by Damien Boyd
‘Sections of the roof have collapsed, so we can get water in that way,’ shouted Stewart.
‘How long’s it going to take?’ asked Louise.
‘We’ll know more in an hour or so.’
Louise was holding Jane up now. She gestured to Lewis and together they helped her back towards the car and sat her down on a low wall. She looked up at the flames, climbing even higher into the sky now, if anything.
‘Stay with her,’ said Lewis.
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Louise.
‘As soon as I know any more I’ll let you know.’
‘He was going to ask me to marry him,’ Jane mumbled.
‘Really?’ Louise sat down on the wall next to her and put her arm around Jane.
‘He was getting there. I know he was.’
‘Look, we don’t know he’s—’
Louise was cut short by a huge explosion that sent sparks high into the air. Jane looked up sharply, the whites of her eyes a mixture of red and orange.
‘It must have been an oil tank or something.’ Louise held her tight.
‘First my mother and now this.’
‘Your mother?’
‘My birth mother. We found her a few weeks ago, met her twice, and now she’s dead.’
‘How?’
‘Drug overdose.’
Jane sat motionless, not that she could have moved if she wanted to, with Louise’s arm clamped around her waist. She watched the flames above the conifers, and more ladders now as two more appliances got into position. Louise watched the fire in the reflection in Jane’s eyes, waiting for more tears to come, but they never did. And together they sat in silence, listening to the fire, the sirens, the helicopter, the pumps, all of it punctuated by explosions as the flames reached another oil tank or a gas bottle. Then a huge roar as part of the roof caved in.
‘Here comes Lewis,’ said Louise, shaking Jane. She looked up.
‘They think they’ve got it contained this end.’ Lewis was leaning over and shouting at them. ‘The chemicals are all at the far end and if the flames get there we’re going to have to start evacuating houses.’
‘What about this end?’ asked Louise.
‘They’re going to let it burn out.’
Jane could see Lewis’s lips moving, and she could hear what he was saying too, but understanding it was beyond her.
‘But Nick’s in there, Sir,’ shouted Louise.
Lewis nodded. ‘I know.’
‘But—’
‘It’s going to be a day, possibly two until engineers can go in and make it safe. Another two before we can get the bodies out.’
Much of what Lewis had been saying was going in one ear and out the other, but the word ‘bodies’ hit Jane like a sledgehammer. She fell forwards on to her knees and it took both of them to get her up.
‘You’d better get her out of here, Louise,’ said Lewis. ‘Take her home. I’ll ring if there’s any news.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Has she got family you can ring?’
‘Leave her with me, Sir.’
‘All right.’
Louise squatted down in front of Jane, holding her hands. ‘We need to go, Jane.’
‘Just take me home, will you?’ She was looking at Louise, but her eyes had glazed over. She was on the beach with Nick, holding his hand as they strolled along the sand and refusing to let go when he tried to kick Monty’s tennis ball, almost pulling him over in the process. She could hear the laughter, loud and clear, over the flames that had receded now, at least in her head.
‘Are you ready?’
‘I could murder a cigarette.’ Something felt odd about that sentence, but Jane wasn’t sure what it was.
‘Wait here,’ said Louise. ‘You won’t do anything stupid?’
‘No.’ And besides, Nick would expect her to look after Monty now anyway.
‘C’mon then. We’d best go.’ Louise returned holding a lit cigarette between her thumb and index finger. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to Jane.
‘Thanks.’ Jane exhaled the smoke through her nose. ‘I’ll have this first. I don’t want to smoke in your car.’ Funny the things you think of at a time like this, she thought.
I’m not his next of kin either.
She stubbed the cigarette out on the wall and then dropped the butt down a drain.
‘Let’s go then.’
Louise was directed out of the industrial estate on another road, Commerce Way, now blocked by fire engines that had come from Bristol and Taunton, and they were crossing the motorway roundabout before the putrid smell of smoke cleared, even with the windows open. The orange glow was still visible in the wing mirrors, but at least the smell had gone.
‘I can stay with you for a while, if you like,’ said Louise.
‘Thanks.’
‘D’you want me to ring your parents?’
‘Not until we know for sure.’
‘What about his parents?’
‘Maybe later.’
Louise parked on the pavement outside the cottage and waited while Jane tried to open the front door, but her hands were shaking too much to get the key in the lock.
‘Here, give it to me.’
Louise opened the door, allowing Monty to jump out. They watched him circling, looking behind the parked cars, then up and down the road, before running back into the cottage with his tail clamped down.
‘He’s looking for Nick,’ said Jane.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The first thing he became aware of was the pain – sharp and coursing up the right side of his head. He tasted blood. Then the coughing started.
Smoke. That’s fucking smoke.
Dixon tried to open his eyes, but couldn’t. His eyelids felt stuck together – congealed blood, probably. At least the power of rational thought was coming back. He dropped the gun in his right hand and tried to roll on to his back, but something was lying across his legs. Whatever it was, it wasn’t heavy and he could move them. Just.
He rubbed his eyes. Then he opened them, blinking furiously, the smoke stinging worse than CS gas.
