The Sh0ut Page 6

  ‘What does it look like, Mr Khan?’

  He frowned. ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘I haven’t been able to see for myself. I’m told that the dressings have to stay on, and when the dressing gets changed I’m told that there isn’t time for me to take a look at it. So I don’t know how bad it is.’

  ‘Vicky, it’s early days. Healing takes time. What it looks like now will bear no relation to what it will look like in a month’s time. Or a year.’

  ‘You’ve seen it, right? You’ve seen the damage?’

  ‘I saw you when you were brought in, of course. But since then it’s Dr Adams in our burns unit who has been managing the damage to your face and neck.’

  ‘He’s the same. I keep asking for a mirror and he says I should wait. I’m fed up with waiting. I want to see for myself.’

  ‘All I can do is repeat that it would be a pointless exercise. Your reconstruction will take time. It’s your long-term prognosis that matters, and that is good. I’d say excellent.’

  ‘But going back to my original question. I’m going to need plastic surgery, yes?’

  The surgeon sighed. ‘Yes. I would think so. But it’s early days.’

  ‘How bad is it?’ Vicky could see the hesitation in the man’s eyes. ‘Tell me,’ she pressed. ‘I need to know.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Dr Adams. Next time he has the dressing changed, I’ll get him to show you.’

  ‘I appreciate it. But I want your opinion. Your professional opinion.’

  The surgeon swallowed nervously, then nodded. ‘It’s pretty bad,’ he said.

  ‘How bad? I’ll need to cover it with make-up bad? I’ll need to grow my hair long bad? Or Phantom-of-the-Opera bad?’

  ‘Vicky, please. We’ve only just started on this journey. New techniques for skin grafts are being developed every day, stem-cell research is making great strides. All that matters is that you get well and regain your strength.’

  ‘So it’s Phantom-of-the-Opera bad?’ said Vicky. She lay back and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Shit.’

  8

  She was his type even though he knew it wasn’t a good idea to have a type. A type meant there was a pattern and that was what the police looked for when they had a serial killer. But the whole point of doing what he did was that he was attracted to his type. He didn’t want to kill men, or children, or old people. He wanted to kill his type. Not too young. Not too old. And they had to be blond. Definitely blond. They didn’t have to be a natural blond. Dyed was okay. And with pale skin. And a good figure.

  Her name was Diana Hewson, and he’d first spotted her sitting outside Starbucks drinking her latte as she checked her phone. She was in her late twenties, maybe thirty. She had a good figure. Her breasts were 34C, he’d bet money on that. He was good at judging bra sizes. After the killing, he always checked their underwear and he was always right about the size. He took pride in that.

  She was a secretary. She was ambitious and had a LinkedIn page that gave away her entire work and education history. He’d checked that after he’d followed her home the first time. He’d waited until she had finished her coffee and then followed her to the Tube station and got on the train with her. She lived in Camden, in a small terraced house. His heart had fallen when he had seen the house because a house usually meant more than one person. His type had to live alone because he needed to spend time with them while he did what he had to do. If there were flatmates or a relative or a spouse then the degree of difficulty increased exponentially. He had almost given up there and then but he had a feeling that it was worth sticking with her so he had hung around and watched the house all evening. It looked as if she lived there alone. Perfect. The following day he had checked the electoral roll and, yes, she was the only occupant.

  Her Facebook page showed that she enjoyed horse-riding and tennis and that she spent most weekends with her parents, who owned a large house in Norfolk. The parents clearly had money so they were probably paying the rent on the house for her, or maybe they had even bought it.

  He lit a cigarette and smoked as he watched the house. The downstairs lights went off at just before eleven o’clock. The bathroom light went on for half an hour so he figured she was taking a bath. Then the light went out and the bedroom light was on for just over five minutes. Then the house was in darkness.

  It was the fourth time he had watched the house. Preparation was everything. The more he knew about her routine, the less likely he would be to make a mistake. He had to stay one step ahead of the fire investigators and the police. They were experts at spotting fires that had been deliberately set. He smiled to himself. But he was an expert himself. At setting fires.

  9

  ‘Are you up for a visitor, Firefighter Lewis?’ said a voice.

  Vicky opened her eyes. It was Rick Blackwell, her station manager. He was wearing grey slacks and a dark-blue blazer and looked more like a holiday rep than a firefighter with more than twenty years’ service.

  ‘Hello, guv,’ she said. She tried to sit up but pain lanced through her left side.

  ‘Don’t move,’ said Blackwell, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to her. ‘How are you?’ His hair was dyed a deep chestnut brown, the same colour his wife used, but the roots were already showing grey. He used to wear glasses but had gone through laser surgery to correct his vision, and there were rumours that he’d had cosmetic surgery to reduce the bags under his eyes.

  ‘I’m good,’ she said. ‘They’re discharging me in a couple of days. My leg is still healing and there’s work to do on my hand and face but that can be done as an out-patient.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’ll be glad to get out of here. Lying in bed all day does my head in.’

  ‘I’m sure it does.’ He gestured at her bandaged arm. ‘How’s the hand?’

