DI Walker

THE DAY AFTER THE SOLSTICE

WALKER PARKS THE AUDI TWENTY yards or so from the ruined building. Then the two detectives sit for a moment and take in the spectacle before them.

The hotel guest they picked up stirs in the back seat, rubs his bleary eyes, looking as disgruntled as a first-class passenger woken for breakfast against his wishes. "Christ," he says, peevishly. "Can't believe I'm back here and not halfway to London by now. What a bloody nightmare. Looks like a scene from Fyre Festival."

People are scattered about the lawns in front of The Manor, wrapped in foil blankets, many of them shivering in spite of the morning's warmth. Some of them huddle together talking in murmurs, some are sobbing, a few are curled up, fetal, on the grass. Most of them are in a similarly shambolic state to their passenger. Walker sees lots of stained white clothing. Lopsided green headdresses. Against the dark backdrop of the burned building and amidst the flakes of soot that continue to swirl down among them they look kind of otherworldly: a hundred forlorn specters.

Three long tables stand abandoned on the lawns in front of the cliffs, white tablecloths lifting in the breeze, held in place by the wreckage of some kind of feast. Chairs are scattered about haphazardly. A wicker arch has been pulled onto its side and statues are strewn about the grass. There's broken glass and squashed food everywhere the eye lands. The ruins of a stage.

Walker and Heyer climb out of the car and rouse the guy in the back, then hand their back-seat passenger, sputtering with indignation, into the care of some of the paramedics.

"DI Walker?"

Walker turns to see DS Fielding approaching. On the couple of occasions they've met, Fielding's been as groomed as a Premiership footballer: high-fade hair, looks like he moisturizes, Ronaldo levels of eyebrow tweezing. But he's in as much of a state as anyone else here: soot clings to a sheen of sweat on his face and he's clearly run a hand through that perfect style so many times that it's sticking up like a duck's tail. "Boss," he says, "glad you're here. They've finally got the fire under control. Luckily most of the guests were out on the lawns for some fancy do. We've been interviewing some of the witnesses. It's—well, you should try talking to some of them. If I had to guess I'd say a large majority are... I think the only way to put it accurately is ‘off their faces.'"

"Yeah." Walker nods toward their passenger, now fighting off the advances of the paramedics. "Think we came across one of those."

"And a couple of them have spoken about seeing some pretty odd characters last night." Fielding looks sheepish. "It all sounds a little hocus-pocus. But: masked figures. Dark cloaks and—"

He breaks off as a hush descends over the lawn. Every face turns toward the smoldering building as two teams of paramedics carry a couple of stretchers out of the ruins. On each lies a supine figure, fitted with an oxygen mask. Every pair of eyes tracks their progress into the back of the ambulance.

The chief fireman approaches. "DI Walker?"

"That's me."

"We found them trapped inside. Some kind of wine cellar, it looked like. Paramedics are trying their best but it's not looking good."

That would make two more deaths. Jesus. Walker thinks, not for the first time: that it should have come to this. Then he becomes aware that the chief fireman is still speaking. Snaps himself back into the moment. "They were shut inside," the man's saying. "They couldn't have escaped even if they wanted to."

"Right," Walker says. "Yes, you mentioned they were trapped."

"It's more than that. The door was bolted from the outside. Someone locked them in there on purpose."