Paula grinned and gave Kevin a thumbs-up. ‘You are a genius, Stacey. Have you got a name for us?’
‘I’ve got a starting point,’ Stacey said repressively. ‘There’s nobody from the UK among the forum posters. But I found a back door into the site and managed to pull up the email archive. About a year ago, an email arrived, which is now in the system inbox on my number one screen. I’m in the process of tracking down the sender, I’ll forward those details on soon as.’
‘Thanks. How’s it going down there? How’s the chief holding up?’
‘I’m too busy for this, Paula. I’ll give you relevant information when I have it.’ And the line went dead.
‘All the social skills of a hermit crab,’ Kevin said.
‘I thought she was getting better, but I’m just going to have to face it: that girl is never going to hold down a seat at gossip central. Let’s see what she’s got for us.’ Paula was already opening the email. She pulled it up to fill the screen and read, ‘Hi, Maze Man man. Love your site. I am a Brit, nobody over here seems to remember the show. I have the whole set on video, but they’re getting a bit worn out. Do you know anybody in England who has a set I could copy? All the best, MAZE MAN FAN.’
A note from Stacey followed. ‘See reply: “Sorry, MMF, no Brits come by here. Good luck with your search.” See email address: am data-mining for Kerry Fletcher on my system. More later.’
Paula turned and gave Kevin a high five. ‘It’s a start,’ she said.
‘It’s more than that. It’s a name. A solid lead, which we have been seriously lacking on this case so far. Let’s see if we can get this whole thing wrapped up before the guv’nor comes back from Worcester.’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody Worcester. I’d barely heard of the place six months ago. Now I can’t turn round without falling over it.’
Paula’s mobile rang and she looked at the caller ID screen then pulled a face. ‘I’ll tell you one good thing about Worcester,’ she said. ‘Penny bloody Burgess doesn’t work there.’
Tendrils of smoke spiralled upwards, melding into one before separating into gauzy wisps that dissolved into the ever- thickening air. Yellow and red pinpricks bloomed on individual strands of straw, blossoming into tiny flames that mostly sputtered and died. But some survived, bursting into flame like a kernel of corn popped in a pan. They crackled and spat, transforming the straws into conduits of fire, carrying the blaze upwards and outwards.
The blaze grew exponentially, doubling its reach in minutes, then seconds, till the pile of bales at the back of the barn was a wall of flame, clouds of smoke trapped to thicken under the roof. Tongues of fire licked at the wooden roof beams, spreading along their length like water spilled on a flat surface. At that point, nobody had noticed what was happening.
It was the roof beams that were the bridge into the stable block itself. They extended into the roof space of the stable so the two buildings could offer each other mutual support, strengthening both in the process. The fire crept along the sturdy joists, delayed but not defeated by the mortar that was supposed to seal their passage into the stable block.
The horses smelled the smoke before the humans did. Uneasy, they stamped and snorted in their stalls, heads tossing and eyes rolling. A grey mare kicked the walls of her loose box, whinnying high and loud, the whites of her eyes stark against the black rims of her eyelids. When the first spears of flame penetrated the floor of the hayloft above the horses, unease shifted closer to panic. Hooves clattered and foam flecked the corners of their mouths.
By now, the fire was moving fast, finding flammable material in its path; wood, hay and straw succumbed quickly. Terrified horses screamed and kicked the wooden doors of their stalls. Even though stable lads were out and about, patrolling in defence of their bosses, by the time anyone caught on to what was happening, the fire was in the driving seat.
The first lad on the scene, Johnny Fitzgerald, opened the nearest stable door on a scene from hell. Horses with rivers of flame running down their backs reared and screamed, their flailing hooves wild weapons against any would-be rescuer.
Johnny didn’t care. Shouting, ‘Fire! Fire! Call the fire brigade!’ he ran towards the chestnut mare with the white mask that he’d ridden out on that very morning, pausing only to grab a rope halter coiled on a hook by the door. Falier’s Friend was one of his favourites, a gentle-tempered mare who was transformed by the sight of National Hunt fences into a speeding bullet of desire to be at the front of the field. Lowering his voice, Johnny approached, talking constantly in a monotone. The horse remained on all four hooves, head swinging from side to side, eyes rolling, snorting and whistling as gouts of flame landed on her back and ran down her side to the ground, where they created fresh rivers of fire. The heat was tremendous, searing Johnny’s nose and throat as he moved forward. The noise of the horses and the fire tore at his heart, fear and pity surging through him. He loved these beasts, and it felt like there was no way out of this without death putting in an appearance.
Johnny wasted no time in getting close enough to toss the halter over the horse’s head and throw back the bolt on the stall door. ‘Come on, my lovely girl,’ Johnny said. Falier’s Friend needed no encouragement. She lunged towards the opening, almost sweeping Johnny from his feet as they both headed out into the yard.
By now, there was a frenzy of activity. The fire’s grip was concentrated at one end of the block, and all around, stable lads and police protection officers were doing what they could to stop it spreading and to rescue the horses. Johnny spent a few valuable seconds trying to calm the chestnut mare, then handed the rope to a cop. He pulled off his sweater and dunked it in a trough of water, then swathed his head in it before he went back in.
If it had been bad before, it was hellish now. He could barely stand the heat as he forced himself forward towards the next horse. Midnight Dancer, a black beauty whose condition was the envy of every yard in the area. Now her glossy dark flanks were dulled with smoke and ash and sweat, her screaming whinny a knife that went through Johnny’s smoke-dulled brain. He burned his hand on the hook that held the nearest halter, but he managed to hold on to the rope.
Lassoing the horse was almost impossible. Tossing head, flashing teeth, twitching ears all made her a treacherous target. Johnny swore softly, trying to make his curses sound like endearments. All at once he was aware of a figure beside him. Through the dense black smoke, he made out the familiar face of Betsy Thorne, his boss and mentor. ‘I’ve got water,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll throw it at her, try to shock her, you get the halter on her.’ It was hard to decipher her words over the crackle of flame, the clatter of hooves and the cacophony of squeals and screams, but Johnny got the gist.
Betsy threw the bucket of water at Midnight Dancer and for a split second, the horse was still. Johnny wasted no time and threw the halter. It caught on the horse’s ears, then slithered down the back of her neck. As Betsy reached for the bolt on the door, there was a loud crack, then a screeching creak. They both looked up as one of the heavy oak joists came away from the roof, a massive flaming missile headed straight for them.
Without pause, Johnny dropped the halter rope and threw himself at Betsy, his slight weight enough to shove her out of the path of the falling beam. Scrambling to her feet, she turned to see Johnny and Midnight Dancer both
