Trial by Fire

by David W Robinson

  “Hands hanging down, Joe, in line with the chair legs.”

  “Listen, Kilburn, it’s not too late—”

  “It is for you, pal.” Kilburn began to strap Joe’s right hand to the chair leg.

  Dredging his memory, Joe recalled online videos he had watched of people escaping from duct tape bindings. He let the heel of his hand rest on the chair leg, while keeping his palm and fingers a millimetre or two away from it. He was afraid, but he had long ago learned that the trick with fear was not to let it dominate you.

  Determined to distract Kilburn as much as he could, he said, “There are other people who know most of what we know. You won’t get away with it.”

  “We might, we might not. Either way, you won’t be around to know the difference.”

  Happy that he had secured the right hand and wrist, Kilburn applied himself to the left.

  Opposite Joe, Corbin had already strapped Denise’s hands to the chair legs, had taped over her mouth, and was now strapping her ankles to the chair.

  “You know, Joe, getting out of duct tape isn’t all that difficult,” Kilburn waffled, “but you need strength to do it, and let’s face it, you don’t have any. You weigh about three stones wet through and I’ve seen more muscle on a sausage roll.”

  “Untie me, then, and let’s put it to the test. I’ll beat your brains in. Both of you.”

  Kilburn laughed generously at the nonsensical bravado. “Joe Murray and his gang. I don’t remember you from school, but I heard the legend. Joe Murray couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. It was George Robson and Owen Frickley who did all the scrapping. You were all brain and no brawn.”

  “You forgot Brenda Jump,” Joe said as Kilburn began work on his ankles, strapping them to the chair leg.

  He used the same manoeuvre he had with is hands, lifting his heel slightly, but this time Kilburn noticed.

  “Feet flat,” he ordered.

  “I can’t, you idiot. I’m too short.” Joe made a show of trying to make his foot reach to ground.

  Kilburn did not buy it. Grabbing Joe’s ankle, he pulled the foot down and flat, and Joe winced.

  “When I say feet flat, I mean feet flat.” He wrapped tape around Joe’s ankle.

  “Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble as it is?”

  It was one of those silly, pointless questions, but it was designed to distract Kilburn, not to be taken seriously.

  “The sentence for murder is life,” Kilburn replied as he strapped Joe’s left ankle. “You can only serve one life no matter how many you’ve shined on.”

  With his roll of tape running low, he strapped Joe’s torso to the chair back, and as he did so, Joe pushed out his chest very slightly. Enough to give him some play when Kilburn and Corbin left.

  “Kilburn, I’m begging you one last time—”

  “Let’s see if this will shut you up.” Kilburn tore off the final piece of tape from the roll.

  “I’ll see you in hell.”

  “Happen. But you’ll get there first.” The fireman slapped the tape over Joe’s mouth.

  As he did so, Joe puckered his lips. He had not shaved since early morning.

  With the two victims firmly secured, Kilburn nodded at Corbin who delved into his bag again, and came out with a five-litre can of cooking oil. Uncapping it, and starting by spreading it over Denise’s feet, then Joe’s, he laid a trail back into the kitchen. He emerged a few moments later and picked up his bag.

  “The pan on the hob is bubbling and it won’t be long before it starts to smoke, Brad. I reckon no longer than five minutes. I’ve spread oil on the cooker top and down the front.”

  “Time to go. See you, Joe, Denise… not.” Kilburn laughed and the two men left.

  Before the door closed Joe was wriggling in his chair. Kilburn had assumed he had no strength, but it was not entirely true. He had spent his life lifting heavy weights in the kitchen of his café, as a result of which his wiry frame was as supple as it had ever been. Twisting his chest this way and that, straining and twisting both hands he also worked on his left foot. An attempt to twist his right foot proved pointless. It was strapped tight to the chair leg.

  He manoeuvred his chair away from the trail of oil, and using his eyes, signalled Denise to do the same. If the oil ignited, the break in the trail would give them an extra few seconds which might make all the difference. Across from him, Denise too began to wriggle, breaking that trail. As he strained against his bonds, Joe silently congratulated her. At least she had understood his silent message.

