True Colours Part 18

'It belongs to Sebastian Wingfield. I have absolutely no use for it.'

'And does he know you have it?'

Caroline pursed her lips, 'He does. He gave it to me.'

'Did he now?' It was like pulling teeth. 'And that would be Sebastian Wingfield of Kilfenora House?'

'Obviously,' Caroline finally managed to undo her watch, threw it decisively into the paper envelope, scowling at Maria as she did so. 'Lying, cheating b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You can give it back to him, I certainly don't need it anymore.'

'I see.' O'Hanlon's tone was loaded.

Maria and Joe exchanged looks, both desperate to ask if that would be the Sebastian Wingfield whose house is currently illuminating the skyline? Both thinking that a Section 49 might not be the only charge Caroline Audiguet-O'Reilly would be facing tonight. What did they say? h.e.l.l hath no fury...

'Follow Garda Fennelly please.' O'Hanlon gave Maria a nod, 'Interview Room One.'

FORTY.

In Foley's Bar, his empty plate still sitting on the counter in front of him, the chip fat congealing, Peter folded up his paper and eased himself out from the stool. The barman had been too busy to remove the plate, too busy in fact to notice Peter's movements much at all.

'That's me done.' Speaking to no one in particular, Peter pulled out his wallet, selected a note and tossed it on the counter. The barman finally acknowledged him and dragged himself away from the girls long enough to throw the empty plate in the dishwasher under the bar, to pick up the money. Peter had been tempted to give him some tips on chatting up the opposite s.e.x but he could see the girls were up for it, were only looking for a reason to get their kit off. The elderly builder had fallen asleep by the fire. Peter's movement made him stir, snort in his sleep.

The street was empty when Peter walked outside, heading for his Discovery, back in position behind the pub. He smiled to himself. A fifteen-minute round trip and the barman still hadn't filled his gla.s.s by the time he'd come back from the gents. Sweet.

And everything had gone to plan. Peter had been surprised to see a second car beside Sebastian's, a silver Golf, but he'd been in and out so fast he hadn't had time for a proper look. He'd thought maybe someone would hear him forcing the door of the Palm House open, had paused for a split second as the swollen wood had given way under his shoulder, heard the dull sound of a dog barking somewhere at the back of the house but hadn't waited for it to appear. Sometimes it didn't pay to hang about.

Clicking his seatbelt into place, firing up the four-wheel drive's powerful engine, Peter slipped out into the main street and signalled right heading for Dublin. The road was empty. The lads who'd been making a racket earlier at the bus stop had vanished. Further up the street a group of women were standing outside a row of workers' cottages, their arms crossed, anxious looks on their faces. Peter drove straight on past, taking the bend at a steady fifty. No point in attracting attention.

As he pulled out of the bend, Peter spotted a set of hazard lights flashing up ahead of him. He slowed, didn't want to get caught up on the periphery of an accident. Then his headlights picked up a tiny red car pulled over into the ditch. The number plate came into focus and his heart sank. What the h.e.l.l?

Signalling, Peter pulled in ahead of the sports car. Leaving the engine of the Discovery running, he hopped out to double-check it.

The engine was cold. He tried the door handle. Locked. Bending low he looked inside. A bottle of Champagne was tossed onto the floor on the pa.s.senger side. What the h.e.l.l had happened?

It was Caroline's car. No doubt about it. But where was she? Had she broken down and hitched a lift somewhere? She'd be stupid enough to do that but surely she was in the AA? But if she was in the AA why had she gone and left the car behind? A bad feeling was growing in his stomach. Looking around him, Peter took in the dense woodland on the opposite side of the road, dark and menacing, the open fields on this side, the loamy smell of evening. Where the h.e.l.l was she? She would hardly be wandering around here on her own. Worry uncurled, what if she wasn't on her own, what if someone had flagged her down and attacked her?

Her phone. He'd try her phone. Rooting for his own phone, Peter threw a glance behind him. A deep orange glow was already warming the night sky. Urgently he scrolled through his phone's contacts and waited for the ring tone. It went straight to voicemail. Jesus, what had happened to her? His mind racing, he strode back to the Discovery. Sitting behind the wheel, he chewed his lip. What the h.e.l.l was he going to do now? He could hardly drive off and leave her car sitting here. Anything could have happened to her. If it had been anyone else... Peter rubbed his face with his hands. Tonight of all nights...