Dropped the gun?
He turned his head.
A revolver? Where the hell did that come from?
Then he saw Sexton’s body lying under a pile of tables and chairs a few feet away. A neat hole in his forehead, the back of his head missing.
What’s that noise? And where’s that orange light coming from?
Then he remembered – where he was and how he’d got there – and it didn’t take long to work out why he was still there, trapped under a pile of furniture with a gun in his hand. The same gun used to kill Sexton, no doubt.
A strong smell of petrol hit him, even over the acrid smoke that was tearing at the back of his throat and his eyes. He brought his right arm up and buried his face in the sleeve of his coat – anything for even a moment’s relief from the smoke – finding the source of the petrol as he did so. His coat was soaked in it.
The flames were edging ever closer, so he wriggled out of his coat, rolled it up and threw it as far away from him as he could get it.
He looked around, searching for a way out. Several pallets of large wooden boxes had been pushed across the steel doors, blocking the way he had come in, and they were well alight, some of the boxes having burnt away to reveal their contents – small chests of drawers – more wood to add fuel to the fire. Behind him more flames. The tyres of his Land Rover were burning too, the flames getting far too close to the fuel tank for comfort.
The large door to the factory floor itself was blocked by a forklift truck, the pallets sitting on the forks ablaze. More flames were visible behind it, devouring several huge stacks of half-finished tables and chairs. The lathes and other machines were burning too, the fire no doubt powered by the oil. And more petrol probably.
Flames were licking along the underside of the roof, seeking out anything flammable to help them on their way. Smoke was rolling along ahead of it, billowing down
the walls and meeting the smoke coming up from the inferno below.
Offices on a mezzanine floor on the far side of the factory floor collapsed with a loud crash sending paper into the air to dance above the flames, before adding yet more fuel to the fire.
Sexton was dead, but what about the man in the chair? Dixon winced. A pile of chairs had fallen in between them, the fire racing along it. It had reached the man, burnt through his bonds, and he had fallen forwards into the flames. Behind him the pallets were catching fire one by one as the flames engulfed a metal staircase that led to another mezzanine floor above him, the offices not yet alight.
Using the staircase was out. The pallets beneath it were ablaze, sending flames roaring up through the treads, and it was glowing red already, but an office meant a window, surely? A way out.
Dying on a mountainside was one thing; he had accepted that risk, but a fire?
Fuck that.
Dixon rolled on to his front and pulled his legs up underneath him. Then he stood up, sending the chairs that had been lying across him crashing on to the concrete floor. There were not many – just enough to make it look as though they had fallen on him, knocking him unconscious.
Gits.
He snatched a red fire extinguisher off one of the steel columns holding up the mezzanine floor above him, pulled out the pin and turned the hose on himself. It was a powerful jet of water, but he didn’t stop until his clothes and hair were saturated. He noticed a blue roller towel above a small sink against the wall behind his Land Rover, so he ripped out the towel, soaked it and wrapped it around his face and neck like a scarf.
Then he used the last of the water in the extinguisher to put out the fire on the Land Rover tyre directly below the fuel tank. That would buy him a bit of time.
He opened the driver’s door, reached across and grabbed his phone from the passenger footwell. Then he jumped up on to the bonnet. From a standing position on the roof he would be able to jump up and reach the girders on the underside of the mezzanine floor, but he’d have only one go at it. Landing heavily back on the Land Rover roof rack might break an ankle. Or worse.
Balancing on the edge of the roof rack, he squatted down and looked up at the girders, focusing on the large beam that would take him hand over hand out to the front edge of the upper floor.
Shit!
He jumped down and ran across to the forklift truck, weaving in and out of the chairs and past his coat that was now alight on the floor. He was breathing through the wet towel over his nose and mouth and was crouching as low as he could. Dodging the flames, he snatched a pair of heavy duty gloves off the floor of the cab and then ran back to his Land Rover.
Back on the roof in a flash, he launched himself upwards, springing up as high as he could. He managed to catch hold of the girder with his right hand and hung on. A burning pain seared through his fingers, despite the gloves, but going back was no longer an option.
Moving hand over hand now along the girder, he made his way to the front of the mezzanine floor, dangling precariously above the burning remains of his Land Rover. Trying to ignore the pain from his hands, he pulled up and reached for the rail on the balustrade above.
Boxes of paper next to a photocopying machine on the mezzanine floor were alight, but his path to the door of the office was clear. Two loud bangs below startled him and he glanced down to watch his Land Rover lurch to one side as the tyres blew out. The fuel tank would be next.
Time to go.
He pulled up again, reaching the next rail and getting his left foot on to the edge of the mezzanine floor. Then he climbed up and over the balustrade. He was directly above the inferno now and could feel the heat of the steel floor through the soles of his shoes. He pulled his wet sweater up over his head and ducked down to avoid the flames from the fire beneath him that were travelling up the walls and across the ceiling, seeking out electrical cables and air ducts, anything to help them on their way. Thick black smoke swirled in the air currents generated by the inferno.
