The Sh0ut Page 7

  ‘No one’s saying you should play the sex card, Vicky,’ said Linklater.

  ‘But it’s fair to say that with women making up only seven per cent of the LFB workforce, we need every female firefighter we can get,’ said Horton.

  Horton poured herself a glass of water. ‘According to the papers, you received a pay-off of three million pounds,’ she said.

  ‘Not from the brigade,’ said Vicky. ‘That was an out-of-court settlement from the company that owned the building.’

  Horton nodded. ‘I guess my question is, with that much in the bank, why would you want to go back to work? If it was me, I’d go off and buy a cottage by the sea and kick back.’

  ‘I’m too young to retire,’ said Vicky. ‘And this isn’t about money. It’s about them letting me do the job I was trained for. I’m a firefighter. I want to fight fires. They can’t throw me out just because I was injured, can they?’ She looked at them, one by one. ‘Well, can they?’

  ‘No, they can’t,’ said Linklater. ‘And we won’t let them.’

  11

  Simon Reid sipped his white wine, grimaced, and looked around the room. It was filled with familiar faces, politicians major and minor, assorted bureaucrats and NGO officials, PR executives and journalists. A feature writer from the Guardian tried to catch his eye but Reid turned his back on her. He was no fan of the Guardian and the paper took every opportunity to highlight what it considered his failings. It was the Guardian that had first referred to him as the Gatekeeper, the man who controlled access to the Mayor. No one got to see the Mayor without first going through Reid, claimed the paper, which was pretty much true. The Mayor also used Reid to pass on bad news. Reid spotted the London Fire Commissioner at the far end of the room, talking to an earnest young man in a double-breasted grey suit. The commissioner was in day-to-day control of the London Fire Brigade but he answered to the Mayor who ultimately set the brigade’s budgets and decided its strategy. Reid walked over. Another journalist, this one from the Independent, smiled at Reid and held out his hand but Reid pretended not to see him and walked straight by. Reid was no fan of the Independent either, and once it had discontinued its newsprint edition and become a website-only publication he ranked it even lower than the Guardian. The Independent liked to refer to Reid as the Mayor’s Rottweiler, which Reid actually took as a compliment.

  As Reid walked up to the Commissioner, the man in the grey suit pulled his mobile phone out and began to talk into it. Reid took the opportunity to shake the Commissioner’s hand and lead him over to a quiet corner. ‘I was hoping I’d catch you here,’ said Reid. ‘The Mayor is very keen that I have a word with you.’

  ‘That sounds ominous,’ said the Commissioner. He was a big man who had run to fat in his years behind a desk and his stomach was straining the buttons of his uniform tunic.

  Reid raised his glass. ‘Some things are best said in private.’

  Reid was a good six inches shorter than the Commissioner, even with the hidden lifts in his shoes. He had to tilt his head back slightly to look the Commissioner in the eyes.

  ‘Even more ominous.’ The Commissioner looked around as if trying to identify an escape route.

  Reid smiled his most winning smile and put his hand on the Commissioner’s shoulder. He moved his head closer to the Commissioner’s ear. ‘The Mayor is very concerned about the Vicky Lewis situation,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ sighed the Commissioner.

  ‘The Mayor is insistent that you can’t sack her, Bill. You really can’t. She’s a hero and so was her dad. She was one of the first responders at Grenfell Tower and helped bring a family down from the tenth floor. Her picture was in all the papers, remember?’

  ‘She isn’t being sacked,’ said the Commissioner. ‘She’s unfit for duty. She’s being let go for medical reasons.’

  ‘The girl’s a hero, Bill. An honest-to-God hero. And so was her father. He saved half-a-dozen people at King’s Cross.’

  The Commissioner’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t you go lecturing me on the King’s Cross fire,’ he said. ‘Or Grenfell Tower. I was at both.’

  ‘And I was on the street on the day of the funerals, Bill. It was a sad day for all of London. But if it hadn’t been for Jim Lewis and the hundred and fifty other firefighters who risked their lives at King’s Cross, the death toll would have been a lot higher than it was. Which is why you can’t go throwing his daughter on the scrap heap just because she got burned.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’ whispered the Commissioner, fearful of being overheard. ‘The whole side of her face melted.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you only hire firefighters good-looking enough to be in a calendar? You’re no oil painting yourself, Bill.’

