Eleven Days Read Online Free
to light up everyday life.
‘Christ, it’s a fucking circus,’ Carrigan said, approaching the fire command unit. Geneva tugged his sleeve and pointed out three uniforms, standing and watching the blaze, as transfixed as the public. From somewhere, maybe the next road along, they heard the ghostly voices of carol singers getting louder and then diminishing as the wind changed direction.
‘Who’s in charge here?’
The uniforms turned to see Carrigan standing behind them. They quickly adjusted their postures and looked at the floor. ‘Forget it,’ Carrigan said. ‘We need to set up a perimeter, did no one think of that?’
The three looked at each other as if they’d been caught smoking by a teacher.
Carrigan ordered them to start clearing the area of onlookers and residents. He stared up at the large detached house, now totally engulfed in flames, yellow and red and blue, silently praying that the occupants had been shopping when the fire broke out. If the house had been empty it would mean he could hand the case over to another team. ‘Happy Christmas!’ he told the constables, and headed towards the main fire truck.
He talked to the driver then stood and waited for the fire marshal to emerge from the burning building. They were at the narrow end of one of the elegant garden squares that Notting Hill and Bayswater were so famous for. The houses were tall and white; imposing and austere as Roman temples with their profusion of fluted columns and ornate pedestals. The burning building was two from the end. It was covered in a shawl of flame, the wind whipping it into scattering phantoms and flickering patterns. Black smoke poured into the sky. Residents from the adjacent premises were leaving in a panic, families with bulging backpacks and bewildered looks on their faces, their evening meal suddenly turned into life and death.
Carrigan saw the firemen spraying water from thick grey hoses which kept kicking and bucking in their hands. The snow kept coming down. The crime scene was being destroyed as he watched and there was nothing he could do about it.
He finally saw the fire marshal emerge from the black smoke, covered in soot and dust, his eyes tearing from the fumes, his body crumpling with each sustained burst of coughing.
Carrigan flashed his warrant card and the marshal stopped, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, leaving it streaked like a soldier on night patrol. Behind them, Geneva was helping the uniforms set up a perimeter, the crime-scene tape screeching and mewling like a hungry infant as it was stretched across the road. Carrigan turned to the marshal. ‘Any idea what we’re looking at?’
‘One hell of an insurance claim,’ the man replied, and when Carrigan gave him a dark look, he laughed. ‘Just kidding.’ His name-tag said Weir above the left pocket and he was short and squat. ‘It looks like the fire’s been going for at least an hour. We’ll be lucky if we can save anything.’
Carrigan wrinkled his nostrils at the smell, an acidic reek of burning plastic and wood that settled at the back of his throat. ‘Is it safe to go inside?’
Weir shook his head. ‘Too dangerous, these houses, too much wood, everything’s collapsing.’ On cue, a tremendous crack split the air and a burning beam sheared off from the front of the house and landed in the garden, exploding in a shower of sparks. Carrigan felt flashes of heat and light behind him and turned to see a news van parking alongside, two cameramen already out and snapping photos. ‘Christ!’
The fire marshal grimaced. ‘Made their day, this has.’
Carrigan liked the man’s understated cynicism and was glad he was in charge. He was about to ask him something else when a muffled cry turned them both in the direction of the burning house.
Initially, Carrigan could see only smoke and fire, and then he made out the faint outline of a couple of bodies emerging from the darkness. At first, he thought these were
‘Christ, it’s a fucking circus,’ Carrigan said, approaching the fire command unit. Geneva tugged his sleeve and pointed out three uniforms, standing and watching the blaze, as transfixed as the public. From somewhere, maybe the next road along, they heard the ghostly voices of carol singers getting louder and then diminishing as the wind changed direction.
‘Who’s in charge here?’
The uniforms turned to see Carrigan standing behind them. They quickly adjusted their postures and looked at the floor. ‘Forget it,’ Carrigan said. ‘We need to set up a perimeter, did no one think of that?’
The three looked at each other as if they’d been caught smoking by a teacher.
Carrigan ordered them to start clearing the area of onlookers and residents. He stared up at the large detached house, now totally engulfed in flames, yellow and red and blue, silently praying that the occupants had been shopping when the fire broke out. If the house had been empty it would mean he could hand the case over to another team. ‘Happy Christmas!’ he told the constables, and headed towards the main fire truck.
He talked to the driver then stood and waited for the fire marshal to emerge from the burning building. They were at the narrow end of one of the elegant garden squares that Notting Hill and Bayswater were so famous for. The houses were tall and white; imposing and austere as Roman temples with their profusion of fluted columns and ornate pedestals. The burning building was two from the end. It was covered in a shawl of flame, the wind whipping it into scattering phantoms and flickering patterns. Black smoke poured into the sky. Residents from the adjacent premises were leaving in a panic, families with bulging backpacks and bewildered looks on their faces, their evening meal suddenly turned into life and death.
Carrigan saw the firemen spraying water from thick grey hoses which kept kicking and bucking in their hands. The snow kept coming down. The crime scene was being destroyed as he watched and there was nothing he could do about it.
He finally saw the fire marshal emerge from the black smoke, covered in soot and dust, his eyes tearing from the fumes, his body crumpling with each sustained burst of coughing.
Carrigan flashed his warrant card and the marshal stopped, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, leaving it streaked like a soldier on night patrol. Behind them, Geneva was helping the uniforms set up a perimeter, the crime-scene tape screeching and mewling like a hungry infant as it was stretched across the road. Carrigan turned to the marshal. ‘Any idea what we’re looking at?’
‘One hell of an insurance claim,’ the man replied, and when Carrigan gave him a dark look, he laughed. ‘Just kidding.’ His name-tag said Weir above the left pocket and he was short and squat. ‘It looks like the fire’s been going for at least an hour. We’ll be lucky if we can save anything.’
Carrigan wrinkled his nostrils at the smell, an acidic reek of burning plastic and wood that settled at the back of his throat. ‘Is it safe to go inside?’
Weir shook his head. ‘Too dangerous, these houses, too much wood, everything’s collapsing.’ On cue, a tremendous crack split the air and a burning beam sheared off from the front of the house and landed in the garden, exploding in a shower of sparks. Carrigan felt flashes of heat and light behind him and turned to see a news van parking alongside, two cameramen already out and snapping photos. ‘Christ!’
The fire marshal grimaced. ‘Made their day, this has.’
Carrigan liked the man’s understated cynicism and was glad he was in charge. He was about to ask him something else when a muffled cry turned them both in the direction of the burning house.
Initially, Carrigan could see only smoke and fire, and then he made out the faint outline of a couple of bodies emerging from the darkness. At first, he thought these were
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