In a village this size there was only one place to find out what had happened.

Peter pulled up outside Kilfenora's tiny Garda station in a spray of gravel, pausing for a split second before he got out. Was this a good idea? He rolled the options rapidly around his head for a moment. There weren't many. There was no way he could drive off and leave Caroline to G.o.d only knew what fate, that was for sure. He glanced at the distinctive blue door on balance, arriving up to here could be the best thing he could do. After all, he'd been in the pub all evening, why would he walk straight into the cop shop if he had anything to hide?

FORTY ONE.

The moment Alex put her foot outside the garden door and breathed in cold air she started coughing. Coughing like her lungs were going to explode, coughing, fighting for breath. Grasping her hand, Sebastian half-carried half-dragged her away from the house, along the brick-edged crazy paving path that led into the kitchen garden, lit now like it was daytime, scents from the sleeping beds of herbs bordering the path polluted with the bitter sting of smoke. Lifted by the easterly wind, it billowed above them, greedy fingers reaching for the lake, carrying debris still burning like macabre glowing b.u.t.terflies, dancing, pirouetting in the thermals. Dodo lumbered around them, barking, urging them to hurry, her ears flapping like flags.

'Why's it so bright?' Alex stopped, bent double, coughing.

Sebastian's reply was grim, the words rasping in his throat, 'It's the light from the fire. Jesus it's like a film set.'

Ahead of them, a fountain bubbled, its shadow thrown eerily across the gravel paths criss-crossing the vegetable beds. A huge stone with a hole bored right through its heart, water cascaded carelessly over its smooth sides, slippery to touch. Falling to her knees beside it, Alex cupped her hands, pouring the icy water into her mouth, her throat burned and blistered. Sebastian joined her, splashing his face and chest, almost crying out with the shock. Hot to cold, dark to light. In moments he had recovered enough to help her up.

'We have to move, to get around to the front. See what's happening. See how bad it is.'

Reaching the narrow cast iron gate in the east wall, its scrolls and flourishes like an engraving in the peculiar light, hinges protesting as he heaved it open, Sebastian was pulled up by the sight of a series of huge fire hoses running down the lawn, bright red, twenty or thirty of them, snaking from the front of the house to the lake. Rigid. Water pa.s.sing through them at high pressure. Relief surged like flood water through a gorge. Thank G.o.d the fire brigade is here. Dodo pushed past him, disappearing around the corner of the house, heading for the drive. About to call her back, the words caught in Sebastian's throat, the full implications. .h.i.t him. With this many hoses, how many fire engines were here? How big was the fire?

Turning the corner of the house, Alex a step behind him, the full scene hit them, just like a movie set, only much, much worse: blue strobes pulsating through the dense smoke; the roar of the flames; the fire alarm screaming; engines running; men shouting, the whole place bathed in bright white light from the halogens sprouting vertically from a row of fire engines parked like dominoes ready to tumble, dominating the lawn. From the Palm House, billows of smoke obscured the night sky, flames clinging to its shirttails like a jealous lover.

The Palm House. Paxton's grand design. Burning just like the Crystal Palace had.

Even as Alex and Sebastian watched, more panes cracked, the sound penetrating, setting their teeth on edge, making them take a step back. The arched ceiling had collapsed, the cast iron uprights supporting it now buckled and bent, pointing every which way like accusing fingers. And through it all they could hear Dodo barking. Angry. Frantic.

Sebastian pulled Alex to him, his arm protectively around her waist, holding her tight like he needed something real to hang on to in all the madness. The heat was intense, drying their skin, their lips. She glanced at him, her eyes gritty with dust, watering, stinging. The air was obviously having the same effect on him. Or maybe they were tears. Sebastian brushed one away, turned to her with a rea.s.suring grin, a grin that was only skin deep.

'Christ did you come out of there?'

Beside them a fire fighter materialised through the smoke from the direction of the lake, his helmet and the reflective stripes on his jacket bright, glowing like the sky above them. Like Sebastian, his face was smeared with sweat and carbon, lines of worry etched deep.

