‘Didn’t you say it was listed?’ asked Farmer.
‘That’s what I was told,’ said Vicky.
‘The council doesn’t usually allow you to knock down listed buildings,’ said Farmer.
‘I guess the fire must have damaged it so much that it couldn’t be rebuilt,’ said Vicky. ‘They’ve kept the façade so maybe that’s enough to satisfy the planners.’
‘Let’s have a look around,’ said Farmer. He got out of the van and walked over to the hoarding. There was a board stuck to it with the name of the architect, the owners, the contractors and a list of prospective tenants for the shops. Next to it was another board which proudly proclaimed that there had been no accidents on the site for ninety-seven days.
Farmer pointed at the name of the owner of the building. ‘Are they the people you spoke to after your accident?’
Vicky frowned. ‘I don’t think so, no. They were lawyers representing the property firm.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Whose definition of accident are you using there?’
‘That’s a very good question, sweetheart.’ He nodded at the board. ‘It’s the same company, though? That owned the building when there was a fire?’
Vicky shrugged. ‘I couldn’t tell you. Mum had a lawyer check the paperwork and the money went into the bank.’
They got back into the van.
‘Have you looked at the file?’ asked Vicky.
‘It’s in storage, I’ve put in a request to have it pulled. But Willie knew his stuff. He was old school.’ He fastened his seat belt again. ‘It was one of his last cases, though. He retired not long after. Maybe he took his eye off the ball. What did they say to you about the cause of the fire?’
Vicky frowned. ‘To me, nothing. I was in the hospital and then I was at home. I guess I assumed if it had been deliberate someone would have told me.’
‘If there had been proof it was deliberate then there’d have been a court case.’ Farmer shrugged. ‘Okay, let’s see what the file says.’ He pointed down the road. ‘Home, James.’
Vicky drove off. She wondered what file he was talking about. The file of photographs he kept in his desk? Or did he have another file tucked away?
32
Vicky was making coffee for herself when Danny Maguire walked in. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and was carrying a Pot Noodle. ‘Any hot water going?’ he asked.
‘Kettle’s just boiled,’ said Vicky.
Maguire poured water into the noodles and Vicky wrinkled her nose at the chemical smell that filled the room. ‘So how’s it going?’ he asked.
‘All good,’ said Vicky. ‘I’m learning a lot, that’s for sure.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Danny, do you remember a fatality you handled a while back? Samantha Stewart? She was a model who died when a candle set fire to her room.’
‘Why do you ask?’
She shrugged carelessly. ‘I’m just going through old cases, getting a feel for the job.’
‘But why that case in particular?’ His eyes narrowed and she could see that he was assessing her reaction.
‘Just random.’ She realised as she said it that it sounded weak. She smiled. ‘I’m looking at a lot of old cases.’
‘Did Des choose it for you?’ He was watching her closely and she realised she had made a mistake raising the subject.
‘No,’ she said. ‘As I said, random. I’m looking at cases and seeing what the conclusions were.’
Maguire leaned against the counter. ‘What did you want to know?’
‘It just seemed strange that she didn’t wake up. The sofa was on fire, wouldn’t that wake you up. The pain of being burned?’
‘She’d been drinking. Big wine drinker was Samantha.’
‘Even so …’
Maguire sniffed his noodles and stirred them again. ‘It’s down to the way the fire spread,’ he said. ‘You’re right, if the sofa had burned right away the heat would have woken her up, unless she was blind drunk. But the candle was some distance away, near the window. A curtain blew over the candle and the curtain started to burn. Then pieces of the burning curtain fell on to the carpet and that began to smoulder. That filled the room with smoke and gasses and that’s what probably killed her.’
‘Probably? You don’t know for sure?’
Maguire shrugged. ‘Like I said, there was so much tissue damage it wasn’t possible to confirm if there was smoke in the lungs or not. But it was pretty clear from the scene what had happened. She’d had a drink or two, there was a half empty bottle on the floor by the sofa, so she didn’t smell the smoke. The smoke incapacitated or killed her and then the burning sofa did the rest. You read the report, right?’
