“Got it!” yells Ollie, taking a flying tackle on to the floor and before we even have a chance to go for the woman, she’s out the door.
Bang.
Ollie fires a shot, taking down a chunk of plaster over the door and the front door crashes closed.
Silence fills the room. The kettle whistles. I dare to breathe.
Chapter 23
We manage not to shoot Sergeant Lewis when he arrives a few seconds later. He takes the gun, unclips the ammunition and wedges it in his jacket pocket by the door.
“They were sending me back anyway,” he says, warming his hands at the wood burner. “Your man’s escaped, that’s how I got here so quickly.”
“Peter Romero?”
“Yup – the car that was taking him to London got into trouble on the ice, tipped up and in the chaos he got away.”
“How far away did it crash?” I ask.
“Only about ten miles.”
I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly, trying to stop the shuddering that’s just started in my chest. “She would have shot you,” I say to Ollie.
“Good work with that poker,” he says but he’s completely white.
“God, sorry I wasn’t here,” says Sergeant Lewis. “I feel terrible.”
“We could just hide in the priest’s hole and wait for it all to go away,” says Ollie.
“I promised Auntie V we’d feed the horses.”
“Of course,” says Ollie, with a groan. “We better had. I meant to do it before dark, but she turned up.”
The sergeant sighs and rubs his hands together. “Let’s get it done now. You stay inside, Maya. Doors locked. Ollie and I will do the horses. We’ll knock four times to get in. OK? If you don’t hear our knock, don’t open the door.”
I see them out of the door, dark silhouettes against the midnight blue of the sky. A single snowflake falls from nowhere and settles on my hand before melting. Scanning the mountain over the stable roof I spot nothing. No lights, no people. It’s deadly cold out here.
Deadly silent.
I close the door, turning the huge key in the lock, slipping the bolts that Ollie oiled.
The dogs snurfle around my legs and I fill five minutes cutting chunks of disgusting meat out of a can and dropping it into bowls for them. My hands have gone back to the shaking thing.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
I go to the door. “Ollie?”
“It’s us, Maya.”
The bolts slide open and I turn the key to let them in.
Sergeant Lewis stamps through the door, leaving crusts of boot-shaped snow behind him. “Bloody freezing, out there – and it’s starting to snow again. Your ma’s not going to get back tonight, I doubt, Ollie.”
“You’re probably right,” he says.
“No matter,” says the sergeant. “I’m here – now, shall I rustle up something to eat? I do a very good chickpea curry if I can just find the ingredients. Where’s the chopping board? Can I use this one?” He holds up a board.
I know he’s being extra cheery, but I just want to be sick.
Ollie sits on the sofa and I sit on the floor. A sofa one side, a wall the other.
“The people or person that kidnapped Zahra was European. She described an accent just like that.”
“That woman asked about a picture – do you have it?” asks Ollie.
“No,” I don’t. “How would I have it? I never actually spoke to him. I was on the bus when…”
I close my eyes. The Vermeer painting was tiny, smaller than a sheet of A4.
“She was holding it,” I say. “When I saw them on the street. Holding the painting. There was something in her hand – it looked like a book, but if it’s that painting – the Vermeer – it’s very small…” I sit back and stare at the ceiling. “But somehow he got it – maybe that’s why he ran away?”
“And then he told that woman you had it,” says Ollie.
“Why would he do that?”
“Well, do you? Have it?”
“Of course not – but that’s why she came here. Not because I was a witness, but because she thinks I have the painting. Which I don’t.”
“You’re sure?” says Ollie. “There’s no way you’ve got it?”
Sergeant Lewis looks across from the kitchen. “You don’t, do you? Not that I’ve got the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Ollie draws circles in the dust on his computer screen and scrapes off a tiny fly poo with his fingernail. “So how much is this painting worth? If it’s the right painting?”
“More than enough to kill for.”
* * *
Sitting on the kitchen floor, I ring Inspector Khan. I get DS Parker and tell her my theory.
“She does answer our description of Georgio Romero’s girlfriend, but Georgio Romero’s girlfriend has a completely cast-iron alibi. She has very reliable witnesses who saw her in Spain around the time of the murder.”
“Well I’m pretty sure she’s here now, and it was her on Regent Street last week. And she said I have the picture. You’ve never mentioned a picture.”
I hear a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line.
“You’ve got it?”
“Well no, I haven’t, but she thinks I do. She said that he’d told her I did. Which means she’s going to come back.”
There’s a pause.
“I’ll get the inspector to call you back just as soon as he can. In the meantime, keep indoors – don’t go outside for anything. Keep safe, Maya – I think this could be a major breakthrough.”
And the line goes dead.
* * *
We try to be really cheerful and normal through supper. Sergeant Lewis chats away with Ollie, and we eat his delicious curry but it sticks in my mouth.
“Don’t worry,” he says, seeing me struggle. “No one can get here now. Snow’s as thick as my leg.”
Auntie V rings. “I’m not even going to try to get home,” she says. “It’s pelting down and although the foal’s been born, I’d like to keep an eye on the mare. Look after the sergeant. There are some chocolate digestives in the cupboard behind the boiler. Have some with a cup of tea.”
