The Sh0ut Read online

  ‘You’re not my dad, guv.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe we should call it a night?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying I can’t handle my drink?’

  ‘I’m saying it’s late, that’s all.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘It’s not as if I’m driving, is it?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Vicky. She stood up and went over to the bar and bought Farmer a pint.

  Matt was waiting for her and he grinned. ‘You don’t want to be trying to match Des drink for drink, he can consume alcohol for England.’

  Vicky laughed. She had been about to order herself a coffee but she had second thoughts and asked for two pints of lager. ‘I could put a couple of vodkas in his,’ said Matt.

  ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘Hell, yeah,’ said the barman, grinning.

  ‘I’m going to have to watch you,’ said Vicky, and he laughed.

  She took both drinks back to the table. ‘I thought you were my designated driver?’ Farmer said, gesturing at her glass.

  ‘Fuck it,’ she said. ‘I’ll call a cab.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘I’ll get a cab for you, too.’ She picked up her glass. ‘Cheers.’

  Farmer grabbed his glass and clinked it against hers. ‘Good to have you on board.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  He looked her in the eyes as he nodded. ‘I am,’ he said. ‘I think you’re going to be okay.’

  ‘As a fire investigator?’

  ‘Yeah. I know you don’t want to be investigating, that you’d rather be out fighting fires, but I think you’ve got a flair for it. I wasn’t going to say that in front of Danny, obviously, but that’s the truth.’

  ‘Thanks, guv.’ They toasted each other and drank.

  ‘When did your dad pass away?’ he asked as he put his glass down.

  ‘End of nineteen ninety-nine,’ she said.

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘Just turned ten,’ she said.

  ‘That must have been hard.’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah, it was worse because it happened so quickly. He was doing some decorating work. That’s what he did on his off-days, him and a few mates ran a painting and decorating company on the side. He was painting a window and he had a stroke. Just one of those things. He’d always been fit, sailed through every medical, he just had this weak blood vessel that could have gone at any moment. I didn’t even see him that day; he left before I woke up. I came back from school and my mum was crying and my uncle and aunt were there and …’ She shrugged. ‘Just one of those things. You survive one of the worst fires London has seen and your own body lets you down.’

  ‘It’s a rough old world,’ agreed Farmer. ‘But at least you had a father you can be proud of. My old man kicked the bucket when I was twelve and all I remember of him is the hidings he used to give me.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘If he hadn’t drunk himself to death I’d probably have topped him myself.’ He drank more and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What about your mum?’

  ‘Never remarried. Fusses over me. I live at home so she has plenty of opportunity to spoil me.’

  ‘She was okay with you being a fireman?’ He grinned and corrected himself. ‘Firefighter.’

  Vicky laughed. ‘Hell, no. Fought me tooth and nail. Actually used the phrase “no job for a girl” at one point.’

  ‘But you talked her into it?’

  Vicky shook her head. ‘No, but she couldn’t stop me.’

  ‘And she came around eventually?’

  Vicky laughed again. ‘No. Don’t get me wrong, she’s proud of me. But when she first came to the hospital I could see it in her eyes. It’s no job for a woman, that’s what she was thinking.’

  Farmer raised his glass to her. ‘I’d like to meet your mum.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not fixing you up with my mum.’

  Farmer frowned. ‘How do you know I’m not married?’

  ‘Just a hunch,’ she said. ‘You’ve never mentioned a wife. Plus you’re almost always working. Plus no one seems to be ironing your shirts.’

  His frown deepened. ‘Who irons shirts? You put them on a hanger wet and they dry just fine.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Vicky. ‘So you’re not married?’

  Farmer grimaced. ‘Well, strictly speaking I am, but I haven’t seen her for a couple of years.’

  ‘Topped her, did you?’