  Working his lips, he felt the tape across his mouth beginning to give against the day’s stubble under his nose. Both hands and his chest were freeing up, and his left ankle was making inroads against the bindings.

  The tape covering his mouth gave, and he spat it away. Able to talk at last, he said, “I’m going to let the chair fall and see if it snaps the tape.”

  Dennis shook her head as the tape across her mouth also began to give. “If the tape is loose it might not work.”

  “You fancy frying in here?” he asked, and began to rock his chair from side to side. “I wish I had one of those old slot meters for the gas. At least the shilling might run out before we go up in smoke.”

  Continuing to strive against the tape, he rocked the chair more and more, gathering impetus as he did so. Denise continued to struggle to free herself. From the kitchen the first wisps of smoke crept into the room at ceiling level.

  The chair reached a critical angle, and hovered for a moment. Joe realised it was about to swing back and go the other way. He heaved as far as he could to his right, and the chair toppled.

  He hit the carpet with a crack, and he cried out. It was not the tape giving way at his right wrist, but the wrist itself, fracturing under the impact and the pressure of the rigid chair leg to which it was tied.

  Denise winced in sympathy and went back to struggling against her bonds.

  Pain shot through him and Joe’s head spun. He lingered on the verge of unconsciousness, darkness threatened to engulf him.

  “JOE,” Denise screamed. “STAY WITH ME, JOE.”

  Her words reached his buzzing ears and sank in. He focussed his attention, shook his head to clear it, and looked up from his sideways prone position. The smoke was getting darker and thicker. A lifetime spent working in kitchens told him they had only a matter of minutes before it ignited. They had to either remove it from the heat source or get out.

  The fall had loosened the bindings further at his right wrist. He rolled the chair onto its back, and with the pain bringing tears to his eyes, he worked at the damaged wrist. At the same time, he strained at the other bonds.

  Nearby, Denise still struggled, and her bindings were, likewise, giving way. She began to cough as the smoke reached her lungs.

  Joe heaved one last time. His wrist protested with lances of agony, but the tape broke. He threw off the chest bindings, reached down to his left ankle and freed it. Then he freed his left wrist.

  The tape around his right ankle was still too tight. Desperately trying to ignore the pain, he struggled into an upright position and, dragging the chair with him, made for the kitchen

  “There isn’t time, Joe,” Denise cried. “We have to get out.”

  “If I can cover the pan with a wet towel, and turn off the gas…”

  Joe trailed off. With a loud WHOOSH, the pan in the kitchen ignited and flame rushed upwards and down the front of the cooker, to follow the trail into the living room.

  Joe backed off, his arm raised against the wall of heat, and the flames singed the hairs on his forearm. He looked frantically through the blaze into the kitchen and his heart sank. The MDF worktops and cupboards above and to the side of the cooker were already blackening, and soon the heat would reach their flashpoint.

  “JOE, GET ME OUT OF THIS!!!”

  Denise’s screamed reminded him. Still dragging his chair, he hobbled back to her, and began unravelling her bonds. In a matter of seconds
, she was free and bent to untie his right ankle from the chair.

  As his foot was freed, he leaned across the table, snatched up his netbook and reached to the windowsill for his phone.

  “We don’t have time, Joe,” Denise shouted as the flames began to lick at the living room wallpaper.

  “The evidence is on these,” he called back. “Now go.”

  The settee was backed up to the rear wall. A sheet of flame erupted from it and threatened to block their exit.

  “That was supposed to be fireproofed,” Joe grumbled.

  “So sue them,” Denise advised.

  She raised her arm to ward off the heat and rushed out of the room, into the hall. Joe followed, his trainer, doused in oil, catching light. He slammed the living room door shut behind him. Smoke began to billow from under it. Denise hurried out of the apartment.

  Making his way along the hall, he opened the last cupboard door on the left. “Warn the neighbours,” he ordered.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  He did not answer but stepped into the cupboard.

