FIVE - Inferno

For the rest of the night Grace sleeps and wakes and sleeps again enveloped by the fierce heat of his body. The bed is far too narrow for two, but despite the discomfort, Boyd barely stirs. Every time she wakes, she envies him but makes no attempt to disturb him. Asleep, he looks intensely vulnerable, and the sight stirs every maternal feeling she possesses. Not very appropriate, perhaps, given what took place before they fell asleep plastered together only half covered by the rumpled duvet, but Grace has never been a great Freudian, so she reads nothing deviant or unwholesome into the reaction. Vulnerable, and peaceful. Serene, even. The permanent furrows across his brow smoothed out, the lines caused by the too-frequent scowl almost completely erased.

She watches him for a while as the grey dawn gets lighter and lighter, awed by just how deeply he can sleep when there are so many things to worry about. She doesn't consciously think it, but perhaps what she's doing is committing everything about the way he looks in repose to memory. A mental snapshot she can summon and examine whenever she wishes, even if she never sees him like this again.

Neither of them said… those words. She's glad. Better silence than lies.

There are scars on his flank. Hidden now. She knows where they are, how they look, how they feel. Remembers the day he got the injuries that caused them, remembers her terror as she watched the fatal drama that unfolded in that eerily-lit basement. Not fatal for Boyd, though it easily could have been. Fatal for the man who stabbed him, not just once, but twice. Shot and killed by a police firearms team as Boyd came close to bleeding out on the floor below.

He always bounces back. Somehow, he always bounces back. He will from this, too, Grace knows, if it proves to be over even before it's really begun.

She hears a car arrive and another leave. Another change of shift, another day of confinement. The third morning she has woken in a strange bed wondering if today will be the day that the nightmare ends, whether today will be the day that brings the good news that the killer they're hiding from has been arrested and is in custody.

It must be Saturday. The twentieth. Nearly Christmas.

Sandwiched between her and the strip of wall below the window, Boyd sleeps on, his breathing slow and regular.

-oOo-

Donaldson and Finch. Sounds a little like one of those Saturday evening television comedy acts that used to be so popular. They're sitting drinking tea when Grace arrives in the kitchen. Brief greetings are exchanged as she moves to the kettle. There's not enough hot water left in it to make one drink, let alone two. As she refills it from the leaky mixer tap over the sink, Donaldson clears his throat and says, "There was an attempted break-in at the Superintendent's house last night. The burglar alarm went off just after three."

Grace turns to frown at him. "I thought both houses were being watched?"

"They were," Zoe Finch assures her, "but it was a busy night, apparently. Not enough cars to cover the number of urgent calls coming in; you know how it is."

"I do," she agrees. "No-one called us."

"I think DS Spicer tried to." There's a note of apology in Zoe's voice. "Both your phones are going straight to voicemail. He called Rogers and North, updated them, but told them there was no point in disturbing either of you. They briefed us when we got here."

Of course. Her phone was almost flat yesterday. It probably expired completely at some point during the night. While she was… otherwise engaged. "Oh. You said 'attempted break-in', Mark?"

Donaldson nods. "The neighbours have been understandably twitchy, seeing a visible police presence coming and going over the last few days. When the alarm went off, I think all the lights in the street went on. There was a report of a man spotted running out of the end of the street, apparently. The officers who attended checked all the doors and windows. Place was still locked up like a fortress."

"Good." Relieved, Grace returns to making coffee. Opening the fridge, she frowns again, irritable this time. "No milk?"

"Night shift had the last of it," he tells her, clearly as displeased by the fact as she is.

"Well, I can't wait until your relief gets here," she grumbles. "Black coffee is one thing, but black tea is an abomination, Besides, we're out of bread, so breakfast was going to be cereal."

"There's a shop in the village," Zoe informs her. "One of those little general stores. Saturday morning, it's bound to be open."

