She took a sip of lager. ‘I was thinking about the smoke alarm thing.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I get what you’re saying, that the dead batteries are a common link. He takes out the batteries and replaces them with dead ones so that no one is surprised when the smoke alarm doesn’t go off.’
‘That’s what I figure, yes.’
‘But that would mean he’s targeting women with smoke alarms and that wouldn’t make any sense at all. No one would do that. If anything, he’d be targeting women without alarms because that would be easier.’
‘But there’s no way it’s a coincidence, you can see that. The dead batteries are all the same brand. The odds of that being a coincidence are …’ He shrugged. ‘Astronomical.’
‘But that’s what I mean. You’ve been using the dead batteries as a way of linking the cases, and you’ve come up with fifteen, right?’
Farmer nodded. ‘Sixteen, including the latest.’
‘The point I’m making is that there could be cases where there were no smoke alarms. If he killed them and started a fire to cover his tracks, it wouldn’t be on your radar because you’re only looking at cases with non-functioning smoke alarms.’
‘I get that, but this is a way of narrowing the cases down.’
‘Exactly. But by doing that, you could be underplaying the scope of what he’s doing. You’ve got sixteen cases. There could be sixty. Or even more. This could be way, way bigger than you think.’
Farmer ran a hand through his hair. ‘I agree, but it would take for ever to go through every single fire death in the UK. By looking at those with dead batteries, I’m able to see the wood for the trees.’
‘Yes, but you don’t have to look at the whole forest. He has a type. Women who live on their own. Not too old, not too young. And blond.’
Farmer shrugged. ‘It’s a big enough job as it is,’ he said.
‘The more cases you have, the more likely it is you’ll find a link. A pattern. And if you can find the pattern, you can find the killer.’
‘Maybe. But it’s taking me all my time just to look at the ones I have.’ He finished rolling his cigarette and slipped it between his lips.
‘So I’ll help. I’ll do the legwork.’
He waited until he had lit the cigarette and taken a drag before answering. ‘If the powers-that-be find out you’re helping me with this, there’ll be hell to pay. You know that.’
‘Don’t care,’ she said. ‘This is important. There’s a killer out there and somebody has to stop him.’
‘So you believe me?’
Vicky turned to look at the map and nodded slowly. ‘Yes, guv. I do.’
42
Vicky was working with her door closed but that didn’t seem to worry Farmer. He opened it without knocking and popped his head round. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I’m getting there,’ she said.
It had been a busy shift. A car had burst into flames on a piece of waste ground in Stoke Newington in what was almost certainly an insurance job, a housewife had been badly burnt in a chip-pan fire in Ealing and there had been an electrical fire in a lap-dancing club in Mayfair that seemed to have attracted far more appliances than was necessary. Farmer and Vicky had spent as much time driving in the van as they had at the fire scenes and they had been in such a rush there had been a stack of paperwork to do when they got back to Dowgate, all of which Farmer had dumped on her. ‘Rank has its privileges,’ he’d said, though to be fair he had made the coffees.
The car fire had definitely been set, with a piece of rag thrust down the filler neck, but the owner was claiming it had been stolen by joyriders. The fact that he was well behind on his payments and the dealer he’d bought it from was threatening to seize the vehicle suggested otherwise.
The chip-pan fire had been awful. A housewife had left the pan on the cooker to attend to one of her three young children, and had gone back to the kitchen to find the pan was on fire. She’d panicked and did the worst thing possible – she threw a bowl full of washing-up water into the flames. The water vaporised almost immediately and produced a boil over, ejecting the burning oil and water vapour out of the pan and into a large fireball. The woman had burns over her face and arms and her clothing had caught fire. By the time the fire brigade got there the kitchen was ablaze, though the woman had managed to crawl into the hallway. The ambulance arrived soon after the appliances. The woman would live but she was very badly burnt.
