He realised that he’d ejaculated inside his pants. He sat back, gasping. It had been the most intense experience he’d ever felt. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling and sighed again. Best. Kill. Ever.
He rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, recovering his composure as his erection gradually subsided. He stood up slowly, then picked up the soft toys that he’d thrown on the floor and arranged them around her. They would burn well. He went downstairs and took a pair of blue latex gloves from his backpack and put them on. He got a chair from the kitchen, then stood on it to open the smoke detector. He took a dead nine-volt battery from his pocket and used it to replace the one that was there. He closed the detector and pressed the red button to check that it wasn’t working.
She had left her MacBook Pro laptop on the kitchen table. He took it upstairs. He pulled out the charger and put it in his backpack, replacing it with the one that he had bought at a market stall the previous day, so cheap that it had to be a Chinese copy. He plugged the laptop in and the charging light went on. He put the laptop on the bed next to her, then took a pack of Quavers from his backpack and sprinkled them across the bed. The curly potato snack was almost pure fat, burned easily and left virtually no trace. It was the perfect fire starter.
He made a final check of the room, then took a culinary butane torch from his backpack. He lit it and began to play the flame over the corner of the laptop. The plastic began to melt once it reached 150 degrees Celsius and then it began to smoke. He continued to play the flame across the plastic until it ignited, at close to 500 degrees. Once it had started burning he switched off the blowtorch and put it into his backpack. Thick black smoke was pluming towards the ceiling as he headed for the door. Once the laptop’s lithium battery caught fire the heat would be intense and the bed would be consumed in the fire, reducing the body to a charred skeleton in less than an hour. The fire brigade investigators would see the burnt laptop was the seat of the fire and put it down to a malfunctioning computer component. Open and shut. Jayne Chandler’s death would be a sad accident, nothing more. It was the perfect crime.
Before he let himself out of the house, he checked that he hadn’t forgotten anything, then shouldered his backpack and walked down the road. Her bedroom was at the back of the house and it wasn’t overlooked. He doubted that anyone would spot the fire until the house was well ablaze.
He began whistling softly to himself. He was looking forward to replaying the rape on his phone when he got home. He had more than a dozen videos now, and planned to have many more. Playing the video was nowhere near as good as the real thing, but it got him through the quiet times between kills.
34
Farmer opened the door to Vicky’s office without knocking. ‘Why do you always close your door?’ he asked. ‘None of us close our doors.’
‘I didn’t realise it was a thing,’ said Vicky. ‘Sorry.’
‘We have an open-door policy,’ said Farmer. ‘Literally.’ He was holding a manila file.
‘No one told me.’
‘We probably didn’t tell you to flush the toilet after you’ve used it, but that’s policy too.’
‘I’ll remember that. So how can I help you?’
He held up the file. ‘This is everything Willie did on the hotel fire,’ said Farmer. He gave her the file, sat down and swung his feet on to her desk.
Vicky flicked through the paperwork and looked at the pictures. She frowned and looked up at Farmer. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much,’ she said.
‘The bare minimum,’ said Farmer. ‘Willie ticked all the boxes, but that’s it. And there’s no mention of there being more than one point of origin. According to Willie, the fire started in the bar and spread through the hotel.’ He gestured at the file. ‘He’s blaming the homeless people who were sleeping there. He says they’d been taking electricity from the mains and that their wiring overheated and started the fire.’
‘The guy I spoke to said they didn’t have any power,’ said Vicky. ‘They had water but they were using gas cylinders for their cooking.’
Farmer nodded. ‘Willie mentioned the gas cylinders, he said they added to the fire in the main building.’
Vicky scanned the paperwork. ‘He says they tapped the mains in the bar.’ She looked up. ‘But they weren’t living in the bar. They were sleeping on the top floor of the hotel. All their stuff was there.’
Farmer nodded. ‘You’ll see from the reports that Willie didn’t talk to any of the people living in the hotel. There are interviews with the two people who called the fire in but all they confirm is that they saw smoke coming from the bar.’
‘He never spoke to me.’
‘No, but he interviewed Tony Abbey and Rick Blackwell at the scene.’
‘But they both arrived after me and neither was in the building. What about Colin Noller, Shaun Allen, Andy Mitchell and the rest of the BA team?’
‘See for yourself,’ said Farmer. ‘Senior officers only.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘It is if you’re just ticking boxes,’ said Farmer. ‘Personally, with a fire like that, I would have expected him to be more thorough. But the cause of the fire is backed up by the evidence, so far as I can see.’
‘But it spread from the bar to the rooms at the rear of the hotel. And the front.’ She flicked through the pages. ‘I don’t see anything that explains how that could have happened.’
Farmer nodded. ‘He was more concerned with the cause of the fire and the point of origin than he was with how it spread.’
‘Is that normal?’
‘If he was just box-ticking, I suppose so.’
‘What do you think, guv?’
