McKay heard the explosion even inside the car. A moment later, he saw the billow of a cloud of smoke rise above the village. Even though the darkness was falling, the significance of what they were seeing was unmistakeable. Horton pressed the accelerator to the floor as they pulled off the main road towards the house.
They’d called for backup as they were leaving the office, but it looked as if they were first on the scene. By the time they reached Emsworth’s house, there were already flames licking at the now broken downstairs windows from within.
‘Christ.’
Horton pulled up the car as close as she dared and McKay tumbled out, heading immediately for the front door. He tried the handle but the door was locked. It looked a solid piece of work, and McKay couldn’t envisage that his own relatively slight frame would make much of an impact on it. He turned his attention to the windows, but the flames already visible behind the only potentially accessible window were likely to impede any attempt at entry.
Finally, short of any other ideas, he hurried round to the rear of the house. Here, there was a solid rear door leading into the kitchen, and a pair of patio doors into a living room. Those looked to be the most promising entry point.
McKay looked around him. Large boulders had been set decoratively in the flower bedding. He freed the largest that he judged he’d be able to lift easily and then, praying that the doors weren’t constructed of toughened glass, he threw it hard at the pane.
To his relief it shattered. He picked up a second stone and used it to knock away the remaining glass and then slipped carefully into the room. Not for the first time, he gave thanks for his slender figure.
Even in this room, with the door closed, he could smell the acrid stench of smoke. He pulled off his coat and held it across the lower half of his face before cautiously pulling open the door. In the hallway, the heat and the smoke were less bad than he’d feared, although he could see the orange flickering of flames from a room opposite.
Still holding the coat to his mouth, he crossed the hall and peered into the room. It was already filling with flames and smoke, the room itself badly damaged by the explosion. There was a figure lying at the far end of the room, but from the state and angle of the limbs McKay guessed that it was beyond any help. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Helena.
He closed the door, hoping to buy himself more time, then quickly checked that the remaining rooms on the ground floor were unoccupied. Finally, he raced up the stairs and entered the room immediately ahead of him.
Helena Grant was lying on the bed, obviously terrified, her arms and ankles secured to the bed frame with plastic ties.
‘Jesus, Hel. This is no time for your sex games.’
He hesitated for a moment, wondering how to free her. Then he remembered Fiona’s Christmas present, which he’d slipped into his pocket mainly out of politeness. You said it would come in useful, Fiona, he thought as he pulled out the knife. You didn’t know how right you were.
Forcing himself to keep calm, he cut carefully through each of the ties before helping Grant off the bed. She seemed unharmed but distressed and she struggled to walk. Supporting her as best he could, McKay brought her down the stairs.
Flames were already licking around the door he’d closed only minutes before.
He led Grant back into the room through which he’d entered the house, and then slipping through the broken window, he helped her to follow him, taking care that she wasn’t further injured by the remaining shards. Finally they were out in the cold evening air, and he was able to lead her back around the house to the road where Ginny Horton was waiting.
Behind them, the fire was now well-established.
As they reached the car, McKay looked down the road to their right. He could see a convoy of blue lights heading in their direction.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘So now you bother to turn up.’