‘I love you,’ he said, and ran ahead with two coils of rope on his shoulder back towards the bridge. Sam followed behind.

The young man, still visible in the Victorian street lights from the bridge, had edged down to within three or four feet of the car. A couple of powerful torches were being trained from the parapet onto his intended target. ‘There is a child in there with her, but I can’t get any closer,’ he shouted. The water level inside the car was already at the top of the steering wheel, and a woman was trying to get out from the driver-side window. But her biggest problem was that the car was trapped driver-side against the pier that held up the bridge, and was being repeatedly smashed against the stonework by the force of the water and the uprooted trees within it.

The downpour was almost biblical. The gutters on the bridge were overflowing, silvery cords pouring into the river. Gillard tied one end of his climbing rope to the nearest lamp post, and clipped a loop to his harness. It was many years since the detective had attended the fast water mountain survival course and the module which covered rescues from vehicles, but he could remember the basics. Ropes were vital, but he had to be able to quickly detach himself should he become snagged. Sam tied the other coil of rope to the next lamp post, and shouted to the lad on the tree. But despite the shouts from the parapet the roiling muddy water drowned out all human noise. With many welcoming pats on the back and shouts of encouragement, the detective clambered over the parapet and lowered himself carefully down the dozen feet towards the stoved-in roof of the car. The vehicle had already lost almost all of its normal shape, the side panels and the roof battered from being repeatedly smashed against the pier of the bridge. The lad on the tree on the other side of the car looked across to him, and Gillard gestured up to the rope that Sam was trying to throw to him. The young man followed Gillard’s gaze, and when she tossed the coils to him, he caught them. Gripping the rope firmly in one hand, the other on a branch of the tree, the lad gingerly made his way back up the tree towards the parapet of the bridge and to safety.

The woman in the car, who looked to be in her thirties, had one arm and her head out of the shattered driver-side window, a buckled space no more than eighteen inches wide and perhaps a foot high. She looked desperate. In her other arm was a crying toddler. Gillard squeezed himself down between the pier and the car, knowing that this was a dangerous manoeuvre. But it was equally clear to him that the roof on the other side was now so squashed down, there was no hope of her getting out on that side. He rested with his heels on a narrow ledge, no more than three inches wide, just above the water level. The movement of the vehicle banged him repeatedly against the stone of the bridge, making him thankful that he was wearing a helmet. The force of the water was incredible. What he needed to do was clear, yet seemed impossible. It meant challenging not only the oncoming force of the river, but the momentum of the vehicle itself. He was already drenched and very cold, his fingers rapidly numbing inside his neoprene gloves. He knew this was going to test him to the limits.