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Reid said, ‘I don’t suppose it matters any more. I’ve finished.’

Reid’s part in the story was about to come to an end. He was handing the baton to Poe.

‘You don’t need to do this,’ Poe said.

‘Swift needs to feel the same pain my friends did.’

‘What about you? Throwing your life away is a poor way to honour their memories.’

Reid stared at him. ‘You’re right. Please make sure I’m not buried alongside them. And look after my evidence. It’s been an honour to have called you my friend, Poe.’

With a flick of his thumb he lit the Zippo and threw it over his shoulder. The sound of it landing was followed by a soft ‘whoomph’ and a burst of orange light. Shadows began dancing across the cold dark fell.

Reid shut his eyes, and stepped out of sight.

Hilary Swift began to scream.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Poe didn’t know how Reid had rigged the building but he’d clearly been having arson lessons. Within a minute, thick smoke poured from the open window.

Regardless of what Reid wanted, Poe wasn’t ready to let him die. He wasn’t ready to arrest him either, but he’d cross that bridge later.

He needed to find a way inside. He eyed the sturdy door.

On television, kicking down doors looks easy. In practice, the police use weighted battering rams and aim for a door’s weak points – normally locks and hinges. When you’re using your shoulder, you have fewer options.

Poe charged, and bounced off it like a rubber ball.

White heat spread from the top of his shoulder to the tips of his fingers. He tried to move his arm and found he could barely move his fingers. He’d damaged something.

The shuttered windows had metal bars embedded in the thick walls that could only be removed from the inside. They were impregnable.

Swift was still screaming but Poe could tell she was weakening. He searched desperately for options.

He looked at the four-cell van.

He sprinted towards it. The door was open and the key was in the ignition. He turned it and the diesel engine grumbled into life. He glanced at the passenger seat. The secure box containing Reid’s evidence was there. He would deal with that later. Poe put the van into reverse and backed up, manoeuvring the van into the right position. He gunned the accelerator and fired the van towards the door of the building.

A number of things happened. The van hit the door and the driver’s airbag hit Poe’s face. The plastic cover that held it in the steering wheel hit him on the nose and broke it. The sound of the ruined engine was horrendous. Poe staggered out of the van and saw that the front door had been breached.

Poe had never suffered from paralysis by analysis. He climbed over the van’s bonnet and walked through the shattered door of the burning farmhouse.

As Poe entered the building, a mass of fresh oxygen via the recently opened door caused the flames to surge like a blast furnace.

The heat was outrageous.

Visibility was zero.

He couldn’t breathe and he didn’t know where he was going.

Poe steeled himself. His friend was up there.

He remembered something about fire, something from his days as a cub scout: smoke rises: the lower you are, the cleaner and cooler the air. Poe dropped to his knees and began crawling. The smoke was making his eyes stream and he clamped them shut.

He reached out to feel his way around the building, and he hit the stairs straightaway. He scrambled to his feet, figuring it would be better to run up blind rather than crawl partially sighted.

Poe gripped the banister, ignored the bubbling varnish that stuck to his hands, and took the stairs two at a time. They ended before he stopped running and he tumbled forwards on to his hands and knees. He hadn’t drawn breath for almost thirty seconds and there was no chance of breathing up there. This was either going to happen quickly or not at all.