The Sh0ut Page 11

  19

  Farmer lived in Bethnal Green in a quiet tree-lined road. Vicky parked and walked along to his house. It was semi-detached with a small paved area separated from the pavement by a low brick wall. There were two doorbells marked FLAT 1 and FLAT 2 and she realised the house had been subdivided and she didn’t know which flat her boss lived in. She pulled out her phone and called his number. ‘I’m outside, guv.’

  ‘I’ll be right down.’

  A couple of minutes later the front door opened. Farmer was wearing a green parka over his uniform. He grunted at her and walked towards the car, swinging a battered brown leather briefcase.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said quietly enough that he wouldn’t hear her. She caught up with him as he was climbing into the front passenger seat.

  ‘What’s the postcode?’ she asked as she slid behind the wheel.

  Farmer frowned. ‘Postcode?’

  ‘So I can set the satnav.’

  ‘You don’t need the postcode, sweetheart. Just drive to Soho. I’ll show you where it is.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘How did people manage before satnav?’

  ‘People got lost a lot. And kept asking for directions.’

  ‘Satnav turns you into an idiot,’ said Farmer putting his briefcase under his legs. ‘Once you rely on it you stop being aware of your surroundings.’ He pointed ahead. ‘Just drive to Soho. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘We don’t need the van?’

  ‘This is off the books,’ he said gruffly as he settled back in his seat and folded his arms. Vicky pulled away from the kerb and concentrated on driving. It was rush hour and the roads were busy.

  Farmer kept sniffing as if he had the start of a cold.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked eventually. There was a cyclist in her blind spot so she kept having to move her head from side to side to keep him in view.

  ‘What’s that perfume?’ he asked gruffly.

  Vicky frowned. ‘Perfume?’

  ‘Your perfume. Chanel, right?’

  ‘Coco Mademoiselle, yes.’

  He sniffed again, louder this time.

  She looked across at him. ‘Something wrong?’

  He avoided her stare, but nodded. ‘There is, yeah. I’d prefer you didn’t wear it. You’d be better off au naturel. Pardon my French.’

  ‘What?’

  He shrugged but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Guv?’

  He looked away from her, out of the side window. ‘It’s just not a good idea, you wearing perfume.’

  A bus stopped in front of the BMW so Vicky braked. The cyclist whizzed by, his bag clipping her wing mirror. ‘Arsehole!’ she shouted, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her. She looked across at Farmer. ‘Not you, obviously.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ he said.

  They rode in silence for a while. Farmer continued to sniff until Vicky couldn’t take it any more. ‘Just what is your problem with my wearing perfume?’ she snapped. She gestured at her scarred cheek. ‘A face like this and I shouldn’t wear perfume, is that it? With the greatest of respect, guv, you can go fuck yourself.’

  The bus braked in front of her again and she cursed and put both hands on the wheel. She stopped inches from the bus and pounded on her horn. ‘Fucking moron!’ she screamed. ‘Did you see that?’

  Farmer shrugged. ‘You should have kept your eyes on the road,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What is your problem?’ she said, glaring at him.

  A car beeped its horn behind them and Farmer pointed ahead. She grunted and edged the car forward. She drove in silence, silently fuming.

  ‘Most fires are accidental,’ Farmer said eventually, his voice a dull monotone. ‘But some aren’t. Some are deliberate. Accelerants are used. Petrol. Lighter fluid. Oil. Accelerants have an odour, most of them. Even after a fire you can often smell them. So your sense of smell is important. Wearing perfume is going to blunt it.’

  Vicky nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Plus, if you’re with me at a fire scene, I need my sense of smell. What I don’t need is Coco Mademoiselle clogging up my nostrils.’

  ‘I get it. No more perfume.’

  ‘So no need to bite my head off, then?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No problem.’ He pointed at the dashboard. ‘Does this have a radio?’

  ‘Sure. What do you want to listen to?’

  ‘Radio Five,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out what’s going on in the world.’

  Vicky found her way to Soho without a problem and Farmer gave her curt directions to a street lined with restaurants. Just as they arrived a delivery van pulled out and Vicky nipped into the parking space. ‘What’s the story?’ asked Vicky as they climbed out of the BMW. ‘Why aren’t we using the van?’

