‘You,’ said Fleet, marching up to him. The man looked barely old enough to drive, let alone teach, but at least he’d been showing enough sense to try to herd a group of pupils away from the building, rather than just gawping at the smoke.

‘Round up your colleagues,’ Fleet told him. ‘Start heading down the driveway towards the gates. As you go, get the cars into the lay-bys. Force them into the ditch if you have to. You need to clear a path for the emergency vehicles.’

The teacher nodded tightly and set to his task.

Fleet and Bevan continued through the crowd, towards the rear of the building. They rounded the corner – and for the first time got an idea of exactly what they were up against.

Not only was the school on fire, the chapel was, too.

For an instant, Fleet thought of the picture in the book the headmaster had given him in Beaconsfield’s library. The image had been vivid enough, but looking at the scene before him, he recognised how far the artist’s rendering had fallen short of reality. The air shimmered in the heat, and smoke swirled around them in a bitter fog. And the fire itself was just a backdrop to the pandemonium caused by the blaze. Despite all the people who had made it to their cars, there were still hundreds of pupils, parents and other guests caught between the chapel and the school. Some were simply clustered in groups, weeping and coughing in the smoke. Assuming all six-hundred-odd pupils had been in the chapel, and estimating the additional visitors based on the number of cars, there must have been almost a thousand people either in the chapel or the school when the fire started.

‘Tell me the fire engines are on their way,’ Fleet said to Bevan. He had to shout to make himself heard above the yells and the crackling of the flames.

‘They’re two minutes out,’ Bevan replied, his radio to his ear. He didn’t need to add what Fleet was already thinking: that even when the rest of the emergency vehicles arrived, they would still need to find a way up that drive.

Fleet looked around. One of the PCs who’d been assigned to the memorial service was weaving her way towards them up the hill. Like Bevan, she had her radio in her hand, and Fleet presumed she was one of the officers the detective constable had been communicating with.

‘Sir,’ the PC puffed, saluting loosely. Her yellow jacket was streaked with black, and there was soot on her cheeks and forehead.

‘Where are the other officers?’ Fleet asked. ‘Are any of you hurt?’