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  ‘Nah, I hate Dutch food,’ said Matt. ‘Cheese and tulips. That’s all there is to it. How is that a cuisine?’

  She laughed again. ‘How about we meet at Mildreds in Lexington Street?’

  ‘I’ll book.’

  ‘You can’t book. It’s vegetarian and it’s first come, first served.’

  ‘Suddenly Dutch food is starting to sound attractive.’

  ‘What time’s the jazz?’

  ‘Nine-ish.’

  ‘So I’ll see you outside Mildreds at seven.’

  ‘It’s a date.’

  ‘Actually, it’s a time, but you were close.’

  He was still laughing when she ended the call.

  Farmer was looking at her with a sly grin. ‘Don’t ask,’ she said.

  ‘I wasn’t even listening.’

  47

  Vicky drove home, parked outside and hurried in. ‘What’s the hurry?’ called her mother from the kitchen.

  ‘Flying visit!’ shouted Vicky as she rushed up the stairs. ‘I’m going out for dinner.’

  ‘With Matt?’

  Vicky stopped in her tracks. ‘Now how would you know that?’

  ‘I’m a mother. We know stuff. Now hurry up and don’t keep him waiting.’

  Vicky shook her head in amazement as she headed up to her bedroom. She grabbed a dress from her wardrobe, one with long sleeves to hide her glove as best she could. She didn’t have time to deal with her blisters, she just changed into the dress, combed her hair and put on fresh make-up. She ordered a minicab and rushed back downstairs where her mother was waiting.

  ‘Calm down,’ said her mother, giving her a hug.

  ‘I’m late.’

  ‘He’ll wait.’

  Vicky looked at her watch. ‘Gotta go.’

  A white Prius pulled up outside and she climbed into the back.

  Matt was waiting on the pavement when she arrived at the restaurant. He gave her a hug and a soft peck on her good cheek. ‘You weren’t joking about no reservations,’ he said. ‘But I’ve put my name down and there are three couples ahead of us.’ He looked through the window and saw a waitress taking two men into the main part of the restaurant. ‘Make that two.’

  ‘It makes more sense for them, I guess,’ said Vicky. ‘They don’t have people not turning up, and you know you can always get a table if you’re prepared to wait. Anyway, I’m sorry I’m late, I was with Des and I left myself short of time. I haven’t showered or anything.’

  ‘You look great,’ he said. ‘I haven’t showered either so we’re even.’

  Vicky grinned. ‘You look great, too.’ He did. He was wearing a Ted Baker jacket and Versace jeans and his hair was glossy and combed back. He smelled good, too. ‘What’s the aftershave?’

  ‘Hugo Boss,’ he said.

  ‘Des says I can’t wear perfume, he says it interferes with his sense of smell.’

  Matt laughed. ‘Des is an idiot,’ he said.

  Another couple were being shown to a table and four people were getting their coats to leave.

  ‘Looks like we’re on,’ said Matt. Five minutes later they were sitting at a corner table with menus. The waitress was in her teens with clear unblemished skin and long blond hair that almost reached her impossibly slim waist. The position of the table meant that Vicky’s scarred cheek was on show so she kept her head tilted slightly forward so that her hair covered it.

  Vicky ordered the classic burger – smoked tofu, lentil, piquillo pepper, in a focaccia bun with relish, rocket, red onion and tomato.

  Matt studied the menu and shook his head. ‘I’m a carnivore,’ he said. ‘I’m lost.’

  The waitress laughed. ‘Do you like Mexican food? Have the black turtle bean and squash burrito. It comes with iceberg lettuce, cheddar cheese, sour cream, salsa and guacamole – there’s so much going on you won’t even notice there’s no meat.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Matt, handing the menu back to the waitress who gave him a beaming smile before heading off to the kitchen.

  ‘Do all the waitresses fall in love with you?’ asked Vicky.

  ‘They just recognise someone else who works in the hospitality industry,’ he said. ‘Professional courtesy.’

