The Sh0ut

by Stephen Leather

  50

  Des Farmer was heavy. Really heavy. He had to take the stairs one at a time and keep his left hand against the wall to steady himself. Fingerprints weren’t a problem, he was wearing blue latex gloves. In fact, he had double-gloved, like the professionals did. With each step Farmer seemed to get heavier and eventually he had to drop him and drag him up instead, grabbing him under the shoulders and going up backwards.

  Farmer was unconscious but breathing, spittle dribbling between his lips. He stank of booze and cigarette smoke. The man pulled him across the threshold and kicked the door shut. He took a deep breath, then grinned down at Farmer. ‘Right, let’s get this show on the road.’ He carried him through to the sitting room and dropped him on the sofa.

  He went through to the kitchen and got a glass from a cupboard and a can of lager from the fridge. He popped the tab of the can and poured a bit into the glass and the rest down the sink. He shrugged off his backpack, put it on the table, and unzipped the side pocket where he kept the Rohypnol in a small vial that had once contained eye-drops. He poured the clear liquid into the glass and swirled it around.

  Back in the sitting room, Farmer blinked his eyes and groaned. He remembered going down to the front door, but nothing after that. He put his hand up to his head and it came away bloody. He groaned again. He rolled over and blinked at the coffee table. His phone was there but it seemed to be miles away. He stretched out his arm and it seemed to extend for ever. He fumbled for the phone and pressed the screen with his thumb. He squinted at it but could barely make out the icons. He pressed the Phone icon and then pressed the button to redial the last number he had called. Vicky Lewis. He lay back and put the phone to his ear. It was ringing.

  51

  ‘I could do carbonara,’ said Vicky’s mum. ‘With a salad. And I’ve a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge.’ They were in the sitting room, waiting for The Voice to start. It was her mother’s favourite show.

  ‘Sounds great, Mum,’ said Vicky. Baxter was sitting at her feet and he woofed softly.

  ‘Or I could do something with the salmon I have.’

  ‘Either, Mum.’

  ‘You know what? How about a salmon carbonara?’

  ‘Is there such a thing?’

  ‘It’s a Jamie Oliver recipe.’

  Vicky grinned. ‘So it must be good. Whatever you do is fine by me. You’ve never given me a bad meal.’

  Barbara laughed. ‘Tell that to seven-year-old Vicky,’ she said. ‘She hates broad beans, carrots, black pudding, lasagne, radishes …’

  Vicky held up her hands in surrender. ‘I get it,’ she said. ‘I was a picky eater when I was a kid.’ Her phone rang and she looked at the screen. It was Farmer. She took the call but the line was dead.

  ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Guv?’

  No answer.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘My guv’nor.’

  ‘What does he want at this time of night?’

  Vicky stared at the screen. ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say anything.’

  ‘He’s probably drunk in some pub somewhere and wants you to drive him home.’

  ‘He’s not like that.’

  ‘How can you say that? He gets you to drive him everywhere. Hasn’t he heard of cabs?’

  Vicky called Farmer back but the phone went straight through to voicemail. She left it a minute or so and tried again. Voicemail. ‘I think I’d better go around to his flat. There might be something wrong. Can you put a hold on dinner, until I get back?

  ‘Of course. And the salmon carbonara sounds okay?’

  ‘It sounds delicious,’ said Vicky, grabbing her coat.

  52

  He walked in and saw Farmer lying on his back with the phone to his head. He cursed, ran over, grabbed the phone and switched it off. How had he missed the phone? That was careless and he was never careless, he always planned everything down to the last detail. That was why he had never been caught. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He had to be calm. He had to think. He put the phone on the coffee table. Farmer’s eyes were closed and from the way he was breathing it looked as if he had passed out again. He knelt down and put his left hand behind Farmer’s neck, pulling up his head. He carefully poured the liquid between Farmer’s lips then tilted his head back. Farmer swallowed. A reflex action. He poured the rest of the liquid into Farmer’s mouth, then let his head fall back on to the sofa. The drug would keep him sedated for several hours, which would be more than enough time for him to do what had to be done.

  He took the glass back into the kitchen, washed it and left it on the draining board. He went back into the hallway and opened one of the doors and switched on the light. His eyes widened when he saw the display. He walked into the middle of the room and put his hands on his hips. ‘This is good, Des,’ he whispered. ‘This is so good. I should do something like this.’ He pulled out his phone and took several photographs of the display, and then a short video. He walked over to the map and smiled as he studied the pins and the threads that led from them. ‘You missed a few,’ he said. ‘Bristol. And two in Birmingham.’

  He went back into the hallway and opened the second door. It was Farmer’s bedroom. The man wrinkled his nose at the stink of stale cigarette smoke. ‘Fuck me, Des, you really do live like an animal,’ he muttered.

  He walked around the room. Lots of combustibles. Two overflowing ashtrays. Several disposable lighters. He smiled to himself. This was going to be so easy. Just another smoker who fell into a drunken stupor and set himself on fire.

  He picked up a chair and carried it out to the hall. He used it to reach the smoke alarm. He opened it and took out the nine-volt battery. He stepped down, went back into the kitchen and put the battery in a side pocket. He took out a dead battery, inserted it into the smoke alarm and closed it, then took the chair back into the kitchen.