Temptation starts to battle with common-sense. The village is fairly close, after all… "I suppose it's not far. I mean, if you took the car, you could be there and back in less than twenty-five minutes…"

Donaldson clears his throat. It's a loud, disapproving noise. "That may be so, Doctor, but our orders…"

"Came from DCI Marshall via one of your own Inspectors?" Grace suggests.

"Well, yes," he agrees, a hint of dark suspicion evident in the way he looks at her.

She points towards the ceiling. "Upstairs, there is an extremely quick-tempered DSI who outranks both of them. One who has been known to reduce hardened detectives to quivering wrecks for far less than supplying him with a sub-standard cup of tea."

"It's ten minutes' drive to the village," Zoe urges her colleague, "and one of us will still be here…"

"No-one will ever know," Grace adds, "including Boyd, if you're quick enough."

"No," Donaldson retorts, still stoical.

To Zoe, she says, "I may have said that his bark is usually worse than his bite, but I may also have neglected to mention just how loud that bark can be. Additionally, I might have forgotten to mention just how little respect he has for rules, and how much he prizes initiative."

Zoe looks at her fellow PC again. "Mark, he's a Super, for God's sake. Do you really want to piss him off?"

-oOo-

"You could transfer to the Met," Grace says. She's sitting with Zoe at the little kitchen table, waiting for Donaldson to return. Of Boyd there is still no sign, but his long shadow hangs over the conversation. "But the CCU is not generally a popular choice for those wishing to advance their careers. I think it takes a certain sort of person to do what we do."

"Cold cases fascinate me," is the immediate reply. "Going back into the past, trying to find what other people missed."

"It's not as glamourous as it sounds," Grace warns with a slight grimace. "I'm afraid we spend a lot of time just digging through the archives, and even when there is new evidence, we often end up concluding that there's simply not a high enough chance of getting a result to warrant the sheer cost of re-opening an investigation that might have been closed for decades."

Zoe shrugs. "Even so…"

"If you're serious," Grace tells her, not sure that the younger woman really is, "talk to Boyd. Not all the officers we have are fully-qualified detectives. It's not an essential pre-requisite. You'd have to leave Essex and join the Met first, of course, and you'd have to take care of that yourself."

"But you think there's a chance he might take me? If there was a vacancy, I mean."

"Well, you've got a decent amount of experience, and you do have some very specific skills that he may very well feel could be useful to us." Pausing, she adds, "But I'm really not in a position to say, I'm afraid. Boyd… is something of a law unto himself. In everything. I've seen him take on people I never thought would get through the door, and let people go that I honestly thought would last the distance."

"I see." Zoe sounds discouraged.

"He doesn't have to like you," Grace continues, "but he does need to see something in you that makes you a good fit for the CCU. It's a small, unique multi-disciplinary unit, one that manages to do extraordinary things with very little in the way of resources, and there's no room for people who don't believe one hundred and ten percent in the value of what we do."

Beyond Zoe's shoulder, beyond the kitchen window, a dozen black crows suddenly rise into the air from the ploughed field beyond the fence. Their startled, angry cawing is loud enough to draw the attention of both women, but it is Zoe who snaps to her feet, her right hand going straight to the Glock pistol holstered at her waist. Her voice is tight as she says, "Alarm call."

Grace has lived in towns and cities her whole life. Most of her experience of birds is limited to the harmless fluttering of sparrows and the gentle cooing of pigeons. "What?"

"Alarm call," Zoe repeats, moving to the window. "Something frightened them."

A cold tingle of unwelcome fear runs down Grace's spine. Automatic response, she tells herself. Doesn't mean something bad is about to happen. Taking a guess, she asks, "Could it have been a fox, or something?"

Zoe shakes her head. "A fox wouldn't be out in the open at this time of day, and even if it was, it wouldn't cause that kind of reaction."

The countryside is largely a mystery to Grace. Pretty to look at, and fun to enjoy for a few hours now and again, but completely alien in so many ways. "I'll have to take your word for it. Can you see anything?"

Zoe has moved to the back door and is peering out through the grimy glass. "Nothing unusual or out of place."

"Maybe a car drove past, or something?"