Vicky nodded. ‘No, I get it. It seems logical.’
‘Anything else?’
She shook her head.
‘Just let me know if you do have any more questions,’ he said. ‘I know there’s a lot to take in.’ He headed back to his office, stirring his noodles.
Vicky took her coffee back to her desk, along with a cup of water for her rubber plant. She poured the water into the dish under the pot and then sat down at her terminal.
She called up the Samantha Stewart file and sipped her coffee as she studied it. The report seemed straightforward and logical and she couldn’t find anything to suggest that it wasn’t an accident. She put down her cup. Except, as Farmer said, most accidents weren’t accidents at all. Samantha had put a lit candle by a curtain. She had drunk too much wine. The battery in her smoke alarm had died. If any one of those steps had been missing, she would probably still be alive.
She closed the file and opened the one on Julia Silk. She sat back and read through the file again, more carefully than the last time she’d looked at it. Willie Campbell’s report was thorough. A neighbour had called nine nine nine after seeing flames in a downstairs room in Julia’s house. The house was well ablaze by the time two appliances had arrived from the Euston Road station. They hadn’t been able to enter the house because the fire was so severe and it had taken the best part of an hour before they got it under control. They found Julia in her bedroom, burned almost beyond recognition.
According to Campbell the seat of the fire had been a faulty plug attached to the television. The television was badly damaged but Campbell had ascertained that it had been left on. The plug had been changed for some reason and was a cheap Chinese version that failed British safety standards. Campbell theorised that the plug had overheated and started to burn, and the fire had spread across the carpets and rugs to a leather sofa that also failed to meet British safety standards.
All the floors and stairs were covered with fitted carpets in a thick pile and the sitting-room door had been left open. The fire had spread upstairs and as her bedroom door was also open it would have quickly filled with smoke. The smoke would have certainly incapacitated her and in all likelihood it would have killed her before the fire reached her. That was why the fire brigade recommended that all bedroom doors were shut at night.
In Julia’s case, open or shut, the smoke would have got to her eventually because the smoke alarms weren’t working. There were two, one in the kitchen and one in the downstairs hall and the batteries in both had gone flat. Vicky was surprised at how often people went to the trouble of fitting alarms but then couldn’t be bothered to put in fresh batteries. The pathologist’s report had said that the body was in such a bad state there was no way to confirm the presence of smoke in the lungs. In fact, the damage was so severe that she had to be identified from her dental work.
As she studied the file, Vicky realised that Farmer was right. Accidents more often than not weren’t Acts of God, they were a series of decisions that when put together led to something bad happening. And just like Samantha Stewart, if any steps had been missing, Julia Silk would probably still be alive: if she hadn’t fitted a cheap plug to her television, there wouldn’t have been a fire; if she had switched off the television when she went to bed, the plug wouldn’t have overheated; if she had put new bat
teries in her smoke alarms, they might have woken her before the smoke reached the bedroom. And if she had closed her bedroom door, the fire might have been kept at bay until the firefighters could get in to save her. So many steps, but put together they led inescapably to her death.
Vicky ran her hand through her hair and sighed. But why had Farmer put the details of her death on display in his spare bedroom? And why all the other cases? If he was investigating the deaths, why was he taking the information home with him?
Her door opened. It was Farmer. ‘I’ve got to go see a CPS lawyer. She needs her hand holding on a case they’re prosecuting. I don’t know how long I’ll be.’
‘I’ve got paperwork to catch up on,’ she said.
‘If Danny catches a good fire, you can hang out with him.’ He closed the door and she took another sip of her coffee. After five minutes she went along to his office. She knocked on his door to check that he wasn’t still there and when there was no answer she opened it and slipped inside. Her heart was racing because she knew that what she was doing was wrong. She sat down on his chair and eased the top drawer open. There was a diary there and she took it out and flicked through it. There were cigarette papers and a lighter. A small plastic box of LFB business cards. Half a dozen biros.