  ‘She was very badly burnt and she’s going to carry those scars for the rest of her life. Having her on an appliance is the worst possible PR for the brigade. Every time she attends a fire someone is going be snapping away on their mobile and the pictures will be all over the tabloids.’

  ‘How is that a problem?’

  ‘She got burned, and that means she fucked up, whichever way you look at it. But it’s not just the publicity issue. What about the other firefighters who’ll be with her? Her burns are a constant reminder of what can go wrong, and that’s got to be bad for morale.’

  ‘Has any firefighter ever said that to you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘They’re a tough bunch,’ said Reid.

  ‘You’re making it sound as if I’m personally responsible for rehiring her.’

  ‘It’s not a question of rehiring. She’s still on the books, she’s still being paid.’

  The Commissioner sipped his drink. ‘It’s not as if she needs the money, is it? The owners of the building gave her three million quid in an out-of-court settlement.’

  ‘That was to pay her medical bills,’ said Reid.

  ‘The NHS took care of her. And they’ll do whatever plastic surgery is necessary. All that money is sitting in her bank account.’

  ‘Is that what’s going on?’ asked Reid. ‘She got a pay-off so you’re letting her go?’

  ‘It’s not about the money,’ said the Commissioner. ‘But with that sort of cash in the bank, why doesn’t she just go off and enjoy herself?’

  ‘Because she’s a firefighter, Bill. The same as her father was. Don’t tell me you can’t relate to that? You’ve been in the brigade for what? Thirty years? You could have gone into the private sector ages ago, made more money and incurred a lot less grief.’

  ‘That’s the truth,’ admitted the Commissioner.

  ‘But you stayed. Because it’s in your blood.’

  ‘But I wasn’t injured. The army does the same, it medically discharges troops when they’re no longer fit to carry out their trained role. It doesn’t matter how many medals they’ve won.’

  ‘But Vicky is perfectly capable of being a firefighter. She’ll pass any fitness test, that’s what I’m told.’

  ‘She’s got the heart of a lion, I’m not disputing that. But as I said, there are PR and morale considerations. Plus, let’s not forget she broke the rules.’

  Reid frowned. ‘She what?’

  ‘She was in the building on her own when she got burned, and she shouldn’t have been. That’s one of the rules of breathing apparatus operations. You are always paired up. You never leave a man – or a woman – alone. She knew that.’

  ‘Why was she on her own?’

  ‘That’s not the point. The point is that standard operating procedure is always to be paired up. Always.’

  ‘She split up the team to save a guy’s life. Right?’

  ‘She broke the rules. End of. And she removed her helmet and mask. Also against the rules.’

  ‘She was giving air to a casualty.’

  ‘She took off her helmet. If she hadn’t, maybe her injuries wouldn’t have been so severe.’

  Reid sipped his drink and winced. ‘This is crap,’ he said. ‘Why is the wine at thes
e things always so bloody awful?’

  The Commissioner smiled thinly but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Look, Bill, this isn’t going away. She’s not going to go willingly and I can’t say I blame her. The union is backing her, and if push comes to shove the Mayor will be giving her his support and so will the London Fire and Emergency Planning Authority,’

  ‘You’re putting a gun to my head,’ said the Commissioner.

  ‘No, but I’m telling you the Mayor has a gun in his pocket and it’s loaded,’ said Reid. ‘Look, how about this? Keep her on the payroll but find her something else to do, something where she won’t be visible. How does that sound?’

  ‘That could work, I suppose,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Let me take it under consideration.’

  Reid smiled and clinked his glass against the Commissioner’s. ‘The Mayor will be grateful, Bill,’ he said. ‘Very grateful.’ His smile widened as he saw the Deputy Prime Minister looking in his direction. He raised his glass and the Deputy Prime Minister waved him over. ‘Catch you later,’ said Reid.

