But she couldn’t see a single thing. The black smoke had consumed everything and she was lost in the centre of her own nightmare. She took three steps forward. The disintegrating boards groaned, her feet picked up fresh blisters with each painful step but on she went. One step, two, three. Her arms swung around wildly expecting – hoping – to connect with something solid, something familiar. But she found only smoke.

Crying now, she turned and went hard the other way. Surely this must be right. Her right foot caught on something and she fell to one knee, but on she went, dragging herself up, driving herself forward. She cannoned off something solid and suddenly filled with hope ran her hands over the surface. Was it a door? A window? She scraped at it, but it came away in her hand. Clawing harder, she now came up against solid brick. Jesus Christ, it was one of the walls. She was in the wrong place. The door must be …

She turned and moved randomly forward, no idea now which way was which. Her head swam wildly and she stumbled again. Which way was left? Which right? Which direction should she go in?

Denise stood still, paralysed by fear, as the fire raged around her and the smoke enveloped her. The decision she was about to make would either cost her her life or save it. So crying quietly and praying to God for help, she picked a direction, swallowed her fears and stumbled slowly forward.

37

Charlie clamped her hand over her mouth, as the bitter fumes filled her nose and throat. Instinctively she recoiled, struggling to breathe. She had never smelt anything like this before – and she hoped she never would have to again. Turning away quickly, she rejoined DI Sanderson, who was marshalling the uniformed officers, attempting to create a secure perimeter around the burning building. Above them a helicopter circled – it wasn’t one of theirs, so presumably was press, no doubt beaming live pictures into homes all round the country. Was this what their arsonist wanted? Charlie rather suspected it was.

This was the biggest blaze yet. A plush furniture showroom stocked to the rafters with foam-filled sofas, raffia tables, wooden dining tables and chairs – the fire wasn’t starved for fuel and the flames now leapt fifty, sixty feet into the air. You could tell from the firefighters’ body language that this was already about containment.

Set against the dark night sky, the fire was an awesome sight, towering over the ghouls who’d come to witness the excitement. Bitterne Park was a nondescript part of town with little to set the pulse racing, hence the heavy crowd of locals. Adults, teenagers, even little kids were braving the heat to take photos and videos, edging dangerously close to the blaze. What the hell were they thinking? Were they really that desperate for entertainment that they would risk their lives and those of their children for a cheap thrill?

‘Back. I want everyone back,’ Charlie barked loudly, corralling the uniformed officers to push the throng away, scooping up any daredevils who seemed minded to ignore their advice. ‘It’s not safe for you here. Move back, back, back.’ Police tape was now being rolled out and looped around the site, distancing the public from the blaze, but Charlie wouldn’t put it past some of them to sneak under it and chance their arm once more. What was it with modern folk that everything – however unpleasant and depressing – has to be recorded and repackaged for others on social media? Charlie had no doubt that Twitter and Instagram would be going nuts tonight, ordinary punters snatching a bit of reflected glory from the arsonist’s work.

Charlie walked the perimeter, her eyes flitting over the faces in front of her. Many were openly awestruck, others were joking and laughing, but hardly a single person there didn’t have some kind of recording device. Were they all there for the fun of it or was there someone among them with more malign intent? Was one of these onlookers responsible for all this? On and on she went, looking for signs of guilt, but she knew she was looking for a needle in a haystack. Even if she alighted on someone who was unnaturally excited by the blaze, that didn’t necessarily prefigure guilt and, besides, something told Charlie that their perpetrator was far too clever and cautious to be caught out so easily.

To her surprise, Charlie now felt an icy chill crawl up her neck. The wind had changed direction and was growing in strength, fanning the flames of the burning superstore. Acrid, green fumes now billowed towards the crowd, stinging eyes and throats as they swept over the onlookers. Suddenly Charlie picked out Sanderson racing towards her.

‘We need to get everyone out of here,’ she half gasped as she gestured to uniform to push the crowd back still further. ‘I need a loudhailer. Has anyone got a loudhailer?’ she shouted half to Charlie, half to the assembled officers.

‘What’s going on?’ Charlie replied, suddenly alarmed.

‘Polyurethane foam in the sofas. When it burns it creates cyanide oxide. These fumes are bloody poisonous. They can’t stay here,’ she continued, gesturing at the crowds, ‘and neither can we.’

Clamping her scarf over her mouth, Charlie surged towards the crowd, grabbing recalcitrant kids by the arms as she went. Strange to think that a few hours ago she was at home, safe and sound with Jessica, and now here she was, hauling small children and grown men to safety in the shadow of an inferno. Suddenly energized, Charlie now took the lead, marshalling her fellow officers, driving the onlookers away from the reach of the bitter fumes. It was punishing physical work, especially in such an unpleasant atmosphere. Was that the arsonist’s intention all along? To put police officers and firefighters in jeopardy even as they battled the flames? It was impossible to tell and there was no time to speculate now. So Charlie fought on, working tirelessly to save the people she was bound to protect, all the while engulfed by the toxic cloud of death.

38

It was only a small movement in the corner of her eye, but Helen spotted him before anyone else did. He was just a blur, speeding towards the fire, running straight through anything that stood in his path. Helen was already on the move, and as the young man hurdled the police cordon she was on to him. She only had a second before he would be past her, so she dived at his legs, clamping her arms tight around them.

He hit the deck hard, but seemed to bounce off it, the scrubby grass breaking his fall. Despite Helen’s best efforts to restrain him, he was already clambering to his feet. Shouting at him to stop, Helen got a solid grip on his jacket and pulled sharply down. Immediately she felt something connect with her chest, temporarily knocking the wind out of her. The man lashed out again, but this time Helen dodged the blow, using his movement to unbalance him, sending him spiralling to the floor once more. She had caught him off guard and was quickly on top of him, pinning him firmly down.

‘Get off me. Get the fuck off me,’ the young man roared, struggling violently.

‘Not until you calm down.’

‘Get OFF!’ he shouted back, twisting again.

‘If I have to restrain you, I will.’

‘My mum’s in there. Please, she’s still in there.’

So this was Callum Roberts. Even now, Helen refused to relinquish her grip. Denise’s son was desperate with worry, consumed by the idea that his mother was alone in that terrible fire, but there was nothing he could do and Helen couldn’t risk further injuries or fatalities by letting him go.