We don’t tell her that we now seem to have two homicidal maniacs stalking us.
We drink tea at midnight. Sergeant Lewis decides it’s safer if he stays inside the house. I agree.
He and Ollie go out to barricade the gate with some plywood Ollie was saving to make a pool table. “A greater cause, I think,” says Sergeant Lewis, brandishing an electric drill. And they return.
“Not even a mouse could get into that yard now,” says Sergeant Lewis.
Even so, Ollie closes the shutters on all but the kitchen window.
Together we hammer a board over the inside of the front door.
“Like a castle, this house,” says the sergeant, dropping on to the sofa. “Safe as you like.”
I notice though that he reunites the gun with its ammunition, and sticks it down the back of his trousers.
I flick through a magazine. We switch on the telly. It’s all still about people stuck on motorways and others complaining that someone should have done something about the snow, someone should have known it was coming, someone should be able to magically remove it.
Nothing about Peter Romero escaping, or a woman with long green diamanté nails in the Welsh mountains. Nothing that makes me feel any better.
Chapter 24
At about one o’clock, I curl up in my room with Megan on the floor. Clutching Zahra’s rabbit.
I try to go to sleep. I haven’t climbed into my pyjamas because the room is so cold. Dozing is the best I can manage. Sergeant Lewis is staying on guard through the night. The door is bolted and barricaded – I’m safe.
In theory.
I dream, muddled dreams. Of a dragon with huge teeth and a four-by-four that eats ice and lasagne.
And then of a bell ringing in school through the thick snow, and Zahra shouting at me about being
a rubbish sister, but the bell keeps going and then I realise that my bum is hanging out the side of the bed and that I can see the wall which is weird because it should be pitch black in here.
BRINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG!
I’m awake. My heart thudding. The golden light in my room completely illuminates everything and it’s accompanied by roaring, a sound like a thousand waterfalls, and crackling and spitting. “What the…?”
Fire.
I run to the window but I know what I’m going to see.
The stables are silhouetted against the flames. This side, the yard side, isn’t burning yet but the far side is orange and yellow and the flames are vivid even through the steam that’s coming from the snow. It must be the straw at the back of the stables that’s on fire, but in the few moments that I’m watching the flames play along the roof, grabbing at the beams, burning the snow into steam.
And there’s a terrible sound of screaming horses.
“Ollie!” I yell, running down through the house, but he’s already in the yard.
Here the smell hits me: hot wet singed straw, singed wood. And the heat. The heat is extraordinary. Immediately my head bakes, my hair sticks hotly to my scalp despite the falling snow. A spark lands on my fleece and the little circle of burn races outwards dissolving half the sleeve.
Fleece burns really easily.
“Where’s Sergeant Lewis?” I shout.
“I don’t know, the bell woke me. Call the fire brigade,” shouts Ollie. He struggles with the barn doors, and I rush to help him with the other side. We get the doors open and I see that inside, smoke is already filling the space. Tiny petals of flame flicker across the far side of the building.
The fire brigade can wait. I rush forward to undo the first bolt and let out the first terrified pony. Ollie races down the line, opening the other bolts, so I run for the house. Thundering into the dark kitchen I pick up the phone and try to get a dialling tone. But there isn’t one. I click it again, still no sound. I switch on the sidelight so that I can see better, but no lights come on. I bash the receiver against the kitchen top and try again to get a tone. I hold it up to my ear. There’s absolutely nothing. No clicks.
In the dark I fumble to find candles but I’ve no idea where they keep them, so instead I grab my parka, my lovely city parka and hold it under the tap. I drag my fleece off over my head and put the coat over my T-shirt. From the hall I rummage for a woolly bobble hat, again I run it under the tap and jam it on my head. In the porch I find a pair of leather boots which are slightly too big for me. Pouring water over my jeans and wrapping a wet tea towel over my face I go out to face the fire. But the yard is full of horses, plunging and panicking.
They’re obviously feeling trapped by the sparks that are gushing into the yard. I rush towards the garden gate, wrenching it open to let the first of the ponies squeeze past me into the thick snow and dark peace of the walled garden behind.
“Go on,” I shout to it and chase another through the gap. A third trots towards me, steam rising from its coat and its nostrils flaring and I grab it by the mane and force it into the garden. The others are charging round and round the yard, the dogs barking, all whipping up more panic. But at least they’re in the open air.
Looking into the barn, I see that although most of the looseboxes are open and the ponies have gone, there are three doors still closed at the back. Ollie stands framed against the fire, his arm up against the heat, pushing forwards to the last three doors.
“Ollie! Come out,” I shout. “It’s no good, it’s too dangerous. The roof’s going to collapse.”
It looks hopeless, the fire has taken hold the length of the building, and it’s now burning on three sides. It’s only not burning flat out because there probably isn’t enough oxygen in there yet, but when the back wall collapses…
Ollie doesn’t come out.
