The Retribution (37 page)

The hay barn was an old-fashioned wooden barn that backed on to the stable block. On one side were bales of straw, on the other, sacks and bales of fodder. Vance couldn’t have been less interested. He motored down to the far end of the barn and turned the bike round before he dismounted. He pulled the feed off the bike, then started work.

Vance dragged one of the straw bales closer to the back of the barn so that it acted as a bridge between the wooden wall and the stack of bales. Then he propped it up on the wall so there was a wedge-shaped space underneath. He poured the petrol over the straw, then he packed the empty space with foam chips. Finally, he lit half a dozen cigarettes and stuck them into the foam. If the arsonist he’d cultivated in jail had told him the truth, the foam would smoulder for a while, then the petrol vapours would ignite the straw. The barn was a fire-trap, and the fire would spread into the roof of the stables, bringing the roof down on the terrified horses.

The only downside was that he wouldn’t be around to see it. Hiding in plain sight was a lot harder in rural Herefordshire than it was in a city like Worcester. Vance climbed back on the bike and headed back the way he’d come. This time, nobody stopped him. The stable lad he’d spoken to before actually waved.

People were so easy to fool. The quickness of the hand deceived the eye, every time. He hadn’t lost any of his magic. As Micky was about to find out.

But the remaining screens were her business. The investigation on the ground in Northern Division fed all its data into their computers and that was immediately shared with MIT. Of course, that presumed that Northern were uploading everything that crossed their paths and not making false assumptions about prioritising. She also hoped there weren’t any numpties who thought they could make a name for themselves by hugging their interview product close to their chest so they could pursue their own leads instead of pooling them. Sam had tendencies in that direction, and the last few years had demonstrated that you could only go so far in eliminating the Lone Ranger streak.

The phone was registered to Maria Demchak at an address in the Skenby area. Preliminary inquiries – whatever that meant, Paula thought sceptically – had her down as an illegal from Ukraine, probably trafficked, living in a terraced house with a dozen other young women under the protection of a former professional boxer who was married to an ex-lap dancer who happened to be Russian.

‘This is interesting,’ she said. Kevin Matthews, the only officer remaining in the squad room, came over for a look. ‘This one seems to have had a pimp.’

‘He’s getting bolder,’ Kevin said. ‘His first three were loners. Nobody looking out for them when they were out working. But a pimp keeps an eye on his assets. This bastard thinks he’s invincible. Maybe that’s the way we’ll bring him down.’

‘I hope you’re right. He’s getting careless too. We didn’t find any ID or handbags with the other three. Tony said he might be keeping them as souvenirs.’

‘The chief’s not going to like that.’

‘She’s not here. She won’t have a say. It’ll be Pete Reekie calling the shots on the press conference for this one, and I don’t think he’ll hold back now. Face it, Paula, we’re going to be under siege from the reptiles of Her Majesty’s press tomorrow. And we have got the square root of fuck all to give them.’

Right on cue, Stacey’s desk phone rang. Both reached for it but Paula was faster. ‘DC McIntyre,’ she said.

‘It’s Stacey.’

‘Hi, Stacey. We’ve got an ID for number four—’

‘I know, I told you I’d monitor the case traffic. I’ve got something for you from the Oklahoma website.’

Paula grinned and gave Kevin a thumbs-up. ‘You are a genius, Stacey. Have you got a name for us?’

‘I’ve got a starting point,’ Stacey said repressively. ‘There’s nobody from the UK among the forum posters. But I found a back door into the site and managed to pull up the email archive. About a year ago, an email arrived, which is now in the system inbox on my number one screen. I’m in the process of tracking down the sender, I’ll forward those details on soon as.’

‘Thanks. How’s it going down there? How’s the chief holding up?’

‘I’m too busy for this, Paula. I’ll give you relevant information when I have it.’ And the line went dead.

‘All the social skills of a hermit crab,’ Kevin said.

A note from Stacey followed. ‘See reply: “Sorry, MMF, no Brits come by here. Good luck with your search.” See email address: am data-mining for Kerry Fletcher on my system. More later.’

Paula turned and gave Kevin a high five. ‘It’s a start,’ she said.