  12

  Dowgate Fire Station, on Upper Thames Street at the bottom of Dowgate Hill, was the only station in the City of London, known colloquially as the Square Mile. The only other station in the Square Mile had been the Barbican, which was closed in cost-cutting measures in 1999. As another cost-cutting measure the Dowgate station also covered most of Southwark in south London, which meant its pump ladder was forever racing back and forth over the Thames.

  Vicky parked in the street a short walk from the station. The pump was parked up and two firefighters were busy checking the breathing apparatus. In most stations the offices were on the upper floors so she looked around for the stairs, but before she spotted them a black spaniel ran over and started pawing at her legs. ‘Hello, fella,’ she said and knelt down and patted the dog’s neck. It yelped excitedly.

  ‘Hey, Watson, keep your mind on the job,’ called a firefighter walking in from the training yard behind the pumps. He was wearing a tunic and leggings and holding a yellow tennis ball. He was in his thirties with ginger hair and pale white skin peppered with large freckles.

  The dog licked Vicky’s face enthusiastically, oblivious to the scars. Vicky loved the way that animals didn’t care how she looked. She rubbed her cheek against the dog’s fur. ‘You’re a good boy,’ she said.

  ‘He always goes crazy for a pretty girl,’ said the man. Vicky was wearing LFB gear, with a fleece over it, and carrying a black nylon backpack and her helmet. He nodded at the helmet. ‘You’re the station’s new crew manager?’

  As she stood up she saw his eyes widen. It was a look she’d seen hundreds of times but that didn’t make it any easier. She didn’t blame the man, it was instinctive, and he quickly smiled and concentrated on her unmarked cheek. ‘Vicky Lewis,’ she said. ‘I’ve been assigned to the Fire Investigation Unit.’

  ‘Oh my God, you’re Vicky Lewis.’

  ‘I just said that.’

  ‘The Vicky Lewis?’

  Vicky laughed. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘No one said you were coming to Dowgate.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think they’re advertising the fact. You are …?’

  The man looked shamefaced and held out his hand. ‘Sorry. Yes. Jamie Hughes. I’m with fire investigation, too.’ He gestured at the dog. ‘Obviously. He’s supposed to be sniffing out the accelerant swabs I’ve hidden around the yard.’ He held up the tennis ball. ‘This is the love of his life, though the way he’s fawning over you might say otherwise. He gets this as a reward when he finds the swabs.’

  The dog was still scrabbling at her thighs and Vicky laughed and knelt down again, letting him lick her face. ‘He’s lovely,’ she said.

  ‘Like I said, he likes the ladies. Actually, we both do. Especially blonds.’

  Vicky looked up at him. ‘I thought dogs were colour blind.’

  ‘Watson seems to manage okay. So you’re going to be an investigator?’

  ‘Yeah. Apparently. I’m here to see Watch Manager Desmond Farmer.’

  ‘The Grouch? He’s in the main building. Third floor.’

  Vicky laughed. ‘Is he hard work?’

  ‘I’ll take the fifth, as the Americans would say,’ said Hughes. ‘Reception is through there, they’ll point you in the right direction.’ He pointed at a door to the right-hand side of the station. ‘Maybe see you for a drink one day after your shift. The guys often pop into the Steelyard for a quick one.’ He whistled at the dog. ‘Come on, Watson, that’s enough of a break.’ Watson wagged his tail and ran over to him. Hughes nodded at the stairs. ‘Good luck with the Grouch.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Vicky. She headed to the door as the man went back into the training yard. There was an intercom to the left of the door and she pressed it. She could see a young man in dark-blue LFB shirt and trousers sitting at a desk and he buzzed her in. ‘Crew Manager Vicky Lewis,’ she said. ‘I’m here to see Desmond Farmer.’

  The man pointed at the stairs. ‘Third floor.’

  Vicky shouldered her backpack and headed up the narrow flight of stairs. On the third floor was a long corridor with piles of cardboard boxes against one wall and a line of doors to the left. The first door was open and appeared to be an equipment store. The second door was ajar, and Vicky caught a glimpse of a man in shirtsleeves talking into a telephone. To the left of the door was a small white plastic sign with DANIEL MAGUIRE, FIRE INVESTIGATION in black capital letters. The third door was also ajar. The sign on the wall said the office was Farmer’s. Vicky knocked and when there was no reply she knocked again and then pushed it open. A grey-haired man in his fifties was sitting behind a desk piled high with files and papers. He looked up and squinted at her. ‘What do you want?’ he growled.

