From The Ashes: Ashes To Ashes, #3

By Rowena Holloway

The gripping conclusion to the page-turning Ashes To Ashes psychological thriller series 

To expose the truth, she'll trade the only thing she has left…

Journalist Charlotte Ashe has sacrificed her credibility, her friendships and her career. With no job and no prospects and a soon-to-be invalid working visa, she needs a big story. Fast. Her single lead is Blaxon Hall, a private brain injury clinic owned by Tyrone Garner. 

And Tyrone Garner has become an obsession…

When Charlotte uncovers mystery surrounding the recent deaths of residents at the Hall, she knows she's found her story. Are the deaths natural or murder? Does a killer lurk at the Hall? And why is Garner determined to keep his past, and his visits to the Hall, a secret? 

But the closer she gets to the truth the real question becomes whether she can trust what she sees. Is she exposing the truth or is it all a figment of her overwrought imagination? 

Then Blaxon Hall is consumed by fire. And one of the missing is Charlotte Ashe.

Lies kept her safe. Until Charlotte Ashe discovered the truth. And his enemies found his weakness.

Read From The Ashes today and get lost in a labyrinth of twists that will leave you guessing until the last page. 
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rowena Holloway
• Release date: Sep 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9780648205227

Rowena Holloway

Rowena and Joyce are sisters in Christ who have been friends for 20 years. Both are active in their church family. Rowena has the gift of preaching and Joyce has the gift of church hospitality. They recently published Pray it Forward: Spiritual Growth Meditation. They relocated to Hawaii through prayer.

Book preview

1

The End

Blaxon Hall

Wednesday, 21st August

I see the blaze well before I reach the turn-off. The night sky is lit by an orange glow and as I draw closer—out of the car and running now across the lawn—flames leap from the upstairs windows. Every window on the east side of Blaxon Hall is bright with them, the brilliant hot glow slithering across the upper floors toward the west wing and the turret room.

Fear grips my chest. Lia!

‘Where is she?’ I turn on Naomi, shouting to be heard above the roar of the flames, panic and fire engines. ‘Where’s Lia?’

Naomi Serrano stares at me, wild-eyed and silent.

I grab her arms and shake. ‘Naomi. Focus. Is everyone out?’

It’s a question I shouldn’t have to ask. But I don’t trust Naomi Serrano. Not now.

‘I’ve… I’ve ch-checked everyone,’ Naomi whispers, her voice hoarse. ‘Twice.’

‘Where’s Lia? Tell me she’s safe.’

‘Safe? Well… I…’

For God’s sake! Light glows behind the drawn curtains of the turret room. A shadow appears. And then a scream pierces the night. Lia!

Ignoring the shouts to stop and the dense smoke filling the foyer, I sprint across the lawn. Lia needs me. Time is running out. The flames may not have reached her, but there is the threat of smoke inhalation. The fabrics, paint and varnish could release noxious gasses…

There’s no time to wait for the firemen to erect a ladder to her window. And if they reach the window before I get to her, there’s no certainty Lia will let a stranger touch her.

I’m coming, Lia. Hold on.

Yanking my t-shirt over my nose and mouth, I race for the stairs. A cloying fug of smoke stings my eyes and makes my breathing rasp, but after all these weeks of tramping up and down these stairs, all those times I’ve been up to Lia’s room, I can find my way sightless. I might need to. The pervasive smoke is like wearing a blindfold of needles.

By the time I reach the landing and turn right for Lia’s room, I’m coughing hard, my vision blurred. Screams ring in my ears, but I can’t tell if they are echoes of those I heard from the lawn or happening now. Heat at my back signals flames aren’t far behind.

The smoke thins as I near Lia’s door. It’s closed. Good. Hopefully she’s remembered to shove a towel hard against the gap.

A scream. Lia is in the grip of panic.

I try to call out, but smoke curls into my throat.

Another scream, this one cut short. Is someone with her? Is that why she didn’t leave her room when the alarm sounded?

How did I not see this coming? Everything has been leading to this.