Frantically I look around. There are buckets, and a hose rolled up by the front of the house and with fumbling fingers I connect the hose, desperately trying to jam the end on to the tap and turn it on. A freezing jet of water blasts on to the wall in front of me, and I train it on Ollie and the ground immediately in front of him. Wearing my stinking wet coat I advance into the stable aiming the water along the walls, into the hay, into the straw, catching the flickering new flames, but not making much headway with the big ones.
The last loosebox on the right is Samson’s. Ollie’s trying to open the bolts on the left. I look up, the ceiling is on fire above us, and the flames have crept right around the sides. The smoke is thick, but my wet tea towel is doing a great job and my wet hat and coat are keeping me cooler. There are two terrified ponies rearing and beating at their doors on Ollie’s side. On the right, Samson is still and trembling. I’m still about three metres away, playing the water across the back wall, when one of Ollie’s ponies bunches itself up and jumps squarely over the stable door, landing, clattering and skidding in the middle of the barn, and heads unsteadily for the exit.
We should leave with him.
But Ollie’s determined to reach the last pony, and so am I.
I soak my coat one more time, and step forward into the flames. The heat’s extraordinary, the smell of burning hair surrounds me and I reach out for the bolt on Samson’s door. It’s too hot so I spray the water on it for a second and try again.
Steam rises from all around me as I struggle to shift it and then, at last, the bolt slides open. I yank the door and step forward into the stable, but the floor sags under my foot and a flaming plank that runs under the door falls away. I step back, and play the water over the flickering straw that surrounds Samson. I need to get him to walk out, but I don’t know how to get him through the doorway that is now firmly alight. It’s a flaming rectangle and even with my wet coat it feels terrifyingly hot.
Something crashes behind me, and I turn to see that a section of the roof has fallen through.
“C’mon boy,” I call to Samson. “C’mon.” I leap through the doorway, and get to his side, running my hands through his mane, talking, soothing, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.
Samson stays motionless in the corner of the stable. The flames from the wall tremble and leap across to his tail. I shoot the water over him soaking his coat, forcing him to take a tiny step towards the door.
“Samson it’s open, we can walk out!” I shout.
He rolls his eyes at me.
“C’mon, Samson,” I say.
Ahead of us, I see Ollie driving the last pony out from the stall, they both run, sparks flying around them, Ollie’s coat prickling with feathers of flame. The pony is wearing something over its head.
I’m desperate to run, but I can’t leave Samson and I run the icy water over both of us. I take the tea towel from my face, and try really hard not to breathe more than I have to. I dip it in the water bucket and drape it over Samson’s eyes and nose.
On the far side of the barn, a chunk of the roof falls away, showing the whirling snow-filled sky. I clamp my hands under my armpits to stop them shaking.
“Now then, fella,” I say, trying to sound like Auntie V. “Let’s get out of here.”
Samson takes a step forward and stops. We’re nearly at the doorway which is completely engulfed in fire. I plunge my hand into my pocket to keep it from the heat and find the bag of liquorice. Under my fingers the pieces feel cool and sticky and I take a handful and hold them out under Samson’s nose. His lip curls and he nibbles a single piece.
“Good boy,” I say, grabbing a handful of his mane.
I feed him another piece of liquorice and he nuzzles at my pocket.
“Not yet,” I say, walking fast towards the doorway.
“One more piece,” he grabs it from my fingers.
“This is it, Samson – time to run.”
Chucking the last of the bucket over him, I pull my coat up over my head and charge through the doorway. For an awful moment I can’t hear anything but the fire, but then suddenly I hear his hooves
on the cobbles and before I’m even halfway through the stable block he charges past, his tail on fire driving him blindly forwards. I rush to follow, and as I make it into the yard, the rending sound of the roof collapsing drowns out everything else. It spews across the gateway cutting us off, leaving us in a wide semicircle of flames.
Samson stops in the yard, turns and shakes the tea towel from his head. Ollie chucks snow at Samson’s tail, extinguishing the flames. Chasing him towards the garden and the other horses, I stumble over something large and black in the snow. Samson stops again and skitters, sniffing at the black lump.
“Sergeant Lewis!”
I try to turn him over but he’s really heavy. The orange light of the flames flicker across his black uniform and I see that a pool of blood has formed in the snow by his leg.
“Ollie!” I shout.
Ollie staggers towards me, coughing and spluttering. He sees Sergeant Lewis on the ground. “Oh God,” he says. “What happened?”
“Get out, get away,” mutters the sergeant. “They shot me through the gateway…”
Crack!
Ollie and I drop to the ground, splatting into the muddy snow. I realise that the dogs charging back and forth across the yard are probably keeping us safe, making us difficult targets.
“We’ll get you to the house,” I shout over the roaring sounds coming from the flaming barn.
“Don’t bother – get away,” he says, but we each grab one of his arms and pull him back into the shelter of the porch.
Crack!
“Duck!” yells the sergeant, trying to pull himself into the house and getting as far as possible into the porch.
Bang! The sergeant lets off a shot.
Crack!
I press my back against the front of the house. I’m out of the line of fire, but I can’t stay here forever. Sooner or later someone’s going to get through the remains of the stables. And with no phones, we can’t call for help.
Murder In Midwinter Page 10
