As he lay there groaning, Charlie spun and raced to the fire. Pulling her jacket off, she encased her hand in it, then delved into the open furnace, flicking whatever she could out of the flames. A videotape and some books fell to the floor. But there was more in there, so Charlie delved deeper -
She cannoned sideways away from the fire, surprised by Ford’s sudden charge. He had rugby tackled her at speed and she crashed hard to the ground now. Winded, she tried to rise, but he was quickly upon her now. A fist seemed to come out of nowhere, connecting with her jaw – she felt the back of her head hit the floor with a crack that went right through her. Now his hands were seeking out her throat, wrapping themselves around, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. She tried to shake him, but his knees were pinning her down and he tightened his grip now, his eyes bulging with fury and hatred. He meant to kill her and Charlie knew in an instant that this time there would be no escape.
60
Helen dumped her bike and sprinted up the path. The back-up vehicles were only a few moments behind but something told Helen that she couldn’t afford to waste a minute. Seeing the front door ajar, Helen paused to remove her baton, then kicked the door open and ran inside. The hallway was deserted and Helen stood stock still, her senses primed for danger.
But there was nothing. The whole place was deathly quiet.
‘Charlie?’
Helen strained, listening for a response, but none was forthcoming.
‘CHARLIE?’
Helen stalked forward, darting her head first into the pantry, then the parlour as she charged towards the back door. The place was deserted, the door locked, so turning on her heel, Helen sprinted back towards the small parlour across the way. Her disquiet was growing with each passing second – the absence of both Charlie and Richard Ford couldn’t be explained in a way that augured well. Why was the front door open? Had Ford fled and Charlie followed in pursuit? Surely not – she would have radioed in in that case? So what had happened here?
Helen took the stairs two at a time and was soon on the landing above. She explored the side rooms first, wary of ambush, but found only the detritus of Ford’s sorry life, so she pushed into the front bedroom. The room was gloomy and unloved, reeking of mould and rotten food and Helen yanked the heavy curtains open. As she did so, she saw the squad cars pull up outside, sirens blaring and lights flashing. The cavalry had arrived, but to what end? They’d be able to do nothing for Charlie if they couldn’t find her. Where the hell was she?
Turning once more, Helen sprinted from the room. Every second counted now.
61
Stars studded her vision, as the fight went out of her. Charlie had struggled for all she was worth, but he was too strong, too determined to crush the life out of her. The lack of oxygen was having an effect now, waves of darkness washing over her – she knew she was close to losing consciousness for good. She could smell the smoke on his hands, could feel flecks of his spit landing on her face, as he shouted and screamed at her. Was this it then? Would his livid face be the last thing she saw?
As her eyes slowly closed, his grip seemed to loosen slightly and suddenly Charlie rolled hard to the right. Where this resistance had come from she couldn’t say. One last instinctive attempt to save herself perhaps, some innate desire to live. Surprised, Ford tried to steady himself, but now off balance toppled over, landing heavily on the floor. Rolling in the dirt, he was on his feet quickly, charging back towards her. He almost left the floor as he virtually leapt at her. Charlie could only hope to defend herself now – her throat raged and she couldn’t breathe properly – so she raised her knee and braced herself for impact. The point of her knee now connected sharply with Ford’s groin, bucking him off balance once more. He half fell, half stumbled to the ground, his chin connecting savagely with the wooden floor, tearing the skin. He tried to rise and couldn’t – he appeared to be gagging – and suddenly Charlie found herself crawling towards him fast.
Now she was on top of him. He flung an arm back at her, but she had been expecting that and grasped it gratefully, twisting it hard and fast all the way up his back. He screamed in agony, but Charlie didn’t hesitate, drawing her cuffs from her belt and binding both his hands together. Ford writhed underneath her, trying to throw her off, but pressing her knees into the small of his back, she pinned him down, determined to deny him any purchase. After a few moments, the struggle went out of him.
Charlie now became aware of someone else in the room – it was Helen calling to her, approaching fast – but there was no need of reinforcements now. Against all the odds, and somewhat to her surprise, Charlie had carried the day.
62
‘Drop whatever you’re doing and listen to this.’
Emilia Garanita had a flair for the dramatic and enjoyed bossing people around, but she seldom got the chance these days. The roll call of crime in Southampton usually extended from shoplifting in Tesco’s through drunk-driving offences to a bit of Class B possession – hardly the stuff of banner headlines. But today was different. She wouldn’t normally talk to her editor in this way, but she was on the cusp of a big one here and felt some of her old confidence returning.
She had arrived at the address in Midanbury fifteen minutes after the squad cars. Flashing her press card, she immediately sought out PC Alan Stark, her favourite mole in Hants Police. He was a young man with a fairly serious gambling problem and always welcomed the extra funds Emilia provided. Checking they weren’t overlooked, Emilia had crushed three £50 notes into his hand and as he pocketed them, quizzed him for the details. As he’d relayed his info to her, Emilia had spotted a young man being led from the house in cuffs. From her discreet vantage point, Emilia had fired off a series of headshots with her Nikon SLR – and was pretty pleased with the results.
‘For God’s sake, Emilia, I’ve promised you the centre spread for your Simms piece! Could you please stop chewing my balls for one minute -’ her beleaguered editor replied. He had given up punishing her for her previous disloyalty some time back and Emilia sensed he now regretted it, as it allowed her to harangue him night and day, pushing for more, more, more.
‘Forget that,’ Emilia interrupted. ‘This is better.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’m currently watching Hampshire’s finest drag a young man from his house in cuffs. According to my source, police think he’s our serial arsonist.’
Silence on the other end, but she could hear him breathing. There was nothing better than having your editor hanging on your every word.
‘Better still, he’s a firefighter. His name is Richard Ford and he’s been with Hants Fire and Rescue Service for most of his life. Bit of a fire nut apparently, but that’s as much as I know. I need people to get on to his colleagues, family, ex-girlfriends, plus I need a bio for him. I’m going to stay at the house and see what I can glean.’
It was the editor’s call as to how he deployed his reporters. They only numbered a handful and most were more used to covering school fetes and Council meetings – Emilia was their only full-time crime reporter. But Emilia knew Gary Rowlands loved the big stories – it reminded him of the good old days when he was a proper editor at Wapping – and she was sure he would throw the scant resources they had at this one. Stories like this didn’t come around very often.
‘I’m going to go big on the hero turned villain, firefighter who became a firestarter, so anything in his private life that might explain this, any past offences, would be really useful as context,’ Emilia continued, slipping under the police cordon and scurrying towards the house. Stark had turned a convenient blind eye and Emilia was keen to get a few shots of the interior before she was discovered.