  ‘It’s getting better. They’ll arrange physiotherapy for me. A few weeks and it’ll be back to normal, they say.’

  ‘And the leg?’

  ‘I can walk on it, just about. It’ll be a while before I can do star jumps, but I’m healing.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He nodded and looked away.

  He hadn’t mentioned her face. None of her visitors did. They’d happily chat away about the damage to her hand and her leg and what life was like with only half a spleen, but it seemed that nobody wanted to discuss what had happened to her face. In a way Vicky was relieved, because she had seen the damage and it wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t pretty at all. Her neck and face were badly burnt from the ear down to her shoulder and across to her nose. It was still red and bloody and festering under the dressings, but according to Dr Adams it was improving day by day. Even Dr Adams wasn’t prepared to say what it would look like once it had fully healed but he had conceded that she’d need extensive cosmetic surgery to look anywhere near normal.

  ‘I’ll be back at work as soon as I can,’ she said.

  ‘All that matters is that you get fit and well. What do the doctors say?’

  ‘That it’s going to be a few months, but what do the doctors know?’

  ‘You take your time,’ said Blackwell. ‘The guy you rescued is out of hospital and has been talking to the press. You’re a hero, he says.’

  ‘I was just doing my job.’

  ‘You saved his life, Vicky. And the lives of the other two guys that your crew rescued. You made the decision to go in when a lot of firefighters would have played wait and see.’

  ‘There wasn’t time,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Yeah, well, you made a tough call and you saved lives,’ said Blackwell. He nodded at the bed. ‘It’s just a bugger you ended up here.’

  She shrugged. ‘It could have been worse. So how’s the station?’

  ‘Same old,’ said Blackwell. ‘We’re still getting those hoax calls. Bloody kids.’

  He sat in silence for a while. Then looked at his watch. She could see how uncomfortable he was. ‘Actually, guv, I’m feeling a bit tired,’ she said. ‘Doc says I need to rest.’


  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m fine. It was really good of you to visit.’

  He stood up. ‘The guys will be around at some point,’ he said.

  ‘Most of them have already been in,’ Vicky said. She heard a noise at the door and turned to see her mum, holding a pile of magazines and a carrier bag that almost certainly contained fruit.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had a visitor,’ said her mum.

  ‘You know my boss, Mum. Mr Blackwell. He’s station manager at Kilburn.’

  Blackwell nodded at Vicky’s mum. ‘Nice to see you again, Barbara. You take care of Vicky, she’s very important to us.’

  ‘And to me,’ she said.

  Blackwell headed out.

  ‘He’s such a nice man,’ said Barbara, putting the fruit on a table.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Does he dye his hair?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Why do men do that, do you think?’

  ‘He wants to look younger, I guess.’

  ‘Men should grow old gracefully,’ said Barbara. ‘Look at that George Clooney. He’s not scared of going grey or having the odd wrinkle.’ Barbara sat down on the chair next to the bed and reached over to take hold of Vicky’s right hand. ‘That lawyer has been in touch. Mr Goldberg. The one representing the building owners.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be bothering you, Mum.’

  ‘He wasn’t bothering me. He’s going to give you three million pounds.’

  Vicky wasn’t sure she’d heard right. ‘What?’

  ‘I know it won’t make up for what you’ve been through, but that’s what they are offering. Mr Goldberg said it’ll be in your bank by the end of the week. And he said if you decide to have the plastic surgery done privately, they’ll pay for that too. I said that was the least he could do.’

  Vicky was speechless.

  ‘I told them that it was their fault that you got hurt and they didn’t argue with me. I think they are genuinely sorry about what happened and they said they wanted to make it right. I know they can’t turn back time, but at least you’ll never have to worry about money again.’

  ‘I don’t care about the money.’

  ‘But three million pounds is three million pounds. Just think of what you can do with that money.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Buy a house, for instance.’

  ‘I like living with you, Mum.’

  ‘A new car. You’ve always wanted a BMW.’

  Vicky smiled. ‘Well, yes, I could go for a BMW i8, that’s for sure.’

  ‘There you are then. And you could set yourself up in a business. Or buy-to-let. Get some apartments and rent them out.’

  ‘Mum, I’m a firefighter, not a landlord.’

  ‘Oh now, don’t be silly. You’re not going back to work. Not after this.’

  ‘I am, Mum,’ said Vicky, firmly.

  Barbara shook her head and patted Vicky’s hand. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’

  10

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  A young secretary with long blond hair and too-high heels showed Vicky into the meeting room, doing everything she could to avoid looking at Vicky’s scarred face. ‘Firefighter Lewis,’ she mumbled and hurried out.

  ‘Crew Manager Lewis, actually,’ said Vicky to the departing secretary. ‘But that’s okay.’

  She had grown her blond hair long so that it covered most of her burnt ear and neck, though there was nothing she could do about the scars on her left cheek.

  There were three men and one woman sitting at a polished wooden table. One of the chairs had a higher back than the others and that was occupied by Harry Linklater, president of the Fire Brigades Union. He was in his fifties with steel-grey hair cut short and pale blue eyes that always seemed to be squinting. He had been president for just three years but had earned a reputation as a hard negotiator who put the interests of the 44,000 men and women he represented above all else. He pushed back his chair and walked around the table to shake her hand. ‘Crew Manager Lewis, it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.

