Cannon shook his head. “Their car’s not here and Mrs. Harris’s PA confirmed that she and her husband have gone out to dinner tonight. But we’ve got no way of knowing if they’ve got their son with them or not.”
“How mobile is he? Could he get out himself? Call for help?”
“Hard to say. He’s epileptic and has some physical disabilities according to the neighbors. He can get around, but he might have been asleep when this started. Even if he was awake, the stress of the situation might get to him and...”
“Jesus Christ.”
Adam Latham had recurring nightmares about moments like this. He had faced enough of them over the years, but they still haunted him—those moments when you had to make the big calls, when innocent lives were at stake and it was down to you to decide which way to jump. His team had already been in the building for upward of ten minutes and it was touch-and-go as to how much longer the structure would hold. The fire appeared to have started in the basement and ripped through the old terraced house—it was a very real risk that the flooring would collapse, sending four officers to their deaths. He couldn’t have that on his conscience, but if they pulled out too early and allowed a disabled boy to die in the conflagration, they’d be slaughtered. And rightly so.
“What are the boys saying? What’s it like in there?”
His deputy pulled a face. “They’re getting barbecued. They’ve got three or four minutes at best.”
Cannon paused and looked at his boss. Latham looked at him, then up at the house, before saying:
“Give them two more minutes. If they haven’t found the boy by then, tell them to pull out.”
Cannon was immediately on his radio as he hurried back toward the house. Adam Latham watched him go, hoping and praying that he’d just made the right call—and that he’d be able to live with the consequences.
86
The fire swirled around him, but still he pushed on. He had to keep going. The temperature in the house was savage now—it wouldn’t be long before his protective suit started to melt—but he had no choice. The intelligence was that there was a teenage boy in the house, and he was damned if he was leaving without him. The order to pull out could only be seconds away—their bosses were very cautious when it came to officer safety and he was profoundly grateful for that.
Yet still Leroy Friend marched on, climbing the stairs to the top of the house, despite fully expecting them to give out at any moment. He was recently married with a young baby—if there was a child in here, he would move heaven and earth to get him out. But this place no longer resembled either of those—it looked more like hell. Everything was ablaze, coming at them from below, from the sides and even more alarmingly from above. The roof had caught, was weakening and might come down at any second.
Distracted by this troubling sight, Leroy missed his step and stumbled as he moved forward. His arm shot out to right himself, but the weakened banister came away in his hand. Suddenly he was pitching forward, his heart skipping a beat as he sailed through the air, powerless to stop himself. He collided hard with the staircase and to his horror part of it gave way. Lying spread-eagle on his front, he could look through the stairs now to the inferno awaiting him below. And in that moment, he knew he had to turn back.
Levering himself up cautiously, he called it in and turned to retrace his steps. It would be hard going—he would have to resist the temptation to run despite the intense heat, testing each foothold before he put his weight on it. If he brought the whole staircase down, he’d put not only his own life in jeopardy, but the lives of the rest of the team too.
Tentatively he moved his right foot forward, hoping to jam it into the corner of the staircase, which still seemed solid. But halfway to his foothold, he paused. He could hear something. Something that frightened and alarmed him.
You hear all sorts of things when you’re in the midst of a fire, and you become attuned to what each sound means, used to processing every small noise in case it poses a threat of danger. And these sounds become your friends, the soundscape of emergencies that become familiar through repetition. But this sound he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t the usual roar or crackle or shriek. This sounded more like a wounded animal. Like some kind of keening.
Cursing himself for his stupidity and calling on all the saints he could think of, Leroy turned and continued to climb. Immediately his radio crackled and nearby he could hear the rest of the team calling to him. He gestured for them to get out but didn’t turn or engage them in conversation—he didn’t want to drag them into his madness.
The sound was getting louder now as he mounted the stairs. Was it to the left or the right? As he stood, straining to hear, a roar abovehim made him dive to the left. A flaming wooden beam came crashing down where he’d just been standing, sending a vast column of white-hot sparks leaping up into the air.
Now he was scrambling to his feet, racing to his left. There was no time to hesitate and think; he just had to act. In front of him was a door. He turned the handle and pushed with all his might, but immediately he met resistance. Was it fallen debris behind there or something else?
His head was beginning to throb, the oxygen in his tank draining fast. Muttering his baby son’s name, he shouldered the door once, twice, three times. And now finally it did move. Pushing it roughly open, he stepped inside. There on the floor in front of him was a teenage boy in the midst of a full-blown seizure.
It was what Leroy had been hoping to find, but still this discovery filled him with dread. There was precious little chance of him getting out now, let alone two of them. But there was no time to hesitate, so scooping the quivering boy up, he placed him over his shoulder and strode back to the stairs.
Time was against them, there was little hope for either, but Leroy Friend had to try. If this boy washisboy, he would expect nothing less.
87
Charlie lay in bed and listened to the sirens. Another night, another set of fires. It was unbelievable, but it was true. She had tried to avoid anything work related, given the horrific day she’d endured, but Southampton’s news was now national news, so even though she’d flicked her DAB radio to a classical station in an effort to relax, the news bulletins still brought real life crashing back into her world. In the end, she’d turned the radio off, pulling the duvet up around her chin, hoping against hope that she could block out the madness and get some sleep.
But old habits die hard. And even as she lay there tossing and turning, there was a part of Charlie that wanted to text Sanderson or McAndrew to find out what was going on. In normal circumstances she would have done so already, probably while driving to the station to pitch in, regardless of whether it was her shift or not. As a police officer you just want to know the details—to find out if you can help,if there is anything that can be done. Even now, with Steve counseling her not to dwell on recent events, with Charlie herself trying to wrench her mind toward more mundane, domestic matters, there was a part of her that craved the detail. What was happening out there?
When you’re wallowing in ignorance, your mind conjures up the very worst kinds of images. Who was to say that their arsonist hadn’t exceeded himself tonight, visiting his most serious night of chaos on Southampton? Charlie shook her head to ward off such morbid thoughts, but suddenly all sorts of nightmarish images presented themselves. Charlie knew she was disturbing Steve and didn’t want to have to explain why, so she fled their room, heading past Jessica’s bedroom and downstairs to the kitchen.
She poured herself a cool glass of water from the jug in the fridge and, having downed half the glass, held it to her forehead. She was surprised to find that she was sweating, and for a moment the cold glass soothed her. She drained the glass, refilled it and drained it again. She seemed to be locked into some kind of panic now. She felt dizzy and, steadying herself with a hand on the kitchen island, lowered herself to the floor. It was cool down here, the quarry tiles radiating a wintry chill from the frozen ground below, but Charlie liked the sensation, so she slowly spread herself out, feeling the coolness seep into her chest, her stomach, her thighs. If Steve found her like this he’d probably ship her straight off to the funny farm, but Charlie didn’t care. She just wanted to be calm, cool and quiet for a moment.
Lying in the darkened kitchen, Charlie felt invisible and momentarily safe from the world. Perhaps this could be her sanctuary for the night, a place where she could process the terrible tragedy of little Alice’s death without disturbing Steve or Jessica. But to do so she’d have to ignore the sirens that wailed outside, ebbing and flowing, but never truly going away. It was as if every emergency vehicle in Southampton was out there right now, chasing shadows. And each time they nearedher house, they seemed to accuse Charlie directly, shaming her for her absence. And tonight she felt every bit of that shame. They were right to lambaste her—she deserved no mercy from them.
She’d always thought of herself as a dedicated and diligent officer, but tonight she felt nothing of the sort. Tonight she knew in her heart that she was nothing but a coward and a fraud.
