by Bo Brennan
The door finally gave way.
Inside was like a prison cell. A single bed and mattress, a box, no people.
Clear.
Charlie lifted the axe for door two, Gray stopped him and handed him the hose. “My turn. Check your gauge.”
“100 bar remaining.”
Christ almighty, they’d only just started and they were halfway through their air already. Gray felt the sweat pouring down his body as he battled through the door. Charlie was right, it was getting hot in here.
Inside was the same as before – a single bed, a mattress, a bag instead of a box, but no people.
Gray reported their progress inside the disorientating maze of Flat 7 back to Control, along with the sudden increase in heat and his remaining air of 80 bar, as Charlie took the axe.
Charlie Riggs laughed his relief at finding door three ajar.
Inside was crammed with stuff. Somebody lived here. In the corner a single bed lay in disarray, an empty bottle of liquor its only occupant. Thermal imaging showed no hot spots. No bodies.
Clear.
Control advised that two further occupants of Flat 7 were outside, having returned home from the pub. They indicated the first and third east side windows as their rooms, and confirmed they were currently empty, leaving Red Team 1 with internal doors four and six to search.
Gray reached for door four at the end of the corridor, directly opposite the front door. There was no mortice lock on this one, only a hot, metal handle. It opened immediately. The gaping bathroom window on the other side sucked a huge fireball down the narrow hallway, flattening the firefighters and igniting everything in its path.
As they lay stunned in the burning corridor, Charlie’s ADSU emitted a short burst of alarm in Gray’s ear. His automatic distress signal unit had activated through lack of movement. Gray’s wouldn’t be far behind. If they didn’t get moving, the units would fully alarm and BA emergency crews would be deployed, searching for them.
“Get the fuck up, you big girl,” Gray said.
“I will if you get the fuck off me, homo.”
As they helped each other to their feet, Control alerted a sudden escalation in fire on the ground floor and a loss of radio contact with Red Team 2 below them.
Gray and Charlie checked their gauges and reported their current situation: they were one minute from their BA evacuation whistle, with withdrawal from the risk area impossible. The first-floor landing was now engulfed. Gray took the hose, actively firefighting Flat 7’s hallway, while Charlie took the axe to door six – their final search area and, hopefully, clear evacuation route out of this hellhole.
As Charlie broke through, his BA low pressure warning-whistle operated. They had entered the dead zone. In approximately ten minutes their air cylinders would expire.
Gray pushed into the thick black smoke behind him and stalled. Something was tugging at his tank and tangling his feet, he dropped the hose, couldn’t move any further. Every time he tried, everything tightened, restricting his movement more. His warning-whistle operated as he called out to Charlie, trying to keep the panic contained that would deplete his remaining air fast.
“Fallen fucking cables,” Charlie said, shining his torch through the gloom. “I gotcha, buddy. Don’t move.”
It seemed to take forever. The fire at his back, the devil’s pitchfork in his arse.
He stumbled forward as Charlie yanked the last of the fallen cables free, and signalled to the rolled-up towel at his feet.
Someone was in here.
Gray turned slowly, allowing the thermal imaging camera to see what they couldn’t. Hot spots were forming all around them, but a human shaped one appeared in the corner.
Three cautious steps took them to the crumpled bed. Gray patted it down and felt a small solid form under the steaming bed clothes.
He frantically began stripping away the moist coverings to recover the body entangled inside.
Charlie alerted Control to prepare the platform and ground crew. They’d lost cooling jets. He needed to smash the window, combustion was guaranteed. A body would be coming out, followed by Red Team 1.
With no options, Control gave the go ahead to break the glass.
Gray covered the body on the bed with his own, awaiting the inevitable, as Charlie crouched beside him, reaching up with the axe.
One tap was all it took. The ferocious fire gods did the rest.
With an explosive roar the fire thundered through the room, blowing glass and burning debris into the night sky, showering the earth with a spectacular display of falling stars.
The devil danced around them as the fire took hold, swallowing the smoke and turning the flat into a furnace.
Charlie stood up. “No toast today, bro.”
The platform appeared steady at the blown window.
Gray scooped up the body and climbed onto the window ledge, ready to pass it to safety.
His colleagues, waiting on the platform, shouted his name as he stood staring down at the woman in his arms. In the stark glare of emergency lights, he saw the plaster cast as Shayla Begum’s lifeless body was taken from him.
He turned back to Charlie, could see that he was smiling beneath his mask.
Gray waved him forwards. “C’mon, you’re first. Age before beauty and all that.”
“Cheeky bastard,” Charlie said, stepping towards him. “I was just about to ask you to be . . .”
And with an almighty rumble, he was gone.
Chapter 38
Sunday, 11th March
Park Gate, Hampshire
India lifted her head at the sound of the front door slamming. Beside her, the bed was empty.
She struggled to her feet and pulled on a T-shirt, groaning at the brightness of the day. The river was more alive than her this morning. Several yachts were already cutting through the mirrored water’s glare, causing ripples to break on her bank and bow, and it was barely 8am.
Picking up the two empty wine glasses on the bedside locker, she went in search of Colt.