  ‘So your devilish good looks and charm have nothing to do with it,’ said Vicky.

  Matt laughed and reached over to touch her hand. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ he said.

  The waitress returned with their bottle of wine and showed the label to him with an expression on her face that suggested his opinion mattered more than anything in the whole wide world. He nodded and she went to work with a corkscrew.

  ‘So, busy day?’ Matt asked Vicky.

  ‘A weird day all round,’ she said. ‘Des took me to see an arsonist who might have started the fire that I was burned in.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Looks like it. We’re trying to persuade him to confess.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Des is talking about a deal. He owns up to setting the fire but doesn’t get any extra prison time. That way we’ll get confirmation that the owners of the building had it torched.’

  ‘Why would they have burned their own building?’

  ‘So they could rebuild. It was listed. So I spent a big chunk of the day behind bars.’

  ‘With several hundred men who haven’t seen a woman in years. Nice.’

  The waitress finished extracting the cork and poured a little wine into his glass. He gave it to Vicky. ‘You can do the honours,’ he said.

  She sipped the wine and nodded her approval but the waitress only had eyes for Matt. It was only when he smiled at her that she poured wine into their glasses, then she flashed him a toothpaste commercial smile and walked away.

  Vicky shook her head and chuckled.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Matt, grinning. ‘So, you still set on getting back to fighting fires?’

  ‘I thought I was, but now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was at a fire and I was … I don’t know … scared is the only way I can describe it. And I threw up when I saw a body that had burned.’

  ‘That’s not surprising. I’m sure I would, too.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve always been able to put any fear aside when I’m doing the job. The training kicks in and you do what you have to do.’

  ‘It’s probably like riding a bike,’ said Matt. ‘If you do go back to firefighting, the fear will go.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Though Des always says fire investigators save more lives than firefighters, overall.’

  She grinned. ‘I bet he does.’

  ‘What he means is that you guys identify the causes of fires and so that stops people making the same mistakes. That saves lives.’

  ‘I guess so.’ She sipped her wine thoughtfully.

  Their food arrived and again the waitress only had eyes for Matt. She was tempted to give the girl a kick but realised that Matt wasn’t actually discouraging her attentions. He smiled at her and thanked her as he looked into her eyes for a second or two longer than necessary. Only after she had walked away did he look down at his food. ‘This looks like one hell of a good burrito,’ he said. ‘And your burger looks tasty, too. You might well change my opinion on veggie food.’

  ‘I’m happy to eat meat, but I like vegetarian occasionally,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I could eat it all the time.’

  ‘Bacon,’ said Matt.

  ‘Oh yes. Bacon.’

  She tucked into her burger. Matt narrowed his eyes and put down his knife and fork. ‘I’ve had a thought,’ he said.

  ‘They won’t give you bacon here,’ she said. ‘I tried asking once. Never again.’

  He frowned at her in confusion and then laughed as he realised she was joking. ‘Funny,’ he said. ‘No, I mean I had a thought about Des and all the stuff you said he had in his room. Did you ever hear about that American fire investigator, John
Orr?’

  Vicky shook her head.

  ‘He was a fire investigator in California in the eighties and nineties. There was a series of fires that killed four people and caused millions of dollars in damages. He investigated a lot of those fires but it turned out that he set most of them. He’s serving life in prison.’

  ‘No, Des didn’t start those fires. I solved that little mystery.’

  ‘In prison?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it was nothing to do with the guy in prison.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘I’m talking out of school, I shouldn’t.’ She waved her knife at his food. ‘Eat.’

  ‘I’m eating. But you can’t leave me hanging like this. I’m on tenterhooks. Real, genuine tenterhooks.’

  ‘What is a tenterhook anyway?’

  ‘Now you’re changing the subject.’

  ‘I’m not. I just want to know.’

  He laughed. ‘Okay, how about this? I’ll tell you what a tenterhook is, you tell me who started those fires.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ laughed Vicky.