One sharp kick and the office door flew open, then he sent the swivel chair through the window. The effect was immediate, the sudden rush of air fanning the fire. The carpet burst into flames, as did every piece of paper in the room. It wouldn’t be long before the flame resistant sofa went too, and the fumes of that would kill him in seconds.
Only one thing for it.
The River Brue was below him now, but too far away to make the jump. He climbed up on to the window ledge and from a standing position was able to reach the flat roof. Smoke was billowing out of the window right in his face, so staying put and waiting for the fire brigade was not an option either. He took hold of the edge of the roof in both hands and pulled up, scrabbling up and over with his feet.
Factory roofs are dangerous places at the best of times. He knew that from his legal training, helping on two cases where employees had fallen through to their deaths. Stick to the edge: he remembered that from the inquests.
A large blast echoed in the unit beneath his feet. He heard the boom and felt the vibration, the last gasp of his old Land Rover, no doubt, the fuel tank having exploded. Then he saw his salvation at the corner of the building.
A drainpipe.
Seconds later he was on the ground, picking his way through the undergrowth along the River Brue behind the industrial estate, sirens competing with the roar of the fire and explosions, flickering blue lights with the orange glow. He turned at the sound of a sickening crash to watch part of the roof collapse, huge flames climbing into the night sky. Then ladders went up from fire engines in the car park at the back of the factory, spraying water on to the roof.
He arrived at a gap in the bushes and, leaving his gloves on, crawled down to the water’s edge. He plunged his hands into the cold water and screamed – nothing could have prepared him for the pain that hit him. Then he turned and vomited into the water.
He stumbled on through the bushes, trying not to fall down the bank into the river. Having been saturated less than five minutes ago, his clothes were almost dry, but the water had done the trick. He had thrown the blue towel away, its job done, and could still feel the heat from the inferno behind him, even through the undergrowth.
He hesitated at a gap in the fence, slumping on to a tree stump in the undergrowth. Beyond it the car park, blue lights and sanctuary. He thought about Jonny Sexton lying dead on the concrete floor – the flames must have reached him by now. And the man who’d been tied to the chair – no name and yet already cremated.
No. The killers had thought he had been getting too close. Now they thought he was dead. And it would have to stay that way for the time being.
Then he passed out.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘I’d better ring his parents.’
‘Lewis’ll do it if you’d rather,’ replied Louise.
Jane was sitting on the floor with Monty. He was licking the tears from her cheeks, but not keeping up with the stream cascading down. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten.’
‘They need to know tonight, before they see it on the news.’ Jane was dialling the number when there was a knock at the door.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Louise, jumping up. She stepped back to reveal DCI Lewis standing in the drizzle. He sighed.
‘Well?’ asked Jane, standing up.
‘It’s not good, I’m afraid.’ Lewis stepped into the cottage. ‘They still can’t get in. Two tried from a side door on the factory floor, with breathing apparatus, but couldn’t get into the loading bay past a forklift.’
‘Could they see anything?’
Lewis thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He was staring at the floor. ‘Two bodies.’
‘Who?’ screamed Jane.
‘They couldn’t see. They were burnt beyond . . .’ Lewis’s voice tailed off.
‘Is that it?’
‘They could only stay for a few seconds. The roof started falling in behind them.’
‘What about the Land Rover?
’
‘Gone.’ Lewis was shaking his head.
‘What d’you mean gone?’
‘Look, it’s gone, Jane. All right?’ He put his arms around her, turning his head to watch her sob into his shoulder. ‘It’s just gone.’
‘Should we ring his parents?’ whispered Louise.
‘I’ll do it,’ mouthed Lewis, nodding his head, but making no sound.
‘He shouldn’t have gone in there,’ gasped Jane, between sharp intakes of breath.
‘His partner was in there and then a shot was fired. What would you have done?’
‘The same.’
‘It was Jonny Sexton who shouldn’t have gone in there. But, once he had . . .’
‘Nick had no choice,’ said Louise.
‘What were they doing there anyway?’ asked Lewis.
Jane pulled away from him and picked up the laptop. ‘You need to read this, Sir,’ she said, opening the lid. ‘Horan has been posting photos on a dark net bulletin board. Before and after each killing. He even gives the where and when before he does it. That’s how Nick knew to go to the fac—’ She took a deep breath. ‘Sorry.’ Then she ran upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
A loud crash somewhere behind him; rain falling on his face. He opened his eyes and watched sparks climbing into the night sky. Then he got up and stumbled on along the river bank, the orange glow fading the further he got from the fire. He followed the fence until it became a brick wall at the bottom of some gardens. Just beyond that a path used by anglers opened up in front of him and, a few paces ahead, streetlights illuminated a tarmac path – the back entrance to Highbridge Railway Station.
He dropped on to a bench in the waiting area on Platform 2, sheltering from the drizzle – cold now, although that was almost a relief – and tried to take off the gloves. He grimaced. Just the right one would have to do, pulling it off slowly, bit by bit, and wincing with each small movement. Then, holding his phone in his gloved left hand, he tapped out a text message.
Jane was lying on the bed, face down, sobbing into Dixon’s pillow when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She rolled on to her back and pulled it out, staring in disbelief at the screen.