  He dragged Farmer into the bedroom and heaved him on to the bed. He rolled him on his back and pulled his right arm so that it was hanging off the bed. He took one of the ashtrays and put it on to the floor a few inches from the dangling hand. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe and he grinned and flashed himself a thumbs-up.

  He had seen a can of lager in the spare bedroom so he put it next to the ashtray. He stood up and looked at the scene. Pretty much perfect.

  He planned to set two fires. One in the spare bedroom, one in the main bedroom. If he did it right it wouldn’t look as if there were two seats, but simply a fire that had started in the main bedroom and spread to the spare bedroom. The flat had fitted carpets so it would be filled with smoke within minutes. Farmer would breathe in the smoke and die so that even if the brigade attended promptly he’d be dead and the coroner would find smoke in his lungs. The chances of them testing for Rohypnol were slim to none.

  He went back to the kitchen and took his spray bottle filled with diesel and a roll of toilet paper. He tore off long strips of tissue and used them to connect the two bedrooms, then sprayed diesel over them. He used some of Farmer’s pins to attach toilet paper to his maps and papers, and sprayed more diesel over them, then sprayed the diesel over the carpet and the chair.

  To any investigator, it would look as if the fire had started in the main bedroom, spread along the hall carpet and into the spare bedroom. Both rooms were full of combustibles that would burn quickly.

  There was a pack of rolling tobacco on a table next to the chair where Farmer had obviously been drinking his lager. He opened it and grinned when he saw there was a cigarette already rolled up. He took it through to the kitchen and took a book of matches from his backpack and put it and the cigarette on the table.

  He went back into the main bedroom, picked the biggest butt from the ashtray and put that on the carpet. He sprayed more diesel over the curtains and the carpet, just enough to help the fire spread but not enough to leave any trace.

  Farmer’s sitting room was untidy, a coffee table scattered with newspapers and magazines
, a tunic thrown over the sofa and several pairs of boots under a small dining table. Like the rest of the flat, it smelled rank. There were a couple of disposable lighters on the coffee table but there were enough in the bedroom already. There were wooden blinds over the window and he pulled the cords to close them. The bedrooms were at the rear of the building, which meant the fire hopefully wouldn’t be spotted for some time. There was no need to encourage the fire to spread to the sitting room, the bedrooms would do the job.

  He went to the kitchen and picked up his backpack. He slung it over his shoulders as he walked along the hall, running through his mental checklist, making sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything. He took one of Farmer’s disposable lighters and pulled a pillow off the bed and on to the floor. He flicked the lighter and played the flame along the edge of the pillowcase. After several seconds it began to smoulder. He straightened up and took a step back. It continued to burn, giving off plumes of grey smoke.

  He walked quickly to the kitchen picked up the cigarette and the book of matches and went into the spare bedroom. He lit the cigarette, took two long drags to make sure it was burning, and then stuck it into the book of matches. He placed it on the armchair, then used a lighter to ignite the toilet paper over the noticeboard displays. It flared up quickly and within seconds several sheets of paper were also ablaze. The threads linking the map to the photographs burned and fell away.

  He went back into the hall and lit the toilet paper there, then tossed the lighter into the spare room and hurried to the front door. He let himself out and walked quickly down the stairs, opened the main door and left the house. Less than two minutes after starting the fire he was walking along the pavement, humming contentedly to himself.

  53

  Vicky parked in the road a short walk from Farmer’s house. She called his number again but it went through to voicemail. She walked to his house, wondering why he wasn’t answering. She reached his front door and rang the bell. No answer. Tomorrow was a work day, and he hadn’t mentioned that he was going anywhere. And he wasn’t the sort to be in the pub, Farmer was happy enough to have a drink after work with the guys from the station but from what she knew the rest of his drinking was done at home.

  She looked up at the top floor. The lights were off. She frowned. He couldn’t be in bed yet, surely. She rang his number. Voicemail. She pressed the bell. No answer. She was starting to get a bad feeling about what was happening, but she could hardly call out the police to say that her boss wasn’t answering his phone or his doorbell.

  She walked around the side of the house and almost immediately saw the red flickering through the curtains. No, she realised with a jolt. The curtains were on fire.

  She pulled out her phone and called 999. She asked for the fire service and within seconds was talking to a brigade operator. ‘Fire in a house in Bethnal Green,’ she said. She gave the address. ‘Listen, I’m a firefighter. Tell control to make pumps two, persons reported. We’ll need an ambulance.’

  ‘Is there anyone in the house?’ said the operator.

  ‘I think so. My boss is on the top floor, I think. I’ll get the people out of the ground floor now.’

  ‘Under no circumstances should you attempt to go inside,’ said the operator. ‘Wait for the fire brigade to get there.’

  Vicky ended the call and ran towards the house. She banged on the front door and rang the bell for the ground-floor flat. A light went inside and a few seconds later the door was opened by an Indian man in his pyjamas. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted. ‘Why are you banging on my door?’

  ‘There’s a fire upstairs,’ she said. ‘Is there anyone else in your flat?’