  ‘Deal?’

  ‘Yes, fine. It’s a deal.’

  He grinned and sat back in his chair. ‘Okay, then. A tenter is a wooden frame, often in the form of a line of fencing, used to hang woollen or linen cloth to prevent it from shrinking as it dries. They were used a lot in the north of England last century, in the mills. Strictly speaking, on the land outside the mills. And the tenterhooks were the hooks used to hold the cloth in place on the tenter.’

  She looked at him, impressed. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I read a lot. Now spill the beans about the fires. How did you solve the mystery?’

  Vicky sipped her wine, then put her glass back on the table. ‘Just between you and me, okay?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘I’m serious, Matt. I wouldn’t want Des to think I was talking behind his back.’

  He waved his hands. ‘Hey, I’m only joking, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I’m sorry, it’s just … you know … interesting. Let’s change the subject.’

  ‘No, it’s okay.’ She leaned towards him and lowered her voice. ‘I asked Des point blank.’

  Matt’s eyes widened. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘It was driving me crazy. I knew there was no way he could have caused those fires and killed those women. So I asked him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He took me in and showed me the cases.’ She looked around to make sure that no one was listening, and lowered her voice even more. ‘Des reckons there’s a killer around who kills women and uses fire to cover his crimes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘I’m serious. He’s gathered all sorts of evidence. The fires are different in each case but he’s sure it’s the same man. He likes blonds.’

  ‘Des?’

  ‘The killer. Are you following this?’

  Matt laughed. ‘It just sounds so far-fetched. Why hasn’t he gone to the police?’

  ‘The police don’t believe him. Nobody does.’

  ‘Do you?’

  She took a sip of wine. ‘Actually, I think I do. The killer clearly knows about fires. You might be right, it might be a firefighter who’s doing it, but it definitely isn’t Des.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  Vicky smiled. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about work.’

  ‘It’s okay, I wish I had something interesting to talk about, but I serve drinks and that’s that. I can’t remember when I last saved someone’s life doing that.’ He pretended to think. ‘Actually I can,’ he said. ‘Never.’

  They spent the rest of the meal chatting about pretty much anything other than work, then he took her along to Ronnie Scott’s where they listened to several top-class jazz acts and drank another bottle of wine between them. They left just after midnight and again Matt dropped her off at her house.

  This time when he moved to kiss her she slipped her hand behind his neck and pulled him closer. He kissed her on the lips but she didn’t feel much enthusiasm and she wondered if she’d misread the signals. There was a reluctance about the kiss and he was the first to break away.

  ‘My mum’s probably not asleep but you’re welcome to come in for coffee,’ she said.

  He flashed his boyish smile. ‘I’ll have to take a rain check,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve got a beer delivery first thing,’ he said. ‘But let’s do this again. I had fun tonight.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said. She wondered if he would kiss her again but he just smiled and nodded so she let herself out of the car. She turned as she walked up the path to the house to see if he would wave but he had already sat back in his seat and was staring straight ahead as the car drove away.

  48

  Her name was Vicky Lewis and she lived with her mother in Peckham. He had checked the electoral roll and there was no man in the house. The house was a tidy three-bedroomed detached with an integral garage and a small front garden. Vicky’s bedroom was at the back of the house, the mother slept at the front. The mother was usually in bed by ten and switched off her light at eleven. Vicky’s coming and goings were much less predictable. Usually she drove her expensive BMW but sometimes she arrived home in a cab. She didn’t appear to have much of a social life. She was probably self-conscious about her scars. They had a dog. A Labrador. She often took the dog for a walk last thing at night. Dogs were a nuisance. Usually he would steer clear of a woman who had a dog, but Vicky Lewis was different.

