‘Thanks, Stefan,’ she said.
He let go of her and turned to India. ‘Thank you for bringing her,’ he said in heavily accented English. He looked back at Vicky. ‘I never had chance to thank you before so now I thank you.’ He transferred the magazines to his left hand and put his right hand over his heart. ‘I thank you now, from my heart.’
A small dark-eyed woman with her hair covered with a brightly coloured headscarf came up, holding two small boys by the hands. Like Stefan she was wearing a long wool coat that had seen better days. The two children were wrapped up in black wool jackets and padded trousers. ‘This is my wife, Maria,’ said Stefan.
Vicky smiled down at her. ‘Pleased to meet you, Maria,’ said Vicky.
Maria smiled up at Vicky but her eyes widened when she saw the scars on her cheek. Then she frowned. ‘Was that the fire?’ she whispered.
Vicky nodded.
‘My lady, I am so sorry,’ she said. She let go of the child on her right and reached for Vicky’s hand, then pressed it against her own forehead. ‘I thank you with all my heart.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Vicky. ‘I was just doing my job.’
‘You gave me back my husband,’ she said. She kissed the back of Vicky’s hand. ‘Thank you.’
India was watching and scribbling in a small notebook. ‘Right, let’s get that picture, shall we?’ She looked over at the photographer. ‘This is Delmar, he’ll be taking the pictures.’
Delmar nodded curtly as he adjusted his lens. ‘How about Vicky and Stefan stand together, and we’ll do the family shot later,’ he said.
Stefan stood next to Vicky, clutching his magazines to his chest.
‘Okay, big smiles,’ said the photographer.
Vicky smiled and tilted her head to the side so that her hair covered her scarred cheek. The photographer clicked away. ‘Stefan, maybe put your arm around Vicky,’ he prompted.
Stefan did as he was told and gave Vicky a squeeze.
‘Good, perfect, now big smiles,’ said Delmar. He took a dozen or so shots and then asked Maria and her children to join in. Stefan and Maria stood either side of Vicky and the children in front. Delmar nodded enthusiastically. ‘Terrific,’ he said, and began snapping away.
Vicky tried to keep her right side towards the photographer and it was clear from the way he was aiming his lens that he was happy not to shoot her scars.
After a few minutes he stopped shooting and India went over to talk to him. He held the camera out and began showing her the pictures he’d taken.
Vicky turned to look at Stefan. ‘Stefan, when you were living in the hotel in Kilburn, did you take electricity from the mains?’
He frowned, not understanding the question.
‘Did you take electricity?’ she repeated. ‘Power? In the hotel?’
‘You mean steal? We not steal anything.’ He folded his arms defensively.
His wife leaned over and spoke to him in Romanian. He answered, gruffly. Maria turned to Vicky. ‘We never took electricity. It is illegal. In England you can stay in a house and the police can do nothing. But if you steal the gas or the electricity they can throw you out. So we never took electricity.’
‘What about anyone else staying there?’
She shook her head. ‘No one would steal electricity. Why do you think we did?’
‘They think the fire started near the electricity meter. In the bar.’
She shook her head again. ‘We didn’t go in the bar. We stayed upstairs. Always upstairs. We didn’t want anyone looking in the windows at us. Many people do not like Romanians. Sometimes we have problems.’
‘And you didn’t have electricity upstairs?’
‘No. No electricity. We use gas cylinders to cook.’
‘What about charging your phones?’
‘We did that outside.’
‘Did anyone from the police or the fire brigade come to talk to you about the fire?’ asked Vicky.
Stefan and Maria shook their heads.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Vicky. ‘No one?’
‘Sure,’ said Maria.
‘Yes,’ said Stefan. ‘Sure.’
India came over, beaming. ‘Everything okay?’ she asked.
‘All good,’ said Vicky. She looked at her watch. ‘I need to be going.’
‘Thank you so much for agreeing to do this.’
‘No problem, but can you do me a favour?’
‘If I can.’
