Fatal Legacy (41 page)

One of the men in the group spoke up.

‘What car does he drive, sir?’

Nightingale answered for Fenwick.

‘A brand new silver-grey Mercedes, top of the range.’

‘A car matching that description has passed here since we’ve been waiting, I’d say less than ten minutes ago. We were the first group to arrive and I saw it myself.’

Boyd frowned with concern.

‘That changes things significantly. We have to assume now that whoever is at the Hall is awake, so we can’t rely on the element of surprise. As soon as the men I’ve already sent to the Hall call in, we’ll have a better understanding of our options.’

The men he had sent called within minutes. They reported lights on all over the upper floors of the Hall and both front and back doors securely locked. They also confirmed that a
silver-grey
Mercedes was parked in the front drive.

‘Is he in on it, do you think?’ Boyd looked to both Fenwick and Nightingale for guidance, but they couldn’t help him. FitzGerald being at the Hall with Sally was a complication no one had expected.

‘We have to assume he’s potentially hostile,’ Boyd decided. ‘I think we need a distraction. Sergeant Amos, you take your team and circle the Hall. On my cue you will close and enter silently from the south, west and east. Aim for total silence until you are inside. As soon as you have access, your goal is to reach and secure the tower, stairs and exits and then move to search all other potential hiding places.

‘Chief Inspector Fenwick, you and I will approach from the main entrance to the north. Your female officer can come with us; it’ll make us look less threatening. I’ll be armed but I’ll stay behind you two so that she doesn’t see a strange face. The rest of you,’ four officers looked up, two men and two women, ‘I want you in the shadow of the front north side of the house to support our entry. Set your watches. The time now is …
two-oh
-three on my mark. Chief Inspector Fenwick will be knocking on that door at two fifteen exactly and you will enter the house as he does so. Any questions?’

There were none, and the two groups of officers disappeared into the night, leaving Fenwick, Boyd and Nightingale alone. Boyd checked the Velcro and tape fastenings of his bulletproof vest and buttoned his jacket over it. Fenwick became aware of their vulnerability. They would be walking right up to the front door, in plain view, protected only by their vests. He and
Nightingale were unarmed; they would have to rely on Boyd’s reactions. He thought of his last desperate plea to a God he had found that he suddenly believed in, and felt a strangely peaceful resignation grow within him. Just let Bess be safe, he thought; that was all that mattered.

‘Coffee?’ Nightingale was passing him a mug, and Fenwick realised suddenly that she was still here. In a previous
investigation
Nightingale had risked her life for a woman he had asked her to protect and had almost been killed. He would not ask that of her again. He took the mug from her and turned to speak to Boyd, but he was busy listening to reports from his teams. Fenwick turned back to Nightingale.

‘After we gain access to the Hall, I want you to stay back.’

‘Sir! I’d rather be up front with you, and I’m supposed to make us look less threatening, remember.’

‘Don’t argue. You’ll be in view but I do
not
expect you to come into the Hall until it’s safe. Understood?’

She started to protest again but instead bit down on her lip and nodded, not meeting his eyes. Fenwick was suddenly reminded of Bess. That was exactly how she looked when he made her do something against her will, and the fleeting resemblance made him even more determined that Nightingale should remain safe.

Boyd glanced at his watch.

‘Time to go. We’ll take my car. Constable, you drive. We have six minutes. When we reach the bottom of the drive, put the lights on so that they can see us coming. We’re the diversion.’

They climbed into the car, Fenwick and Boyd in the back seat, Nightingale in front. There was no conversation as they made their way to Wainwright Hall.

Sally led FitzGerald into the brightly lit sitting room and directed him towards an easy chair to the left of the fireplace. FitzGerald ignored the invitation and remained standing with his back to the fire, looking out over the sofa and towards the window beyond. The curtains were wide open.

‘Now, that drink.’

‘I don’t need a drink. Just give me the money.’