‘I’m not one for counting chickens,’ said Farmer. ‘What I will say is that when there’s a firefighter injury usually we pull out all the stops. There’d be a health and safety investigation, the FBU would get involved, the police would carry out their own investigation, but in this case none of that happened. According to Willie, the dangerous structures engineer deemed it unsafe so no one could go in. He’s got the paperwork to back that up.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’ll reach out to SOCO and see what they have to say.’
‘What about talking to Willie?’
‘Let me talk to the cops first. No one likes being second-guessed.’
‘Whatever you say.’
He swung his feet off the desk and took the file back from her. ‘So, I need you to do something for me, by way of quid pro quo,’ he said. ‘What do you know about human spontaneous combustion?’
‘I know there’s no such thing.’
Farmer grinned. ‘Excellent. You need to talk to a journalist and put her right.’
‘A journalist? Me? Why?’
‘Because she’s been pestering the press office and they don’t know what to tell her so they passed her on to me and now I’m passing her on to you.’ He gave her a piece of paper on which was written a name – India Somerville – and a phone number. ‘She works for the Evening Standard.’
‘What do I tell her?’
‘I guess she’s got questions about human spontaneous combustion so you just answer them. I know how you girls love to natter.’ He walked out, leaving the door open.
‘Thanks, guv,’ Vicky muttered under her breath. She tapped out the number on the piece of paper. It was answered by a man so Vicky asked to speak to India and she heard him shout across the office, asking for her extension. He transferred the call and India answered. Vicky explained who she was and why she was calling.
‘Brilliant,’ said the journalist. ‘Look, I’d really like to show you some photographs I’ve got, can I pop around and see you?’
‘We’re not really geared up for visitors and to be honest I’ve got a stack of work to do here.’
‘What time does your shift finish?’
‘Why?’
‘Thought I could buy you a drink. The Steelyard is still next to the station, right?’
‘Yeah, it hasn’t moved.’<
br />
‘I meant it hadn’t closed down or anything?’
‘No, it’s still there.’
‘Look, I’m not far away. I’ll see you there for a drink.’
Vicky sighed. She was dog-tired and really just wanted to go home and sleep.
‘It won’t take long,’ pressed the journalist. ‘And trust me, these are interesting pictures. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Okay,’ said Vicky. ‘Just one drink.’
35
Vicky walked into the Steelyard and looked around. There was a young woman in a red coat standing by the bar talking to Matt, and she looked over at Vicky and waved. Vicky waved back. The woman walked over and held out her hand. ‘India,’ she said. ‘Thanks so much for this.’ She had long, curly blond hair and big green eyes and alabaster-white skin as if she never went out in the sun. Hanging off one shoulder was a Louis Vuitton bag.
‘Vicky.’
They shook hands. India’s eyes hardened a fraction when she saw the damage to Vicky’s ear and face but her smile remained professional. ‘What can I get you?’ There was a hint of Irish in her accent.
‘It’s usually lager when the guys are around, but I’d love a glass of wine.’
‘Red or white?’
‘Surprise me. I’ll grab a table.’
Vicky took off her coat and took a free sofa by the bare-brick wall. As she made herself comfortable, India came over with two large glasses of red wine. ‘The barman recommends this,’ she said.
Vicky looked over at Matt and he flashed her a thumbs-up. She raised her glass to him, tasted it, then smiled and nodded at him. He grinned back at her.
‘He’s cute, isn’t he?’ said India, sitting down.
‘I guess,’ said Vicky.
India held out her glass. ‘Well, pleased to meet you, anyway,’ she said. They clinked glasses. ‘I didn’t realise until I googled you that you were the Vicky Lewis.’
‘The Vicky Lewis?’
‘The hero. You went into that blazing building and rescued a homeless man. And you rescued that family at Grenfell Tower.’
‘Why would you google me?’
India laughed. ‘That’s the first thing all journalists do these days. Google and social media is how we do our research. I remember that fire. Didn’t you get a huge pay-off afterwards?’ She picked up her notepad and opened it.
Vicky shrugged but didn’t answer the question.
‘I just thought you’d left the fire brigade,’ said the journalist.
‘I’d never leave,’ she said. ‘Well, not until I have to retire.’
‘You saved that man’s life, didn’t you? Did he ever thank you?’
‘No,’ said Vicky. ‘I never saw him again.’
‘That’d be a great picture, wouldn’t it? The two of you together again?’
Vicky smiled. She desperately wanted to change the subject because the last thing she wanted was her picture in the paper. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure.’
‘How do you get a name like India?’
She laughed. ‘Everyone asks that question. It’s where I was conceived.’
Vicky laughed. ‘Seriously?’
‘Sadly, yes. My parents had their honeymoon in Goa and nine months later I arrived.’
‘It’s a nice name.’
‘Oh yes, but the explanation is always a little embarrassing. So, the reason I’m here. We’ve had some photographs sent in of a fire in Kensington a few weeks ago. It looks as if it’s a case of spontaneous combustion.’
‘No such thing,’ said Vicky. ‘Not with people, anyway.’