  The man’s eyes widened in panic. ‘My wife. My son.’

  ‘You have to get them out now. There’s a fire upstairs!’

  The man didn’t move and his mouth opened in shock.

  Vicky grabbed the man by the shoulders and shook him. ‘You have to get your family out now! There’s a fire upstairs! Do you understand?’

  The man nodded and Vicky pushed him back into the hallway. ‘Get them outside now!’ He pushed open the door to his flat and Vicky followed him inside. There was a kitchen to the right and Vicky ran and grabbed a tea towel. She ran it under the tap, then headed back to the front door. The man was there with his wife and young son.

  ‘Get away from the house, now!’ she shouted. ‘I’ve called for the fire brigade, they’re on their way.’

  He did as he was told, scooping up the little boy and running with him down the pavement as his wife followed. Vicky looked up the stairs. Her mouth had gone dry and she was having trouble swallowing. She knew all too well what was at the top of the stairs. The flames. The smoke. The heat. She flashed back to the body in the hostel. The pugilistic pose. Was that how she would find Des? Was that how she was going to end up, blackened and burned, lying on the floor with her arms and legs up, her skin split and her head a hairless grinning skull?

  She grunted and shook her head, trying to blot out the gruesome images. ‘I’m coming, Des,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘I’m coming for you.’ She draped the wet tea towel over her head and ran up the stairs. It was only when she got to the top of the stairs that she remembered that there was a second door there and she grunted in frustration. She felt the door with the back of her hand to confirm it wasn’t hot and then kicked it as hard as she could. She felt it give a little. She kicked it again, and again, and on the fourth kick the lock splintered and the door crashed in. Smoke billowed out and she ducked down, then realised she needed to get lower and went down on her hands and knees, coughing and spluttering. She could feel the heat scorching her skin and she gritted her teeth against the pain.

  She heard the crackle of flames and shadows flickered on the walls. Her eyes were watering and she blinked away tears. Her heart was pounding and her hands had started shaking. ‘Des!’ she screamed at the top of her voice. ‘Des!’

  There was no reply and she didn’t expect one. If he were conscious he would have made his own way out. She was going to have to go in and get him. Into the flames. Into the fire. Her whole body was trembling now and she was having to fight the urge to turn and run back down the stairs.

  ‘You can do it, sweetheart,’ said a voice. Her father. Vicky looked over her shoulder but of course there was no one there. But her father was right. She could do it. It was what she had been trained for.

  She blinked away the tears. Visibility was still just about okay while she was on her hands and knees but the smoke was still stinging her eyes which meant she was also breathing it in. She remembered the carbon dioxide fire extinguisher in Farmer’s kitchen and she headed there, clutching the wet tea towel over her mouth. Her eyes were streaming with tears but she found the extinguisher and grabbed it.

  She crawled back into the hall and along to the bedrooms. She frowned as she realised that the smoke alarm hadn’t gone off. She passed the spare bedroom. The door was open and flames were licking up the curtains. Was that where the fire had started? She pushed the door open wider. The heat was almost unbearable now. There was a pool of flame on the floor and the armchair was burning fiercely. It wasn’t papers burning, it was an accelerant. Something inflammable had been poured or sprayed across the carpet and set alight. She looked around. There was no sign of Farmer. She aimed the extinguisher at the armchair and gave it three quick bursts. The fire went out. She crawled forward and sprayed the floor and in a few seconds the fire there was extinguished too, though the air was now thick with choking black smoke. The noticeboard was still burning but two quick sprays with the extinguisher and the flames went out.

  She shuffled back along the hall to the main bedroom. The door was open and she could see flames flickering inside. She crawled in, dragging the fire extinguisher with her. Farmer was on the bed, lying face up.

  ‘Des!’ she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Des!’

  There was no reaction. The smoke layer was only inches above his face and she knew
that once he started breathing in the smoke he would be dead within minutes.

  Everything was alight in the room. By the look of it accelerant had been spread across the carpet and the curtains and pretty much everywhere. There was no doubt the fire had been deliberately set, the two seats of the fire was proof enough of that. And she had a gut feeling that if she were to take the time to check the batteries in the smoke alarm she’d find they were dead.

  She fired two quick bursts from the extinguisher at the carpet around the bed. The flames went out but the carpet continued to smoulder. There was an armchair burning fiercely in the corner. The flames were huge, almost reaching the ceiling. She squeezed the extinguisher’s trigger and fired a long burst at the armchair, starting high and moving low. The flames went out but the smoke was thicker and blacker. She was on her knees but the smoke was dangerously close now.

  She dropped the extinguisher and grabbed Farmer’s arm and pulled him off the bed. He hit the floor with a loud thud, like a dead weight. There was blood on his head but his chest was moving. She slapped his face. ‘Guv, wake up!’ she shouted but his eyes stayed closed.

  She dragged him towards the door. The armchair reignited and was soon engulfed in flames again. The smoke was just three feet from the ground now so she had no time to use the extinguisher. She crawled backwards, dragging Farmer with her.

  The wet tea towel fell off her head and on to the carpet but she ignored it. The bed was ablaze now and the fire was getting hotter by the second.