The Sh0ut

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Do you have any weapons?’ asked the prison officer.

  ‘Just my rapier-like wit,’ said Farmer. It was clear from the look on the officer’s face that he was in no mood for humour so Farmer smiled an apology. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘No,’ said Farmer.

  The prison officer pointed at a set of sliding glass doors to his left. ‘I’ll open these doors, you walk in, and the doors will close. You pass through any mobile phones you have to my colleague, and she will give you a token so that you can get them back when you leave.’

  Farmer smiled and nodded and the officer pressed a button to open the doors. They stepped through and the doors rattled shut. The female officer seemed as humourless as the first so Farmer and Vicky said nothing as they handed over their phones and received blue circular numbered tokens in return. A second set of doors rattled open and they walked through into a corridor where there was an airport-style metal detector. They put anything that might set it off into plastic trays and walked through. Another prison officer was there to greet them, a big woman with close-cropped hair and the forearms of a weightlifter. She introduced herself as Ms Collier and made no move to shake hands, instead twirling a set of keys on a chain with her right hand. ‘This way,’ she growled and led them down a corridor past several identical doors. She turned left at the end of the corridor then stopped at the second door. There was an alarm above it and a plastic sign that said INTERVIEW ROOM.

  The officer opened a door to an interview room and showed them in. There was a single Formica-topped table that was bolted to the floor with four plastic chairs around it. ‘Take a seat and I’ll have someone fetch Mr Walsh for you,’ she said, and closed the door.

  Vicky looked at Farmer in surprise. ‘Mr Walsh?’

  ‘Everyone has to be shown the right amount of respect these days, less their fragile egos are damaged,’ said Farmer. ‘Have you seen a prison cell? Even in an old Victorian prison like this they have their own TVs, PlayStations and a choice of meals.’

  ‘Still, you wouldn’t want to be here, would you?’ said Vicky.

  ‘I always figure if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime,’ said Farmer. ‘But with the judges we’ve got, these days, it looks as if they bend over backwards not to send people away. Anyway, don’t get me started on crime and punishment. I’m of the “eye for an eye” school. Now, when they show in Mr Walsh, let me do most of the talking.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘This guy loves fire, so he’s going to be staring at you. Just to warn you.’

  Vicky frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Farmer rubbed his own cheek. ‘The scars, sweetheart. How often do you think he gets to see the results of his handiwork, close up? Try not to react, yeah? Just let him look.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He frowned. ‘Have I upset you?’

  Vicky hesitated. He had upset her, but she knew that he was only telling her the truth and she had to respect his honesty. ‘I’m fine, guv.’

  ‘It’s a way of getting to him,’ he said. ‘He’ll have all his defences up so we need any advantage we can get.’

  ‘I understand.’

  The door opened and a man wearing a prison sweatshirt and baggy blue tracksuit bottoms stood at the threshold. He was middle-aged, plump and pasty-faced with a greasy comb-over that did little to conceal his bald patch. He had pale fleshy lips like strips of raw fish that emphasised the yellowness of his teeth. A prison officer appeared behind him. ‘In you go, Walsh, we don’t have all day.’ The officer was well over six feet, broad-shouldered with a thick moustache and a crew cut. The hair, and his ramrod straight back, suggested a military career before he’d joined the prison service.

  Walsh shuffled in. He stole a quick look at Farmer, then averted his eyes.

  ‘Sit down, Walsh,’ said the officer. ‘They won’t bite.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to anyone,’ muttered Walsh. Vicky thought there was a trace of a Scottish accent.

  ‘Then don’t talk, just listen to what they have to say. Now stop pissing around and sit down.’

  Walsh sat down on the chair facing Vicky and Farmer as if he feared it was going to electrocute him. He folded his arms and stared at the floor.

  ‘Do you want me to stay, sir?’ the prison officer asked Farmer.

  ‘I think we’re okay,’ said Farmer.

  The prison officer nodded. ‘I’ll be outside. Just ring the bell when you’re done.’ He left them and pulled the door closed. Walsh linked his fingers and continued to stare at the floor. ‘How are you, Michael?’ asked Farmer. Walsh ignored him. Farmer let the silence drag on for at least a minute before speaking again. ‘My name is Des Farmer, I’m with the London Fire Brigade.’

