As, along with the rest of the crew, he turned to run back to the engine and unload the pump, Tom just hoped he was up to the task. Bob Parsons was still speaking.
‘The way things are at the moment if there’s anyone inside we should be able to get them out,’ Parsons continued. ‘And at least we can assess how serious the situation is. So, the quicker we get there the better.’
Within seconds the team had removed the portable pump from the fire engine and were attempting to lift it over the stricken oak, two men on top of the trunk pulling, and two with their feet still on the ground pushing.
Then it happened. Boom. A blast, like a major bomb going off, ripped through the night air and the rear part of Blackdown Manor exploded. This was followed within seconds by an eruption of flames shooting into the sky, twenty maybe thirty feet high. Along with the ever-brightening moon, the flames provided terrifying clear illumination of the scene now confronting the shocked Wellington firefighters. It looked as if the top of the old house was simply no longer there, having been lifted by a force of unimaginable magnitude.
Tom felt numb. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. What the hell had caused that? He and the rest of the crew remained stricken, straddled across the fallen tree for several seconds, still carrying the heavy pump between them.
In the distance, Tom heard Bob Parsons’s voice.
‘She’s blown,’ said Parsons, shocked, but still in control, only the slightest tremor in his voice.
Like all of them, he was staring at the blazing manor house.
‘Right lads,’ he continued. ‘We aren’t going to be able to do anything with an LPP now. So, let’s put the bugger down, shall we. Careful as you go.’
Only then did Tom become aware of the pain in his arms and legs from muscles straining under the weight of the so-called portable pump.
Once the pump had been safely lowered to the ground, Parsons spoke again. ‘Gas,’ he said. ‘Gotta be. Either that or it’s a terrorist attack. Which would be a first for these parts. Anyone know if they’ve got a gas tank out the back?’
He glanced towards Pete Biffin.
The younger man shook his head. ‘I dunno, Bob, but I shouldn’t be surprised. They must have something for heating, and there’s no natural gas out here. Either a gas tank or oil, and oil wouldn’t blow like that.’
‘No. And neither does a gas tank as a rule. Not without some help in my experience. But that isn’t our problem. Our job is to get help to those poor bastards—’
Parsons was interrupted by another loud bang from the other end of the drive. Some kind of secondary explosion, or perhaps just the crash of the grand old house tumbling down. None of the crew were too sure.
‘Jesus,’ said Parsons.
He spoke into his radio.
‘Urgent assistance,’ he demanded. ‘We have a major incident. There’s been a large explosion at Blackdown Manor, perhaps a double explosion, which seems to have lifted most of the roof, and we now have an out of control fire spreading rapidly throughout. We believe there are people still inside the building, probably trapped. We have already requested USAR to shift an oak tree blocking the drive. This should now be top priority. Virtually the entire house seems to be on fire, and we can’t get an engine near to it. Also, if they’re not on their way already, we need medics—’
It was clear that Parsons had been interrupted by the co-ordinator. He listened for a few seconds.
‘You’ve just heard what?’ he said then, the surprise clear in his voice.
He listened for a few seconds more.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Got it.’
He turned back to his men.
‘There’s been a development,’ he said. ‘We’re not going anywhere close to that burning house, boys. Even if we could find a way through. We have to back off.’
Tom Withey, in spite of his youth and his newness to the job, was already trained to continue to function under devastatingly horrific circumstances. But, now, not only was the way to the blazing Blackdown Manor at least temporarily impassable, but the boss was instructing his men to back off.
‘It’s been reported that there are armed intruders on the property,’ Parsons continued. ‘We can’t take the risk...’
Tom listened in a near daze. So, all he and the rest of the crew were going to be able to do was to stand and watch. And Tom knew, beyond any reasonable doubt, that he was watching people burn to death. He thought it was probably the most difficult thing he’d had to do in his whole young life.
One
Saslow picked up Detective Inspector David Vogel from his home, at Sea Mills on the M5 side of Bristol, at 6.15 a.m. It was still dark on a cold, wet, early-October morning. Pretty typical of the west of England, Vogel thought. He wasn’t looking forward to being driven halfway across Somerset on what could quite probably not be a police matter at all.
Then there was the very slight awkwardness he sometimes felt nowadays with Saslow. The two officers had been working together since soon after Vogel transferred from the Met to the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s Major Crime Investigation Team. In the beginning Dawn Saslow, small, dark, and clever, had been a uniformed constable. Vogel quickly formed a high opinion of her, and had been instrumental in her promotion to MCIT. But things hadn’t been quite the same between them since their last big case. And neither had Saslow, in Vogel’s opinion. She remained an exceptional officer, but had, he thought, lost more than a little of her raw, almost schoolgirl-like enthusiasm for the job.
He settled into the passenger seat and turned towards the young DC.
‘How are you feeling then, Dawn?’ he asked.
Saslow’s eyes were focused on the steering wheel. Vogel cursed himself as soon as he had spoken. Not so long ago he wouldn’t have bothered to enquire after her welfare, and Saslow would know that.
‘I meant, with such an early start,’ he added quickly.
She answered equably enough.
‘I’m fine, sir,’ she said. ‘Could have done with a couple of hours more kip.’
‘Me too,’ said Vogel, with feeling.
‘You think this could turn out to be a wild goose chase, don’t you, boss?’ Saslow continued, as she eased her pool vehicle away from the kerb.
Londoner Vogel, a true city boy, did not hold a driving licence. Learning to drive had actually been a condition of his transfer to the Avon and Somerset from the Met. But somehow or other he’d still managed to avoid more than a couple of extremely unsatisfactory lessons.
‘Something of the sort,’ muttered Vogel.
‘I thought so,’ continued Saslow. ‘I mean, I was a bit surprised to hear we’d been called out to a house fire. Even a major one.’
‘No ordinary house, and no ordinary householder,’ said Vogel.
He took off his thick-lensed spectacles and rubbed them inadequately against his sleeve.
‘I assume you’ve heard of Sir John Fairbrother?’
‘Vaguely, sir. One of the great and the good, isn’t he?’
Vogel chuckled wryly.
‘One of the greatly rich, that’s for sure,’ said the DI. ‘Chairman and CEO of Fairbrother International. His family still own Fairbrother’s Bank, the second oldest private bank in the UK and the sixth oldest in the world. Sir John is in his early sixties now, but apparently has always continued to run the family business with a rod of iron. And he has a reputation for being something of a maverick. There’s been a rumour that he’s had to step back a bit in recent months because he hasn’t been well. Unsubstantiated, though, and officially denied. But the city seemed to believe it. The shares in Fairbrother International keep dropping.’