Freshly showered and shaved, he stood in her galley kitchen reading a newspaper as the kettle boiled furiously.
“What’s up?” she said, rubbing her eyes.
Colt tossed The Daily Herald on the table. “Ryan fucking Reynolds,” he said, taking the glasses from her hands.
India picked up the paper and read the front page: ‘Top Cop On Asian Grooming Epidemic: Catch Up! Wake Up! Shut Up!’
“That’s a whole lot of ups,” she chuckled.
Colt scowled as he made the coffee.
India read on as Ryan Reynolds applauded Colt’s unprecedented appearance on Primetime Issues. Commending how his refreshingly honest and brutal advice to the government, the Muslim community, and the National Front had resulted in record viewing figures for the show and sparked heated debate in the press and on social media. The hashtag #PrimeTime was trending on Twitter. So was #RacistCop, #PaedoCop and #PakiLover.
As she turned the page her stomach hit the floor.
“Shit,” she said, slumping into a chair. “You arrested Councillor Cooper live on air?”
“No. We arrested him when the show was over. They kept the fucking cameras rolling.” Colt slammed the mugs down on the table, half the coffee jumped over the sides.
India winced. “Can you cease with the banging, please. I hurt top to bottom. I think you broke me.”
“Sorry.” Colt let out a heavy sigh and sat down, grimacing as he wiped up the spilt drinks. “It’s the wages of sin.”
India spread her hands over the newspaper. “This, or my hangover?”
“Both,” he said. “Went a bit wild on the pole, babe.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining.”
Colt’s lips twitched. “I needed it. The commander ripped me a new one about going to the mosque when Cooper wasn’t in custody. He’s been hiding from us for days. I wasn’t about to come face to face with him on a TV show and let him crawl back under his stone.”
�
�Well, you’ve definitely got him now,” India murmured, thinking he’d also got himself a shitload of new enemies from all sides of the fence. Her gift couldn’t come at a timelier moment. She leaned in and patted his cheek. “See, I knew it was a story worth hearing.”
Colt gave a weary smile as she folded up the paper and dumped it in the bin.
Hauling her bag from the floor to her lap and rummaging through its depths, she said, “You remember what you said last night about me not having to fight my battles alone anymore?”
He stared at her over his half-filled mug. “Because I love you.”
India felt the heat rushing into her cheeks, and looked away as she thrust the small gift-wrapped box towards him. “Yeah, well. You know. Neither do you.”
“What’s this?” he said, putting his mug down to take it from her.
“A present.”
“It’s not my birth –”
“I know.” She raised a shoulder in place of an apology for her birthday mess. He’d tried to make it special for her, and she’d ruined it. As usual. “Open it.”
He undid the wrapping paper with the utmost care, anxious eyes met the box inside.
“Don’t panic, it’s not a proposal,” she said. “Go on. Open it.”
He popped the lid and stared at the contents . . . for a very long time.
When he eventually lifted his eyes to hers, he flatly said, “It’s a knuckleduster.”
India nodded enthusiastically. “I got the biggest size they had. Does it fit? Try it.”
He frowned as he took the heavy brass knuckles from the box and slipped his fingers inside.
India smiled her one-sided smile as he clenched and unclenched his fist. “That should even the score,” she said. “Promise me you’ll keep it on you at all times.”
He returned them to the box with a shake of his head. “I can’t.”
“Why not? They fit.”
“They’re illegal, India. Have you forgotten we’re both coppers?”
“You think the NF fascists and Muslim extremists give a shit about that? They will cut your throat quick as look at you. Fucking hell, the honour killing had her head and limbs cut clean off with a machete. Do I have to get that paper out the trash to remind you exactly how many arseholes are gunning for you right now?”
Colt leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, studying her intently. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find. “Okay.”
Okay wouldn’t cut it. “Promise me,” she said.
“All right. I promise I’ll keep them with me. Thank you.”
India breathed a sigh of relief and stood up. “Fancy the other half of your coffee now?”
Deep in thought, he closed the box and put it in his pocket. “Milk’s in the fridge,” he murmured.
India opened the fridge door and smiled. A decadent chocolate cake, bound with a green and gold bow, took up the entire top shelf. She cut herself a giant slab and looked Colt’s way as his phone rang. “Want some?”
He shook his head and switched it off, mumbling expletives.
“Who was that?”
“Commander Hussein,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Third call this morning.”
India sat down with coffees and cake. “It’s Sunday. What’s he want? Blood?”
“Probably. I haven’t answered. My best guess is to hand me my arse in a bag, gift-wrapped with an early retirement proposal that includes a move to the NCA.”
India almost choked on her cake. “They can’t do that. You’ve told them centralising child protection won’t work, there’s not enough troops as it is. Oh, I get it. You’ve embarrassed him again by going on TV and talking about the naughty Asians.”
“Didn’t read the whole article then?” He sighed and pinched a piece of her cake. “The debate’s moved on,” he said, licking chocolate from his fingers. “Now it’s all about religion.”
India pushed the remainder of the cake towards him. Things must be bad if he was hitting sugar, she thought. “Ah, religion,” she said. “The root of all evil.”
Colt lifted his head woefully.