  For the first time, Walsh looked up and he stared quizzically at Farmer. ‘You’re a fire investigator?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Walsh nodded slowly. ‘You must love your work.’

  ‘It has its moments, yes.’

  Walsh looked over at Vicky and his eyes widened when he saw the damage to her face. He licked his fleshy lips as he stared at her.

  ‘Do you know who this is, Michael?’ asked Farmer quietly.

  Walsh continued to stare at Vicky’s scarred face.

  ‘Michael?’

  Walsh looked at Farmer, then shook his head slowly. He had his fingers interlinked and his thumbs were digging against each other.

  ‘Her name is Vicky Lewis. Say hello, Vicky.’

  ‘Hello, Michael,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Vicky is a fireman,’ said Farmer. He shrugged. ‘I’m not supposed to say that, am I? Firefighter, that’s what she is. She fights fires.’

  Walsh was staring at her left cheek. She moved her head slightly so that the hair fell away from the ear, giving him a better view. Walsh licked his lips.

  ‘She fought the fire that broke out at a hotel in Kilburn, six months ago. You were out on bail for the fire you set in Wimbledon. The one that got you ten years for manslaughter.’

  ‘Involuntary manslaughter,’ said Walsh, still staring at Vicky.

  ‘That’s right, you didn’t mean to kill Mrs Hemmings. Wrong time, wrong place. You like setting fires, don’t you, Michael?’

  Walsh nodded. ‘It’s a sickness. That’s what the psychiatrists say.’

  ‘You’ve done it since you were a kid?’

  Walsh nodded again. ‘Always.’

  ‘Played with matches? Set fire to things in your house?’

  Walsh was nodding continuously now, his head going back and forth like a metronome.

  ‘But you got your obsession under control, didn’t you? You don’t set random fires any more, do you?’

  Walsh sat back, crossing his arms defensively.

  ‘Now you do it for money, don’t you? That sort of kills two birds with one stone, you get paid and you get your rocks off, as they say.’

  Walsh clamped his jaw tight. Vicky could see a vein pulsing in his forehead. Farmer smiled. He reached slowly into his pocket and took out his disposable lighter. Walsh stared at it, then licked his lips. Farmer flicked the wheel and the lighter ignited. The flame was an inch long and it flickered as Farmer moved his hand from side to side. ‘I’m guessing they don’t let you have matches or lighters in here,’ said Farmer. ‘What with your track record and all.’ He let his thumb slip off the fuel lever and the flame disappeared. Walsh leaned forward, a pleading look in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t be coy, Michael,’ said Farmer. ‘You pled guilty, remember? You didn’t have any choice really, did you? Not with all the stuff they found in your garage. And there was CCTV footage of you watching the fire. That was a mistake, Michael. But then you know that. If you hadn’t stayed to watch, you might well have got away with it.’ Farmer shook his head and he looked across at Vicky. ‘You know, virtually all arsonists want to stay and watch their handiwork. That’s what leads them to get caught.’ He looked back at Walsh. ‘I know
you didn’t mean to kill Mrs Hemmings, any more than you meant to hurt Vicky. Just wrong time, wrong place.’

  Walsh looked down at the floor.

  ‘Same MO, Michael. It was you. You understand MO? Modus operandi. The fire in that Kilburn hotel was set in exactly the same way as you set the fire that killed Mrs Hemmings. You made it look as if it was a consumer-board fault but there were other points of origin. What did you use, Michael? The old pack of Quavers trick? Diesel sprayed on toilet paper? Firelighters?’

  Walsh kept his eyes averted. His left leg had started to tremble, a sign of the tension he was feeling.

  ‘And three other fires that you set, for money. The cops knew about the three others but for some reason they didn’t spot the similarities with the hotel fire in Kilburn. But you set that fire too, didn’t you? While you were out on bail?’

  Walsh said nothing.

  Farmer flicked the wheel on top of the lighter and it ignited again. Walsh stared at the flame and licked his lips.