Dazed, Sebastian nodded, his breath catching as he tried to speak. The fire fighter grabbed him around the shoulder, supporting him until the fit of coughing was over.

'Come on you need to see the doc. What's your name?'

'Wingfield, Sebastian Wingfield. Do you know what happened?'

'Christ, this is your place isn't it?' Recoiling in surprise, the fire fighter's tone was urgent, 'Is there anyone else inside?'

'My grandfather? We saw his nurse on the lawn from the ballroom window, but is my grandfather okay?'

A shadow of fear flashed through the fire fighter's eyes, 'Come and talk to the Incident Commander he'll fill you in. Anyone else?'

Sebastian shook his head, thank goodness it was the staff's half-day.

'Watch out! More coming down!'

From further up the lawn, struggling with one of the hoses, with the weight and power of the water pumping from its nozzle, two fire fighters shouted to them, waving as another section of the Palm House collapsed, the gla.s.s shattering, the few remaining walls shuddering with the impact.

'This way.' Shouting now, the fire fighter grabbed Sebastian's arm, pulling him out over the lawn, looping around to the back of the nearest fire tender.

The din was horrific, magnified by the darkness, cries and shouts and the wail of the alarm bouncing off the house's n.o.ble facade. Alex felt a shiver run up her spine. After everything, after all the nights she had lain awake cursing Kilfenora, she had never prayed for this. But the great house was holding on to its dignity despite the flames, greedy, squabbling, reaching up the exterior walls for more.

More shouts. Looking up they saw a man on a hydraulic platform, another on a turntable ladder, both precariously close to the flames, their hoses focused, the powerful whoosh of water arcing high into the air, soaking the roof, keeping it wet to stop the flames spreading. Another fire fighter appeared beside them, but Sebastian wasn't paying attention, had his eyes fixed on the house.

'Evening sir, I'm Station Officer John Reilly, Incident Commander. We've got eight appliances in attendance, we're doing our best to contain the blaze to the conservatory. I've got men on the inside keeping it out of the main house. The smoke's the problem. You said your grandfather might still be inside.'

Snapping out of his daze, Sebastian nodded, wiping the sweat from his forehead, leaving a filthy smear behind. 'His rooms are on the ground floor in the west wing. Did Olga not show you?

Station Officer Reilly shook his head, 'there's a woman in the back of one of the ambulances, she's hysterical, babbling in German. We've been trying to find an interpreter.'

'Jesus. He's in his eighties, had a stroke. He's in a wheelchair.'

Reilly nodded, the anguish in Sebastian's voice raw, his own voice filled with urgency as he said, 'I've a team ready to go in. Can you show us?' Then, glancing at Alex, taking in the black smudges around her mouth and nose, 'The young lady needs to see a medic.' He waved his arm, summoning a paramedic from somewhere behind them. Alex squeezed Sebastian's hand, coughing again. It was time for him to look after his family now.

Wrapped in a silver foil blanket, crinkling as she moved, Alex found herself being guided to the back of an ambulance, the paramedic's arm around her shoulders. She coughed again. How could this be happening? She felt her knees wobble as he sat her down on the tail plate, the paramedic briskly fitting an oxygen mask over her face. Alex breathed deeply, rocking with the effort, her body beginning to shake uncontrollably.

'Were you inside?'

She nodded, the mask still in place. She didn't really have the energy to speak. Her eyes began to well with tears.

'You're in shock love, take another slug of the O2 there, that'll sort you out.'

The paramedic picked up her hand, clipping something onto her finger, 'We just need to check out the oxygen levels in your blood. It won't hurt, it uses a laser strobe to test your blood through your fingernail.'

Alex hardly noticed, heard him say something else, but his voice was dim, like a distant light flickering far out at sea, vanishing as a wave of darkness washed over her.

On the far side of the drive, a tight knot of fire fighters had gathered, waiting for instructions from their senior officer. Someone had thrown a jacket around Sebastian's shoulders. He wore it now, incongruous over his jeans.

'So we can gain access down this side through the French windows?' The Incident Commander was shouting, his voice hoa.r.s.e. Sebastian could hardly hear him.