The second drawer down was full of files, more than a dozen. She flicked through them. None of them were related to deaths, they were all either fires in commercial premises or vehicles. She put the files back in the drawer. She sighed. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for.
There were two old smoke alarms in the bottom drawer and a handful of batteries. There was a file too, and she took it out and opened it. There were a dozen photographs, all of the same burnt building. She frowned as she recognised it. It was the hotel where she had been injured. What was Farmer doing with them in his drawer? She looked through the pictures and the images made her shudder. She flashed back to the heat and the flames and the smoke and her stomach lurched when she remembered how the floor had given away beneath her. She felt her heart race and she took a deep breath to calm herself as she closed the file.
Underneath the file was a single notebook. She took it out. There was a list of names on the first page. The top name was Diana Hewson. Underneath were eight names including Emma Fox, Samantha Stewart and Julia Silk. Then there was a space and the word LEEDS in capital letters. Underneath were three more names: Eva Hannah; Mary Frear; Catherine Woods. Then MANCHESTER and two names: Angela Griffith and Jill Clarke. Then EDINBURGH with a question mark. And below that, BELFAST and another question mark.
She started as she heard Farmer’s voice from down in the yard. She shoved the notebook and file back into the drawer and hurried over to the door. She eased it open, checked the corridor and rushed to her office. She had just reached the door when she heard Farmer at the top of the stairs. ‘You all right, sweetheart?’
She turned to look at him and forced a smile. ‘Just getting myself a coffee, guv.’
He frowned. ‘So where is it?’
She laughed and she could hear the uncertainty in it. ‘Forgot my mug,’ she said. ‘I’d probably forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ She slipped into her office and closed the door behind her, her heart racing.
She jumped when there was a knock on the door. She opened it. It was Farmer. ‘The CPS girl just phoned to reschedule so this afternoon you’ll be with me.’
‘Great,’ said Vicky.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Sure. Why?’
‘You looked flushed. It’s not the wrong time of the month, is it? I know how you girls can get.’
Vicky sighed and closed the door in his face.
33
Jayne Chandler was still alive, but she wouldn’t be for much longer. He’d met her in a cocktail bar not far from where she worked, bought her a couple of drinks and had been his usual charming self. It wasn’t hard. Lots of eye contact, expressing the right amount of interest in her thoughts and opinions, smiling when she said anything funny, touching her occasionally on the arm.
He had his backpack with him and told her that he had just left work. He didn’t tell her that it contained everything he would need to rape and kill her. It had the stun gun and pepper spray that he would have used to subdue her if she had proven difficult, but they hadn’t been necessary. He’d told her that he worked in the City, he was a metals trader, but at weekends he worked with disadvantaged children. He’d come from a broken home, he’d said, so he wanted to put something back.
All lies. His mother and father were still together and had been perfect parents. It wasn’t their fault that he’d turned out to be a sociopathic killer. It was just his nature. He’d started with animals when he was a kid, killing out of curiosity more than anything. Then he’d started to enjoy inflicting pain and he’d moved on to killing women, which was way more satisfying than taking the lives of cats and dogs. He still visited his mother and father every second weekend and at Christmas and Easter. He loved his parents and they loved him, but that’s not what he told her as he sipped his drink and looked into her eyes.
He’d slipped the Rohypnol into her third drink as he’d carried it from the bar to their table. Not too much, he didn’t want her passing out, just enough to lower her inhibitions. Rohypnol, was the perfect drug for rapists and murderers. Designed to treat severe insomnia, in low doses it was a relaxant and erased short-term memory. He bought his online from a company in Canada, delivered to a PO box in Marylebone. Getting the dose just right was the hard part, but he had had plenty of practice over the years.