  ‘I knocked.’

  ‘Nobody knocks here,’ he said. ‘You open the door, you tell me what you want, then you fuck off.’ He looked down at the file he had propped on his lap and chewed a biro. He was wearing a white LFB uniform shirt with two circular pips on his black epaulettes denoting his rank: watch manager. To his left was a metal filing cabinet and two more shirts were hanging from the handle of the top drawer. The blinds had been pulled down and the overhead fluorescent lights were on. The walls were covered with official notices, health-and-safety memorandums and charts of various sizes. There didn’t seem to be anything of a personal nature on the walls or on his desk.

  ‘I’m Vicky Lewis.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said, not looking up.

  ‘You’re Desmond Farmer?’

  ‘No one’s called me Desmond since I was an altar boy, and I’ve got bad memories of those days.’

  ‘Mr Farmer?’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be calling you? Guv? Boss?’

  He sighed. ‘You choose. I couldn’t care less either way.’

  Vicky forced a smile. ‘Guv, then. And they call me Vicky. Or Crew Manager Lewis.’ She approached him and held out her hand.

  He ignored it and concentrated on the file he was holding. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ he said.

  ‘What isn’t? You sweet-talking me?’

  He looked up from the file. ‘Your dad was a hero, no question. By all accounts, so are you. But I’m not Batman and I don’t need a sidekick. I investigate fires, you put them out. The two activities are in no way related.’

  ‘You were a firefighter once.’

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘But you made the transition.’

  Farmer sighed. ‘Yes, I did. But I’m not a teacher and I don’t want to be one. I told them I didn’t want to hold your hand, but apparently my opinion counts for nothing these days.’ He tossed the file on to the desk. ‘This isn’t personal, sweetheart. I’m just not cut out to be Yoda.’

  ‘That’s all right, guv. I never saw myself as Luke Skywalker. So I understand that my mentor you cannot be.’

  He waved his hand in the air di
smissively. ‘Forget it. What I’m saying is you shouldn’t be here. You should be putting out fires and charging into burning buildings.’ She saw his eyes widen as he realised what he’d said. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘No offence.’

  She turned so that her scarred cheek was towards him. ‘Don’t worry about this.’ she said. ‘I’ve come to terms with it. It’s part of me now.’ She nodded at a chair. ‘Can I sit?’

  ‘Of course. Yes.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Look, you seem like a nice girl but I’ve raised it with my guv’nor and you’re not staying.’

  Vicky sat down. ‘Just so we’re clear, I wasn’t thrilled to be sent here,’ she said. ‘I want to fight fires, not investigate them. I want to pull people out of burning buildings, not visit their bodies on a slab. They want me out of the brigade, there’s no question of that.’ She pointed at her scarred face. ‘Because of this, obviously. I’ve been burned twice. Once by the fire and now by the brigade. That’s why I’m here. Not because they want me to be your assistant, but because they want me out. I’m not going to let them win. If they want to stick me in fire investigation, fine. I’ll do the best job I can, and when the time comes I’ll move back to fire-fighting. But the one thing I’m not going to do is quit.’

  Farmer put up both his hands. ‘I understand. Hell’s bells, I empathise, I know what shits management can be. I’m sure they’d have pushed me out years ago if they had the chance. But you can understand why I’m not thrilled to have someone assigned to me who doesn’t want to be here.’

  Vicky shook her head. ‘That’s not what I said. Don’t get me wrong. I want to be out fighting fires, but while I’m here I’ll work any hours you want, you’ll never hear me complain. If you want me to get you coffee in the morning or pick up your dry-cleaning then I’ll do it. I’ll work my balls off for you. I swear.’

  Farmer tried to suppress a smile. ‘I assume you’re talking metaphorically.’

  Vicky ignored the clumsy attempt at humour. ‘I’ve read the fire investigation manual three times. I’ll make this work because I don’t have any choice. If I fuck up here then they win and I’m out.’