‘Can you quote me as saying I love working for the investigation team, they’re a great bunch of professionals who do fantastic work. Maybe something that investigators save more lives than firefighters.’
India looked pained. ‘Did your bosses not like the piece I wrote?’
‘They felt that maybe I was not being supportive enough of the unit,’ said Vicky. ‘If you could redress the balance in the next article, you’d be doing me a favour.’
India nodded. ‘Not a problem. And thanks again.’
They shook hands and Vicky headed back to the multi-storey to get her car. Her phone rang as she got into the driving seat. It was Farmer. ‘Yes, guv.’
‘Where are you, sweetheart?’
‘On my way in. What’s up?’
‘You got anything on tonight?’ he asked.
‘In what way?’
‘I thought maybe we could take a run out to see Willie Campbell. He’s not answering his phone and we could do with asking him a few questions.’
‘I’m up for that.’
‘Great. And you can drop me home afterwards?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s a date then.’
‘A date?’
Farmer sighed. ‘It was a joke.’
‘Ah, right, guv. Hilarious.’
44
Farmer knocked on Vicky’s door and pushed it open. ‘You good to go?’ He already had a coat on over his uniform.
Vicky looked at her watch. She’d been so busy updating her recent cases that she hadn’t realised her shift was over. ‘Yes, guv.’
‘Let’s head off then.’
Vicky picked up her jacket and followed Farmer down the stairs to where she’d parked the BMW. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as she climbed into the driving seat.
Farmer grunted as he lowered himself down. ‘This is so bloody low on the ground,’ he complained.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Vicky. ‘Would you like me to get you a cushion?’
He looked across at her, eyes narrowing. ‘I’ve been noticing a tendency for you to be sarcastic lately,’ he said.
‘I can’t think where I picked that up,’ she said. ‘I’ll try to be less so. Where are we going?’
‘Hackney,’ he said. ‘Head north.’
‘Something you need to know,’ she said as she started the engine.
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘I went to see that journalist this morning.’
‘You didn’t kill her, I hope.’
Vicky chuckled as she edged the BMW out of the car park. ‘No, I wanted to meet the guy I pulled out of the fire. She’d found him.’
Farmer looked over at her. ‘What did he have to say?’
‘They never touched the electrical consumer board. He was definite about that and so was his wife.’
‘They could be lying.’
‘They could be, but I don’t think they were. The wife had a good point. If you’re just squatting, the cops stay away. But if you start stealing electricity it becomes theft and that’s a criminal matter. So they said they never tampered with the board.’
Farmer nodded. ‘That’s interesting.’
‘Isn’t it? And no one ever tried to talk to them, after the fire. Not the cops and not Willie. There are only two witnesses quoted in Willie’s report and they were passers-by.’
‘But he did speak to the person who called nine nine nine?’
‘That was one of the passers-by. He saw flames through the window and made the call. And he stayed there to wa
tch while the fire brigade attended. Turns out he was an off-duty community support officer. The thing is, that journalist had no trouble tracking down the guy I pulled out, so why didn’t Willie?’
‘It’s a good question, and one we can put to him when we see him.’ He pointed ahead. ‘Hang a right there.’
Farmer gave her directions to Campbell’s house. His knowledge of London’s roads was impressive and Vicky was starting to think that he was right, it was better to know where they were going rather than relying on the satnav. It was the same with taxis – a black-cab driver who had done the Knowledge and knew every street and landmark in the City was always going to get you to your destination quicker than a minicab driver who was following a route on his iPhone.
Campbell’s house was a neat semi-detached with roses growing in the front garden. The driveway was empty so Vicky pulled in and parked in front of the garage. Farmer walked up the path and rang the bell. The garage had glass panels along the top. Vicky stood on tiptoe and peered in. ‘No sign of a car,’ she said.
‘Probably playing golf,’ said Farmer. He rang the bell again and then stood back to look up at the bedroom windows. He took out his mobile phone and called Campbell’s number again. It went straight through to voicemail.