Sally poured herself a drink anyway. FitzGerald watched her
profile as she did so and was disturbed by the smile on her face. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, as if there was a joke that only she knew about. His right hand slipped into his trouser pocket and found the handle of his gun.

‘You always need to be in control, don’t you, James?’ Sally had turned to face the fire; her long bare back was towards the window, the drink in her left hand as she leant her weight on her right where it rested along the back of the sofa.

‘It’s very late. Let’s just get on with it.’

It was as if he hadn’t spoken.

‘All the men I’ve known in my life have wanted to control me. It’s a thing you all have in common, a sign of deep insecurity, I think.’

‘Sally!’ FitzGerald sounded exasperated.

‘Men like you nearly destroyed me once and I’m not going to let it happen again. I’ve known a lot of violent men in my life, but none as bad as you, with your network of thugs and watchers, and your superiority. You are a very, very dangerous man and I can’t allow you to destroy me.’

Her right hand slid behind the cushions on the sofa and pulled back again in a smooth, practised movement.

FitzGerald watched Sally’s gloved hand come up holding the gun as if in slow motion. His fingers tightened around his own weapon and he jumped to his left even as she fired. He felt the whistle of the bullet as it went past his ear, and then he was firing his own gun, a rapid double pressure on the trigger with the muzzle pointing at mid height, aiming for a body shot.

But Sally had ducked down behind the sofa and his shots missed. Then she fired again and he felt as if he had been punched hard in the shoulder. His hand went numb and he dropped the gun. Then he heard another shot, as if from a distance, and a pain flared in his chest, so hot and tight that it seemed to choke the air out of him. He fell to the ground and sensed the feeling in his body fade away.

Sally looked down at FitzGerald lying unmoving before her, and then glanced casually at her watch. It was only ten past two, but she had a lot to do before she left. He was lying less than two yards from the fire, and it didn’t matter whether he
was dead or alive so long as the flames reached him quickly.

She threw her gun into the fire and picked up the
newspapers
and yards of material that she had waiting and trailed them from the upholstered furniture to the fire. Within five minutes there would be enough smoke and fumes in here to make sure that he was dead. She would still have plenty of time to unlock and open the lower tower door to provide better access for the fire. The one at the top of the staircase was bolted anyway. Then she would put a match to the methylated spirits, paint and old decorator’s cloths on the top floor. She laid the materials into the fire and left the room without a backward glance.

The sensation of choking and drowning gradually returned FitzGerald to consciousness, and he raised his head, lungs heaving and painful. All he could see were flames surrounding him, leaping from the fireplace on to chair covers, across antique carpets to the curtains. Sparks flew through the air and he watched one land on his trouser leg, blaze briefly and snuff out for lack of immediate fuel.

He tried to stand, but his head swam and the pain in his chest was so intense that he collapsed again into a slumped crouch. The heat against his legs was painful now, and he tried desperately to move away from it. He managed to raise himself on to his good shoulder and inch away from the fire that was already blazing brightly on the hearthrug.

He noted a smear of bright arterial blood on the carpet as he managed to crawl another few inches then collapsed again. The fumes were so thick now that he choked unless he kept his nose and mouth inches from the floor. He could just make out the shape of the open doorway about five feet away, and the tiles of the hall beyond. If only he could keep moving, he might still make it.

He struggled to lift his weight again but his arm buckled. A great tongue of flame suddenly shot up from the curtains and he watched in horror as the ceiling started to bubble, smoke and then catch fire. The painted plaster acted like kindling, and when he opened his eyes next he could see holes appearing and flames leaping up through them to the floor above. With a last
awful effort FitzGerald raised his chest off the floor again and started to drag himself towards the doorway. Inch by inch he crossed the floor. At the edge of his vision he could see the varnish on the floorboards blister, and the backs of his hands glowed bright red then black as the heat scorched his skin.

There was a deafening crash and a large section of ceiling collapsed on to the chairs and sofa, which immediately exploded into flame. A piece of smouldering furniture from the floor above landed on FitzGerald’s legs, pinning him to the floor. Thick black choking smoke boiled towards him, and he stared in agony at the last terrible few feet that remained between him and the open door to safety. He tried to cry out for help, but the boiling air burnt his lungs and he collapsed at last back into unconsciousness.

