‘I see what you mean,’ Ruth said. The elderly woman was limping badly and her words were muffled, her face frozen. Beauvoir’s own face was numb and his hands were getting there. He looked at the firefighters, the baker, the grocer, the handyman, and wondered how they did it. They were covered in ice, and squinting into the spray and flames, their faces black from the smoke. Every minute or so they’d sweep their huge gloved hands in front of their faces to knock the icicles from their helmets.

‘Gabri, get half a dozen hoses over here. Concentrate on this part of the house.’ Ruth waved at the quarter of the structure that wasn’t yet in flames.

Gabri understood immediately and took off, disappearing into the smoke or spray, Beauvoir could no longer tell them apart.

‘Here,’ she turned to Gamache, ‘take this.’ She handed him an axe.

Gamache took it gratefully and tried to smile but his face was frozen. His eyes were watering furiously from the smoke and extreme cold and every time he blinked he had to struggle to get his eyes open again. His breath came in rasps and he could no longer feel his feet. His clothing, damp from the sweat of the adrenalin rush, was now cold and clammy and clinging to his body.

‘Damn her,’ he said under his breath, and advanced on the house.

‘What’re you doing?’ Beauvoir grabbed his arm.

‘What do you think, Jean Guy?’

‘But you can’t.’ Beauvoir thought his mind would explode. What was happening was inconceivable and moving at lightning speed. Too fast for him to keep up.

‘I can’t not,’ said Gamache, staring at Beauvoir, and the frantic noise seemed to recede for a moment. Beauvoir dropped his grip on Gamache.

‘Here.’ He took the heavy axe from the chief’s hand. ‘You’ll put someone’s eye out with that. Come on.’

Beauvoir felt as though he’d just walked off a cliff. Still, like Gamache, he had no choice. He wasn’t capable of seeing the chief walk into a burning building alone. Not alone.

Inside, the house was eerily quiet. Not silent, but it seemed like a cloistered monastery compared to the tumult outside. The electricity was off and both men turned on their flashlights. It was at least warm though the reason didn’t bear thinking of. They were in the kitchen and Beauvoir knocked against something, sending a wooden box of cutlery clattering to the floor. So ingrained was his upbringing he actually considered stooping to clean it up.

‘Nichol,’ Gamache shouted.

Silence.

‘Petrov,’ he tried again. Silence, except for the dull roar that sounded like a hungry thing growling. Both men turned and looked behind them. The door into the next room was closed, but beneath it they could see a flickering light.

The fire was approaching.