A middle-aged woman weighed down with full Waitrose carrier bags turned into the path of the house next door. ‘Are you looking for Willie and Ann?’ she asked, peering at them through thick-lensed glasses.
‘Are they out?’ asked Farmer.
‘They’re in Spain,’ she said, putting down her carrier bags and pulling her keys from her handbag.
‘Holiday?’
‘A long holiday,’ she said. ‘They’ve bought a villa out there.’
‘Nice,’ said Farmer.
‘Lovely place it is,’ said the woman. ‘Four bedrooms, terrace, pool. And it’s on a fantastic golf course.’
‘Willie loves his golf,’ said Farmer. ‘So when will he back, do you know?’
‘I’m really not sure. Ann said they were planning to spend the winter months out there and the summers here.’ She put the key in the lock. ‘They’re doing the right thing, that’s all I can say. I’d be out in Spain like a shot if I could.’ She disappeared inside with her shopping and closed the door behind her.
‘That’s interesting,’ said Farmer.
‘He didn’t mention he was moving abroad?’
‘Sure, he always said he wanted to retire to Spain but he said he’d have to sell up here first.’ He pulled a face. ‘Maybe he came into money.’
Vicky’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking?’
Farmer wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m a suspicious bugger, I know, but let’s not go counting chickens.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Right, are you okay to drop me at home?’
‘Of course. What’s happening with your car?’
‘It’s in the garage again. I’ve told them they’d better put it right this time or there’ll be hell to pay. We’ve got four days off now so I’m going to make sure it’s done properly.’
‘You should threaten to burn the place down. That’d get their attention.’
Farmer wagged a finger at her. ‘See now, that’s not funny,’ he said. ‘But you know, you might have a point.’ He gestured at the BMW. ‘Okay, so home, James, and don’t spare the horses.’
Vicky tugged her forelock. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
45
Vicky looked around, panting for breath. The whole room was ablaze now and her body was bathed in sweat under her tunic and leggings. She bent down and grabbed the injured man under his armpits but he was too heavy and no matter how much she strained she couldn’t lift him. She released her grip and hurried around to kneel down next to him. Her mask was misting up and it was as if she was looking through a thick fog. She wiped the visor with the back of her glove but it didn’t make any difference. The injured man forced a smile. It was her father. He was wearing his helmet but no breathing apparatus and every breath he took was an effort. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, you did your best,’ he gasped.
‘I’ll save you, Dad, don’t worry.’
Her father smiled. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
In the distance she heard a siren kick into life. ‘They’re coming, Dad. They’re coming to save us.’
Her father shook his head. ‘No, sweetheart, it’s too late. You have to let me go.’
‘Dad, no!’
The siren got louder and louder, then the sound changed. It was her mobile ringing and it jerked her awake. She lay on her back, panting for breath, then groped for her phone. Farmer. She frowned. Their run of four shifts had come to an end and she was now off-duty for four days. ‘Yes, guv,’ she said.
‘Wakey wakey, rise and shine,’ said Farmer.
‘What’s up?’
‘You’re going to prison, sweetheart.’
Vicky ran a hand through her tousled hair. ‘What are you talking about, guv? We’re off for four days, remember?’
‘I think I know who burned you. He’s behind bars now. Peter Mulholland got back to me with a name and he fits the bill. Can you pick me up? I’ll have breakfast ready. And wear your uniform.’
‘Okay,’ said Vicky. She showered, dealt with her scars and dressed in her uniform.
By the time she went downstairs her mum was already in the kitchen. She frowned when she saw what Vicky was wearing. ‘I thought today was an off-day,’ she said.
‘It was. The guv’s called me in.’
‘Well you can have a hot breakfast before you go. Surely you’ve got time for that?’
‘He’s cooking again, Mum.’
Barbara raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s a bit of a strange one, your guv’nor.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Vicky.
Forty-five minutes later she was outside Farmer’s house, pressing the buzzer. He let her in and by the time she walked into his flat he was placing a fried egg on an overflowing plate. ‘I’m out of baked beans so I went with tinned tomatoes,’ said Farmer. ‘And you’ll have to butter your own toast.’