Another firm headshake. "There's no road on that side of the farm, just an old bridleway that's too narrow to get a vehicle down. We use this place for just that reason… it's isolated, out of the way."

"It's probably nothing," Grace says, willing herself believe it. Her heart is pounding. "We're probably just jumpy because we're feeling guilty about sending Mark to the village."

"Mm."

Doing her best to slow her ever-quickening breathing, she says, "I think it's high time Boyd was awake, don't you?"

Zoe half-turns, her expression apprehensive. "But Mark isn't back yet."

"I know, and Boyd's not going to be happy when he finds out he's not here, but…"

A slow nod of acceptance. "All right. You go and wake him. I'll ring Mark."

Heading back up the stairs, Grace almost manages to convince herself that they are overreacting, that a few crows suddenly taking flight means nothing. Perhaps they simply spotted a farm worker, or someone walking a dog, or something. Not bothering to knock on Boyd's door, she barges in to find him lying on his back, hands behind his head, gazing up at the ceiling. Spuriously, she says, "Oh, you're awake."

He turns his head to regard her. "And conspicuously alone."

"You're not alone," she points out, "I'm here."

The response is sulky. "Now."

"We'll argue about it later," Grace tells him, "but right now, there are other things to worry about."

Boyd must hear something in her voice, because he sits bolt upright, the reproachful insouciance falling away in an instant. "What other things?"

Knowing it will provoke a firestorm of temper, she admits, "Mark's somewhere between here and the village, and – "

The single gunshot is so loud it seems to almost shake the cottage walls. Half-deafened by it, Grace emits a surprised shriek, instantly choked-off, and flattens herself against the wall by the wardrobe. Pure instinct, no thought required. Boyd is out of bed and grabbing for his clothes before she's even aware of it. Hauling on his jeans, he barks, "On the floor, Grace! Get down on the bloody floor!"

She doesn't need to be told again, not with the sound of running footsteps on the stairs. A voice rises ahead of them, "Doctor Foley! Superintendent!"

Zoe.

Flinging open the door as he struggles into his tee-shirt, Boyd shouts, "Get up here now! What the fuck is happening?"

Panting hard, Zoe comes into view, gun in hand. Her face is white and strained, and she does not look as composed as Grace thinks she should… and then she sees the blood soaking through the other woman's clothes. Horrified, she tries to stagger to her feet, but Boyd pushes her down. Physically pushes her, forcing her to curl into a tight, defensive ball at the foot of the wardrobe. He seizes Zoe by the shoulder and drags her into the room, slamming the door closed and putting his back against it as he demands, "How badly are you hurt, Finch?"

A gasping Zoe has subsided into a seated position on the floor. "Not sure, sir. I heard… a noise outside the back… door and went… to investigate. He jumped me from behind. Had a knife. I managed… to get a shot off as… he ran away, but…"

"Jesus-fucking-Christ," is the vehement response. "Why weren't you wearing a stab vest? And where the fuck is Donaldson?"

"On his way… back from the village… sir," Zoe manages, ignoring the first question.

Boyd doesn't hesitate. "Give me your weapon, Constable."

"Sir…?"

"I'm an AFO," he roars at her, "now give me your fucking weapon!"

Zoe looks terrified, but whether by Boyd, her injury, or by the situation in general, Grace can't tell. She passes the gun over, her hand shaking as she does so. Boyd checks it with the same calm, clinical efficiency that Grace has seen from Spencer and Stella every time they have been authorised to draw weapons from the armoury. Satisfied, he looks straight at her. "Find something to use to put pressure on that wound, Grace. Don't mess about with it, just keep the pressure on, and don't leave this room."

The idea of being left alone to look after an injured Zoe, while he goes to face God knows what… "Boyd…"

"Not now. Just do it. Finch," he looks towards Zoe and orders, "get on your radio and call for immediate back-up. I don't care if they have to mobilise half the fucking force, just get me some back-up, and now. Grace, if you have to, take over. Guns, dogs, choppers… whatever they've got, I want it here immediately."