Digging deep, I run faster, blinking away the prick of fearful tears. Fear can come later. Once she is safe.

‘Lia!’ I call out as I reach her door.

Nothing. No screams. Not a sound from behind that thick oak door.

Silence is more terrifying than her screams.

I turn the handle and shove open the door. A rumpled bed. Empty. I’ve seen her curled up on the bed so often that for one splinter of time I picture her there: dark hair framing her cheeks, knees pulled up, thin arms wrapped around her doll. A girl on the verge of womanhood. A girl who never speaks. I push away the vision and step inside.

Just as I’d feared, Lia isn’t alone.

A man has one muscular forearm clamped across her chest, his hand covering her mouth. They have their backs to the window. Lia’s dark gaze locks on mine. She struggles to get free, but the man grips tighter. Pain joins the fear in her eyes.

After a wordless nod of reassurance, I turn my gaze on the man.

I know him! Christ. How could I miss such an obvious link? But I know why. It’s because I was too busy looking elsewhere.

None of that matters now. I need Lia safe. And for that, Lia needs to trust me.

A dense, biting cloud fills the hallway. Soon we’ll have no options left. Oh God, we could be trapped here. What should I do? I don’t know what to do. I force the panic down into my stomach. Think. Pull yourself together and think! Shutting the bedroom door would keep the smoke at bay a little longer, but it will also cut off any retreat. Our only other option—the window—is blocked by the man holding Lia. He isn’t tall, but he’s muscular and determined. Worse, he’s a man with nothing to lose. There’s no time for cleverness or negotiation. We need to get out of here, fast.

‘Let her go.’ My voice comes out raspy and hoarse.

‘I take her, and all your problems disappear.’ He wipes his sweaty face with his free forearm. And then I see what he’s holding. A knife! Christ. It’s more dangerous than I imagined.

Behind him a ladder appears at the window. A distraction. If he’s preoccupied by the rescue effort, I might be able to get Lia away from him. But he hasn’t noticed. I need to make him see.

‘You have more to worry about than me,’ I say.

He smirks. ‘You reckon so?’

‘In about two minutes that will be your only way out.’ I nod at the antique glass pane behind him.

He looks over his shoulder and uncertainty loosens his grip. Lia struggles to get free, but he repositions his arm, locking her shoulders against his chest and bringing the knife close to her face. Her beautiful, innocent face. I have to do something. Now.

‘Do you think Dimitri cares if you live or die?’ I ask.

He frowns. ‘What’s he got to do with anything?’

If he’s not here on Dimitri Poitrowski’s orders, then why is he here? What else have I missed? I glance over my shoulder at the black smoke billowing along the hallway. If we don’t move soon, no one is getting out.

The window shatters. He jerks around, dragging Lia with him. She lets out a sharp keening cry, quickly silenced. Oh God, has he cut her? Has he hurt her? If he has, I swear to God I’ll kill him myself.

If any of us get out of here.

Then suddenly Lia is free and in my arms, her face turned into my neck. In almost the same instance, the man turns and raises his knife. His mouth is pulled back in a snarl. Blood drips from a crescent wound on his forearm. She’d bitten him. Lia had bitten him hard.

‘Good girl,’ I say into her hair while getting set to drag her out of there.

The man takes one step toward us, the knife glinting in the powerful torchlight that has swung up behind him, and then a thickly-gloved hand reaches through the window and grabs his shoulder. ‘Steady on, mate. Let’s get you out of here.’

There’s no time to wait for the fireman to tackle him. No time to wait for rescue. No time to determine if the heavily-suited and masked fireman might further terrify Lia. I snatch up her delicate hand and pull her toward the door. She refuses to move. For a girl little more than bones and silence, Lia can sure dig in her heels.

‘Lia, honey, we have to go.’

I sound calm, but my heart is thudding through my chest. The fireman is balanced precariously on top of a ladder with only one hand restraining the knife-wielding madman. And that smoke filling the hallway isn’t getting any thinner. We have to go. Now!

Lia points at her bed. No, not her bed. She’s pointing at the doll discarded on the floor.