The fire in the lap-dancing club had been caused by a faulty circuit board controlling the lights and sound system. The club had recently paid for an overhaul of their wiring and clearly something had gone wrong, but Farmer had discovered that it wasn’t human error responsible for the fire, but vermin error. A small mouse had crawled into the equipment looking for food or shelter and had caused a short circuit.
It had been a busy day and Vicky was looking forward to going home. But Farmer clearly had other ideas. ‘So, there’s someone you need to meet,’ said Farmer.
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Peter Mulholland. He’s a Met SOCO, he was on duty the night of your fire.’
‘It’s my fire, is it now?’
‘Do you want to come or not?’ said Farmer gruffly. ‘I thought I was helping.’
Vicky stood up. ‘Sorry, guv. Thanks.’
‘I’ll see you down by the car.’
Vicky thanked him again, feeling bad that she hadn’t been more enthusiastic. He was helping and he didn’t have to.
When she got down to the car, Farmer was already waiting, wearing a raincoat over his uniform. Vicky had pulled on her coat. ‘So where are we going?’ asked Vicky, as she started the engine.
‘Marylebone,’ said Farmer. ‘The Prince Regent pub.’
‘Got it,’ said Vicky. She pulled out of the car park.
‘So this has got two engines, right?’ asked Farmer as they headed west.
Vicky nodded. ‘There’s lithium-ion battery pack that has a range of twenty-three miles. And a turbocharged one point five litre three-cylinder petrol engine.’
‘Rear-wheel drive?’
‘Sure.’
‘Top speed?’
‘More than one fifty.’
‘How fast have you have gone in it?’
Vicky chuckled. ‘I did one twenty once, but don’t tell anyone.’
‘Naughty girl.’
‘I didn’t buy it for the speed. I bought it because of the way it looks. It’s so bloody cool.’
‘It’s got a style of its own, that’s for sure. What’s it like on a regular run, fuel-wise?’
‘About eighty miles to the gallon. Less than thirty if the battery’s dead.’
‘Not great.’
She smiled. ‘I didn’t buy it for the fuel economy either. So what can you tell me about this Peter Mulholland?’
‘Old school, like me,’ said Farmer. ‘He’s been doing forensic work for more than twenty years, due to retire in a year or two, I think. Bit of a health nut, still plays lacrosse for a seniors’ team.’
‘Isn’t that a girls’ game?’
Farmer looked across at her. ‘For fuck’s sake don’t say that to Peter.’
‘I’m just saying, that’s the game girls play in public schools, throwing a ball around with a net on a stick.’
‘Yeah, well, the way Peter tells it, lacrosse was invented by the Iroquois Indians who used sticks with nets to throw around the heads of their enemies. He’s from Manchester and it’s a big butch game up there.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Vicky.
She drove to Marylebone and Farmer guided her to a parking space a short walk from the Prince Regent. It was a Victorian pub with gold-framed mirrors, lots of dark-wood panelling and extravagant chandeliers. Peter Mulholland was sitting at a corner table, a large leather briefcase at his feet. He had thick grey hair and a sharp angular face that broke into a grin when he saw Farmer walking towards him. He stood up. He was wearing a lig
ht grey suit, a white shirt and a tie with crossed lacrosse sticks on it. Mulholland shook hands with Farmer then turned to smile at Vicky.
‘This is Vicky, Vicky Lewis,’ said Farmer, sitting down at the table.
Mulholland shook hands with her. She saw his eyes narrow when he saw the scars and her mangled ear but the smile stayed genuine as they shook. ‘Des has told me a lot about you,’ he said.
‘All good, I hope.’
Mulholland wrinkled his nose. ‘Fifty-fifty, I’d say.’
Vicky’s jaw dropped but then he grinned and she realised he was joking. She grinned back. Farmer nodded at the bar. ‘You know the rules – the newbie gets the drinks,’ he said.
Vicky looked at Mulholland expectantly. ‘Vodka tonic,’ he said. ‘Ice and a slice.’ He sat down next to Farmer and they both smiled up at her.
When Vicky got back to the table the two men were looking at an LFB file on the table. She sat down and they all clinked glasses.