"Don't go out there," she pleads. "Boyd…"

"I'm not going far," he tells her. He takes a breath, as if forcing patience. "Remember what I told you? Whoever's out there, they'll have to get through me to get to you."

"This is not the time for – "

"Petrol," Zoe interrupts. She's fumbling for her radio, but it's clear she's shaking far too much to use it. Her voice is thin and high. "I can smell petrol."

She's right. Just a trace in the still inside air at first but getting much stronger.

Grace looks at Boyd, cold fear closing vice-like around her heart, her lungs. An imaginary vision of Gail Hillier's last awful moments as the flames took hold of her home and possessions fills her mind with blank horror.

"Shit." Boyd is already in motion, throwing open the bedroom door and bounding out onto the landing. The immediate increase in the pungent stench of petrol is so strong that Grace nearly gags.

From below them, there is a rush of sound, forceful, but duller than might be expected. Not an explosion, not quite, but the suppressed roar of petrol vapor igniting in the kitchen below them.

-oOo-

Rising heat. Dense, choking smoke that seems to get thicker with every passing second. Stumbling half-blind down the stairs behind Boyd who is half dragging and half carrying Zoe Finch, Grace is horrified when she sees the extent of the flames, how strong they are, how far they have already spread. Through the swirling smoke she can see that the kitchen is ablaze, rendered completely impassable, and that the fire is starting to take hold in the small living room. It's the inimical thick smoke, though, that really frightens her. Dangerous and dark, it stings her throat, claws at her lungs. Coughing and retching, she grabs a rough fistful of Boyd's tee-shirt and hangs on tight, desperate not to get separated from him. Somehow the three of them make it to the bottom of the stairs, but it's clear that if they don't act fast to escape, they will soon be driven back up them by the ever-increasing inferno.

Boyd all-but throws Zoe into her arms, making her stagger. They reel against the wall at the foot of the stairs as he pulls away from them, heading for the cottage's front door. Grace knows he will find it is locked, and he does. He puts his shoulder to it, and when that doesn't work, he takes a few steps back and charges at it. The door holds firm, defying him, and he roars in angry frustration. Time seems to have slowed to a crawl, enabling Grace to formulate and discard half-a-dozen plans in the time it takes Boyd to whirl round, assess the speed at which the fire is progressing through the room, and whip back to face the window that looks out over the small, unkempt front garden. Coughing, she tries her best to keep Zoe upright, but it's a fierce battle that she's not sure she can win. Zoe is not heavy, but Grace is petite, and far from young. She considers herself reasonably healthy, but she lives a sedentary sort of life, one that doesn't generally require much physical exertion.

The living room window explodes outwards in a cacophony of sound, its glass shattering into thousands of glistening shards under the weight of the wooden chair Boyd hurls through it. The inrush of fresh air makes the smoke coil and writhe in thick plumes, and it fans the flames spreading out from the kitchen door. The small sofa catches light, oily black smoke pouring from it, adding to the acrid fumes already filling the room.

It is, a detached part of Grace's mind thinks, like a scene from hell.

"Grace!" A loud bellow that snaps her back into real-time. "Grace, come on…"

Somehow Boyd has hold of them both, one hand under Grace's arm, guiding her forward, the other locked onto the back of Zoe's lightweight jacket, enabling him to haul her the short distance to the window.

It's not high, that window. Barely waist-height. Grace baulks at it anyway. "I can't, Boyd…"

"You can," he snaps at her, "and you will."

She doesn't have any choice in the matter. Releasing his hold on Zoe, Boyd grabs Grace around the waist and physically heaves her up high enough for her flailing feet to find the jagged edges of the window. A sharp pain in her lower calf tells her that a sliver of glass has found its mark, but there's no time to think about it as he more-or-less pushes her bodily through the newly-empty frame. It's only a short drop, but she lands hard, sprawling inelegantly in a herbaceous border that hasn't seen any attention for years. Cool, fresh air sears her lungs, but she gulps at it hungrily, barely aware of her stinging, streaming eyes, or the grinding pain in the elbow that hit the ground first.