Sebastian nodded, his face thrown into shadow by the bright lights from the fire engines. 'It's this way.'

How could his grandfather survive this? There had been moments on that landing when he had felt like lying down, giving up, exhaustion making every limb heavy, the smoke just so hard to breath. But with Alex behind him, he'd pushed on, pushed to the limits of his endurance and beyond. And he was fit, worked out at least three times a week, was thirty-five years old, not almost ninety. Sebastian suddenly felt a pang of fear grasping at his gut.

Leading the men across the front of the house, past the high yew hedges bordering the Formal Gardens, Sebastian pushed open the narrow cast iron gate set between two staunch red brick pillars that replicated those at the opposite corner of the house, at the far end of the kitchen garden. To their right, the windows of what had been the drawing room, now Lord Kilfenora's apartments, were dark, unseeing.

It was impossible to tell from outside if they were filled with smoke. The darkness was oily, the gardens shadowed by the bulk of the house. Sebastian prayed that Olga had been sensible enough to close the hall doors when she had put Guy Wingfield to bed. They were all solid oak, over two inches thick, panelled, carved like the staircase.

The staircase. Would the staircase survive? The wonderful staircase?

Sebastian prayed that the fire officer was right, that the fire was contained to the Palm House. Pushing away images of the heart of the house burning, Sebastian's brain began to work with frightening logic; the hall doors might stop the fire if it did spread, but, as they all knew well, the house was plagued with draughts, and where cold air could flow, so could smoke.

'You can get in here.' Before he could finish, the fire fighters were nodding, getting their instructions, three of them pulling on their breathing apparatus. One of them who had dragged a hose with him, stood back as he waited for it to charge, holding it high as the crisp lake water gushed from it. An axe came down on the paned door with a crash. Sebastian leapt backwards, the gla.s.s splintering as the axe head hit the lock. It was an unfair fight. In moments the wooden door gave way, exploding inwards, thick black smoke billowing out, escaping like it had been corked in a bottle.

'There's a connecting door between this room and his bedroom, it's in the middle of the north wall.'

The men nodded, gave Sebastian the thumbs up. The doors still swinging from the force of their blows, they pushed forwards into the smoke, enveloped in seconds in an impregnable darkness. Sebastian started to follow them, felt the station officer's hand on his arm, pulling him back firmly. He struggled for a moment, then nodding, understanding, shook off his hand.

'They've thirty-five minutes of air max. They'll do their best to find him.'

Pacing between the yew and box borders, the sound of his boots on the gravel drowned by the hubbub in the drive, his hands plunged in his jeans pockets, Sebastian kept his eyes fixed on the lake, visible occasionally through the drift of the smoke, its surface disturbed only by the action of the pumps, sucking the moonlight from the surface, sending it to the heart of the inferno. Then behind him, Sebastian heard the crunch of boots on gla.s.s, the unmistakable sound of radios crackling into life, turned to see the first of the fire fighters struggling backwards out through the broken door. As he emerged, Sebastian could see a second officer. They were carrying something between them. His grandfather? It had to be.

The station officer clapped the fire fighter on the shoulder, urging him forward with his burden, turned to wait anxiously for their back-up man carrying the hose.

'Is he okay? Is he breathing?' Sebastian's voice cracked.

Their breathing apparatus still in place, the fire fighters glanced at him, their expressions unreadable through their masks. Getting clear of the building, heading for the drive, Sebastian followed them, stumbling over the border to the path. Guy Wingfield's face was grey, his mouth and nose smeared black, his head lolling uselessly to one side, eyes closed. Painfully thin, limbs stick-like, twisted sinews of flesh and bone revealed as his pyjamas flapped, the men carried him easily.

His appet.i.te had been failing for years, the first stroke paralysing his face making eating difficult, messy, undignified. And Sebastian knew that his dignity was the one thing Guy Wingfield held onto with a vice-like grip. But confined to a wheelchair, unable to walk the dogs, to ride out with Tom, his energy levels had fallen rapidly. He'd tried to stay involved, but it hadn't been long before he'd started delegating everything except the crossword to his grandson.

