. Whoever it was, he was now talking in low tones to his fellow drinkers, wry, humourless chuckles occasionally punctuating the conversation. Why had he dropped his voice? Was this normal or had he already clocked the tall woman by the fruit machine whom no one could vouch for?
Perhaps he was watching her right now. If she turned, would she find him staring right at her? Sanderson knew from experience that a quick, darted look over the shoulder was the most suspicious move you could make and that in situations like this it paid to be up front and bold. So abandoning the fruit machine, she picked up her half-drunk pint and marched over to the bar.
‘This lager tastes like cat’s piss. Got anything better?’
The barman broke off his conversation, eyeballing her unpleasantly.
‘We don’t hand out freebies in this pub. That’ll be three pounds.’
‘Daylight robbery,’ she replied, casting an eye towards the other drinkers in search of support. But they weren’t interested in her, still deeply involved in their murmured conversations. Sanderson however was
very
interested in them and caught a good side view of Gary Spence. She had memorized his mugshot and there was no doubt about it. It was him. He was unshaven and shabbily dressed in old, stained clothes.
Tossing three coins on to the moist beer towel, she said:
‘Fill her up then. And don’t spit in it when I’m gone, eh?’
With that, she turned and headed through the bar door and down the corridor to the Ladies. Pushing inside, she counted to twenty, listening sharply for any signs of pursuit. Then, hearing nothing, she pulled her phone from her pocket and dialled Helen Grace’s number.
26
The car sped through the streets, bullying the traffic out of its way. The sirens weren’t on, but the flashing blue light was having the desired effect. The roads were clogged today – it was less than three weeks until Christmas and Southampton was full of out-of-town shoppers – but their progress was swift nevertheless. It was almost as if people knew how important this was and made way accordingly.
Helen always felt more comfortable on two wheels than four, so she’d let Charlie drive. There were three other cars making their way to the scene – Helen wanted to create a secure perimeter around the pub – meaning that for once Charlie and Helen were travelling alone. The road had opened up now and they were finally entering Millbrook. Helen could see the police incident boards on the pavement, appealing for witnesses to the Simms house fire and it refocused her mind on what lay ahead.
Pulling up around the corner from the Hope and Anchor, Helen took out her police radio. She could see one unmarked car in place and wanted to check that the other two were in their positions. A swift radio round established that they were.
‘Right, let’s do this. Ready?’
Charlie nodded, so they climbed out of the car and hurried round the corner to the pub. Some officers – mostlymale – would have advocated a mob-handed approach, going through the front door with a phalanx of uniformed officers in body armour. They thought this was a safer, more effective approach to
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