Dad. Where was he supposed to be this morning? She couldn’t remember. Was it a theatre day? or was he doing rounds? Tina couldn’t remember. They’d had an awful row the other night, and she’d said some cutting things. If only she could take them all back now, unsay them.
She whimpered as the fire whooshed upwards, the wallpaper dissolving into its yellow tongues. He’d never get to hear her say that she really loved him; that he was her dad and that was all that really mattered. The girl struggled harder, a sudden urge to live, to fight against this terror forcing the adrenalin through her veins.
From her twisted position at the foot of the stairs Tina could hear the musician as he moved about her home. She heard the door of the stereo cabinet opening and the clunk of Simon’s glass as he laid it down. What on earth was he doing now?
Her answer came moments later as the final movement of Tchaikovsky’s ‘1812 Overture’ crashed at top volume through the rooms. He was mad. The man was totally insane, listening to Tchaikovsky and drinking whisky as he burnt down her house.
If only she could reach the front door again! The panic button was at waist height, next to the chain that was hardly ever used, she thought, crazy tears filling her eyes.
Tina crawled towards the foot of the stairs. The fire had got a hold of the carpet between where she was now and the door. She’d have to roll her body through the lines of flames if she were to make it.
The pain shot through her legs as she inched down, elbows taking her weight.
The thump as her body landed on the floor made her stop, head craned to see if her attacker had heard, but the music had evidently drowned out the noise. She could see his back to her as he drank down her father’s whisky, one arm conducting the unseen orchestra. Heart thudding, Tina grasped at hope. At least the cigarette lighter was laid aside for the moment.
With a jerk Tina rolled over the line of flame, her head bursting with the effort. Would her dressing gown catch fire? Or would she smother the flames? She could smell the burning carpet beneath her even as her body felt the heat.
Hardly daring to look, Tina forced herself against the corner of the wall beside the door, her spine protesting as she wrenched her body upright. The strain on her wrists and ankles made her wobble dangerously.
With a sigh she let her head fall forward towards the small steel box, forcing her face sideways so that her nose dipped under its rim.
For a moment nothing happened then she saw the man turn towards her, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.
‘What the hell?’
No. She would never do it now.
As he lunged towards her Tina pushed her face against the space beneath the box with the last remnant of her strength then the whole world exploded in a shrieking wail as the alarm went off.
The sound of exploding canon fire roared from the house when Lorimer pushed open the door. He caught the girl’s body as it fell towards him. Smoke billowed out in grey clouds from the house.
‘Quick! Get her out of here!’ Lorimer dragged the girl over the doorstep as Solly hurried to take her in his arms.
Fanned by the sudden draught from the open door, the flames leapt higher. Through the layers of smoke Lorimer could just make out a figure moving inside.
‘Lorimer! No!’ Solly’s cry went unheeded as the policeman thrust his way back into the burning house.
Coughing, Lorimer pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. The flames were shooting up into the stairwell now, shrivelling the walls like a rising brown tide. Still the music thundered, the crackle of fire a deadly counterpoint. Still he struggled into the lounge, the smoke coming at him in waves.
Simon Corrigan turned to face him, his arms raised as he beat time to the music, one hand holding a half empty bottle of whisky. Through the smoke he could see the musician laughing aloud, his face shining with a delirium of pleasure. With each sweep of his arms the whisky splashed to the ground, flames shooting out around his feet.
Lorimer coughed, waving his free hand to clear the air between them.
‘Get out!’ he called hoarsely. ‘Now. Before it’s too late!’
With a final crash the music rose to its climax and the musician gave a grandiose bow.
His screams as the flames caught his red-gold hair urged Lorimer forward. He grabbed the man’s arms and hauled him backwards in the direction of the open door, Corrigan’s heels dragging on the burning carpet, hampering them both.
The smoke was so thick now that Lorimer could barely make out the outline of the front door. There was a shower of sparks above him, making him look up as the walls seemed to move.
Choking, Lorimer pulled the musician out of the hall just as the banister above them gave way with a sickening wrench of timber.
‘Over here!’
Blindly, Lorimer stumbled forwards, other hands taking Corrigan out of his grasp. He was dimly aware of the flashing blue lights and the uniformed officers crowding around him.
‘Here,’ Solly was saying, ‘Over here!’
Lorimer allowed himself to be led away from the roaring behind him, his eyes smarting from the smoke. His legs felt weak as he was helped into the back of the police car.
‘The girl?’ he coughed as the words stuck in his throat. ‘Is she OK?’ he croaked.
Solly nodded, his hands on Lorimer’s shoulders. He was looking at Lorimer with an expression he had never seen in the psychologist’s face before.
‘You could have been killed!’ Solly was shaking Lorimer by the lapels of his coat, tears brimming in his large, dark eyes. For a moment neither man spoke then Lorimer gently drew Solly’s hands from his collar.
‘What about Corrigan?’
Solly turned to watch as the ambulance drew away from the kerb. ‘Who knows? He was still alive when you brought him out.’
‘Sir! Chief Inspector Lorimer?’ A uniformed officer was suddenly standing by the squad car. ‘We’ve just heard that Carl Bekaert’s been picked up at a warehouse outside the city. They found him with a number of stolen musical instruments. He’s been charged,’ the constable added.
‘Great. Remember to wish Jo Grant and the team a Merry Christmas from me,’ Lorimer nodded.
‘You all right, sir?’ the constable asked, suddenly noticing his superior’s dishevelled appearance.
‘Never better, pal, never better,’ Lorimer started a laugh that rapidly turned into a cough.
‘We should have you checked out at the hospital,’ Solly began. He turned towards Lorimer and sighed, shaking his head in mock despair. ‘That was one hell of a risk you took. Your wife will have kittens when she finds out.’
Lorimer’s mouth opened in horror as he looked at his watch. ‘Oh great! I’m supposed to be at Glasgow airport as of ten minutes ago! Forget the hospital.’
‘What about Mrs Finlay?’
‘Flynn was picking her up by taxi.’ He slumped helplessly against the seat. ‘Just in case I didn’t make it in time,’ he added, his voice heavy with irony.
‘Phone him. Tell him we’re on our way.’ Solly signalled to the constable who was still regarding Lorimer with interest. ‘We need a driver. Now!’
Flynn put down the phone. The flight had been called five minutes ago and Mrs Finlay was fretting by his side, calling her son-in-law all manner of unseasonal names.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘An emergency,’ Flynn told her briefly. ‘He’s on his way now.’
‘That’s not much good,’ Maggie’s mother bristled. ‘If I don’t make a move soon we’ll both miss that plane.’
Flynn looked around the departure lounge wildly. Surely there was something he could do? Over by the door he spotted two transport policemen, their jackets vivid yellow against the dreich December afternoon.
‘Wait here a minute. I’ll be straight back. Don’t move. Right?’ Flynn grasped his new mobile phone and leapt out of his seat, grinning slightly at the elderly woman’s astonished face.
A few minutes later Flynn clicked off the mobile phone that Lorimer had given him. It was a wee cracker,
