Кара Хантер - No Way Out

She sighs. `I don't know, Adam.'

`But you believe me `“ about Somer?'

Her voice is dull, unhappy. `Yes. I believe you. But I'm not ready to come home. Not yet. I'm sorry.'

And the line goes dead.

The waiting room is packed. And hacking. Testy coughs, leaky sniffs. January germs. The surgery is a converted house off the Woodstock Road. One of those Victorian semis that look quite narrow from the street, but go back a long way. The waiting room is at the rear, looking over a garden that's probably quite nice in the summer, but is ankle deep in dead and rotting leaves. The large tree at the bottom is encircled two inches thick by dingy rust-coloured needles. What's the point in a conifer, thinks Somer, if you still have to sweep up all the crap?

Even though she arrives before surgery starts she still has to wait half an hour for Dr Miller to be free. The woman is clearly frazzled. She has slate grey hair in a severe bob and a pair of glasses perched on the top of her head. Somer is prepared to bet she forgets where she's put them at least twice a day.

`Sorry, officer,' she says, moving things about on the desk distractedly. `The week after the holidays is always a bit like this. What can I do for you?'

`It's about Samantha Esmond.'

The fidgeting stops.

`Ah, yes. That was truly appalling.' The distress in her pale green eyes is genuine.

`We've now spoken to one of Samantha's friends, who thinks she might have been suffering from post-natal depression. Is that true?'

The doctor starts to tap her biro on the desk. `That is, of course, confidential medical information. I assume you have obtained the appropriate authorization?'

`I can assure you the paperwork is entirely in order. I have a copy, if you want to see it.'

She doesn't expect the doctor to take her up on it, but the woman holds out her hand. Somer reaches into her bag for the sheet. Miller pulls down her glasses, snagging her hair as she does so. She reads the page once, and then again, then puts it down on the desk and removes her glasses.

`Yes,' she says with a sigh. `Samantha did have PND. And it wasn't the first time. She'd had the same problems after Matty was born, though from what I could tell from her notes, it was much worse with Zachary. And went on much longer.'

`How did it manifest itself?'

`The usual symptoms. Listlessness, feeling inadequate, crying for no reason, problems sleeping.'

`Was she on medication?'

`Yes. I recently started her on temazepam to help her sleep and she was also taking sertraline to help with the anxiety.'

`So you considered it severe enough to need antidepressants?'

Dr Miller eyes her. `Yes, I'm afraid it was. We tried various alternatives before deciding that was the most appropriate one for her.'

Somer hesitates, but it has to be asked. `Did you ever think she might harm herself? Or the baby?'

Dr Miller sits back. `To be completely honest, we were beginning to be concerned about Zachary, but not for that reason, I hasten to add. He was having rather too many stomach upsets. We were trying to get to the bottom of it.'

`I see `“'

`But there was no suggestion he was being abused, if that's what you're thinking. As for Samantha, she was just `“ well, overwhelmed. She had Matty to deal with as well, remember. It was all too much for her.'

`She had her husband to help, didn't she?'

`Michael? He was exemplary. He couldn't do enough for her. Shopping, washing, cleaning, taking Matty to school. He did the lot. He was extraordinarily supportive.'

Or extraordinarily controlling, thinks Somer.

`I don't know how he managed to do it all and still hold down such a responsible job,' says the doctor, a little tersely. Perhaps she has sensed Somer's scepticism. `It would have defeated most people. Me included.'

`Did he show signs of being under stress?'

Dr Miller's eyes narrow. `Dr Esmond was not taking medication for stress, depression or any other similar condition. As for Matty, he was a rather nervous child, but clearly loved and well cared for. What more do you want me to say?'

This is new. `You say Matty was nervous `“ how did that manifest itself?'

Miller starts tapping her biro again. `He was a bit fretful. Took things a bit too much to heart. Impressionable and, I imagine, easily intimidated.'

`Intimidated? You mean, he was being bullied?'

She shakes her head. `No. I'm fairly sure that wasn't the case. The school nurse did get in touch with me last year, and I'm sure she would have mentioned that if it had been any sort of issue.'

`So if it wasn't that, why did she want to talk to you?'

Miller sighs again. `Matty was worried about his mother. He told his teacher she was seeing ghosts.'

Gislingham is on his way in to the station when his phone rings. One glance at the screen and he knows he has to take the call. He pulls over and picks up the handset.

`DS Gislingham.'

`Chris? It's Paul Rigby. I'm at Southey Road. Where are you?'

`In the car. But I can be there in twenty minutes.'

`Good. Because I think you'll want to see this as soon as possible.'

13 June 2017, 2.13 p.m.

205 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

When Sam gets back from the park with the boys, Michael is in the garden. After a grey start the sun has come out, and it's now so hot that she's had to bring the children home early. She gives them a juice each in the kitchen and it's only when she goes to the sink to rinse the glasses that she realizes her husband is not alone. There's a young man with him she's never seen before. He's tall and good-looking, in cargo shorts and a pair of loafers. Even at this distance he looks at ease with himself. Intrigued, she encourages the boys outside, and follows them down the lawn.

`I'm Harry,' he says as she approaches, holding out his hand. She's seen that smile many times in this town. The sort of smile that springs from a lot of attitude `“ from deep-set assumptions about your own worth and your place in the world, and the reception you think you're going to get.

`Harry replied to the ad,' says her husband. `The one I put up in the newsagent's about getting some help in the garden.'

`You never told me you actually did that,' says Sam, openly incredulous. Her husband has never put a card on a shop noticeboard in his life. He's always saying you never know what you might be letting yourself in for.

`Mr Esmond was hoping I could get the grass cut before you got home,' interjects Harry. `As a surprise. But the mower ran out of petrol.'

`I told you we should keep a spare can,' says Sam, keeping her tone light. She doesn't want Michael to think she's nagging. Especially in front of someone else.

`So you're a student, are you, Harry?' she says, turning to him.

He nods. `Only an undergrad, hence needing the money,' he says with a rueful face.

Matty has by now sidled up to the adults. He has his ball under his arm and starts dragging at his father's sleeve. ` Da-ad .'

Michael turns to him. `I'm busy, Matty. We're talking.'

`You like football, Matt?' says Harry, and Sam sees her husband stifle a wince. No one calls their son Matt. They've worked really hard to make sure of that.

Harry reaches forward and takes the ball, walks away a few paces and starts doing tricks. Bouncing it on his knee, catching it on his shoulder blades. Matty is beside himself.

`Can you teach me to do that?' he says, almost gasping.

Harry gathers up the ball. `Sure,' he said. `How about now?'

Sam sees her husband open his mouth to say no but Matty is already jumping up and down, pawing at him, squealing, `Can I, Dad? Can I?'