Hilary Bonner
Wheel of Fire
For
Jean and Louis
Always there
‘I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like molten lead.’
Acknowledgments
With grateful thanks to Fire Officer Dave West and his colleagues at Wellington Fire Station; Wellington-based PC Hayden Smith of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary; Police Sergeant Andrew Pugh of the Brentford Safer Neighbourhood Team; Detective Constable Shane O’Neill of the Metropolitan Police Force; and Joe Coggins of the Canal and River Trust.
Prologue
The storm was over. The rain had stopped. The flames that engulfed the big old house raged unhindered. Later, some claimed that the glow in the sky could be seen as far away as Taunton or Tiverton, each fourteen or fifteen miles from Blackdown Manor as the crow flies.
Tom Withey was a trainee fire officer. He’d celebrated his twentieth birthday only a week earlier. He had never seen anything like it before, and he hoped he never would again.
There were people inside that house. Either dead or dying. Nobody was likely to get out alive, that was for sure.
Tom was the newest member of the five-man Wellington crew aboard the first fire appliance to arrive at the scene. Tom checked his watch. It was 2.03 a.m. They had left the fire station just three and a half minutes after the emergency call, well below the maximum five-minute time limit set by the British Fire and Rescue Service, and, after a hair-raising high-speed dash through the winding country lanes of West Somerset, had arrived at the gates to the old manor within less than half an hour. Tom, unaware then of what lay ahead, had enjoyed that bit.
As they approached they’d at first seen little sign of fire, even though the sky had cleared, and a weak moon peeped through the clouds. Perhaps there was some smoke escaping from the front of the house. Tom and the boys weren’t sure.
The electrically-operated iron double gates stood open. After all, they would presumably have been expected, along with other emergency services. Billy Prettyjohn, the driver, swung the engine, Wellington’s biggest and best, carrying 18,000 litres of water in its own internal tank, expertly through the gateway. He prepared to accelerate.
It didn’t look like a major incident, necessarily. Not then. And the crew were all aware that Wellington’s second appliance was only four minutes behind them, and that two more were on the way, one from Taunton and one from Honiton. Four engines called out, as is standard with a house fire, and certainly when the house in question is a big old manor. But Billy was local, like all of them. He knew the drive leading to Blackdown Manor was a good quarter of a mile long. And he was an experienced fire officer, who had learned first-hand that just a few seconds could mean the difference between dealing with a fire that is easily containable and being faced with one already out of control.
Suddenly there was a shrieking noise as Billy braked hard, and the big engine jolted to a halt.
‘Fuck,’ said Billy.
‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ said Bob Parsons, officer in charge and also Wellington’s station manager, who was strapped into his designated front seat alongside Billy.
‘What’s happening?’ called out Pete Biffin, one of the three firefighters riding in the back.
‘There’s a bloody great tree right across the drive,’ Billy shouted back. ‘Must have come down in the storm.’
Bob Parsons jumped out for a closer look. In the beam of his torch he could clearly see that a dense stretch of woodland, flanked by iron railings, lined either side of the drive, eliminating any possibility of manoeuvring the fire engine around the fallen tree.
Parsons whistled long and low, then turned back towards his crew.
‘Right lads, everybody out,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can shift this thing.’
The crew, apart from driver Billy Prettyjohn who stayed ready at the wheel, quickly joined their OIC. The closer they got to the fallen tree, the bigger and heavier it looked.
Pete Biffin stepped forward. Like all of the Wellington team he was a retained part-time fireman. His day job was farming.
‘It’s an oak, Bob,’ he said. ‘Look at the size of it. And damaged by lightning at some stage, I’d say. You can see the split in the trunk. That’s why it came down.’
‘Never mind why it came down,’ countered Bob Parsons. ‘How the heck can we get it out of the damned way?’
‘We can’t,’ said Pete. ‘Haven’t got the gear. Not for that. We need specialist lifting equipment, Bob. Even a tractor with chains won’t do it. We’re going to have to call in USAR.’
Parsons grunted his irritation. Urban Search And Rescue are a specialist part of the fire service, equipped and trained to deal with a vast range of challenges including lifting and moving large heavy objects. They even have their own fork-lift trucks. Pete Biffin was not really telling Parsons anything he didn’t already know. But Bob hadn’t wanted to accept the necessity to call in USAR to move the oak, because that would mean an unspecified delay in getting through to the manor. By which time a fire which, so far, appeared to be only a minor incident, might have turned into something else. And the Devon and Somerset Fire Service’s USAR team were based at Exeter, almost thirty miles away. Nonetheless, Parsons knew he had no choice.
‘Right, Billy, you get on to it,’ he instructed. ‘Call ’em in. Meanwhile, does anyone know if there’s another route to the house?’
There was a muttering, nobody was sure.
‘There could be—’ began Pete Biffin.
Tom Withey heard his own voice, interrupting.
‘There’s a light on in The Gatehouse, you can just see it through a chink in the upstairs curtains,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there’s someone there, someone who might be able to help.’
‘Well done, lad,’ said Parsons, as he strode across to the house and knocked on the door.
There was no response.
‘I thought I saw movement,’ ventured Tom uncertainly. ‘B-but it could have been a trick of the light.’
Bob Parsons hammered more loudly on the door. There was still no response.
He turned back to his crew. ‘Any other ideas?’
‘Look, I don’t think this will help much, but I’m pretty sure there’s a track from Blackdown Farm leading to the manor,’ said Pete Biffin. ‘It’s meant for tractors, though. I don’t reckon we’d stand much chance of getting this beast through.’
‘I was on an engine once and the driver took it straight through a hedge,’ muttered Parsons.
‘I reckon we’d have to mow down hedges on either side, and a stretch or two of bank as well,’ said Pete. ‘No, the more I think about it, the more I can’t see that it’s worth even trying that track. We’d just get stuck.’
Parsons turned to stare at Blackdown Manor. The moon seemed to be growing increasingly brighter. There was still little sign of a fire, although he was fairly sure that he could see some smoke now.
‘Anyone know if there’s any water close to the house?’ he asked.
It was Pete Biffin again who answered the question. As a boy he’d helped his father deliver eggs and vegetables to Blackdown Manor.
‘There’s a big ornamental pond, right in front of the place,’ Pete volunteered, knowing exactly what his station manager was getting at. ‘We should be able to pump from that.’
‘Right,’ said Parsons. ‘Let’s unload the LPP and get on up there to check the place out properly.’
Parsons was referring to the Light Portable Pump carried by all British fire appliances. Tom Withey — a big strong lad, who, along with all the other fire officers stationed at Wellington, trained at least three times a week — had already helped to carry one several times. He reckoned that most people would not regard an LPP as remotely light or portable. The pumps were basically adapted car engines, and weighed the best part of half a ton. Four fit men were needed to carry one of them. And the shorter the distance the better. On this occasion, the pump would have to be somehow or other lifted over the fallen tree, and then there was still a quarter of a mile of driveway to cover.