TWENTY-SEVEN
In the distance David Llewellyn could see a bright crimson smear illuminating the sky as they turned down the road where Francis Sexton lived.
‘There’s been no bombing tonight, has there, sir?’ asked Sergeant Sunderland as he manoeuvred the car slowly towards the fiery glow.
‘No,’ David replied slowly, as he peered ahead of him and caught sight of a fire engine and the darting silhouettes of firemen. ‘But it looks like our suspect’s house is blazing away nicely.’
Sunderland parked the car some hundred yards from the conflagration and the two men walked slowly towards the burning house. Even from this distance, they could feel the heat of the conflagration blowing towards them in waves. However, the flames were beginning to surrender to the force of the water and a mixture