Christ! We don’t have time to rescue her doll.

Channeled by the narrow walls, the thick combination of smoke and ash coils like a snake ready to strike. Flames won’t be far behind. Even if I could coax Lia through the window and down the ladder, we can’t get to it. It’s blocked by a man too stupid to know he’s lost. And soon the fireman will need to decide between his own life and that of a nutter who refuses to be rescued.

‘Cover your nose and mouth, like this.’ I show Lia what to do with her shirt.

She nods and follows my instructions. Motioning her to stay, I leap back into the room, grab the doll, tucking it into the waistband of my jeans, and then drag Lia along the hallway toward the encroaching smoke. Despite my impromptu mask, my eyes sting and my mouth fills with the taste of ash. Lia slows, whimpers. I understand her fear, but if we don’t move, we are not going to make it. The stairs might already be smoldering. And if they aren’t yet gone, I’m going to have to dig even deeper to find the courage to drag Lia down into the smoke-filled foyer. For all I know we might be running headlong into an inferno.

God, please help us get out alive . Don’t let us die here. Don’t abandon Lia.

I wrap my arm around her narrow shoulders. ‘Trust me, Lia. Please, trust me.’

We must keep moving. We’ve no other option.

Please don’t let us die.

‘Lia!’ A male voice bellows from somewhere below. ‘Where are you?’

Thank God. Oh, thank God!

‘Here.’ My yell comes out weak. Smoke invades my throat, but I force the words out. ‘I’ve… I’ve got… her.’

A hellish angel in breathing apparatus appears through the ash-filled smog, a second apparatus dangling from his hand. Lia tenses, a bowstring ready to snap.

He removes his mask. Smiles as he blinks watering eyes. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart.’

Lia relaxes. I push her forward. There’s no time to process my surprise at her response to a stranger. ‘Go with him, Lia.’

He puts the second mask over Lia’s face, his touch gentle. Then he removes his own breathing apparatus and hands it to me. ‘Take it.’

I snatch it from his hands and fill my lungs. Once. Twice. Three times. The sweet oxygen is like a hit of amphetamine. I’m still sucking air when he grabs my hand and hauls us toward the flame-licked stairs. The hungry crackle and pop drowns out any noise from outside. Just as we start down the stairs the stained glass above it explodes, raining down shards of glass. And then the roof in the west wing crashes down, taking half the landing with it. Lia screams. Freezes on the now precarious staircase.

The doll. It always soothes her. I tug it from my waistband and press it into her arms. She stops screaming but still won’t move. Shit! There’s only one choice.

After one last, long, sweet breath, I hand back the breathing apparatus. ‘Go. Take her.’

He shakes his head and says he’s not leaving without me.

Through the smoke and the mixture of tears and sweat, I can barely see, but know he’s serious and that any hesitation lessens all our chances of survival.

‘Carry her,’ I say. ‘I’ll follow.’

A razor-sharp nod. ‘Keep hold of my jacket.’

He pulls the apparatus over his head, gently strokes Lia’s hair then easily lifts the slender teen over his shoulder. Lia doesn’t protest or squirm. Thank God. I clasp his thick fireman’s jacket with one hand and with the other grab the bannister. It’s already smoldering, too hot to grip, but in our dash down the burning steps I’m afraid of tripping. The flames are at my back, so close my shirt is hot against my skin.

We are halfway down the stairs when Lia drops her doll.

Her cries are stifled by her mask, but she struggles so hard I’m afraid he’ll drop her. I release my grip on his jacket, squat, and feel around for the toy.

‘Leave it.’ His muffled voice is barely audible above the roar of the fire. He’s two steps below me, smoke billowing around his barely discernible shape. ‘Come. Now!’

My fingers find the fabric of the doll’s dress. I snatch it up. ‘Go. Go!’

Fire is already eating its way through the foyer. Even through my watery stinging eyes and the dark haze of smoke and ash I see dancing streaks of bright orange. I glance over my shoulder. Bright, flickering flames curl along the stair treads and railing. The intense heat leaves my skin feeling raw. Every shallow breath drags in fumes, smoke, and suffocating heat. It’s difficult to breathe. Hard to fight off the dizziness. Impossible to make my limbs obey my brain.