  Farmer was just about to drink and he spluttered as he laughed. He wiped his mouth again. ‘No, I didn’t top her. The shoe was on the other foot, as it happens. She kicked me out.’ He smiled shamefacedly. ‘She was wife number three so the last thing I want is another one, thanks but no thanks. Your mum is safe with me. I just meant I’d like to discuss the suitability of women as firemen with her, that’s all.’

  ‘Firefighters,’ she said, correcting him.

  He nodded. ‘Firefighters.’ He drained his glass and waggled it in front of her. ‘You still buying?’

  ‘I guess so,’ she said. She stood up and headed for the bar.

  25

  It was just before eleven when Vicky and Farmer left the pub. She’d drunk three and a half pints, Farmer had put away half a dozen. She’d planned on ordering two cabs, one each, but Farmer was unsteady on his feet and she decided to take the one cab and drop him off before heading home.

  ‘I’m okay,’ said Farmer. ‘I’ve only had six pints.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ said Vicky. She was surprised at how drunk he was; he didn’t seem to be a man who couldn’t hold his alcohol.

  She called for an Addison Lee cab because generally she found the drivers were more professional than the run-of-the-mill minicabs and it was worth paying the extra. The guy at the wheel of the cab that arrived in front of the pub was called Mohammed and was wearing a dark blue suit. ‘Vicky?’ he asked as she opened the back door.

  ‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘We’re going to Bethnal Green first then I’ll send you the final address.’ She helped Farmer on to the back seat. Farmer burped loudly and slumped back in his seat.

  ‘He’s not going to throw up, is he?’ asked Mohammed nervously.

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Vicky. ‘He’s tired, that’s all.’ She climbed in next to Farmer and pulled the door shut.

  ‘If he throws up, I’ll have to clean the car,’ said the driver.

  ‘Mohammed, mate, if he throws up I’ll give you a hundred quid, cash,’ she said. ‘But the sooner you get us to Bethnal Green, the less the chance of him barfing.’

  Mohammed nodded reluctantly and headed off. Farmer burped again, then appeared to fall asleep. Vicky didn’t try to wake him, figuring he was less likely to throw up if he was asleep. After a few minutes he began to snore softly. The driver kept glancing nervously in his mirror but Vicky flashed him a smile. ‘He’s all right, mate, he’s sleeping it off.’

  Mohammed muttered under his breath.

  Vicky turned to look at Farmer. He appeared to be fast asleep. After half an hour they pulled up outside Farmer’s home. She shook him. ‘We’re here.’ His eyes stayed firmly closed so she shook him again. ‘Guv!’ He opened his eyes, smiled, then closed them again.

  Vicky cursed under her breath. ‘I’m sorry about this, Mohammed, I’m going to have to get out with him. I don’t think he can walk.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ said the driver, obviously eager to get Farmer out of his car. He climbed out and opened the passenger door. Vicky got out of her side and hurried around the back. Together they managed to get Farmer out. He was blinking slowly and mumbling to himself. ‘Which is his house?’ asked Mohammed.

  ‘It’s okay, I can handle it from here,’ she said.

  For the first time he saw her scarred face and his jaw dropped.

  ‘Really. You can go,’ said Vicky.

  Mohammed nodded and hurried back into the car, slammed the door and drove off. Vicky threw Farmer’s
arm around her shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  Farmer stared at her glassily for a few seconds, then burped.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ she said. ‘I thought you could handle your drink better than this.’ She grabbed his belt with her right hand. ‘Lean on me,’ she said. He burped again. She took a step towards the house and almost immediately his legs buckled and he sagged to the ground. She managed to keep him in a sitting position, then she patted his trouser pockets until she found his door keys. She held the keys in her left hand, then grabbed him under his arms and pulled him to his feet. Then she bent down and put her shoulder against his chest. She bent her knees, put her right arm under his backside and took his weight on her shoulders. She grunted as she straightened up. It was a perfect fireman’s lift and she was annoyed that he wasn’t sober enough to appreciate it. He burped as his arms brushed her back. ‘You throw up over me and you’re paying for the dry-cleaning.’