  ‘Favour for a friend, sort of,’ said Farmer.

  ‘Sort-of favour or sort-of friend?’

  ‘Bit of both,’ said Farmer. ‘There was a fire here last week, and the insurance company has asked a guy I know to do his own investigation. He wants a chat.’ He nodded at a blackened storefront festooned with police tape and with sheets of plywood nailed across the windows. The front door was battered but intact, and a thick metal hasp had been fitted so that it could be secured. The hasp was unlocked and the door was ajar.

  Farmer handed Vicky Tyvek overshoes and green nitrile gloves. She put on the overshoes and two pairs of gloves and followed him inside. She wrinkled her nose at the acrid burnt smell as she looked around. Fire flashed into her mind, flickering flames and heat and smoke, and she gasped. She took a step to the side so that Farmer wouldn’t see her discomfort and she took slow deep breaths to calm herself down. The vision went as quickly as it had appeared, though her heart was still racing.

  ‘Paddy!’ shouted Farmer. ‘You’ve got visitors!’

  The door opened into the main dining room. The once-carpeted floor was burned and the drapes on the windows had been destroyed. Metal frames that had once been chairs were stacked against one wall and there was a stack of fire-damaged tables near the window. Everything was streaked with soot and there was a thick layer of sludge covering the floor. There were sooty cobwebs all over the ceiling. Usually near invisible, once coated with soot they became clearly visible, showing just how many spiders called the restaurant home.

  There had once been double doors that led to the kitchen but they were badly burnt and had been ripped from their hinges, probably by the firefighters. A man in his forties wearing a white hard hat and a bright yellow fluorescent jacket and waterproof trousers walked out, holding a metal briefcase. Like Farmer and Vicky he had blue protective covers over his work boots. ‘Des,’ he said. ‘How the hell are you?’

  He had a northern Irish accent, Vicky realised. He was tall, well over six feet, thin and wiry and had a thick black moustache.

  Farmer shook hands with the man and then turned to introduce him to Vicky. ‘Vicky, meet Paddy. You wouldn’t know to look at him but he used to be a bloody good firefighter and I’ve heard tell he was a decent enough fire investigator. He cut his teeth in Belfast, but decided he’d had enough of terrorist bombings and arson attacks so he went private and moved over the water.’

  ‘Paddy O’Neill,’ said the man, holding out his hand. ‘Well, it’s Patrick, but there’s bugger all chance of them calling me that.’ There was the merest flicker of unease in his eyes when he saw the damage to the left side of Vicky’s face but he shook her hand firmly and smiled at her.

  ‘Paddy works for all the big insurance companies,’ said Farmer. ‘It’s his job to find a reason for them not to pay out.’

  ‘I do exactly the same job as you, Des. We’re both trying to find out how the fire started.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not doing it to save my client money.’

  O’Neill sighed. ‘It’s always a pleasure working with you, Des,’ he said, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

  ‘Hey, let’s not forget I’m the one doing you a favour by agreeing to see you,’ sai
d Farmer.

  ‘You might take the view that I’m helping put you straight on the cause of this fire,’ said O’Neill. ‘You’ve said it was an accident so of course the cops have agreed with you. But I’m pretty sure it was deliberately set.’

  Farmer raised his eyebrows. ‘So now you’re saying I’m not doing my job properly?’

  ‘When have I ever suggested that you’ve been anything other than the consummate professional?’ said O’Neill. He grinned over at Vicky. ‘You know they call him the Grouch, right? Because of his sunny disposition.’

  Farmer looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Paddy, I’ve got work to do, you know. Real work.’

  O’Neill held up his gloved hands. ‘Okay, fine. Let’s get into it. There’s a couple of things you don’t know about this case that I need to highlight. The big red flag is that less than a year ago, the owners almost doubled their insurance coverage. And that at a time when business was slumping. The restaurant was set up three years ago. The one that was here prior to that lasted two years. The one before that went out of business in eighteen months.’

  ‘Bad feng shui?” asked Farmer.

