‘Thanks, guv,’ said Vicky.
Maguire grinned. ‘I’m not one for “guv” or “boss”, just call me Danny.’
‘Will do, Danny, thanks.’ She went back and picked up the coffees and biscuits and took them along to Farmer’s office. She put them on his desk and he grunted in thanks. He gestured down the corridor with his thumb. ‘Willie Campbell retired a while back and his old office is still empty, you can pitch your tent there. Two doors along.’
‘And what do I do?’
‘Log on to the system, have a look around. I’ve got some admin to take care of and we’ll see what happens. We’re busy most of the time,’
‘Thanks.’ Vicky left Farmer and went into the corridor. The office door still had WILLIAM CAMPBELL, FIRE INVESTIGATION in the slot to the left of the door. The door was closed so she knocked just in case but there was no answer and when she opened it the room was empty. It was pretty much identical to Farmer’s office, a desk with a computer terminal on it and a high-backed chair behind it, a metal filing cabinet and a steel-framed chair. There were various rectangular areas on the walls where pictures had been hanging, and on the filing cabinet was a potted rubber plant with yellowing leaves.
She put her coffee mug on the desk and opened the filing cabinet drawers. They were empty, except for two dog-eared books of Sudoku puzzles, most of which had been completed. The desk drawers were empty and there was nothing but dust on the shelves. ‘Home sweet home,’ she said, then carried the rubber plant along to the tea room. She half-filled the sink with cold water and stood the plant in it. She heard a dog bark and she looked through the window to see Jamie encouraging Watson to play with his tennis ball. The dog was clearly having fun, its tail whipping from side to side like a metronome on speed.
Jamie took the ball from the dog and threw it across the yard. The dog ran after it, barking happily. Vicky smiled. Both Jamie and the dog seemed to enjoy their work. Watson brought his ball back to Jamie and was sitting in front of him, his tail twitching along the ground, his tongue lolling between his teeth. Jamie looked up and saw that she was watching and he smiled and waved. Vicky smiled and waved back, tilting her head so that her hair swung over the left side of her face.
16
Vicky had barely opened the front door when her mum called from the kitchen. ‘Is that you, honey?’
‘No, Mum, it’s a serial killer, come to wreak havoc.’ She closed the door behind her. It had taken her almost an hour to drive from Dowgate and she was exhausted.
‘Now why do you always say that?’ said Barbara, walking out of the kitchen and wiping her hands on a tea towel.
‘Why do you always ask me if it’s me? Who else has a key?’
‘Mrs Evans next door, for a start.’
‘Yes, but she’d ring first. I live here, Mum. Remember.’
‘Of course I remember, honey. I’m not senile yet.’
‘Is the kettle on? I’m parched.’
‘Come on and sit down. You can tell me all about your day.’
Vicky followed her mum through into the kitchen and sat down at the table. She had been living with her for more than two years. Before that she’d lived with her boyfriend Tim in a rented flat in Kensal Green. His name had been on the lease and when they broke up she’d moved out and back in with her mum. It was the house that Vicky had grown up in, a three-bedroom semi in Peckham, and she always felt comfortable there. Even before the accident she’d had no plans to move, and now she was grateful to have her mum close at hand.
There was a scratching sound coming from the back door and Vicky opened it. Their dog Baxter, an eight-year-old Labrador, bounded in, tail wagging. Vicky bent down and rubbed his chest and the dog woofed excitedly.
Barbara busied herself making tea as Vicky told her about her day – and about the Grouch.
‘He sounds like he might be challenging,’ said Barbara when Vicky had finished.
‘He’s just a bit rough around the edges. Old school. A dinosaur.’
‘Your father was old school, but he always treated women well. He treated me like a queen and you like a princess.’
Vicky laughed. ‘Dad was married to you. At work it’s different. We want to be treated just like the men. That’s the whole point of equality. We don’t want special treatment.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Barbara brusquely. ‘You want doors opened for you and you want a man to give up his seat on the Tube.’
Vicky laughed even louder. ‘Mum, the days of men giving up their seats on the Tube are long gone.’
‘You make it sound as if that’s a good thing,’ said Barbara, pouring tea into two cups.
‘We have to be treated as equal. Otherwise there’s no point.’
‘You can be equal and still be treated with respect,’ said Barbara. ‘Would he be treating you so rudely if you were a man? I don’t think so.’ She added two spoons of sugar to Vicky’s tea before giving it to her.
‘I was forced on him. He’s not happy about having to teach me.’
‘He doesn’t know what a quick learner you are,’ she said. ‘In a couple of months, you’ll be running the show.’
‘Thanks, Mum, but it doesn’t work like that.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I don’t like the way he talks to me, but back in his day women were treated as second-class citizens and they didn’t want them on the pumps. Things have changed, but dinosaurs like Des are still around.’
‘You could report him.’
‘What for? He’s not going to change, and if I go to Human Resources, I’d get branded as a troublemaker and end up in some back office somewhere.’
Barbara sighed. ‘I wish you’d just leave and find something else to do. It’s not as if you need the money.’
‘It’s what I want to do, Mum. I’ve been a firefighter for almost ten years, I don’t want to do anything else.’