‘Then explain these,’ said India. She opened her bag and took out three colour photographs and spread them over the table. It was a body. It could have been a man or a woman, it was just a vague shape. The skeleton was there but most of the flesh had charred and burned. What was strange was that there was no burning on the carpet of the surrounding furniture.
‘When was this?’ asked Vicky.
‘Two weeks ago.’
Vicky frowned. She wasn’t aware of a body being found within the last two weeks, though it could well have happened on another shift.
‘You seem surprised,’ said India, her pen poised over her notebook.
‘If there was a fire, we should have been informed.’
‘I think because there was no evidence of a fire, other than the body, the police handled it themselves. There was no damage to the room other than the carpet directly below the body. The man who died had a cleaning lady who had a key and came in at the weekend. She’s the one who found the body.’
‘Where did you get the pictures?’
‘They came into our news desk.’
‘They look like police crime-scene photographs.’
‘I think they probably are. You can see the outline on the floor. That was a body. But now there’s just a small pile of ash. And there’s hardly any other damage in the room. It’s as if the body just burned away from the inside.’
Vicky nodded. ‘I can see that’s what it looks like. Yes.’
‘Have you ever seen anything like this before?’
‘No, but then I’ve not been in investigations for long. But when I was a firefighter I never saw anything like that. Normally the whole room would have to burn to cause damage like that.’
‘So it is spontaneous combustion?’
Vicky laughed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘As I said on the phone, there’s no such thing, not with bodies anyway. Some objects, like oil-soaked rags, can spontaneously ignite under the right circumstances, but not bodies. Google would have told you that.’
‘Actually, Google is non-committal on the subject. There are plenty of cases where there is no explanation.’
Vicky sipped her drink. ‘There have been experiments done that pretty much explain what happens,’ she said. ‘It’s called the wick effect. Something, usually clothing, acts as a wick once the skin has split open. The wick dips into the fat and the fat then vaporises and burns. Most people store fat around the torso and thighs and it burns so slowly that there isn’t actually that much heat given off. About the same as if a wastepaper basket was burning. And because it’s slow, the oxygen that gets burned is replenished. That means the fire could burn for more than twelve hours without damaging the surroundings.’
‘But how do you know the fire didn’t start from inside?’
‘Because there’s nothing inside a human body that can possibly burst into flames. It’s all very wet in there.’
‘Well, the coroner has put down spontaneous combustion as the cause of death.’
‘Really?’
‘That’s what I’m told.’
‘Without an inquest?’
‘There’s only an inquest if the cause of death isn’t known or if it was a violent death. Or if the person died in prison or police custody, which obviously doesn’t apply here.’
‘Okay, but have you actually seen this, in writing?’
‘No, not in writing. But my source is good.’
‘The reason I ask is that it wouldn’t be the coroner giving the cause of death it would be a pathologist, and no pathologist would ever give spontaneous human combustion as a cause of death.’
‘Can I quote you on that?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘But you’re sure of your facts?’
Vicky nodded. ‘Of course. But I don’t want to be out there criticising a coroner or a pathologist. Especially when all you seem to have is hearsay.’
‘Would you be prepared to say that there is no such thing as spontaneous combustion?’
‘No such thing as human spontaneous combustion, yes. But I really don’t want my name in the paper, India. My boss just said I should fill you in on spontaneous combustion, that’s all.’
‘I could just call you a member of the fire brigade’s investigation team.’
Vicky sighed. ‘I suppose that would be okay. But say something like there have neve
r been any confirmed cases of human spontaneous combustion, an ignition source is always found eventually.’
India nodded. ‘Okay, that’s cool.’ She sipped her drink. ‘Can I arrange a photograph of you?’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a good story. Firewoman hero turned investigator.’
‘Firefighter,’ corrected Vicky.
‘Firefighter. It’s a great human interest story.’
Vicky shook her head. ‘I’d rather not.’
‘Might help raise your profile.’
Vicky flashed a cold smile. ‘I don’t want my profile raised. I don’t want anyone reading a story about me.’ She waved a hand at the photographs. ‘I was happy to help with the background you needed, but I don’t want to be quoted and I really don’t want an article about me. I just want to do my job and hopefully one day get back to fighting fires.’
‘That’s what you want, to go back to being a firefighter?’
‘Of course. That’s what all firefighters want to do. To help people, and keep them safe.’
The journalist scribbled in her notebook. ‘So why are you investigating fires and not fighting them?’
Vicky shrugged. ‘You’d have to ask the powers-that-be about that. But as for a story about me … thanks, but no thanks.’ She sipped her wine. She looked over at the bar and saw that Matt was watching them. He winked and she smiled.
India reached into her bag and took out a business card. ‘If you change your mind, call me.’
‘Okay,’ said Vicky.
India smiled, gathered up her photographs and put them into her bag along with her notepad and pen, then stuck out her hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure. Thank you for your time.’
Vicky shook her hand and returned the smile. As the journalist walked away, she stared at the card, wondering if she had said too much.
The Sh0ut Page 20