‘No problem,’ said Vicky slipping off her jacket. As they tucked into their breakfasts, Farmer explained what was going on. ‘Remember the police investigator, Peter? He came back to me with a name, a guy currently behind bars for setting four fires for money. He was caught watching a fire he’d set in south London but they found enough evidence in his house to link him to three more. And his technique of choice was to make it look as if the electricity supply or gas supply had been tampered with.’
‘Like in the Kilburn hotel?’
‘Exactly like the Kilburn hotel,’ said Farmer. ‘Peter says we should go and have a chat with a Mr Michael Walsh, so that’s what we’re doing.’ He waved his knife at her plate. ‘How’s your egg?’
‘Perfect.’
Farmer beamed at the compliment and they both tucked in. When they’d finished Farmer put the plates in the sink and grabbed his coat. She led the way downstairs and Farmer pulled the door closed behind them.
‘I’ve no idea how to get to Wandsworth Prison, and I’ve got a perfectly serviceable satnav,’ said Vicky as she sat behind the wheel.
‘Sweetheart, they rot your brains,’ said Farmer, fastening his seatbelt. ‘I know the way.’
‘Whatever you say.’
Farmer was as good as his word and he gave her clear instructions to cross the river and drive south. It took just over an hour to reach the prison and another fifteen minutes to find a parking space where Vicky was at least hopeful that her BMW wouldn’t be vandalised.
‘So what do you know about Wandsworth?’ he asked as they walked up to the main gates.
‘Not much,’ admitted Vicky.
‘It’s what they call a Category B men’s prison,’ said Farmer. ‘It’s the biggest prison in the UK but its main claim to fame is that Ronnie Biggs escaped from here in 1965.’
‘Ronnie Biggs?’
‘Good grief, girl. The Great Train robber.
Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Ronnie Biggs?’
‘Before my time. Sorry.’
He looked across at her and frowned as if he thought she was winding him up, but then he shrugged. ‘Anyway, they were hanging criminals here until 1961. They did a hundred and thirty-five in all, and if it was up to me they’d be doing it still.’
‘Right,’ said Vicky, unwilling to be drawn into a discussion of the pros and cons of capital punishment. ‘And this guy we’re coming to see. What’s his story?’
‘Like I said, his name’s Michael Walsh, and he confessed to starting four fires that investigators originally thought were electrical faults.’
‘So why didn’t the cops connect him to my fire?’
‘Because that happened while he was out on bail, and because, as Peter said, the LFB view was that it was misadventure. It was blamed on squatters tampering with the electricity supply. The other three fires were outside London. One was in Brighton, another in Bristol, and the first one he confessed to setting was in Manchester where his mother lives.’
‘And who paid him?’
‘Different people each time. He said he was on a dark website where firestarters met to talk about their addiction and he was approached there. Money was paid into his account and the cops followed the money trail. In each case, it was either an insurance job or a developer trying to circumvent planning regulations. Walsh gave up the names and cooperated with the detectives. That’s how Peter tells it, but let’s get it from the horse’s mouth before we jump to conclusions. And this has to stay on the QT, you understand that? What we’re doing goes against all rules and policy. Mum’s the word.’
They walked in through the visitor’s entrance and joined a queue to talk to a prison officer standing behind a thick sheet of protective glass. The walls were dotted with posters about items that were prohibited in the prison and the penalties for trying to smuggle in contraband.
‘We’re here to see Michael Walsh, I’m told he’s on B wing,’ said Farmer when he reached the front of the queue. He held out his LFB ID and the officer motioned for him to slip it under the security glass. ‘I’ll need the lady’s ID, too,’ he said. Vicky pushed her ID after Farmer’s. Her hair fell away from her injured cheek and the officer flinched, but then recovered his composure and forced a smile. He checked their names against a list of approved visitors, then handed back two prison IDs to clip to their uniforms.
The Sh0ut Page 26