Barbara sighed again, but she was smiling. ‘I know, honey. You’re just like your dad.’
‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ She sipped her tea again. ‘So what’s for dinner?’
‘I have some lovely sea bass. I was going to oven bake it with some ginger and lime. And garlic mashed potatoes. How does that sound?’
‘Brilliant,’ said Vicky. Barbara had retired as headmistress of a local primary school five years earlier and spent a lot of time watching TV cookery shows and replicating the recipes herself in her kitchen. She had always been a good cook but in retirement had started producing dishes that would do credit to a Michelin-starred restaurant. It was one of many reasons why Vicky was in no rush to leave home.
‘And I’ve got something special for dessert.’
Vicky laughed. ‘Mum, you’re going to have to go easy on me. Fire investigation isn’t as active as firefighting. If you keep overfeeding me I’ll be as big as a house.’
‘What a ridiculous thing to say,’ said Barbara, opening the fridge. ‘You need your strength.’
The fridge was an expensive Samsung; Vicky’s father had insisted on buying it because it was one of the safest on the market. Like all firefighters, her father had been a stickler for fire safety measures at home. There were carbon dioxide detectors and a foam fire extinguisher in the kitchen, two fire blankets mounted on the wall by the cooker, and smoke detectors in the hallways upstairs and downstairs. When she was a child there had been a fire rehearsal every year, always on her birthday. After her father had passed away her mother had continued the tradition. They still did the fire rehearsal every year, more as a tribute to her father than a genuine need to go back over an escape route.
Vicky put down her cup and headed for the stairs. ‘I’ll shower first.’
‘I could smell smoke on you.’
‘The guv took me to a couple of fires.’
Barbara’s eyes widened. ‘He what?’
‘They were out, Mum. That’s what we do. We visit the aftermath of fires and try to work out what caused them.’ She could see the concern in her mum’s eyes so she went over and g
ave her a hug. ‘I’m not putting out fires.’
‘Yet,’ said Barbara.
‘It’s practically an office job,’ said Vicky. ‘So don’t go overboard on the mashed potatoes. This job is nowhere near as physical as what I used to do.’ She kissed her on the cheek and went upstairs.
She stripped off her jacket and trousers in her bedroom, then stood in front of the mirror. When she had first left the hospital, she had avoided looking at herself and had hung a scarf over all the mirrors in the house. But after a few weeks she had realised that the only way to deal with the scars was to confront them head on, and now she checked herself in the mirror every day.
Vicky pulled back her hair, turned her head and examined her scarred cheek in the mirror. Dr Adams had explained that the wounds had healed and the scars were there to stay. Hypertrophic burn scars, they were called, a vivid purple and raised above the normal level of the skin. They were caused by full thickness burns, the most serious type, where the skin had been burned right through. Dr Adams had explained how the fire had damaged the dermal layer and it was that damage that produced the scars. When healthy skin repaired itself, the cells produced collagen, which was laid down to produce new tissue. But when the dermal cells were damaged the collagen got thrown together in a haphazard fashion giving the scars a completely different texture and appearance. Vicky reached up with her right hand and ran her fingertips across her cheek. It felt like plastic.
Dr Adams said that the scars would settle down over the next eighteen months or so, that they would fade in colour and became flatter and softer and more like her regular skin. But they would always be there, and they would always be noticeable. He wanted to wait at least a year before suggesting skin grafts. Until then she was going to have to learn to live with the irritation and the attention.
The fire had destroyed most of the oil glands in her skin that usually prevented the skin from getting too dry. That meant she was constantly having to moisturise the scar tissue with a high-water-content moisturiser that Dr Adams had given her. She had to avoid the sun, too. Immature scars burned easily, so she needed to apply a factor 50 sunscreen every couple of hours when she was outside.
She took off the glove on her left hand and removed the silicone gel sheets that she wore as extra protection. The gel sheet reduced the itching and dryness and Dr Adams said they would improve the rate of healing. There were half a dozen small blisters across the back of her hand but there were no fresh wounds or bleeding. The scar tissue was fragile and easily damaged and the slightest touch would make the skin blister. It was less of an issue on her face and neck, but her hand was a constant source of problems. If she knocked or banged it there would often be lesions, and even when she was careful there were almost always blisters.
The blistering and tearing would lessen with time, Dr Adams had promised, but the scarring would always be visible. They could try skin grafts but again, they would never be a perfect match to the original.
Vicky picked up a bottle of TCP, took off the cap, and dipped in a needle before piercing them one by one and dabbing them with sterile gauze. She then smeared a little antibiotic ointment on each one. It was something she had to do several times a day and had done it so often that she now performed the task on autopilot. If the blisters were really bad she would cover them with a non-stick dressing but generally it was just a matter of popping them before they got too large.
Just as she was finishing, Barbara called up from the kitchen. ‘I’m just putting the sea bass in the oven now, honey. Don’t be long. And I’ve a lovely bottle of Chardonnay to go with it.’ Vicky smiled at her reflection. There were definitely benefits in being close to thirty years old and living at home with her mum.
