‘Stop it,’ Gamache commanded. He turned as much as he could in the tight area, Beauvoir’s flashlight hitting his face, blinding him. ‘Listen to me. Are you listening?’ he barked. The frantic tugging eased. The stairwell was filling up with smoke now. Gamache knew there wasn’t much time. He strained to look past the light and catch the face beyond.

‘Who do you love, Jean Guy?’

Beauvoir thought he must be hallucinating. Dear God, was the chief about to quote poetry? He didn’t want to die with Ruth Zardo’s dreary words in his ears.

‘What?’

‘Think of someone you love.’ The chief’s voice was insistent and steady.

I love you. The thought came to Beauvoir without hesitation. Then he thought of his wife, his mother. But first was Armand Gamache.

‘Imagine we’re here to save them.’ This wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order.

Beauvoir imagined Gamache trapped in this burning house, injured, calling his name. Suddenly the narrow staircase wasn’t so narrow, the darkness not as threatening.

Reine-Marie, thought Gamache, over and over, and had thought ever since he’d known he had to enter the burning building. Not after Agent Yvette Nichol. Not Saul Petrov. But Reine-Marie. The idea of saving her erased all thoughts of personal safety. No fear existed or could exist. All that mattered was finding her. Nichol became Reine-Marie and terror became courage.

He shoved and shoved against the door. He coughed now and could hear Beauvoir coughing as well.

‘It moved,’ he shouted to Beauvoir, and redoubled his efforts. Someone, he realized, must have put a piece of furniture on it. A refrigerator by the feel of it.

He stepped back for a split second and gathered himself. He stared at the door and was silent. Then he closed his eyes. Opening them, he gave it a mighty heave. It moved enough to wedge the axe into the gap. Using it as leverage he forced the trap door up, the smoke pouring in and blinding him. He buried his face in his shoulder, trying to breathe through the clothing. He heard and felt the piece of furniture tumble to the ground and the door flew open.

‘Nichol,’ he bellowed, taking in a lungful of smoke then coughing it out again. He could barely see but the flashlight told him he was in a small bedroom. A chest of drawers was on its side beside the trap door. Beauvoir scrambled out after him, noticing that the smoke was heavier here than in the stairway. Time was almost up.

Beauvoir could hear the fire close now and feel its warmth. He’d gone from freezing cold to blistering hot in no time, something his grand-mère said would be the death of him.

‘Nichol! Petrov!’ both men shouted.