She's staggering to her feet as Zoe is bundled unceremoniously out of the same window, landing almost as awkwardly amongst the dead, straggly plants that must once have been someone's pride and joy. Smoke is belching thickly from the window, and the fire producing it is roaring within as it devours fixtures, fittings and furniture. As Boyd himself appears in the window, hands grasping the frame as he brings a leg up, a car turns in from the road, scattering gravel as it skids to a rapid halt. Donaldson is out and running the short distance towards them in less time than it takes Grace to shout his name, and then Boyd is somehow there, too, seizing her arm and dragging her away from the cottage as Donaldson does the same for his colleague. As they stumble towards the high hedge, the wooden window frame starts to burn, and the first flames start to lick up the outside of the building.

"Call for back-up!" Boyd roars at Donaldson. "Officer down, shots fired. Do it!"

Zoe is lying on the ground, her face a pale, sweaty mask streaked with soot. Wild, frightened eyes seek Grace out, the sheer desperation showing in them heart-breaking to see. Crouching down, she mumbles, "It's okay… You're going to be all right… It's okay…"

"Move, Grace." Boyd. Boyd on his knees next to the supine woman. Zoe's eyes close, flicker open, then close again.

No. No. This cannot be happening. Cannot. Be Happening.

But it is.

As Boyd searches for a pulse, Donaldson bellows into his radio, the words meaningless to Grace, who simply stares at the still, waxy face before her.

Boyd goes to work, starting chest compressions. A flash of memory. She's seen him do this before. Seen him fight to save a life… and fail.

"Please," she mutters under her breath. "Oh God, please…"

A second car turns in at speed from the lane, startling all of them. Donaldson is still on the radio, and even if there had been a car in the area, it's far too soon for –

Spicer. He leaps from the car, comes running towards them, a look of frozen shock on his face. "What the…?"

"He found us," Grace almost screams. She gestures at the burning cottage. "He found us…"

Boyd is performing rescue breaths now, but there is still no movement from Zoe. He glances at Grace, and she's certain she sees the tiniest shake of his head as he goes back to giving chest compressions. Spicer stares. Just stands and stares, as if he cannot quite believe what he's seeing, then he extracts his phone from his pocket and starts to dial, moving away from them as he does so.

Donaldson drops to his knees next to Grace. "Ambulance is coming, sir, and there's an ARV on its way from Chelmsford."

"Give me some help here, man," Boyd growls at him. Like Grace, he is dirty and sweating. Unlike Grace, he is breathing hard and heavy from the sheer effort needed to provide effective CPR. The two men start to work as a team, silent and efficient, but there is no sign that what they are doing is of any use at all.

Somewhere in the far distance, Grace hears the first thin wail of a siren. Could belong to any of the emergency services, but it's the best sound she's heard for a long, long time.

Spicer moves to stand next to her. Staring down, he asks, "What happened?"

"She was stabbed," Grace croaks, her voice wrecked from smoke and emotion. Her eyes are still swimming with tears, but irritation from the fire is not the only reason.

"Jesus Christ…" Spicer's deep voice is quiet, almost sepulchral. He clears his throat. "DCI Marshall is on his way."

"We're losing her," Donaldson reports, tight and controlled. "Sir, we're losing her…"

"Keep going," Boyd barks at him. "We're not giving up on her yet."

They fight on, but it's useless. Somehow Grace knows it's useless. They might be forcing air into her lungs, might be forcing her blood to circulate, but Zoe Finch is beyond any help they can give her.

As the wailing siren draws closer, Spicer crouches down, searches for a radial pulse, shakes his head. "She's gone."

Donaldson rocks back on his heels, his features expressionless as he stares down at Zoe. When Boyd ceases chest compressions, neither of them resumes giving rescue breaths.

The first vehicle to arrive on the scene is not an ambulance, it is a marked police car that disgorges two uniformed officers, both who approach at a run.

It's too late. It's all far too late.

-oOo-

Cont…