He’d told her that he played badminton twice a week and she said that she loved to play and that maybe one weekend they should have a game. He told her that Brighton was one of his favourite places and she said that she had gone to university there. Small world. Except it wasn’t a small world, he had just done his research.
At ten he said he had to go home because he had an early morning conference call with Tokyo and he could see that impressed her. He knew where she lived, of course, so when he said he lived half a mile away from her house it was her idea to suggest a taxi. She used her Gett app to order a black cab, and when they pulled up in front of her house she asked him if he wanted to go in for coffee. He’d played hard to get, told her again about the early morning conference call, but then said what the heck, yes, he’d love a coffee. Coffee had turned out to be wine and he’d given her more Rohypnol and soon after that she had passed out. He’d carried her upstairs. She was so light, like a child. She’d moaned when he’d dropped her on to her bed and for a moment he thought she might wake up, but her eyes stayed close and after a while she was quiet again. He’d stripped off her clothes and put them in her laundry basket in the bathroom. He’d checked her bra and smiled when he saw it was 32B. He had been right. Back in the bedroom, he took off his clothes and put them on a chair. He set up his iPhone on the bedside table, leaning it against a lamp so he could record everything he did to her.
He was already hard, anticipating the pleasure that was to come. He adjusted her legs and gasped as he entered her. He could have used a condom, but that would have spoiled the fun. He relished knowing that they died with his life inside them. That made it so much better. Afterwards, he rolled off the bed and dressed. As always, he wouldn’t wash for a few days now, and would enjoy her smell on his body for a while longer.
He stood looking down at her. Her breasts were rising and falling. She did have lovely breasts. Soft yet firm and perfectly shaped. ‘So how was it for you, Jayne?’ he asked, then chuckled to himself. He knew that the logical thing to do would be to let the smoke kill her. The Rohypnol would keep her out while her lungs filled with smoke and then she’d die. But then he’d be missing the best part, the part that made it all worthwhile. He enjoyed the stalking and he enjoyed the raping, but the thing he enjoyed the most was the taking of their lives. To be honest, he would have preferred to do it with a cord around their neck while she was awake but she had nei
ghbours either side and he couldn’t take the risk of her screaming.
‘Are you ready, Jayne?’ he asked.
He got back on the bed and sat astride her, looking down on her face. He put his hands around her throat, softly at first and then harder. It would leave marks, but the fire would take care of them. Fire was the great cleanser. DNA, fingerprints, fibres, fire destroyed them all. He squeezed, tighter. Her head moved, but it was just a reflex. He could feel the blood pounding in her neck, trying to force its way past the blockage. He found himself growing harder as he squeezed the life out of her.
‘Is it good for you, Jayne?’ he whispered, putting his face closer to hers. Her eyes opened wide and he saw the panic in them. Her mouth worked soundlessly and the fear grew exponentially as even through her drugged state she realised what was happening. His heart was pounding now at the perfection of the kill. She was awake. She was looking at him, right at him. She knew what he was doing to her and that his would be the last face she would ever see. He relaxed his grip on her throat, just enough to allow a little blood up to the brain. She began to struggle but his legs kept her arms pinned to her side. He would have loved to have taken his hands away and hear what she had to say but he couldn’t risk her screaming so he tightened his grip again, then bent down and kissed her on the lips. She was bucking underneath him now, trying to throw him off, but he was bigger and heavier and she was drugged up to the eyeballs. ‘That’s it, Jayne, fight!’ he whispered into her ear. ‘It won’t do you any good, but fight as you die. That makes it so much better for me.’
He squeezed tighter and then suddenly her eyes closed and she went still. He wondered if she was faking it so he kept his grip tight and sure enough after ten seconds had passed her eyes opened and she began to struggle again. He ground himself down against her and felt his fingertips touch behind her neck, and then she went still again and this time he knew she wasn’t faking it because the life faded from her eyes. He let go of her neck and shuddered with pleasure.
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