  ‘There’s a lot of competition here,’ said O’Neill, ignoring Farmer’s sarcasm. ‘With a lot of very good restaurants in the area you really need something extra to succeed.’

  ‘Or appeal to the gay market,’ said Farmer. He shrugged at the look of disdain that flashed across O’Neill’s face. ‘I’m just telling it like it is, Paddy. Big gay area, the bars and restaurants that go after the pink pound tend to do better than those that don’t. But you’re not telling me anything I don’t know. One of the owners showed me the books.’

  ‘And the insurance policy?’

  ‘They were underinsured. The original policy was taken out before they did the refit.’

  ‘And you believe that?’

  ‘It’s reasonable,’ said Farmer.

  ‘His business was going down the toilet, he ups his insurance, the place burns down. That doesn’t strike you as suspicious?’

  ‘Circumstantial rather than suspicious. You know the situation, right? It’s a group of investors and they own four restaurants. Two are doing well, one is breaking even, and this one was going downhill. But overall the group is in profit.’

  ‘They’ll be showing a much bigger profit if they get the payout on this place,’ said O’Neill.

  ‘Again, circumstantial,’ said Farmer. ‘The fire itself looks accidental. Well, I say accidental, the fact that the chef was an idiot didn’t help, but I don’t think you can refuse to pay on the grounds of stupidity, can you? It would revolutionise the motor insurance industry if you could.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk through with you,’ said O’Neill. He gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Through here, yeah?’

  ‘Lead on, McDuff,’ said Farmer with a theatrical wave.

  ‘You said O’Neill,’ said Vicky.

  Farmer sighed. ‘It’s Shakespeare. Macbeth.’

  ‘Actually it’s a misquotation,’ said O’Neill. ‘What Shakespeare wrote is “Lay on, MacDuff”, which means attack vigorously. Act five, scene eight.’

  ‘No one likes a smart-arse, Paddy,’ said Farmer.

  ‘Isn’t that the truth,’ said O’Neill. He took them through the damaged double doors to the kitchen. There was a preparation area to the right, and a large metal refrigerator door set into the wall. The stoves were to the left, three of them against the wall. Most of the shelving on the walls was fire-damaged. If anything, there were even more sooty cobwebs than there had been in the dining room.

  O’Neill motioned for them to come into the middle of the kitchen. ‘There’s no doubt that the fire started in here,’ he said. ‘Because the kitchen is at the back and the back isn’t overlooked. By the time someone called three nines it had spread to the dining area.’

  Vicky looked up at the smoke detector in the ceiling. ‘Didn’t the alarm go off?’

  ‘It did, but it’s a standalone and no one reported it,’ said O’Neill. ‘It was when the fire was at the front that the brigade was called. They were here within minutes, but by then it had taken hold. That was another red flag. The call was received at just after four o’clock in the morning, and that’s another signal that there’s something not right.’

  ‘Because?’ asked Vicky.

  ‘Most fires are set in the early hours,’ said O’Neill. ‘Fewer witnesses, fewer people around to phone it in.’

  ‘Again, circumstantial,’ said Farmer, folding his arms.

  ‘Fine,’ said O’Neill. ‘But this isn’t.’ He went over to the row of ovens and stood by the side of the one closest to the doors. There was a misshapen lump of ash-covered plastic that had once been a rubbish bin. On the wall behind it was a black V-shaped wedge of scorching on the wall. ‘We have a fire seat here, obviously. The fire started in the bin, spread to the grease on the ovens and then up to the ceiling.’ He pointed at a fire-damaged extractor fan on the wall. ‘All the plastic here burned, but clearly it started in the bin and moved up.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Farmer. ‘Exactly as I said in my report.’

  O’Neill walked away from the stoves to a line of food preparation tables with metal shelving on one side and storage cupboards underneath. All were covered in ash and debris that had fallen down from the ceiling. O’Neill went over to the wall at the end and pointed to another V-shaped charring pattern on the wall. ‘And here is a second seat. There was another fire source here, twenty feet away from the rubbish bin. Now in my book, that’s fire-starting one oh one.’

  ‘What does that mean, anyway?’ asked Farmer. ‘One oh one?’

