Кара Хантер - No Way Out

`Hello, darling, how was your morning?'

On Monday morning I spend half an hour on the phone tracking down the right person at Hampshire Constabulary, and explaining what we need to do. I can hear the man's irritation levels rising. `We're not complete turnip tops down here, Inspector.' Well, he didn't actually say that, but he might as well have done.

As I put the phone down there's a flurry of wind against the window. Outside, the sky is yellowish; we may even get snow. But probably only enough to cause havoc, not enough to justify it. There's no town in England that looks more beautiful under really heavy snow: Christ Church Meadow, the Magdalen deer park, Radcliffe Square. But in this job, all you tend to think about is the body count going up. Rough sleepers die in snow, and they do it here just as much as anywhere else.

Telephone conversation with DI Giles Saumarez, Hampshire Police, 8 January 2018, 11.26 a.m.

On the call, DI A. Fawley

GS:DI Fawley? We've checked out that beach hut for you and there's definitely someone there. Male, apparently arrived a few days ago, but we don't know exactly when. Couple of locals noticed a bonfire on the beach and called it in. We showed them your man's picture and they're sure it's the same guy. AF:Your officers haven't attempted to speak to him? GS:Nope. There haven't been any signs of life this morning but we'll just babysit him till your guys get here. Makes the paperwork a hell of a sight easier for a start. AF:OK `“ we'll get there as fast as we can. And thank you. GS:No worries. We've got two officers parked up on the road in case he makes a run for it. Though it's not as if he can get out any other way. Not without a boat, anyway. I'll send a link to the dashboard cam so you can see for yourself. AF:What's the area like? GS:Calshot? It's a bit of a nothing place to be honest. The Spit is busy in the summer, but this time of year, it's as dead as a dodo. Four times last week I had the next beach down completely to myself. AF:Walking? GS:Swimming. AF:Christ, in this weather? GS:[ laughs ]

No better way to clear your head. I go most mornings `“ it's only about five miles away from where I live. Ironic, really.

AF:Ironic? GS:Where I live `“ it's called Fawley.***

I go back to the incident room to tell them it looks like we've finally found Esmond and there's a moment of silence followed by a surge of questions.

`Calshot? What the hell is he doing there?'

`So the bastard killed his entire bloody family and ran away to the sodding seaside?'

`He must have known we'd track him down eventually `“'

`Trust me `“ the man's lost it `“ it'll be a white-coats job, just you wait `“'

But under the anger there's also a palpable ripple of relief. And I don't blame them. We were beginning to wonder if we were chasing a ghost. A couple of the DCs pat Somer on the back and she flushes and tries to play it down. Which she shouldn't, of course, but getting the right balance between being a pushover and a push-aside is fiendishly difficult in this job. Especially for women. Needless to say, I tell her she should be the one to go to Calshot with Gislingham, and after they've gone I go back to my office and sit for a moment staring at the dashboard cam link Saumarez sent over.

A flat expanse of scrubby bushes and wind-flattened grass on one side, and on the other, a line of huts in bright primary colours. A litter bin. A carrier bag caught in a tree. Other than that, no movement, no cars, no people, nothing. It's only the swooping seagulls and the billowing plastic that prove it really is a live feed.

At 2.30, Gislingham pulls up on the main road leading towards Calshot Spit. Fast grey clouds, salt in the air and a slicing wind coming off the water. There's an unmarked police car parked a few yards away and a rather beaten-up black Land Rover just behind it. The driver's door swings open. The man who gets out is in plain clothes. Probably mid-forties but he looks a lot younger. Slim, athletic-looking, and with the year-round tan of someone who lives by the sea. Gislingham catches the look on Somer's face, and when he gets out of his own car he's uncomfortably aware that he's holding his stomach in.

`DI Saumarez,' the man says, coming up and shaking their hands. `I spoke to Adam Fawley earlier.'

`DS Gislingham, DC Somer. Any news on Esmond?'

`Haven't seen any movement since I got here. Though the lads tell me they could hear someone inside earlier so presumably he's still in there.'

Saumarez turns and points. `It's that red one halfway down. There are no windows this side so I doubt he knows we're here.'

Gislingham starts towards the hut then realizes Saumarez isn't moving.

`You not coming?'

The DI shrugs. `Your collar, as the Americans say.'

Gislingham eyes him narrowly; he's starting to wonder if he's taking the piss. That physique of his certainly is. Gislingham squares his shoulders and moves slowly down the side to the front of the hut. The door is shut, but it's definitely been broken into. The wood is badly splintered and the handle is hanging off.

Gislingham knocks, then stands there, his head against the door, straining to hear above the wind. He knocks again. And now there's definitely movement inside. The sound of scraping, and then the door opens a couple of inches.

`Who is it?'

`Mr Esmond?'

`No, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong address. I am a different person entirely.'

The man laughs `“ it's a slightly manic laugh, and he's slurring. Gislingham can smell the alcohol.

He takes out his warrant card and pushes it against the gap in the door. `Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham, Thames Valley Police. Can we come in?'

`Fuck off `“ I told you `“ I'm not whatever his bloody name is `“'

The door starts to close and Gislingham wedges his foot against it. `We know it's you, Mr Esmond `“ people have identified you.'

Somer glances round; despite what he said, Saumarez has followed them. And behind him there's a uniformed officer. With a battering ram in one hand.

Gislingham can feel the strain against the door. `Mr Esmond, I really don't want to have to force this open.' He knocks again. Silence now. He turns and gestures to Somer `“ why doesn't she have a go. She steps up to the door, absurdly self-conscious that Saumarez is watching all this.

`Mr Esmond, my name is DC Erica Somer. Can you open the door for a moment? I'm sure we can sort all this out.'

There's a moment when everyone seems to be holding their breath. And then the door suddenly swings wide open.

A table and two ancient folding chairs; the man is slumped in one of them. He's wearing a cord jacket and chinos but they're creased and dirty. There's a candle wedged in a Coke bottle, a scatter of crisp packets and sandwich wrappers, and an empty bottle of whisky upended on the floor. The tiny room reeks of sweat and piss and drink.

The man is eyeing them, struggling to keep his gaze steady.

`I told you, fuck off.'

Somer takes a step forward. Now her eyes have adjusted to the gloom she can see him properly. He's the right age, the right height, the right colouring. But he's not Michael Esmond. They've come all this way for nothing, and it's all down to her. She bites her lip, trying to come up with the least-worst way to say that to Gislingham, when the man lurches suddenly forward, his body doubled up.

`Oh fucking hell,' says Somer, as he vomits all down her.

12 May 2017, 11.49 a.m.

237 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Michael Esmond kicks the front door open and dumps two carrier bags in the hall, then goes back to the car, lets Matty out of the back, and goes round to the other side to unstrap Zachary from the car seat. The little boy has been crying all the way back from the supermarket.