‘Em’s started the phone chain, and the buses are warming up,’ Clara reported to Olivier, who nodded his approval.

Glum-faced they stood at the wall staring at the huge map of the township.

‘Here’s the fire. Down the Old Stage Road toward St-Rémy. About four kilometers along there’s a turnoff to the left. Seventeen rue Tryhorn. It’s a kilometer up on your right. Let’s go. You come with me.’ He gestured to Gamache and the others and strode toward the pumper truck.

‘That’s Petrov’s place. I’m sure of it,’ said Beauvoir, swinging up into the truck beside Gamache while Nichol squeezed into the back seat.

‘What?’ said Olivier, heading the huge truck toward the Old Stage Road, the other vehicles following.

‘My God, you’re right.’ Gamache turned to Olivier, shouting over the noise. ‘There’s someone in the house. His name’s Saul Petrov. Could it be a false alarm?’

‘Not this time. A neighbor called in the report. She saw flames.’

Gamache stared out the window watching the headlights slice into the night along the snow-covered road, the truck almost outpacing the light.

‘Minus thirty,’ said Olivier, as though to himself. ‘God help us.’

There was silence in the cab then as they tore along, the vehicle skidding slightly on the ice and snow. Ahead they could see other vehicles turning.

What met them was even more horrible than Gamache imagined. He felt like a pilgrim in Hell. A pumper truck from Williamsburg had just arrived and was spraying water on the burning house. The water was freezing almost before it hit the flames and the spray was coating everything in a layer of ice. The volunteers looked like active angels coated in crystals as they directed their spray to the fire. Men and women of all ages worked together in well disciplined teams. Icicles hung from their helmets and clothing and the unscorched parts of the house looked like glass. It was like something out of a particularly macabre fairy tale, both spectacularly beautiful and horrible.

Gamache leaped out of the truck and made for Ruth Zardo, standing nearby in her fire chief’s outfit, directing operations.

‘We’ll soon need another water source,’ she said. ‘There’s a pond here somewhere.’ Peter and Clara turned to look for evidence of a frozen pond, but all they saw was darkness, and snow.

‘How’ll we find it?’ Peter asked.

Ruth looked around and pointed. ‘The neighbor’ll tell you.’

Peter ran to the pumper truck and grabbed a power auger while Clara ran to a woman standing alone, her gloved hand to her mouth as though she was in danger of inhaling the horror she was witnessing. Within moments the Morrows and the woman were no more than a flashlight bobbing in the distance.