‘Peter can’t take anything out of the office but he’s got a memory like a steel trap,’ said Farmer. ‘I was showing him what Willie had done, report-wise.’
‘To be honest there isn’t much to remember,’ said Mulholland. He took out a dozen or so photographs from the file and spread them over the table. ‘Willie was there from the get-go and he had all the hard work done by the time I turned up. The squatters had jerry-rigged the electricity supply and it was an old building.’ He shrugged. ‘If it had been a new building with a decent sprinkler system then it would have stayed confined to the bar.’
‘Did you speak to any of the men living in the hotel?’ asked Vicky.
‘No. Why?’
‘One of the men told me that they didn’t have electricity.’
Mulholland tapped one of the photographs of the consumer board. ‘You can see the remains of the wiring there. And it was definitely the point of origin. I saw that with my own eyes.’
‘What about other points of origin?’ asked Vicky.
Mulholland frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Farmer put down his glass. ‘Vicky was at the top of the hotel,’ he said. ‘She saw fire there. And the floor collapsed below her which means the second floor had been alight and burning for a while.’
‘So the fire spread from the bar to the second floor? Nothing unusual about that, especially given the nature of the building. If it had been steel or concrete we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Some of those walls were lathe and plaster, and several layers of wallpaper over that.’
Farmer nodded. ‘But she also discovered fire on the fourth floor, at the back of the hotel.’
Mulholland looked over at Vicky and she nodded. ‘It was well alight.’
‘Nobody mentioned that to me,’ said Mulholland.
‘You didn’t look through the upper floors?’ asked Farmer.
‘There were health and safety issues,’ said Mulholland. ‘By the time I got there the place was pretty much destroyed. And as I said, Willie was there first and he seemed satisfied that the fire had started in the bar. You know how easily fires start when people start messing around with the electricity supply.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘There were no fatalities so it wasn’t a priority. You think there was something else going on?’
‘I’m thinking three points of origin, Peter,’ said Farmer. ‘Maybe more. Sorry, mate.’
‘How did Willie miss that?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll talk to him, obviously. But I wanted to see what you had to say first.’
Mulholland put his hands in the air. ‘I don’t know what to say. It looked pretty straightforward to me, from what I saw. I suppose I should have had a more thorough look around but Willie is one of the best, I assumed I could rely on him.’ He pointed at the photograph of the consumer board. ‘You can see for yourself that they tapped into the consumer board and that there was a fire there. That’s what I said in my report.’
‘And you weren’t wrong,’ said Farmer. ‘That was definitely a point of origin.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just that now, with hindsight, we’re thinking that maybe there were several points of origin. And I take your point, with the upper floors pretty much destroyed, getting up there would be problematic.’
‘So what, vandalism?’
‘Who knows? If the fire was set then whoever set it wanted it to look as if it was a consumer-board fire and your average vandal doesn’t bother doing that.’
Mulholland looked pained. ‘So you’re thinking it was a professional job?’
Farmer shrugged. ‘I’d be guessing, mate. But the building was demolished pretty sharply, and it was listed, which wouldn’t have happened without the fire.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time that a building has been torched to get around planning restrictions,’ said Mulholland. He flicked through the LFB report and frowned. ‘It’s a bit light on witness statements, isn’t it?’
‘Willie probably thought the same as you. Open and shut.’
Mulholland looked across at Vicky. ‘And he didn’t talk to you?’
Vicky shook her head. Mulholland cursed under his breath and took a long pull on his vodka and tonic. ‘But I was in hospital,’ she said.
‘What do you want to do, Des?’ asked Mulholland, sitting back in his chair.
‘I’ll talk to Willie, see what he has to say,’ said Farmer. ‘But you could maybe have a look to see if there have been any similar cases – fires that were set that started in consumer boards and spread quickly.’
‘Insurance jobs?’
‘Not necessarily. It’s the method I’m interested in rather than the reason.’
‘I’ll check,’ said Mulholland and drained his glass. ‘It might take some time, but I’m on it.’