  She didn’t seem to have a Facebook account or use Twitter. Googling her name turned up only the fire that had burned her and her rescue of a family at the Grenfell Tower fire. She had gone into a burning hotel to rescue a homeless Romanian and had been trapped when the floor had collapsed under her. There were no photographs of her burned, all the newspapers had used the same picture taken not long after she had joined the Fire Brigade, posing in front of a fire engine, her helmet tucked under her arm. The articles on her Grenfell Tower shout were equally dramatic though she didn’t appear to have been interviewed as there were no direct quotes from her. He figured another fireman had given the story to one of the papers and the rest had just copied it.

  She didn’t seem to be a smoker, and neither did the mother. The mother did have a Facebook page but she hadn’t used it for more than two years and there were no photographs taken inside the house. That was a pity, but it was no big deal. Every house had something that could be used to start a fatal fire. A television. A laptop. Even a mobile-phone charger. All he needed to do was to ignite them with a blowtorch and stand well back. The girl and her mother would have to be dead, of course. That was the part he was looking forward to. The mother wasn’t his type but Vicky most definitely was. He found himself growing hard at the thought of what he was going to do.

  49

  Des Farmer padded over to the fridge and took out a can of lager before heading to the spare bedroom. He sat down in the armchair and popped the tab of his can, then took a long slow drink as he stared at the map on the whiteboard in front of him. Fifteen cases. Fifteen women dead. All blonds. There was one killer out there, he was sure of that. A killer who understood fire. A killer who knew enough about forensic science to cover his tracks.

  The killer left no evidence. Or, at least, any evidence he left behind was consumed by the fire. There was no way he would ever be able to tell who the killer was by examining the crime scenes. There was nothing there that would point to the killer. But there was another way of identifying the killer and that was by working out how he chose his victims. They were all blond, that was obvious. But they were from different cities, working for different employers, with different interests and hobbies. The killer must have moved around, and then settled in London because that was where the most recent cases were. Was he following a career path that took him from city to city? Most of the fires occurred in the late evening.
So did he work during the day? And how did he meet the girls? Their backgrounds were so different, how did he cross paths with them? The Internet, maybe? Internet dating? He took another long pull on his lager. And why did the girls let him get so close? There were never any signs of a break-in, which meant that the girls must have allowed him in. Which meant what? That he was in a position of authority? A cop, maybe? A council employee? Someone who could knock on a stranger’s door and be invited in without question? A police officer would understand forensic evidence, but then so would anyone who watched CSI. Maybe he was just a good-looking guy. Ted Bundy was one of America’s most successful serial killers because he was handsome and charming. Maybe this killer was, too. Maybe he could just walk up to a beautiful girl and start talking to her and get invited into her home.

  His doorbell rang and he frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He walked into the hallway and picked up the intercom phone. ‘Yeah?’ he said. There was only static. Farmer cursed. It was probably kids. ‘Hello?’ he said, then hung up. He had only just sat down and picked up his lager when the intercom buzzed, twice this time. Farmer swore and went back into the hallway. He grabbed at the intercom. ‘Who the hell is it?’ he shouted. Again there was only static. He slammed the phone back on to the unit. Almost immediately it buzzed again. He opened his front door and hurried down the stairs, muttering under his breath.

  He could hear the television on in the ground-floor flat. Probably Mrs Patel watching one of her Indian soap operas. Farmer never complained about the noise of the TV or their kid when he played too loudly, because Mrs Patel was a sweetheart and at least once a week would bring him up one of her wonderful curries.

  He unlocked the front door. There was nobody there. He looked around, cursed, and then turned to go back inside. He heard a noise from the side of the house. ‘Is there someone there?’ he asked.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Who’s there?’ asked Farmer.

  He stepped outside. Was it kids playing a joke? It wasn’t Halloween and anyway the local kids knew better than to go knocking on the doors of strangers. He heard a scraping noise and he walked towards the side of the house. As he turned the corner, opening his mouth to speak, he heard a crackling sound. Something pressed against his side and he went into convulsions before collapsing in a heap, his head banging against the wall as he fell to the ground.