As he turns, he sees a tall figure in the doorway.
There’s a small burst of light, like a switch being turned quickly on and off, and then the ghostly silhouette suddenly pulls the door shut. Musca drops the flaming paper and rushes to the thick mahogany door. A key in the lock clicks twice.
He’s trapped.
10
Gideon is no hero.
The first and last time he had a fight was at school — and even then it wasn’t much of a brawl. He took several punches in the face from the year bully and was left with a bloody nose and no money for tuck shop.
He’s filled out a lot since then. Grown bigger and broader. The former is down to genes and the latter to years of rowing at Cambridge. But ever since that harrowing moment he’s developed an acute instinct for danger and an understanding that a quick brain is almost always better than a bully’s quick hands.
Gideon’s already called 999. Now he’s picking his way as silently as possible through the place just to make sure he hasn’t made a silly mistake.
The door to the study yawns open and the light from the hall shows the big, chunky key in the lock. When he sees the figure torching the curtains he makes up his mind to lock the door and keep him there until the cops come.
But now he’s thinking it over.
He’s trapped someone in a burning room and if he doesn’t let them out, they’re going to die. So what? A bit of him really asks that. So what if he dies? Will the world actually miss the kind of low-life that breaks into a dead man’s house and steals from him before he is even laid to rest?
Gideon opens the door.
There’s a roar of flames as the draught blows in. He steps back, arms up to his scorched face. Through a molten wall of orange, a black shape hurtles at him. He is slammed against the wall. His body shudders with the impact. A fist smashes into his left cheekbone. A knee thuds into his crotch. He doubles over in pain. Takes a boot full in the face.
Flat out on the floor, his breath shallow and his lips leaking blood, the last thing Gideon sees before dizziness swallows him is the giant wave of flames and smoke rolling his way.
11
Musca charges across the sprawling lawns behind the manor house, his heart flinging itself against his chest. Above the fizz of the flames he hears the siren — just one car by the sound of it. It’s way past midnight and he knows the police won’t be coming mob-handed. At best, they’ll have despatched that single squad car, with probably a couple of PCs in it.
Still, it was wise to have parked in a lane far behind the estate. The lawns are clear and open and he’s soon able to escape the glare of the lights. Problem is, the darkness is virtually total and he can’t find the exact place in the wall he climbed over — the point that will guide him back to the car.
He stumbles through a clump of thick rose branches and is almost sent sprawling by a molehill so large its owner could probably run for the governorship of California. Finally, he finds the landmark he’d made a mental note of: a greenhouse, the lower half built out of brick and the top of hard wood and double-glazed glass. He counts thirteen paces along the wall and finds the spot he has to climb.
There’s a snag.
When he’d entered the grounds, he’d climbed a small tree on the other side. Dropping ten feet hadn’t been difficult. He’s just over six foot tall, so he’d been able to sling his bag over, dangle from his fingertips and then drop the rest of the way.
Now he can’t get back.
No matter how high he jumps, or even runs and jumps, he can’t get close to the top of the wall. Musca puts the kit bag down and frantically searches for something to stand on. An old compost bin, maybe a spade or garden fork to lean against, or if he’s really lucky a ladder.
There’s nothing.
He glances across the dark lawns. Flames spilling out of the side of the house. The cops have their hands full. He calms down. There’s time enough to do this without making mistakes.
The greenhouse.
He rattles the door. Locked. Through the window he sees wooden racks full of plants. One of those would do just fine. He rushes back to his bag and realises he’s left the crowbar in the old man’s study. Never mind. Brute force will do.
Musca steps back and hammers a heel through the glass and hardwood frame. He jerks the doors open and slips inside.
He’s right, the wooden tables are perfect. He pulls one free from the soil that it’s sunk in, sending dozens of tomato plants spilling as he pulls it outside. He looks again towards the house.
Suspended in the blackness is what appears to be a bouncing ball of light. Torchlight. A cop with a flashlight is checking the grounds — moving quickly towards him.
Musca has killed and is ready to kill again if necessary. He peels away to the left of the light and heaves a heavy stone into the side of the greenhouse.
‘Stop, police!’
He smiles as the torchlight rushes towards the noise. A second later he’s behind the beam and the policeman is slumping unconscious to the ground.
Musca returns to the planting table and jams it against the garden wall.
Twenty seconds later, he’s gone.
12
Megan is listening to her four-year-old’s snuffling and laboured breathing. Every half-hour she wakes and passes a hand over the child’s head. Sammy’s on fire. For the eighth time that night she wets a flannel and gently lays it on her daughter’s forehead.
Her mobile rings. It jerks her out of a tense state of half-sleep and she grabs it before it wakes Sammy.
‘DI Baker.’
‘Inspector, it’s Jack Bentley from the control room.’
‘Hang on,’ she whispers as she climbs out of bed. ‘Give me a second.’ She works her way on to the landing. ‘Okay, go ahead.’
‘We just had an incident in Tollard Royal, the beat officer asked me to call.’
‘Bit off my patch, Jack.’ She glances down the corridor. Her mother is stood at her bedroom door, scowling.
‘I know that, ma’am. There’s been a fire in one of the big houses out there. A burglary too, according to the report. A police officer was assaulted by the offender as he fled the scene.’
‘You need to call me about this?’
‘They’ve taken a civilian to hospital. They found your business card on him.’
Megan turns away from her mother’s accusatory gaze. ‘Do you have a name? What did he look like?’
‘I don’t have a physical, but we ran a trace on a car parked there, an old Audi A4. It’s registered to a Gideon Chase from Cambridge.’
She thinks she knows the answer but still asks the question, ‘Who’s the house owned by?’
Bentley taps up the info on his computer. ‘Property is in the name of a Nathaniel Chase. He’s listed on the electoral roll as the only resident.’
‘He was. The man they’ve taken to hospital is his son. I saw him a few hours ago. He only drove down here because I had to ring him and tell him his father had died.’
‘Poor bugger. Not his night, eh?’ The penny drops with Bentley. ‘Was that the professor chap who shot himself?’
‘The same.’
‘At any rate, two officers turned out, PCs Robin Featherby and Alan Jones. Jones is getting treated for neck injuries and Featherby asked me to call and let you know. Said to say sorry for ringing late but figured best to tell you now than get shouted at tomorrow.’
‘He figured right. Thanks Jack. Have a good night.’
She turns her phone off just as her mother slips into the bedroom to check on Sammy. They’re going to have a row. She just knows they are. Rather than do that, she slopes off downstairs to make a cup of tea.