Farmer finished his drink and both men looked expectantly at Vicky. She sighed and stood up. ‘My round,’ she said.
43
Vicky set her alarm to wake her at six, but after she’d showered, treated her scars and dressed, Barbara was already up and scrambling eggs and a cup of tea was waiting for her on the table. In the sink was a bunch of flowers that her mother had brought in from the garden. ‘How do you do that?’ asked Vicky, sitting down. Baxter scratched at the kitchen door and Barbara let the dog in.
‘Do what, honey?’
‘No matter what time I wake up, you’re always up before me.’
‘It’s what mothers do,’ said Barbara, putting toast on the table.
‘You’re amazing,’ said Vicky.
‘I’m just a mother. So where are you off to so bright and early? Not chauffeuring that horrible man again, are you?’
‘No, I’m off to see a journalist,’ said Vicky, buttering a slice of toast.
‘A story about you? That’s nice.’ She put Vicky’s eggs in front of her and then sat down. ‘Now eat up.’
‘I know, most important meal of the day.’ Vicky dug her fork into the eggs. Her mum did make the best scrambled eggs. ‘You know, mum, I may never leave here. You take such good care of me.’ Baxter woofed and pawed at her leg, wanting food, but Vicky ignored him.
‘Nonsense,’ said Barbara, though she beamed with pleasure. ‘You’ll find a nice young man one day. Maybe you already have. How is Matt?’ She began arranging the flowers in a crystal vase.
Vicky shook her head. ‘Don’t go there, Mum.’
‘I’m just saying, grandchildren would be nice. My clock is ticking.’
‘You don’t even know what that means.’
‘I know exactly what it means. I’m not getting any younger.’
‘None of us are.’
Barbara opened her mouth to speak but Vicky raised her fork. ‘Let me eat in peace, Mum.’
Barbara pretended to zip her mouth closed, but she smiled as Vicky tucked into her eggs.
It took Vicky half an hour to drive to Kensington. She parked at a multi-storey close to the offices of the Evening Standard and walked into reception and asked for India Somerville. The receptionist was a young girl bare
ly out of school who stared at Vicky’s scars with undisguised horror. Vicky turned her head so that her hair covered her left cheek. The receptionist forced a smile and asked Vicky to take a seat.
India appeared five minutes later, wearing the same red coat and carrying the same Louis Vuitton bag as the first time they’d met. They shook hands and India gestured at the doors. ‘Stefan sells the Big Issue so we thought it might make a good picture of you in the street with him. My photographer’s with him in Kensington High Street, so we’ll do it there if that’s okay with you.’
‘Sure,’ said Vicky.
They went outside and down Kensington High Street. ‘I should have asked you to bring your helmet.’
‘To hide my scars?’
India stopped. ‘God, no, that’s not what I meant. Oh my God, I’m sorry. Really, that’s not what I meant at all.’
Vicky felt suddenly guilty for making the journalist feel so uncomfortable. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
India reached out and touched her arm. ‘I just mean to show you were a firefighter. Pictorially. I wasn’t trying to hide anything.’
‘I’m just a bit sensitive, obviously,’ said Vicky. She shrugged. ‘I should think before speaking sometimes.’
‘Vicky, your scars are there because you saved a man’s life. Like he said in my article, because of you a wife has a husband and his kids have a dad. You don’t have to hide anything.’
‘Okay, thanks. And I’m sorry for taking it the wrong way.’
India smiled, then impulsively stepped forward and hugged her. Vicky felt her cheeks redden and wasn’t sure how to react. She patted India softly on the back.
Eventually India stopped hugging her and they walked along Kensington High Street to where a young black man in a leather bomber jacket and laden down with two bags of camera equipment stood next to a big bearded man in a long coat. Vicky smiled as she recognised Stefan and he grinned when he saw her and came barrelling down the pavement. He was holding a stack of Big Issue magazines and they bounced off her back as he hugged her, hard enough to knock the wind from her. ‘You are my hero,’ he said. ‘My hero.’
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