They had just reached the iron gates to the Hall when Boyd suddenly put his hand to his ear and then slapped it down hard on the driver’s seat in front.

‘Enter at will from all sides. Repeat, enter at will
immediately
. Maximum discretion, armed suspect on premises.’

His skin was pallid in the moonlight as he turned towards Fenwick’s appalled face.

‘They’ve heard shots from inside. Drive as fast as you can, Constable. Go!’

Fenwick’s whole body cried out for action, but he had to wait as the powerful car lurched forward, splattering gravel. He stared at the lights that blazed from every window of the Hall. It was obvious that the doors were shut fast and the lower windows had security grilles on them, preventing access. Fenwick watched as one man scaled the lower wall, climbing nimbly through an open window on the first floor. He
disappeared
inside and his colleagues soon followed.

Beside him he heard Boyd maintain a steady stream of instructions to his team, but Fenwick ignored the words, his whole body searching the windows for the tiny silhouette that might be Bess. There was the sound of breaking glass, and a hungry tongue of flame flowered suddenly from a downstairs window.

‘Oh my God, it’s on fire!’ Fenwick watched in horror as the
flames took hold. His daughter was in there somewhere; he had to reach her!

Nightingale saw the fire and reached automatically for the car radio. It was tuned in to the operations centre, and as they reached the front of the Hall, Fenwick heard her calm voice call for fire support, ambulance and backup.

He was out of the car before Boyd and was about to climb to the first floor when he heard bolts being drawn back and the front door was opened by one of the team who had braved the fire to search downstairs.

Fenwick saw two officers dragging a man’s body from the seat of the fire to his left and then trying to shut the door on it, but they were beaten back by the flames.

‘Get him out of here!’ Fenwick heard Boyd’s voice but assumed he was talking about the injured man. He raced past the officers, down the passageway, through the great hall and up the staircase beyond. His only thought was to find Bess before the fire claimed the rest of the Hall.

He heard someone breathing hard behind him and turned to see Nightingale by his side. Before he could order her outside, she grabbed his arm and pointed up to the galleried landing above where wisps of smoke trailed from one of the bedrooms.

‘She’s set the whole house on fire!’

‘Get help! Find Boyd.’

Nightingale stumbled back to the entrance hall, where Boyd was now directing the operation personally.

‘The Chief Inspector’s on the upper floor – he thinks his daughter is in the tower.’

‘My team will help him.’ He looked at the unarmed junior officer in front of him. It was bad enough having to worry about Fenwick; the last thing he needed was amateur help.

‘We’ve got this covered. You go outside and search the outbuildings in case she’s there.’

Nightingale started to protest, then nodded reluctantly. There was no time to waste in argument.

Fenwick sprinted along the landing towards the spiral stairs that led to the tower. His spirits rose at the sight of the first door
standing open. Three of Boyd’s men were swinging a ram against the second door with a power that shook the hinges. He watched for a long, agonising minute as they strained and pushed at the door. Nothing seemed to happen; then, with a tearing sound, the lock pulled away from the wood and the door swung open. Fenwick pushed past and raced up the spiral staircase.

He found Bess huddled inside. He hugged her, raining kisses on the top of her head, then a waft of smoke from below recalled him to his senses. He lifted her in his arms, cradling her head in case they should fall.

‘Pass the lass to me, sir. Easy now.’

Hands came to take her away, but he clung on to her.

‘I’m all right, let me through, we’re all right now.’

As he walked outside, Fenwick could hear the distant sirens of ambulances and fire tenders nearing the scene. Bess was silent as he held her close, but he could feel her breath on his cheek and the strength of her tight little arms around his neck. He knew that she would be all right now. He sat down on the gravel away from the blazing house and waited patiently until the second ambulance drew up and he could follow the paramedics and Bess inside.