Gamache put his shoulder to the trap door and shoved.

Nothing happened.

He shoved again, harder. It didn’t budge.

Beauvoir looked back down to where they’d been. Smoke was seeping under the door below. And the door above was locked.

‘Here, let me through.’ He tried to shove past Gamache, even though a piece of paper wouldn’t get by. ‘Use the axe,’ he said, his voice rising. He could feel his skin tingling and his breathing coming in quick shallow gulps. His head felt light and he thought he might pass out.

‘We need to get out of here,’ he said, hitting the walls with his fist. The stairway had him by the throat and was choking him. He could hardly breathe now. Trapped.

‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache called. His cheek was on the ceiling, his body pressed against it. He couldn’t go forward and he couldn’t go back and he couldn’t comfort Jean Guy, who was panicking.

‘Harder, push harder,’ Beauvoir shouted, his voice rising in hysteria. ‘God, the smoke’s coming in.’

Gamache could feel Beauvoir cramming his body against his in an effort to get further from the smoke and flames.

We’re going to die here, Beauvoir knew. The walls were closing in, dark and narrow, binding and suffocating him.

‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache shouted. ‘Stop it.’

‘She’s not worth it. For God’s sake, let’s go.’ He was shouting and tugging at Gamache’s arm, dragging him back down into the darkness. ‘She’s not worth it. We have to get out of here.’

‘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.

They listened, then moved into the corridor and there it was. The wall of flames licking the ceiling then contracting as though drawing breath. Gamache moved quickly down the corridor away from it, crouching, and ducked into the next room, tripping over something as he stepped across the threshold.

‘I’m here.’ Nichol got to her knees and threw herself at Gamache. ‘Thank you, thank you.’ It felt as though she was trying to crawl into his skin. ‘I am worth it. I really am. I’m sorry.’ She clung to him as though drowning.