  ‘You’re a rarity, Michael. A firebug who gets paid for it. How lucky are you?’

  Walsh said nothing.

  ‘The four jobs you were convicted of were insurance jobs. You were very cooperative with the detectives, weren’t you? Told them who’d paid you and how much and even showed them where the money was. I guess that’s why you got a relatively short sentence, isn’t it? It pays to cooperate. Michael. That’s the way the system works. You help the police and the CPS go easy on you in court.’

  Walsh closed his eyes and bit down on his lower lip.

  ‘Come on, Michael. What’s the point of doing this if you don’t get the credit? It was never about the money, was it? I mean, I’m sure the money came in handy but it was always about the fires, wasn’t it? The smoke, the heat, the flames?’

  Walsh opened his eyes and glanced over at Vicky, then back to the lighter. Farmer slipped his thumb off the fuel lever and the flame vanished.

  ‘Here’s the thing, Michael. You pled guilty to starting the four fires that the CPS charged you with. But that means the Kilburn hotel fire is still there. When are you due out? Four years if you keep your nose clean? Five, maybe? I might be retired by then, but even if I’m not I’ll still be around and I’ll make sure that the day you’re released there are a couple of cops at the gates who’ll arrest you and charge you with what you did at Kilburn. I’ve got the evidence, Michael. It’s open and shut.’

  ‘You can’t say that,’ said Walsh. ‘You don’t have any evidence.’

  ‘There was evidence at your house,’ said Farmer. ‘There was diesel and you don’t have a car or anything else that requires diesel. And you had firelighters but no open fire.’

  ‘I have a barbecue.’

  ‘And you had lighter fluid for that. Who uses lighter fluid and firelighters to get a barbecue started?’

  ‘I like to be sure,’ said Walsh.

  ‘I bet you do,’ said Farmer. He flicked the lighter and moved the flame from side to side as Walsh stared at it.

  ‘I know what you’re suggesting,’ said Walsh.

  ‘Enlighten me,’ said Farmer.

  ‘I like to be sure when I’m lighting my barbecue, that’s what I meant.’

  Farmer shrugged. ‘That’s what I thought you meant. I didn’t mean to suggest anything else.’ Farmer sat back and folded his arms. He smiled at Walsh but said nothing. Vicky realised he was waiting for Walsh to fill the silence. As Farmer and Vicky continued to stare at him but not say anything, Walsh continued to look increasingly uncomfortable. Eventually he broke the silence. ‘I want to go back to my cell.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Farmer. ‘But you need to realise that if we don’t resolve this, you’ll be serving your full sentence and you’ll be arrested when you leave. I guarantee that.’

  ‘I’m not confessing to something I didn’t do,’ said Walsh.

  ‘No one is asking you to do that, Michael.’ He let the lighter go out and then leaned across the table so that his face was only inches from Walsh’s. ‘I’ve looked at the files, I’ve checked the evidence, and I know you set the Kilburn fire. It’s the same MO. You were out on bail. You had the opportunity, and once I start looking I’m sure I’ll be able to put you in the area. The one thing I don’t know, the one thing I need to know, is who paid you to set the fire. If you tell me that, Michael, then I can get the fire added retrospectively to your guilty plea. No one was killed, though obviously Vicky here was badly burnt. But she’s not one to bear grudges, are you, Vicky?’

  Vicky’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. ‘What?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be planning to sue Michael? Not if he confessed.’

  She didn’t understand what he was getting at and frowned in confusion.

  ‘It’s not about money, is it?’ said Farmer. ‘If Michael were to admit to what he did, you wouldn’t sue, would you?’

  She shook her head, still confused but playing along with what he obviously wanted her to say. ‘Of course not.’

  Farmer looked at Walsh, nodding. ‘See, Michael. It’s a win-win situation. You tell us what happened, who paid you to torch the hotel, and you don’t serve one extra day behind bars and Miss Lewis here doesn’t take all your assets off you. Your house, for instance. You own that, don’t you? Well, if Miss Lewis sets her lawyers on you, how long do you think it will stay your house? You’ve got lawyers, haven’t you, sweetheart?’

