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The house fire in Lower Shirley had attracted so much interest that the roads surrounding the blaze were clogged with emergency workers, journalists and onlookers—so much so that Helen had had to abandon her bike in an alleyway and carry on on foot. She had no worries about doing so—this was an expensive neighborhood and her bike would still be there in the morning, but it slowed her progress considerably. She was curt with idlers and aggressive in her tactics as she bullied her way to the police cordon.
Swinging underneath it, she made her way toward Adam Latham. He was the last person she wanted to see right now, but she had no choice. She needed to know what they were dealing with here. As soon as Latham turned to her, she could tell it was bad news. He usually had a rosy complexion—he was one of those corpulent desk jockeys who had happily let himself go since retiring from frontline action—but tonight his face was ashen. He looked sick with worry and more than a little scared.
“I was wondering if you’d show your face,” he said, failing to disguise his contempt for her. “But I’m glad you’re here. Now you can see what your baseless allegations mean to officers on the ground. The shit that they have to put up with because ofyou.”
He turned toward the fire, offering Helen his back. Helen’s eyes flitted across the scene, taking in the kids idly abusing the fire crew, the journalists taking photos, no doubt wondering if any of the men in uniform was responsible for tonight’s blaze, before they came to rest on Latham once more.
“What’s happening?” she asked, drawing level with Latham, refusing to be dismissed.
“What’s happening is that four of my best officers are in that inferno attempting to save a boy who may—or may not—be in there. Trying to pull innocent people from a blaze that you and your lot are solely responsible for. Have you got even a singlegenuinelead? Anything that might bring this guy to book?”
“This isn’t helping, Adam.”
“Fuck you. If the truth hurts, then don’t ask the question.”
“Where is your team, Adam?”
She said it as gently as she could—she didn’t want to provoke him further—and finally Latham seemed to soften a little. A dinosaur he might be, but he did care about his team and would be devastated if anything happened to them.
“Last we heard they were on the second floor. But that was over five minutes ago and we’ve lost radio contact with them. I can’t risk sending any more of them in until we put this thing out. We’re doing everything we can...”
Helen was suddenly struck by how conversational and intimatehis tone was. It was as if he wanted to talk to her—to talk to someone—to alleviate the tension that gripped him. “You have to trust in their training. These guys know what they’re doing and if anyone can make it out of there, they can. You have them well drilled—there are no better officers in the country.”
Adam nodded but said nothing, his eyes still fixed on the blazing house. Helen wasn’t sure if she believed it either—they were good, no question, but the five-story house wasconsumedwith fire. Could anyone survive an inferno like that?
The pair of them stood there, scanning the scene, as Latham’s deputy repeatedly tried to restore radio contact. The tension was almost too much to bear, and then suddenly there was movement at the front of the house. The front door barrelled open, collapsing off its hinges, and the first two men in the team hurried out. Suddenly the whole scene came to life, as paramedics, colleagues and more hurried over to them. The escaping firefighters were already signaling for an ambulance and now Helen saw why. The third and fourth men in the team had now followed their colleagues out of the house, carrying someone in their arms.
The house belonged to Jacqueline and Michael Harris and they shared it with their son, Ethan, and a nanny. The parents were out tonight but the other two were thought to be home. Helen could see the boy was now in the firefighters’ arms and though there was much concern for him—paramedics now rushing him toward the awaiting ambulance—at least he could be accounted for. Of the nanny, Agnieszka Jarosik, there was no sign.
Helen stepped aside as the boy was wheeled past. He looked in a terrible state, covered in dirt and blood and in the grip of some kind of fit. As he sped by, Helen was suddenly struck by the diabolical nature of this latest crime. Their arsonist presumably knew who lived here,knew that a vulnerable boy like Ethan would struggle to escape such a savage fire. And yet this thought hadn’t stilled his hand, hadn’t occasioned any second thoughts. It almost beggared belief, but it was true. If she hadn’t known it before, Helen knew it then—this killer’s cruelty knew no bounds.
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Her heels made a harsh, repetitive clicking sound as she ran toward the hospital entrance. Michael was paying the cabbie, but she hadn’t waited for him. Her head was spinning, her mind full of awful possibilities, and now she just wanted toknow.
Without thinking, she ran straight into the A&E department. The automatic doors opened obligingly for her and as she hurried inside, that familiar hospital smell hit her. Disinfectant warmed up by the overactive heating system and sprinkled with a little urine. She hated that smell and she hated hospitals. God knows she’d spent enough time in them and more than enough time in A&E over the last few years. Because of his condition, Ethan was clumsy and accident-prone, so Jacqueline had spent too many hours slumped on these grim plastic seats, surrounded by the drunk and the disorderly.
She generally forced Michael to accompany her on these visits—scared of the shambling drunks and paranoid care-in-the-communitytypes that littered the emergency department—and she was glad when she found him by her side now. Her nerves were spiking wildly, as they had been since she pulled out her phone to call a cab, only to find she’d missed numerous calls. She’d only made it through the first two messages before she’d grabbed Michael and sprinted from the restaurant, leaving the bill unpaid. Their first instinct had been to head home, but on hearing that Ethan had been taken to South Hants Hospital, they diverted there instead. There was still no word as to the fate of Agnieszka—that was something Jacqueline didn’t even want to think about.
Gripping her husband’s hand, Jacqueline marched up to the first nurse she could see and collared him. “Our son was brought in this evening. Ethan Harris.”
For a moment, the nurse looked blank. “You’ll need to go to reception. All admissions—”
“There was a fire. At our house in Lower Shirley. My son was there—they just brought him in.”
Immediately she saw the nurse’s expression change and it made her feel sick. Suddenly he knew exactly what she was talking about and looked worried and concerned.
“Of course. You’ll need the burns unit. Let me take you there now.”
He walked briskly and they matched his pace, though Jacqueline felt nauseated and short of breath. Both she and Michael must have had the best part of a bottle of wine each, and the alcohol was now making its presence felt. All pleasure had evaporated long ago: now she felt dehydrated and washed out. What on earth were they doing, drinking, laughing, joking, when their bloody house was on fire?
She looked at her husband, but his gaze was fixed resolutely forward. She had heard about the recent fires, of course, but to her shame had thought they were other people’s problems—people with less money and more issues perhaps. It was embarrassing to admit that, but it was true. Even now, she hoped and prayed thattheirfire had nothing to dowith these arson attacks. Faulty wiring perhaps, a hob left on. It wouldn’t be excusable, especially if it turned out to be Agnieszka’s fault, but she didn’t want to be part of that other thing. She and Michael didn’t have any enemies; there was no one out there who would want to harm them. He was a psychiatrist and she was a bloody architect, for God’s sake.
And yet something inside herknew. Knew that they were getting sucked into something bigger than them. And that this was just the start of their misery.
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