17
Weekends were always the best time to go trawling for victims. People worked during the week and often stayed in at night. Weekends were the time for shopping and eating out, for going to the cinema and clubs. But that didn’t mean that the perfect victim wouldn’t present herself midweek.
It was his day off and he’d been walking around aimlessly, just passing the time. He went to Oxford Street and down Regent Street. They weren’t great places for spotting victims because there were so many tourists around and there was no way he could ever get away with rape, murder and arson in a hotel. He needed locals, local women who ideally lived alone. But he enjoyed the feeling of being a predator on the prowl, of knowing that everyone he saw, every young woman at least, was a potential victim.
Mobile phones had made being a predator so much easier. When people went out on their own they usually held their phones and more often not they would be looking at them rather than at their surroundings. Young women seemed to be the most attached to their mobiles, often texting or scanning their Facebook pages as they walked through the crowded streets. That was what she was doing when he spotted her. Blond-haired, pale white skin that contrasted with her bright red lipstick. She had her head down and was smiling as she looked at the screen of her smartphone. She was wearing a blue jacket over a white dress that was short enough to make the best of her long, lithe legs. Her dress was open at the top revealing a thin gold chain and a nice cleavage. Lovely, he noticed. Almost certainly 32B.
He spotted her in Regent Street and followed her to Carnaby Street. She spent an hour going in and out of various boutiques and not once did she even look in his direction. The moment she stepped out into the street she was glued to her phone. She bought a pair of jeans in Diesel and some make-up from Urban Decay and a coffee from Starbucks and then she walked back to Oxford Street and spent half an hour walking around Top Shop but didn’t buy anything there. She dropped her Starbucks cup in a bin and went down Oxford Street Tube station, taking the escalator down to the Bakerloo line. He waited on the platform so close to her that he could smell her perfume. Miss Dior, almost certainly. When the train arrived she got on first and sat to the left, he went right. She spent the whole journey to Charing Cross station looking at her phone. That’s where she got off and transferred to a southbound train on the Northern line. He didn’t sit in the same carriage this time but stood in the one next to it, making sure he had a good view of her. She got off at Clapham Common station. All the way up the escalator she was staring at her phone.
He followed her through the ticket barrier and out on to the street. She nearly bumped into an old lady with a walking stick and mumbled an apology without looking up. She appeared to be walking on autopilot, holding her carrier bags in her left hand and her phone in her right. He was sure he could have walked next to her and she wouldn’t have noticed but he held back.
Most people looked up from their phones when they reached their destination so he didn’t want to be too close. The other side of the road was usually best, and as she turned into a street of small terraced houses he crossed over and kept pace with her. She stopped outside a house, put her phone in her mouth and fished a set of keys from her handbag.
She let herself in and closed the door behind her. He made a note of the number and the name of the road in his phone, then walked away. Terraced houses were always difficult. With a detached or a semi-detached house it was usually easy to get access to the rear of the house. Getting access to the back of terraces was problematical. He’d have to do something more creative if he was going to get into her house. Ideally, he’d get her to invite him in. He smiled to himself. It wouldn’t be a hardship. Far from it. Getting up close and personal to the victim before he struck always made the kill that much more exciting. But he was getting ahead of himself. Maybe she lived with her parents. Maybe she had a husband or a live-in boyfriend. Or rented a room. He had to check and check again, to make sure she was a suitable victim. Preparation was the key to a successful kill. Preparation and patience.
18
Vicky woke to the sound of her mobile ringing and she groped for it. It was six thirty in the morning and it was Des Farmer calling. ‘Yes, guv,’ she said, trying not to sound as tired as she felt. Baxter shifted on the
bed next to her.
‘Sweetheart, I’m going to need a lift this morning. My car was playing up last night and I now can’t get it started.’
Vicky sat up and ran a hand through her hair. ‘No problem. What’s the address?’
‘Good girl. I’ll text it to you.’
The line went dead and Vicky glared at the phone. ‘Do you have to be so bloody sexist all the time?’ she muttered. Baxter turned to watch her go but made no move to get off the bed.
Vicky padded across the carpet and down the hall to the bathroom. While she showered Farmer sent her an SMS with his address. She pulled on her LFB shirt and trousers, then carefully placed a gel sheet over the back of her left hand before pulling on a black cotton glove.
Barbara was already in the kitchen when Vicky went downstairs. ‘Tea and toast?’
There was already bread in the toaster and the kettle was boiling. Baxter woofed at the back door and Vicky let him out into the garden.
‘I can’t, Mum. The guv wants me to pick him up.’
‘So he’s treating you like a chauffeur, is he? You need to put a stop to that.’
Vicky grinned. Barbara was always the first to run to her defence. Always was and probably always would be.
‘It’s more important to keep him sweet.’ She kissed her on the cheek. ‘See you tonight.’
Vicky went through the connecting door that led to the garage and disconnected the i8 from its charging point. She climbed in and ran her hands around the steering wheel. She really did love being in the car, though she never drove above the speed limit or took the vehicle to anywhere near its full potential. She pressed the remote to open the garage door and then she pressed the starter before programming Farmer’s address into the satnav.
The Sh0ut Page 10