  “Joe, this is no time to think of saving your ironing board.”

  Again Joe ignored her. Smoke was building up behind him, choking him, blinding him. His wrist hurt, but he clung onto both the phone and the netbook. An old blanket which he had used as a dustsheet when painting the walls, covered the detritus of modern life. Dragging it away, kicking a box of household trivia out of his way, he reached down, gripped the mains gas tap, and yanked it up, cutting off the supply.

  He staggered back out of the cupboard. Through the thick smoke, he could see flames now eating away at the hollow, flush door. Pain spoke to him. He looked down and realised his trousers were now singed, and his trainer was ablaze. Reaching into the cupboard, he snatched up the old blanket and smothered his lower leg beneath it. A rush of heat struck him. He looked to the living room but could no longer see the doorway for the flames.

  He turned and dashed out of the flat.

  Chapter Sixteen

  With his wrist temporarily bandaged, and an oxygen mask in place, Joe coughed smoke from his tortured lungs, and stared around at the chaos.

  He and Denise had notified his immediate neighbours, and the process of getting everyone out of the building had gathered momentum from there. With people knocking on doors, getting others to safety, Joe had dialled 999 and got the Fire Brigade and police out. After that, he rang Dockerty, only to be put through to Gemma. He told her everything, and she rang off promising to get onto the airport. Almost as an afterthought, he called for an ambulance for himself and Denise.

  Neither was badly injured. Smoke had done much of the damage, but Joe had also suffered a fractured wrist and his right leg was a little scorched.

  “Which is more than can be said for my trainers,” he said, looking glumly on the remains of his right shoe.

  Once everyone was out of the building the police had shepherded the tenants to the far end of the car park, where they would be out of harm’s way. When the fire engines arrived, the crew went in and thanks to the information Joe and Denise were able to give on the source and accelerant, the blaze was under control in less than an hour, by which time, Gemma and Ike Barrett had arrived with bad news.

  “No sign of them at the airport, Uncle Joe,” Gemma said. “Are you sure they said the first flight to Amsterdam?”

  It was Denise who confirmed it with a nod. Pulling her oxygen mask out of the way, she said, “Kilburn’s no fool. He probably realised we had a slight chance of getting out, so he fed us false information. Maybe they’re flying from Manchester, or even Robin Hood.”

  “Well they’ve missed the Amsterdam flight from Leeds,” Barrett said. “But you do have your, er, evidence intact?”

  Joe handed over his smartphone and netbook. “Our findings are on the computer, and there’s part of a video on there before Kilburn shut it down. There’s a voice recording on the phone. I don’t know how good it will be, but Kilburn told us everything. Including how he torched the old Lazy Luncheonette after Vaughan paid him to do it.”

  Gemma and Ike wandered off to listen to the recording, and Fen Appleton approached them.

  “The flat is completely ruined, Joe, and we won’t be letting anyone back into the block until tomorrow at the earliest. It needs the building inspectors in to declare it habitable again.” He waved at the tenants, crowded on the car park. “Looks like we’ll have to open the church hall and get some temporary beds in.” He laughed. “Maybe we could get your Lee to man the soup kitchen.”

  “He has a café to run, Fen,” Joe retorted, his voice muffled through the oxygen mask. “You could speak to Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump, though. Ask them to rustle up volunteers from the Sanford 3rd Age Club.”

  “I’ll tell the council wallahs.”

  Council officers and reporters had not been far behind the emergency services. While both Joe and Denise refused to give an interview, promising the Gazette reporters and photographers the exclusive later, Joe spotted Irwin Queenan amongst the council employees, and waved him over to the ambulances.

  Removing his oxygen mask, he kept his grime-covered features as neutral as he could. “Word of warning, Queenan. Ray Dockerty knows everything about who did this, and it was the same people as did the old Lazy Luncheonette. They were linked directly to Gerard Vaughan, and they’re going to be talking to you and Pemberton. Chances are, it’s gonna hit the fan big time, but at least there will be no more blackmail of either of you.”