  She carried him across the pavement, found the front-door key and transferred it to her right hand and unlocked the door. It opened into a narrow hallway and she stepped inside, turned around and closed the door. As she turned back to the stairs his head banged against the wall. ‘Sorry,’ she said. She flicked a light switch before heading up the stairs. She knew from experience it was easier if she kept up the momentum so she kept her left hand on the bannister and went up with a steady rhythm. At the top of the stairs was a small landing with another door. There was a Yale lock and she found the right key and used it to unlock the door and stepped through into a narrow hallway with four doors leading off it. The door at the far end of the hall was open and there was enough light to illuminate a double bed with a rumpled duvet. Farmer groaned, and then coughed. ‘Nearly there,’ she said. She couldn’t find a light switch so she carried him over to the bed and lowered him down before going back to the door. The switch was lower than usual and she flicked it. There was a three-bulb light fitting in the middle of the ceiling but two of the bulbs had died. There was a built-in wardrobe to the left of the bed. One of the panels was a mirror and she winced at her reflection. It still affected her when she caught sight of herself unexpectedly.

  Farmer began to cough and splutter and she went over to the bed, but by the time she’d reached it he had quietened down. She looked down at him and shook her head. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ she said. She undid his shoelaces and pulled off his shoes and socks, then unbuckled his belt and carefully took off his trousers. She tossed them on to the chair by the door, then undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. She had to roll him from side to side to get the shirt off and it took several minutes but eventually he was lying on the bed wearing only his Marks and Spencer boxer shorts, which she figured was as far as she could go. He was snoring heavily but then he stopped and burped. She wrinkled her nose at the sour odour emanating from his mouth. He burped a second time and she decided to roll him on to his side and into the recovery position. At least that meant if he threw up he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit.

  ‘Water,’ he murmured.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Water,’ he said. His eyes were still closed.

  She stood up and went out into the hallway. She opened the door to her left and flicked on the light. She gasped involuntarily when she saw the state of the room. It looked like the spare room. There was only one piece of furniture – an armchair under a bare light bulb. A whiteboard had been nailed across the window and like the walls to her right and left it was covered in photographs and typewritten reports and newspaper cuttings, most of which were dotted with scribbles. In the centre of the whiteboard was a map of the United Kingdom with pins in it, most of them in London. Threads of different colours ran from the pins to information pasted to the walls.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ she muttered to herself. She shivered. It wasn’t the cold, it was a feeling that she had stepped into something that just wasn’t right. She moved to her right and looked at one of the newspaper cuttings. MODEL KILLED IN FREAK CANDLE FIRE. She read the story. A catalogue model by the name of Samantha Stewart had fallen asleep on the sofa and a candle had ignited a curtain. By the time the Fire Brigade had got there she had burned to death, though the journalist speculated that she had died from smoke inhalation before the fire had engulfed the room. There was another picture of the woman that appeared to have been taken from a Facebook page, smiling and holding a large glass of wine. Underneath it was a post-mortem photograph and Vicky grimaced as she looked at it – there was nothing more than burnt bones and a blackened leering skull. There was a red thread running to the map and she followed it. It was attached to a pin in south London. There was another pin in north London, Camden, and a blue thread led off to the left. There was another photograph at the end of the blue thread, also pulled off social media. A younger woman, in her twenties maybe, riding a horse. And below it a post-mortem photograph, a corpse that had all been destroyed by fire. There was a newspaper article containing just five paragraphs. Her name was Julia Silk, she’d been a secretary, which Vicky figured was why there had been less media attention. A model dying was a story for the tabloids, a secretary not so much.

  There was a brief description of what had happened that appeared to be a screenshot of an LFB report. Julia had been in bed, asleep, when a fire had started in the sitting room below. An investigation had concluded that her TV had been left on and a faulty plug had started an electrical fire. There were fitted carpets and rugs that had burned quickly, and a leather sofa that had apparently been imported from China and was not up to British safety standards.