  He looked her in the eyes as he shook and didn’t seem at all put out by her scars.

  Linklater headed the FBU, which represented pretty much all the country’s firefighters. Their HQ was based in Kingston-upon-Thames, in a three-storey brick-built office block sandwiched between an Italian restaurant and a line of suburban semi-detached houses.

  ‘You found us all right?’

  ‘Satnav did, I just followed instructions,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Have you met Carol Horton? She’s in charge of our female section.’

  Horton was a dumpy thirty-something with short permed dyed hair and a square chin. Vicky’s first thought was that there was no way she could have passed the brigade’s fitness test, but she knew that appearances could be deceptive.

  The two women shook hands. Horton’s grip was weak as if she wasn’t happy about the physical contact. ‘Crew Manager Lewis,’ she said, as if committing the name to memory.

  ‘And you know Martin Greaves, your local officer.’

  ‘Of course I know Greavsie,’ she said.

  Greaves walked over and hugged her. ‘How the hell are you, Vicky?’ he said, squeezing her tightly. Greaves had been a crew manager at Kilburn when Vicky had first been assigned there, though he had left shortly afterwards to work for the union.

  ‘All good, Greavsie,’ she said. ‘I just want to get back in harness.’ Vicky saw a look of distaste flash across Horton’s face and she realised the woman didn’t approve of the hug.

  Greaves stopped hugging her, but put his hands on Vicky’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ he said.

  Vicky loved him for the fact that he didn’t seem the least bit fazed by her scarred face. ‘Me too,’ she said. He squeezed her shoulders, then sat down. Horton sat on his left and Linklater took his place in the high-backed chair. There was a jug of water and six glasses on a tray in the middle of the table.

  There were five chairs facing them and Vicky took the centre one. She smiled but felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if she was attending a job interview. Or a trial. Horton had an iPad on the table in front of her and she began to tap on it.

  Linklater put his hands down on the table and smiled at Vicky. ‘So, we’re here to discuss your career options now that you’re ready for active service. My understanding from Mr Greaves is that you have asked to return to duty but that no slot has been opened up for you?’

  Vicky nodded.

  ‘The accident occurred six months ago, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But your original station has refused to reinstate you on their rota?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘What exactly have you been told?’ asked Linklater.

  ‘Officially, nothing,’ said Vicky. ‘Headquarters won’t answer my letters or my emails and when I phone there’s no one available to talk to me.’

  ‘What does your station manager say?’

  ‘He says that until he hears otherwise I’m not fit for duty. And they’ve already replaced me.’

  ‘Who is your station manager?’

  ‘Rick Blackwell.’

  Linklater looked over at Greaves. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  Greaves nodded. ‘He wants Vicky back. They already have a new crew manager but he’d have her back as a firefighter at the drop of a hat. But citywide, there are a dozen vacancies for crew managers. It’s not about staffing levels.’

  ‘Has Station Manager Blackwell applied to have Crew Manager Lewis reinstated?’

  ‘He’s sent more than a dozen memos. They’re stalling, clearly.’

  Linklater scratched the back of his neck as he stared at Vicky. ‘You’ve been medically assessed?’

  Vicky shook her head. ‘I can’t get an appointment.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Vicky shrugged. ‘I p
hone the LFB Occupational Health department and I’m told someone will get back to me. They never do. When I phone, there’s never anyone available to talk to me. Sometimes they put me on hold and forget about me.’

  Linklater nodded thoughtfully. ‘What about your fitness?’

  ‘I’m good to go,’ said Vicky. ‘I’m in the gym every day. I’m as fit as I ever was.’

  Linklater gestured at the black glove on her left hand. ‘What about your hand?’

  ‘It’s stiff still, but there’s nothing I can’t do with it. It’s scarred, obviously. And there’s tendon damage, but I don’t need medication and the physio has given me exercises to do.’

  ‘And the prognosis is what?’

  ‘As I said, I’m good to go. There’s no equipment I can’t operate, my grip is good. Mobility is pretty much as it was before the accident. And I don’t seem to feel any pain. The doc says the burn probably damaged the pain receptors. It may or may not fix itself in time. But my hand is perfectly serviceable.’

  ‘You can operate a branch?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Linklater looked over at Greaves. ‘I think the first thing we have to do is to get Vicky a full medical assessment,’ he said. ‘Then put her through a fitness test.’

  Greaves nodded and scribbled a note.

  ‘Sounds to me as if your reappointment is being blocked somewhere up the food chain,’ said Linklater. ‘I’ll put out some feelers.’

  ‘I wonder if there’s a sexist element involved,’ said Horton, looking up from her iPad. ‘Perhaps we could get the media involved? Get some sort of campaign going?’

  ‘This is nothing to do with the fact I’m a woman,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Are you sure about that? I can’t help thinking that they wouldn’t be making it so difficult for a male firefighter to get his job back.’

  ‘I don’t want my job back because I’m a woman,’ said Vicky. ‘I want my job back because I’m a firefighter and a bloody good one.’