  Queenan blanched. “I, er, I’m sorry, Joe. I was protecting myself and my wife, and I never thought matters would get to this point.”

  “Yes, well, your name is gonna get dragged into it. If I were you, I’d speak to your bosses and your wife now. While you have the chance. Dockerty was going to take you both in tomorrow morning, but he has this lot to deal with.” Joe waved at the scene around them. “It’ll give you and Pemberton a little breathing space to talk to your families.”

  Queenan sighed. “I think, maybe you’re right.”

  As he wandered off, the senior paramedic turned her attention on the two patients once more. “We need to get you to the hospital, Joe, and get that wrist properly dressed, and the foot strapped up. And you need to go there, too, Denise. You’ll both need chest x-rays and your breathing checked.”

  As she spoke, Superintendent Dockerty’s black Volvo arrived.

  “Just give us another few minutes,” Joe pleaded. “Let’s see what the bigwigs from the police station have to say.”

  “Five minutes. No longer.”

  Dockerty climbed out of the driver’s seat, and to Joe’s cynical surprise, Donald Oughton got out of the nearside.

  “What price this is an official deputation apologising for walling me up?”

  “You can’t claim against them, Joe,” Denise said.

  “No. But I can make them look like bumbling idiots.”

  The two senior officers approached Gemma and Ike Barrett and spent a few minutes talking with them, and then all four walked to the ambulance.

  “Joe, Denise, we owe both of you a debt of gratitude… again,” Oughton said. “And Joe, you have my personal apology for the arrest and, er, subsequent, er—”

  “Incarceration?” Denise suggested.

  “That can all come later,” Joe told them. “What about Kilburn and Corbin? You need to get an all ports warning on them.”

  “We did,” Dockerty said. “The moment Gemma rang me I guessed they might be joshing you, so I put out an APW on them. They were picked up twenty minutes ago on the A63, going through Hull.”

  Joe smiled for the first time in hours. “North Sea ferry?”

  Dockerty nodded. “Overnight to Zeebrugge. According to my opposite number in Humberside, his people say Kilburn and Corbin had a hire car waiting in Zeebrugge and tickets for a flight from Istanbul to Dubai on Wednesday. They’re also carrying a lot of cash, and a folder of, as yet, unidentified documents bearing the Gleason Holdings
logo, and what looks like a hard drive from a computer. Vaughan’s?”

  “Opportunities for blackmail, I reckon.” Joe grunted at his niece. “Like I told you, Gemma, our findings are all on the netbook.” He sighed. “Looks like they were going to make their way overland to Turkey.”

  “Then fly down to Dubai where they could disappear.” Denise shook her head, sadly.

  Gemma beamed on her uncle. “We’ll have to keep your phone and computer as evidence, Uncle Joe. You won’t get them back until after the trial.”

  Joe smiled wanly at Denise. “The insurance might stand new… again.”

  The paramedics returned. “Right, you two, no more chitchat. Mask on, Mr Murray. You too, Ms Latham. We’re getting you down to the hospital. Get you checked over.”

  Joe followed Denise into the ambulance. Once seated, the paramedic fastened safety belts around them.

  The ambulance moved off. The paramedic seated herself close to the front, where she could converse with her driver through a grille.

  Joe voiced his glum thoughts. “I’m homeless. Again. Second time in less than a year and a half.”

  “Look on the bright side, Joe,” Denise encouraged him. “At least you won’t have me looking to pin it on you this time. And by the time we’re through, I’ll pull in a considerable reward for this.”

  “You will?”

  “The insurance company will tackle Vaughan’s estate in an effort to claw back the money they paid you. And they’ll pay out again this time, but they’ll make an effort to get it back from Kilburn and Corbin.”

  “If their wives haven’t already spent it.” Joe clucked. “And it’s not going to do my premiums any favours is it? They went through the roof after the last fire, and I can see it happening again… if they’re willing to insure me.”

  Denise chuckled through her mask. “Poor old Joe. Tell you what, do you want to crash at my place until Sanford Council find you somewhere?”

  “You don’t mind?”