Keep moving forward. Keep going. You can do it.

No longer able to see, hearing only the fire raging towards me, feeling its heat, I reach for him but find only air.

Oh God. This is it. This is how it ends.

Don’t let me die here. Come back for me. Please, come back for me.

And then I feel rough fabric, a firm body. He’s back. My avenging angel.

His hand touches mine. I realise I still have the doll. Lia’s doll. Lia is the key to all this. I must tell him. Now. Before it’s too late.

But as he pulls me forward, I stumble. My foot punches through the smoldering stair tread. I look up into his masked face and know the truth: It’s already too late.

I

IN THEIR SIGHTS

GARBAGE KING ON THE NOSE

by Nathan Khoury

Billionaire in police sights

On Tuesday police raided the towering glass-fronted Dockland offices of DSMP Holdings, the parent company of Waste Management goliath, Dimitri Poitrowski. They left with dozens of brown archive files watched by stunned staff, none of whom would comment on the events that had transpired that morning. Mr Poitrowski was not on the premises.

In a short statement issued later, a police spokesperson said they were operating on reliable intelligence alleging fraud and criminal activity within DSMP. Any suggestion it was a politically motivated raid was denied.

Our raid on the offices of DSMP Holdings were based on solid investigative work by a team of officers who are above reproach. The raid is part of a joint investigation between Taskforce Kronos and the Serious Fraud Office. As this is an ongoing investigation, there will be no further comment at this time.

It was peak hour in the middle of London, just minutes after the offices opened to admit the hundreds of admin staff who work for the various arms of Poitrowski’s business, the biggest of which is waste management. DSMP Holdings recycles almost 60% of Britain’s waste.

Unnamed sources tipped off this reporter about the impending raid, and I and my cameraman raced to the site. We were beaten to the scoop by over one hundred social media addicts.

@WeirdShitInnitF@ck!  Thought I was a gonna. All them cops after me. LMAO But they is after the Garbage King. #NotHidingMyStash

@England4EnglishAbout time!  Russians come in stealing our jobs and taking our money and doing nothing for us. Pigs doing the job for once.

Within seconds of the police leaping from their vans, shocking morning commuters, hundreds of images and video were shared to Twitter.

@lifeinthecity  Knocked off my bike by blokes in riot gear. #notcool #raid #gonnabelate4work

@Haylie_commutes_daily  Much excitement at Docklands today! Stepped off the train only to be caught up in all the excitement. Slowed my morning commute. Never been so thrilled #publictransportrules #walking #betterthanabook #reallife

@JohLove  Who needs the Chippendales when big men in riot gear surge around you. #muscles #thrilled #thinkIneedacigarette

These were later picked up by social media influencer Carly Devine, a vociferous campaigner for the planet, who urged her 250K followers to support Poitrowski.

Carly Devine @LoveThePlanetLoveLife  How about we celebrate our eco-warriors instead of abusing them? I applaud anyone who makes cleaning up the natural environment his life’s work. Who’s with me?#saveTheKing #ecoliving #ecofriendly #healthyliving #recycle #reuse #gogreen #plasticfree #zerowaste

The raid has resulted in the kind of media attention even the best PR company can’t buy.

But is it the attention Poitrowski wants? With influencer’s like Carly Devine behind him, perhaps he does.

When approached, Dimitri Poitrowski’s newest business partner, media darling and charity figurehead, Tyrone Garner, gave a more measured but no less supportive response.

In this country we still believe in innocent until proven guilty. We owe everyone that courtesy. Everyone.

Tyrone Garner faced his own trial-by-media last year when disgraced weather girl Charlotte Ashe tried her hand at investigative reporting. Ashe consequently faced her own twitter-storm and has disappeared from the public eye.

Dimitri Poitrowski’s office have been contacted for a statement. As yet no reply is forthcoming.

