Кара Хантер - No Way Out

In fact, you'd have to be some sort of sociopath. And there's no one even remotely like that in the frame. Or at least as far as we know.

Page 6 of 17

Phone log

6 January 2018

Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road (Michael Esmond)

Contact name: Imogen Humphreys Date and time of sighting: 4 January 2018, 11.30 pm (approx.) Call summary: Caller reports sighting of man answering to the description of Michael Esmond in the Covent Garden area of London. Said he appeared to be disorientated and possibly drunk, with a bleeding nose. Follow-up required? Sgt Woods to liaise with Met re. hospital admissions/homeless shelters Contact name: Tom Wesley Date and time of sighting: 4 January 2018, 8.45 am Call summary: Possible sighting near Hythe. Caller saw man on beach when walking his dog. Looked as if he had been sleeping rough. Follow-up required? PC Linbury to check with Hants Police Contact name: Alan Wilcox Date and time of sighting: 5 January 2018, 3.25 pm Call summary: Possible sighting of Michael Esmond in Grantham, Lincs. Shopping in Asda. Caller very definite that it was him. Follow-up required? Sgt Woods to speak to Lincs Police Contact name: Harriet Morgan Date and time of sighting: 4 January 2018, 4 pm Call summary: Sighting of Michael Esmond in Northampton, waiting to use public phone box. Follow-up required? PC Linbury to check call records from phone box in question for any links to Esmond Contact name: Nick Brice Date and time of sighting: 5 January 2018, 4.30 pm Call summary: Esmond sighted at King's Cross station, near Starbucks coffee shop. Follow-up required? PC Linbury to access CCTV from Network Rail Contact name: Sara Ellison Date and time of sighting: 5 January 2018, 2 pm (approx.) Call summary: Possible sighting of Esmond in Hyde Park, accompanied by dog. Caller was some distance away. Follow-up required? No Contact name: Rhian Collins Date and time of sighting: 6 January 2018, 9.20 am Call summary: Possible sighting near Beachy Head. Follow-up required? Sgt Woods to liaise with Sussex Police***

At the John Rad, sharp winter sun is streaming through the windows of the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit. As they reach the door, the Giffords pause, daunted by the sheer weight of technology around each bed. The brightly coloured bedspreads and animal murals only seem to make it worse. The nurses move briskly but quietly between the patients, checking monitors, administering medication, conferring together in low voices. Laura Gifford puts her handkerchief to her mouth and Ev touches her kindly on the arm. `I know it's a lot to take in but it's usually nothing like as bad as it looks,' she says quietly. `The team here really are fantastic. Matty couldn't be in better hands.'

One of the nurses notices them and comes over.

`Mr and Mrs Gifford? We were told you were coming. Please come with me.'

Matty is in a bed by the window. His eyes are shut and he isn't moving. He has an oxygen tube taped to his face, and a clutch of wires attached to his chest. His whole body is swaddled in padding and bandages. They can see marks around his eyes where his glasses burned into his flesh.

`How is he?' whispers Laura Gifford.

The nurse looks up. `He's sedated right now. We've done a bronchoscopy and X-rays and we've made him as comfortable as we can. But I'm afraid he is very poorly. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be critical.'

Mrs Gifford starts to weep silently, and her husband puts an arm round her. `They know what they're doing, love. This is one of the best hospitals in the country.'

`He looks so little, lying there.'

`It's these beds,' says the nurse kindly. `They're so big, the poor children look lost and found.'

`Can we sit with him for a while?' asks Laura Gifford.

The nurse smiles. `Of course. I'll arrange for a couple of chairs.'

As she disappears down towards the corridor Gifford puts a hand on his wife's shoulder. `You stay here with the nurse, and me and the constable will go and find us all a cup of tea.'

Everett's about to offer to do the job herself, but one look at Gifford's face and she knows he just wants to get her alone.

As soon as they're out of earshot, he turns to her. His face is grey.

`You'll be needing an identification, won't you. For Samantha, I mean.'

Everett nods. `I'm afraid so.'

`Is she here?' he says, his voice catching. `In this hospital? Because I don't want Laura seeing that. It's bad enough as it is. I don't want her remembering her daughter that way.'

`I think you're very wise, sir.'

`So can we do it now `“ while she's with Matty? Can you get that sorted?'

Everett gets out her phone. `I'll go down and see the pathologist now.'

Back at his desk, Gislingham is in a quandary. In theory he could go home `“ it is the weekend after all `“ but the rest of the team are in, and he's the DS. He doesn't want it to look like he's slacking. So when he opens up Google and types `Michael Esmond' for a second time it's more to have something to do than because he actually thinks he's going to find anything.

Which appears to be borne out by the fact that ten minutes later, all he's found is what Baxter already got from Facebook. Routine references to Esmond's qualifications, links to conference speeches and publications. At the bottom of the sixth page Google tells him ` we have omitted some entries very similar to the 72 already displayed '. Anyone else would give up `“ Quinn certainly would `“ but stubborn is Gislingham's middle name, so he scrolls back up and clicks on a few of the less-promising links. And that's when he finds it.

`You mean I don't have to actually go in there?'

Gregory Gifford is sitting in a small waiting room adjacent to the mortuary. There are no windows and thin institutional grey carpet on the floor. In front of him there is a table with a computer. The hospital's logo pings back and forth lazily across the screen. At least it's better than digitized fish.

Everett smiles at Gifford kindly. `It's not like you see on the telly, thankfully. Much less dramatic. When you're ready, the attendant will bring up a photo on the screen here, and they'll ask you if it's your daughter. That's it `“ there's no need to do anything else.'

He swallows. `OK. I see.' He drums his fingers on the table for a few moments. `Right. Better get on with it. Laura will be wondering where we are.'

Everett nods to the attendant, who taps a couple of computer keys. An image appears on the screen. It's taken from above. The woman's face is visible, but the sheet is pulled up over her body. Not like it was when Everett first came down here. She's said it before and she'll say it again: whatever sort of death they died, there's always one thing about the dead that lodges in your mind and won't budge; some trivial little thing that captures an echo of who they once were. With Samantha Esmond it's the nail polish. Despite the damage and the dirt, Everett can see how much care this woman took of her hands. Clear varnish, neat cuticles. She's prepared to bet she kept a pot of hand cream by the side of her bed.

She hears Gifford draw breath beside her and turns to him. `Is that your daughter, sir?'

He swallows again. `Yes. That's Samantha.'

`Thank you. I know that can't have been easy.'

The image disappears. Gifford swivels round in his chair to face Everett.