  ‘It’s what they call their introductory courses in America,’ said O’Neill.

  ‘Yeah, well, the last time I looked we weren’t in America, Paddy. Try to speak English.’

  ‘What are you now, the grammar police? You know what I’m saying. We’ve got two seats for this fire. One by the rubbish bin. Another seat is twenty feet away at the far end of the kitchen. Both show typical V-shape charring. Two seats, that means the fire was set.’

  ‘Not necessarily. That rule isn’t carved in stone.’

  ‘So do you want to explain to me how the fire moved from there …’ O’Neill nodded at the remains of the rubbish bin. ‘To there.’ He pointed to the fire-damaged wall at the end of the long steel counter.

  ‘I can give it a go,’ said Farmer. ‘Though I suppose I’ll have to speak slowly so that you can follow my logic.’ He indicated the remains of the rubbish bin. ‘The fire started there. The chef was pretty lazy, according to the owner. They were thinking of getting rid of him. The fridges were in a mess, he’d let the cleaning slip, his staff had lost respect for him. It’s a chicken-and-egg thing, I guess. The restaurant was doing badly so he let standards slide. Or he got lazy and they started losing customers. Either way there was grease everywhere, the hoods were filthy, it was a firetrap. All it needed was an ignition source.’ He pointed at the remains of the plastic bin. ‘The rubbish was supposed to be emptied every night, but if it wasn’t full it was left. There was food in there, but that’s also where he threw his dirty rags and paper towels. The bin was next to the stove so it would have been hot all the time.’

  ‘So you’re saying spontaneous combustion?’

  ‘It happens all the time. Oil-and grease-soaked towels, paper or cloth, if they get hot enough can start to smoulder. They can smoulder away for hours and then if there’s enough air you get combustion. And a plastic bin is going to burn quickly.’

  ‘Or someone could have dropped in a match,’ said O’Neill. ‘But that doesn’t explain how the fire jumped across the kitchen.’

  ‘Flameover,’ said Farmer. ‘It would have got very hot, what with the plastic bin and all the grease over the stove. The hot gases rise and move across the ceiling.’ He turned to look at Vicky. ‘You know the difference between flameover and flashover?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Vicky. Farmer smiled expectantly an
d she continued. ‘Flameover is when the flames literally roll across the ceiling. There isn’t enough oxygen around the fire so it moves up to the ceiling in search of more. That gives you incomplete combustion so you don’t get flashover. Flameover can lead to flashover, but not always.’

  ‘And flashover is …?’

  ‘The transition between a fire that is growing, to the point where all the combustible contents of a room ignite at the same time.’

  ‘And how long does it take between ignition and flashover?’

  ‘It’s variable,’ said Vicky. ‘It’s sometimes said that flashover occurs four minutes after a fire breaks out but research has shown that flashover depends on a host of factors, but mainly on the type of combustibles, the size of the room, and the type of ventilation. In a well-ventilated room, you shouldn’t get flashover at all.’

  ‘And at what temperature does flashover occur?’

  ‘Six hundred degrees centigrade.’

  Farmer grinned at O’Neill. ‘She’s read the manual. Back to front.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s not all about the manual, is it?’ said O’Neill. ‘No one’s saying there was a flashover. What I’m saying is there were two seats to this fire which means it was deliberately set.’

  ‘And that’s where we disagree, Paddy.’

  ‘That there are two seats? You can see them for yourself.’ He pointed at the charring around the rubbish bin. ‘One,’ he said. Then he pointed at the far wall, which showed a similar V-shaped charring. ‘Two.’

  Farmer walked over to the wall. There had been three wooden shelves on the wall but they had been destroyed by the fire. There were ashes and charred chunks on the floor, along with pots and pans that had been damaged by the fire. To the side was a stainless-steel workspace covered in a thick layer of ash, and behind two metal racks.

  ‘You know what this station was?’

  ‘Salads,’ said O’Neill. ‘And cold side dishes.’

  ‘And the fire appears to start under the shelving here?’

  ‘There was an upturned plastic bucket there,’ said O’Neill. ‘The chef used to sit down on it during quiet periods.’