  Vicky stood back and looked at the map. She counted eight pins in London, with eight threads leading off to eight sets of photographs, notes and clippings. All of them women. All of them dead. There were another three pins in Leeds. And two in Manchester. Thirteen pins in all.

  ‘Water!’ The shout made her jump and she put a hand up to her throat. She switched off the light and opened the other door. There was a string to pull to switch on the light and it illuminated a small bathroom that didn’t appear to have been cleaned in years. There was a white plastic beaker in a stainless-steel bracket and she filled it full of cold water and took it to Farmer. He was still in the recovery position, snoring softly. Spittle had dribbled from his mouth and smeared across the pillow. She shook him but he was fast asleep. She put the beaker of water on the table next to the bed then pulled the duvet over him. She switched off the light and went downstairs. She let herself out of the front door, pulled it closed behind her and ordered another minicab.

  26

  He smiled as he studied Jayne Chandler’s Facebook page. He lit a cigarette and took a long pull on it as he looked through her photographs. It had taken him just seconds to get her name from the online electoral roll after tapping in the address of the house in Clapham. There were more than a hundred Jayne Chandlers on Facebook but most were in America and anyway the profile picture was just the way he’d seen her in the street and on the Tube. It took him only a few minutes to find her. She had her privacy settings configured such that he couldn’t see her postings or photographs but he sent her a friend request from an account he’d set up more than a year earlier. He had more than a dozen accounts, all women but with varying interests and backgrounds. The account he used was a pretty redhead who claimed to work for a bank in Croydon. The friend request was accepted within hours. Once he started reading her posts it became clear she worked in the human resources department of the London department store where he’d first spotted her. It hadn’t taken long to find her LinkedIn profile. Her interests were fashion and badminton. She had a degree in marketing from the University of Brighton.

  She wasn’t in a relationship and most of her friends were like her – single girls in decent jobs. Most of the Facebook photographs were of her and her friends eating at restaurants or drinking cocktails. There were several pictures of her playing badminton. It didn’t take him long to discover that she played every Wednesday e
vening. Most of the cocktail photographs were taken on Fridays and Saturdays.

  He went back through four years of posts. There were no pictures of her with pets, which was good news because dogs were a nuisance. Cats not so much. But her house seemed to be a pet-free area so there was nothing to worry about. There were no pictures of her smoking.

  There was a boyfriend two years ago. A balding guy with a beard and glasses and a tendency to wear turtleneck sweaters. She had gone on holiday with him to Marbella. He was at one of her birthday parties and had gone horse-riding with her but in the few pictures of them together, they didn’t seem close.

  There was a picture of her celebrating her mother’s birthday, and she spent every Christmas with her parents and her brother at their house in Norfolk.

  There were a dozen or so photographs taken inside her house, usually when friends were visiting. The sitting room had a large sofa that looked as if it would burn easily, and there were fitted carpets and thick curtains that would add to the inferno. There were fitted wooden cabinets in the kitchen and a pine table, and more carpets running up the stairs. There was just one photograph of her bedroom but in it he could see more curtains, a wooden wardrobe and a collection of soft toys. There was a battery-operated smoke detector in the hall. He smiled to himself. He had found his next project.

  27

  Vicky was woken from a dreamless sleep by the ringing of her mobile. She squinted at her bedside clock. Seven o’clock. Her mouth was dry and her head was throbbing. It was Des Farmer and he got straight to the point. ‘Did you bring me home last night?’

  ‘Yes, guv. You were a bit tired.’ She sat up and ran a hand through her hair. She swallowed and coughed. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth.

  ‘And you put me to bed?’

  ‘I helped you. Is there a problem?’ She looked over at her bedside table. She usually took a glass of water to bed with her but she’d obviously forgotten. She desperately wanted a drink. Baxter was awake and watching her, his tail twitching on the off-chance she would pay him some attention.