  Vicky nodded. ‘Yes, guv.’

  Farmer continued to stare at Walsh as he slipped the lighter back into his pocket. ‘There you go, Michael, that’s from the horse’s mouth. You play ball with us, and we’ll play ball with you.’ He leaned back in his seat. ‘But if you fuck us around, Michael, we will royally fuck with you. You can see the damage the fire did to her face. The fire you set. Can you imagine how much that’s going to cost to put right? Tens of thousands of pounds, I’d say. Hundreds maybe. Say you don’t put your hand up to the Kilburn hotel fire. Say we arrest you when you leave jail and we charge you again and they find you guilty? And they will find you guilty, Michael, because by then I’ll have all the evidence I need. So you’ll be back in prison and Miss Lewis here, well she’ll set her lawyers on you. And they’re Rottweilers, aren’t they, sweetheart?’

  Vicky nodded. ‘Yes. Rottweilers.’

  ‘And by the time they’re done with you, you won’t have a penny to your name, Michael. And when you do eventually get out, you’ll be homeless and penniless. Is that what you want? Seriously? Is that what you want?’

  Walsh said nothing. He was staring at Vicky’s scars but when she turned to look at him he looked away and stared at the floor.

  ‘Fine,’ said Farmer. He placed his palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet. He pressed the bell and the prison officer opened the door. Vicky stood up and Farmer stepped to the side to let her go out first.

  ‘Have you got a number?’ asked Walsh, still staring at the floor. ‘A phone number?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Farmer. He pulled out his wallet and took out a business card.

  ‘Not you,’ said Walsh, looking up. ‘Her.’

  ‘Why do you want her number?’ asked Farmer.

  ‘I’m not talking to you,’ said Walsh. ‘I don’t like you.’

  ‘You’re not getting her number, Michael. That’s not what this is about.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Vicky. She took the card from him and scribbled her mobile number on the back. She gave it to Walsh. ‘If you want to tell me the truth, call me,’ she said. ‘But any funny business and I’ll report you to the governor.’

  Walsh nodded as he stared at the number. He licked his lips and they glistened under the overhead lights.

  ‘We’re done here,’ said Farmer.

  They left the interview room, Walsh’s eyes still glued to the card.

  46

  Vicky didn’t speak until they were driving back to north London. ‘You’re sure he did it, guv?’ she asked eventually. ‘He’s the one who torched the hotel?�
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  ‘I’m sure, but being sure and proving it are two completely different things,’ said Farmer. ‘It’s his MO, and there aren’t that many firestarters for hire out there. Most of them are too stupid, for a start. They almost always get caught eventually, usually because they stand around to watch things burn.’

  ‘But you think he was paid to set fire to the hotel?’

  Farmer nodded. ‘I’m sure of it. But it was six months ago so getting new evidence is going to be difficult to say the least. We rely on CCTV footage to place people and no one keeps footage for six months. We could start looking for witnesses but people’s memories are bad at the best of times. After six months …’ He shrugged. ‘Needle in a haystack.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘The plan? We let Walsh stew. The deal we’ve given him is a no-brainer. If he takes it he wipes the slate clean. He doesn’t serve any extra time and he can’t be done for it down the line. If he does admit to it, he gets nothing added to his sentence, so it’s all upside. Providing you don’t set the Rottweilers on him.’

  ‘I don’t have Rottweilers.’

  ‘I thought your lawyer got you millions after what happened?’

  ‘The owners used a law firm but I just gave them my bank details. Actually I didn’t even do that. My mum did it while I was in hospital.’

  Farmer rubbed his chin. ‘That was nice of them,’ he said.

  Vicks phone rang and she took the call on hands-free. It was Matt. ‘Busy?’ he asked.

  She looked across at Farmer who was pretending not to listen. ‘Day off, but still busy-ish.’

  ‘Fancy Ronnie Scott’s? I’ve got tickets.’

  ‘I need to eat,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Dinner and Ronnie Scott’s it is, then,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘I fell into that.’

  ‘My treat,’ he said.

  ‘No, we’ll go Dutch.’