Кара Хантер - No Way Out

ES:I know it's hard but you just have to ignore all that stuff. They don't know you. They're just venting in a vacuum. PE:Yeah, I know. Easier said than done, though, if it's happening to you. Look, the main reason I phoned was because I remembered something. Last time you mentioned a hut? Something Mum said? ES:That's right. She seemed to think your brother might be there. PE:Well, if you ask me, that is highly unlikely, but I think I know what she might have meant. When we were kids we went to the south coast on holiday once. Dad hired us a beach hut on Calshot Spit. ES:A beach hut? PE:Right. But what with the Alzheimer's, she does get pretty confused. She's probably forgotten Michael is forty, not fourteen. I know he did love that place. But it probably fell to bits years ago. If you ask me, there's sod-all chance he's there, but I thought you ought to know. ES:Can you text me exactly where it is `“ the hut? PE:Sure. ES:And obviously if you hear from your brother `“ PE:Of course. And as soon as I dock at Poole I'll come straight to Oxford. Should be no more than a couple of days, with a fair wind.***

The house is dark when I get back. It's what I expected, but my heart is still heavy as I turn the engine off and walk up the drive. I can barely get the door open for the junk mail. Estate agents' flyers, something from the Liberal Democrats which is going straight to recycling, offers of gardening services, pizza takeaway menus. Though I can't really complain about the latter; I've been living on the bloody things. I turn the lights on, stick a frozen meal in the oven and switch on the laptop on the kitchen island. I make a cursory effort to clear away last night's debris, but the dishwasher is already full so there's nowhere for it to go. I open a bottle of wine. I thought there was one in the fridge but I must have finished it last night. That seems to be happening a lot these days.

The doorbell rings. I decide not to answer it. Alex has a key, and I'm not in the mood for Jehovah's Witnesses. Or ex-cons selling from suitcases `“ the one thing I don't need right now is more dishcloths. The bell rings again. And then again.

I throw the door open, but it's not a Nottingham Knocker. It's Somer.

`I'm sorry to bother you at home, sir. I tried your mobile but it's just ringing out.'

Bugger. I must have forgotten to charge it.

`I just wanted to run something past you,' she says, tentative.

`Oh yes?'

`It's something Philip Esmond said. He called this afternoon.'

It occurs to me I'm still holding my glass of wine. And that sharing the bottle with someone else is probably the only way I'm going to avoid finishing the whole lot on my own.

I stand back. `Do you want to come in?'

She hesitates and glances down the passage behind me. `What about your wife, sir `“'

`She's visiting her sister.'

She smiles. `Well, if you're sure. Why not.'

I follow her down to the kitchen, watching as she takes in the decor, the furnishings, the ornaments. She's making judgements `“ of course she is. That's what we're trained to do. Pick up nuances, intercept signals, interpret appearances. But you don't need police training to draw some pretty obvious conclusions from the state of this place. The mess, the empties lined up by the back door, the fact that I haven't bothered to shower since I got home. I should care that she's seeing all this, but somehow I don't.

`Glass of wine?' I say, gesturing to a stool.

`Just a half,' she says. `I'm driving.'

I reach for the bottle and a clean glass. `So what's this about Philip Esmond?'

`When DC Everett told Esmond's mother he was missing, she said something about a hut. Turns out it's a beach hut on Southampton Water.'

`So?'

`I know it sounds far-fetched, but don't you think we should check it out? Just to be sure?'

`Why on earth would he go there, of all places?'

`I know, it makes absolutely no sense. But I just keep remembering that one of those sightings on the tip line was at Hythe. That's not far from Southampton.'

And on that, she has a point.

`OK,' I say. `I'll get on to Hants Police first thing `“ won't do any harm to rule it out.'

Upstairs, the landline starts ringing.

`Excuse me a minute.'

I want it to be Alex. I'm telling myself it's Alex `“ that she's ringing the landline because she wants to make sure I'm at home, on my own, so we can talk `“

But when I lift the receiver I hear the irritatingly cheery tones of the bank's automated credit card security system. I have a moment's ironic amusement that their algorithm has already detected an unprecedented preponderance of fast-food outlets in my recent spending habits, but reconfirming my last four transactions takes longer than I want it to, and by the time I get back downstairs, Somer is stacking the dishwasher. The clean stuff sits in neat piles on the counter.

She blushes. `I didn't want to start opening your cupboards. I hate it when people do that.' She sees my face and bites her lip. `Sorry `“ I didn't mean to intrude. Just trying to make myself useful`¦' Her voice trails off. `Sorry,' she says again, her cheeks bright red now.

I make a face. `I hate that too, actually. But thank God you tackled that bloody dishwasher; I've been putting it off for the best part of a week.'

She smiles, clearly relieved. `I'll trade you clearing the stuff in the sitting room for another glass of wine.'

`I thought you were driving?'

`I can get a cab. Pick the car up on my way in tomorrow.'

My turn to smile. `Well, if you put it like that.'

2 May 2017, 12.27 p.m.

247 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Sam is sitting on the bed in the top-floor spare room, staring out of the window. She's taken to coming up here on the bad days. As if she can box them up and keep them closed in this echoey half-empty room no one's used for years. As if by doing that she can stop them leaking into the rest of the house `“ the rest of her life. Though the room is chilly, outside the sun is shining and there are flowers in the garden despite the weeds. A flurry of tulips all down one border. Blowsy scarlet petals with black spikes in their hearts. But inside, in this room, there is a weight of grey cloud somewhere just above her peripheral vision. A tell-tale tenderness at the base of her skull. But Michael said he might pop back to check on her at lunchtime. She doesn't want him to find her up here. He would only worry, and he has enough to deal with already.

She hauls herself to her feet, reaching for her cardigan. That's when she hears it. Downstairs. The soft thud that could be a door swinging to or something falling or a step on an old board, muffled by carpet. Not the children because they're not here. Not a draught. She stands there, listening fiercely. It's happened before but never indoors, never inside the house. Once, it was on the side path. The last time, outside the kitchen. A flicker just beyond her eye. A movement that wasn't the wind or a bird or a squirrel running along the fence. She tastes metal in her mouth and realizes she's bitten her lip so hard it's bleeding. But she is not going mad `“ she is not going mad `“

She forces herself to move quickly, reaching the door and throwing it open. She goes down the stairs, clinging to the banister like an old woman, then works her way through every room on the floor beneath, throwing open every cupboard and wardrobe until she is breathless with the effort.

Then she hears the front door bang and her husband calling for her.

`Sam? You upstairs?'

`I'll be down in a minute,' she replies, her voice half strangled. `I'm just sorting the washing.'

When he looks up a few moments later she is coming down the stairs smiling at him with the laundry basket under one arm.