Moments later, the old man was lying on a stretcher on the gra.s.s, the fire fighters and paramedics blocking Sebastian's view as they deftly fitted an oxygen mask over Lord Kilfenora's nose and mouth, took his blood pressure.

Watching them work, Sebastian was. .h.i.t with a surge of utter despair. Ahead of him, another ambulance swung around the bend in the drive, pulling up with a hiss only yards away, its blue strobes bouncing off the fire fighters' visors, off the windows on the western side of the house. More paramedics were out of the vehicle, had the back doors flung open, before Sebastian had caught his breath. He ran his hand across his eyes, so many people were trying to save the old man, he couldn't give up now. He wasn't a quitter, and neither was Guy Wingfield.

His heart pounding in his chest, eyes fixed on the activity in front of him, Sebastian felt like he was trapped in a bubble, the sounds strangely dull, his blood pumping in his ears. He hardly registered the Garda car that pulled up behind the ambulance, the uniformed officer who got out. His focus was entirely on the medical team, on Guy Wingfield, he was a stubborn old goat, would pull through, had to pull through...for a moment Sebastian was back in his grandfather's study, summoned from the den where he had been sketching...

'I'm sorry my boy I don't know how to tell you.'

It was the one and only time in his life that Sebastian had seen his grandfather cry. As he stood leaning on his desk, his arms spread to support the weight of the message he was about to impart, a tear had coursed its way down his leathery cheek.

In that split second, Sebastian had been sure he was going to tell him that he'd found out what had happened to Alex, that it was something dreadful, that she'd been murdered by a psychopath, or had been abducted by white slave traders, and shock had paralysed him before Guy Wingfield had even had a chance to speak.

'It's your parents' Sebastian John and Marjorie. Both of them. They've gone, some b.a.s.t.a.r.d jumped a red light in Cape Town. Hit them head on. Left the scene of course. The police are trying to track him down.' Guy Wingfield had rambled on, not pausing for breath, 'But there was nothing anyone could do...I'm so sorry.'

His emotions overloaded, overwhelmed by shock, sorrow, by guilt that his first thought had been for her, for Alex, Sebastian had nodded, unsure what to do, had turned and walked out of the study, out into the chill of the hall and through the open front door, the heady scents of summer caressing him as he started to walk. It was four miles to Tom's tiny cottage, four miles down winding lanes, but only two miles cross-country. And when he reached the yellow front door, Sebastian had pounded on it, taking out his anger and frustration, all his sorrow, on the pristine paint, banging until a voice behind him had brought him up. Tom's voice, calm and soothing.

'Come on lad, I'll put the kettle on.'

And now as Sebastian stood here, the house burning, his grandfather, his only living relative, lying helpless on the ground, the enormity of being alone in the world hit him for the first time. He'd never been particularly close to his parents, had spent more time with his pal Cormac than his father. And at the time they had been killed, he'd still been still so wrapped up in his own loss, his grief after Alex's disappearance, that their absence from his life hadn't really hit him.

He couldn't let his grandfather go that easily.

Snapping back to the present, Sebastian saw one of the paramedics poised over the old man's chest, defibrillator paddles in his hands about to shock him. Surely not?

Taking a step closer, his arms folded tightly across this chest, Sebastian tried to see what the paramedics were doing, to understand; but it was useless. He didn't have time to watch medical dramas on TV, had never done a first aid course, had no real idea of what was going on. As the paddles came down on his grandfather's chest, the sound of shouting drew his attention to the house.

'Sector one clear. All persons accounted for. Fire under control.'

FORTY TWO.

'Evening, how can we help you?'

Peter nodded to the Garda sergeant who had answered his rap on the wired gla.s.s part.i.tion separating the station from the black and white tiled hall, taking in his sergeant's stripes.

'There's a car abandoned on the main road. A red BMW. I know the owner, I'm worried something might have happened to her.'

'And who would you be sir?'

'I'm a good friend of hers, her name's Caroline, Caroline Audiguet-O'Reilly. She's Sebastian Wingfield's fiancee.'

There was a pause as Garda Sergeant O'Hanlon pursed his lips.

'There's no need to worry sir, she's quite safe.'

'Was there an accident, is she okay?' The words tumbled out.