2

DI Bryant

Blaxon Hall

Thursday August 22nd

After The Fire

Detective Inspector Jaqueline Bryant and Detective Sergeant Michael Forrester flashed their credentials for the third time in the space of as many minutes. The detective in charge of the scene gave it half a glance and sniffed.

‘A bit off your patch, aren’t you?’ DS Driscoll looked her over before directing his attention to Forrester looming behind her. ‘What brings you down here?’

Bryant ignored her instinct to snap. ‘We have reason to believe your fire is linked to an ongoing investigation.’

Driscoll’s flat eyes, beer belly and wide-legged stance spoke volumes. ‘Is that right?’

Bryant didn’t bother to answer. Words were one thing she didn’t waste. She’d tangled with his type before and, frankly, she was sick of the bullshit. She was here to do a job. And do it she would. It would just go a whole lot easier once he got past his small-minded preference for male colleagues.

Over his shoulder were the burnt-out remains of Blaxon Hall. The elegant Georgian building that had, until approximately 23:00 hours on 21 June, housed twenty-four permanent residents and assisted in the rehabilitation of several dozen brain trauma cases. Now it was a gutted and blackened ruin. The roof was completely gone. All the windows in the upper floor and most of those on the ground floor were missing. Blackened limestone sills and scorched brick swallowed the sunshine. Though the flames had long been extinguished, ash still drifted in the breeze and the acrid smell of burnt timber filled the air.

She nodded at the building. ‘How much was saved?’

Driscoll observed her a moment longer and then with a sigh turned to face the ruin. ‘What was left of the roof caved in under the weight of all that water. Floors are gone, along with most of everything inside. Turret room to your right was the last to go.’

Must have been some blaze. ‘How far are you in the gathering of evidence?’

He shot her a sideways look and for a moment she expected another pointless bout of chest beating. ‘Safety inspector declared it safe around mid-morning,’ he said. ‘Fire investigators have done about as much as they can. Forensic boys and girls are in there now.’

‘Deliberate?’ Forrester asked.

‘Accelerant was used. Started in the laundry, looks like. Waiting on confirmation of the fuel source. Why? You got information that could help us?’

She flashed a brittle smile. Making nice wasn’t her priority, but blokes like Driscoll needed to feel special. ‘Maybe. You found a body, yeah?’

Driscoll nodded. ‘Dead center of the fire seat, no pun intended. Blind Freddy could tell you he’s your arsonist.’

Bryant was inclined to agree, but assumptions never made for good investigations and those who peddled them were more likely to narrow their focus too soon.

‘He?’ she asked.

Driscoll grinned. ‘Arson’s one of the few places you women haven’t infiltrated.’

Tosser. She’d keep her mind open to possibilities. ‘Only the one deceased?’

‘Bound to be more.’

Driscoll said it with a certainty that grated on her nerves, but she managed to keep that irritation to herself. Just about.

‘Fire investigator took it upon himself to grab the names and addresses of the survivors. Got three of my team going through it again now. Can’t be too careful, can you?’ He looked at her with a wry glint. ‘Don’t like others doing my job.’

Well, that was one attitude she could respect.

Bryant looked at the shell of Blaxon Hall. Three or four years ago there had been some controversy about the elegant mansion becoming a brain injury rehabilitation center. More recently, and probably more pertinent to recent events, was the local anger over a large swathe of the grounds being developed for affordable housing. There’d been a threat aimed at the Hall, but the evidence had been thin at best. And the developer, who also owned the Hall and was responsible for it becoming one of the better rehab facilities outside of London, had assured them the Hall was well protected.

She should have known better than to leave it at that. The developer was Tyrone Garner. And she’d since learned he had a history with the man at the center of her investigation—Dimitri Poitrowski.

The din of voices drew her attention to the media crowd lined up behind the outer cordon. They were calling out to anyone within earshot and woe betide anyone who looked their way. Microphones were pushed into faces of unwary bystanders. Judging by the soot-smeared uniforms, some were Blaxon Hall staffers.

‘Might want one of your PCs to keep the staff away from the press, DS Driscoll.’