‘It’s more than that. It’s a name. A solid lead, which we have been seriously lacking on this case so far. Let’s see if we can get this whole thing wrapped up before the guv’nor comes back from Worcester.’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody Worcester. I’d barely heard of the place six months ago. Now I can’t turn round without falling over it.’

Paula’s mobile rang and she looked at the caller ID screen then pulled a face. ‘I’ll tell you one good thing about Worcester,’ she said. ‘Penny bloody Burgess doesn’t work there.’

Tendrils of smoke spiralled upwards, melding into one before separating into gauzy wisps that dissolved into the ever-thickening air. Yellow and red pinpricks bloomed on individual strands of straw, blossoming into tiny flames that mostly sputtered and died. But some survived, bursting into flame like a kernel of corn popped in a pan. They crackled and spat, transforming the straws into conduits of fire, carrying the blaze upwards and outwards.

The blaze grew exponentially, doubling its reach in minutes, then seconds, till the pile of bales at the back of the barn was a wall of flame, clouds of smoke trapped to thicken under the roof. Tongues of fire licked at the wooden roof beams, spreading along their length like water spilled on a flat surface. At that point, nobody had noticed what was happening.

The horses smelled the smoke before the humans did. Uneasy, they stamped and snorted in their stalls, heads tossing and eyes rolling. A grey mare kicked the walls of her loose box, whinnying high and loud, the whites of her eyes stark against the black rims of her eyelids. When the first spears of flame penetrated the floor of the hayloft above the horses, unease shifted closer to panic. Hooves clattered and foam flecked the corners of their mouths.

By now, the fire was moving fast, finding flammable material in its path; wood, hay and straw succumbed quickly. Terrified horses screamed and kicked the wooden doors of their stalls. Even though stable lads were out and about, patrolling in defence of their bosses, by the time anyone caught on to what was happening, the fire was in the driving seat.

The first lad on the scene, Johnny Fitzgerald, opened the nearest stable door on a scene from hell. Horses with rivers of flame running down their backs reared and screamed, their flailing hooves wild weapons against any would-be rescuer.

Johnny wasted no time in getting close enough to toss the halter over the horse’s head and throw back the bolt on the stall door. ‘Come on, my lovely girl,’ Johnny said. Falier’s Friend needed no encouragement. She lunged towards the opening, almost sweeping Johnny from his feet as they both headed out into the yard.

By now, there was a frenzy of activity. The fire’s grip was concentrated at one end of the block, and all around, stable lads and police protection officers were doing what they could to stop it spreading and to rescue the horses. Johnny spent a few valuable seconds trying to calm the chestnut mare, then handed the rope to a cop. He pulled off his sweater and dunked it in a trough of water, then swathed his head in it before he went back in.

If it had been bad before, it was hellish now. He could barely stand the heat as he forced himself forward towards the next horse. Midnight Dancer, a black beauty whose condition was the envy of every yard in the area. Now her glossy dark flanks were dulled with smoke and ash and sweat, her screaming whinny a knife that went through Johnny’s smoke-dulled brain. He burned his hand on the hook that held the nearest halter, but he managed to hold on to the rope.

Betsy threw the bucket of water at Midnight Dancer and for a split second, the horse was still. Johnny wasted no time and threw the halter. It caught on the horse’s ears, then slithered down the back of her neck. As Betsy reached for the bolt on the door, there was a loud crack, then a screeching creak. They both looked up as one of the heavy oak joists came away from the roof, a massive flaming missile headed straight for them.

Without pause, Johnny dropped the halter rope and threw himself at Betsy, his slight weight enough to shove her out of the path of the falling beam. Scrambling to her feet, she turned to see Johnny and Midnight Dancer both fatally pinned beneath the still-burning rafter. At the sound of another creak overhead, Betsy swiftly clambered over the dead lad and the beam towards the pale rectangle of the door.

As she stumbled into the yard, Micky swept her into her arms. Betsy pulled away, hot vomit surging from her stomach and splattering the herringbone brick of the yard. Tears were running down her face, and not just from the smoke. As she steadied herself, one hand on the cool wall of a building not on fire, the fire brigade’s engines swung into the yard, splashing blue light on the scarlet flames shooting through the roof.

Betsy panted, legs suddenly weak. So this was what it felt like when Jacko Vance came after your peace of mind. At the thought, she was sick all over again.