“What? It’s true. Look at all the wars and atrocities carried out in the name of religion. It’s all ‘my God’s bigger than your God,’ when in reality – if there was a God, he’d lightning bolt the lot of them.”
“Saddens me to hear you say that. Surely anything that brings comfort to people in times of despair is a good thing.”
India shrugged. “If it soothes your soul, keep it. I’ll stick to wine and cake. Are you going to eat that, or are you off to confession?”
Winchester, Hampshire
Gray Davies sat astride his motorcycle, staring at the charred concrete skeleton of Cantilever Court. An Accident Investigation Team the only life blood traipsing through its veins.
He needed to understand what had happened here. Needed to know if he was to blame.
He climbed from the bike and made his way towards the building, nausea welling in his stomach with every step he took. By the time he reached the twisted metal frame of the front door, his mouth stung with sour saliva.
In the remains of the foyer, a woman rested on her haunches, taking photographs of the walls, ‘Arson Investigator’ emblazoned across her back. “Can I help you?” she said, flicking a glance over her shoulder.
She was doing Gray’s job. And better than him. Arson. “Of course,” he murmured, taking a long blink and tilting his head back. “It started in the foyer. I watched the flames follow them in.” He had a damned good idea who the target was too.
The woman’s dark eyes narrowed as she rose to her feet. “Megan O’Reilly. West Sussex Fire and Rescue Service,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m providing technical advice to Hampshire Constabulary.”
Gray plunged his hands into his pockets. “And the AIT, are they West Sussex too?”
“No,” she said, withdrawing her hand, ignoring the slight. “They’re London Fire Brigade, working on behalf of the Health and Safety Executive, but also reporting into HC in case of criminal proceedings.”
“So you’re investigating the crime, and that lot are investigating me.”
Her face softened. “No one’s investigating you, WM Davies. Everyone here is looking for the same thing you are – answers.”
Gray frowned. “How –”
“How do I know who you are?” She smiled sadly and tilted her head. “You look like a firefighter who’s lost his buddy, and then sat on his bunk all night waiting for him to return.”
The lump in his throat forced his eyes to his feet. That’s exactly what he’d done.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, touching his shoulder. “We’ve all been there. But we can’t investigate ourselves. The death of a colleague leaves us too emotional to be objective. You two did an incredible last job together, getting that girl out. Sounds like she’s going to make it. Hold on to that.”
He lifted his eyes to what remained of the foyer, forcing himself into work mode. “Was accelerant used?”
“Yes.” She followed his gaze. “Lighter fluid squirted through the letterbox and straight up the hall. My guess is the fire setter was right handed – that’s why the eastern side of the building was most affected. The accelerant sprayed along this wall and pooled against the floor,” she said, gesturing to Flat 1. “The old girl –”
“Mrs Reynolds,” Gray said.
“Mrs Reynolds,” she corrected, with a gentle nod. “Didn’t stand a chance. If it’s any consolation, she died of smoke inhalation in her sleep.”
It wasn’t. Gray cleared his throat. “What did –”
“I can’t talk to you about Charlie Riggs,” she said. “Death in the workplace isn’t my remit. I’m here solely to deal with the resident’s death and the cause of the fire. The AIT is investigating the incident and event.”
“The ‘incident’ was my friend. The ‘event’ was his death,” Gray snapped. “Where are the AIT? I want to speak to
someone.”
Megan O’Reilly sucked in a breath. “Look, you shouldn’t be here. When the AIT wants to speak to you, they’ll come find you. But if you really can’t wait that long, go ahead,” she said, stepping aside. “They’re in what remains of Flat 7.”
Gray looked at the solidly constructed stairs to the first floor, stained by smoke and water, but still standing stoical and uncracked in this coffin of concrete. He and Charlie had climbed those stairs together last night, only one of them had made it back. A shiver traced his spine and goose-bumped his skin, causing him to shudder. Last night he’d felt the heat of the devil breathing down his neck, now the chill of the dead froze his feet in place.
Megan O’Reilly rested a warm hand on his back. “Go home, Davies. Get some rest. Trust me; you’ll want a clear head when the Accident Investigation Team come calling.”
Chapter 39
Portsmouth, Hampshire
He’d been home for an hour when she knocked at the door.
“I came as soon as I heard.” Cara wafted into his lounge on a perfumed cloud of sweet-smelling loveliness and threw her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Gray. I know Charlie was a good friend.”
Gray Davies held on tight. Wanted to stay there in her loving arms forever.
“My poor baby,” she said, pulling away to stroke his cheek. “You look so tired. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
He dropped onto the sofa and hung his head in his hands, the images playing again and again and again in his mind. “I can’t. I keep seeing his face, Caz.”
She sat down beside him. “You were with him? Was it you who saved the girl?”
“We passed her through the window, were on our way out . . . and the roof came down. He disappeared through the floor. Gone. Just like that.”
“Is the girl okay?”
Gray nodded and turned away as his voice broke. “His missus is expecting their first nipper next month. Charlie couldn’t wait to be a dad.”
“Shush now, baby. I’m here.” Cara took him by the hand and led him upstairs.