Driscoll muttered something into his phone and Bryant perused the crowd. Charlotte Ashe would be here somewhere. So would Tyrone Garner. Neither of them was answering their flipping phone.

‘Right, time to get back to my investigation,’ Driscoll snapped. ‘Unless you want to waste a bit more time telling me how to do my job.’

Tempting, but with Driscoll that would be a waste of breath. ‘How many unaccounted?’

‘One. Already recovered.’

‘You’ve identified them already?’

‘Too crispy for ID at this stage.’

‘Then how do you know it’s the person who is missing?’

Driscoll stayed silent, but his eyes narrowed. If that was the quality of his investigative skills, she might be wasting some breath after all.

‘Got a name for the unaccounted?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’

When he didn’t speak, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Gonna share?’

‘When you explain how they could be related to your active investigation.’

Jesus. She didn’t have time for this.

Bryant looked away for fear he’d read in her face what she really thought of him. Compassion and pity she could hide—she could play cold and heartless until the cows came home—but she’d never learned to mask her irritation. Until her recent promotion to Detective Inspector, she’d never had to worry what her colleagues or the general public thought of her. Now, according to her DCI, she had to be "sensitive to others’ needs"—just so they’d do their damn job. And that pissed her off. Clearly this overlarge yapping dog at her side wouldn’t play along until she tossed him a bone.

‘We think your recovered body is a suspect in an ongoing investigation into organised crime,’ she said.

‘Organised crime?’ His eyebrows shot up. ‘Out here?’

Bryant gave a non-committal tilt of her head then turned her attention to the white marquee with its enclosed sides and protection detail. ‘Doctor Clauson with the body?’

‘Body’s in the Holding Audit Area, yes. As per protocol.’

Obviously it was as per flipping protocol. She’d yet to find a crime scene that didn’t follow the prescribed rules; arses would be kicked if she did. Victim identification, admissible forensic evidence, convictions—they all relied on following the correct procedures.

Another brittle smile for Driscoll. ‘Right. Well, let’s see what you’ve recovered.’

Forrester fell into step beside her as she strode toward the white marquee that formed the HAA and protected the contents from prying eyes. ‘You can wipe that smile off your face, Mikey-boy.’

‘Way to go with the charm offensive, Boss.’

‘Charm all the way, me.’ She flashed him a proper smile. ‘And don’t call me Boss.’

‘What do you prefer—darling?’

She shot him a look and found him grinning. ‘Pillock. Go make yourself useful. Find Tyrone Garner. See what he’s got to say for himself. Six months ago he assured us this place was a safe haven.’ She waved her hand at the blackened husk and brushed aside the knowledge that she hadn’t taken the threat seriously. ‘Now look at it.’

Forrester nodded and headed for the group corralled on the lawn. Bryant strode toward the tent, ready to flash her credentials yet again.

They’d set up the HAA well inside the inner cordon. Two police officers guarded the tent from the prying eyes of the news teams lined up along the outer perimeter while another kept a log of who entered and left. Inside was the reason Peta Clauson, the attending Home Office pathologist, had called her personally.

The young policewoman keeping log greeted her. ‘Ma’am?’

Bryant flashed her credentials glad Forrester was no longer at her side. She hated Ma’am more than Boss. The constable noted down her details, checked her watch and recorded the time, then pulled aside the flap. Bryant took a moment to prepare herself for the onslaught and put aside the question that had been circling her thoughts since she got the call.

Why the hell wasn’t Charlotte Ashe answering her phone.

3

Ty Garner

Blaxon Hall

Thursday, August 22nd

After The Fire

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

He’d had one job. One promise to keep. And he’d stuffed it up. Messed up. Ruined more lives. He’d trade everything to wind back the clock, for one more chance to save her. To save them both.

News reports were already full of the fire, the loss of life, the impact on Garner Developments. Soon they’d rake over the coals of his life, expose the few secrets that remained. Then they’d move on to another disaster. One with better ratings. To the outside world, this was one headline and a thirty-second news grab. He should be grateful for what he did have: his life, his health, his empire.

It was only once