Кара Хантер - No Way Out

`We didn't find it until an hour ago,' he says as they walk up towards the house, past the team of three on their hands and knees picking over the slag heap of rubble. `But to be honest, we had other priorities.'

They come to a halt in front of the garage. It's several yards from the house, so apart from the soot marks and the blistering to the paintwork it's almost untouched. There's a padlock hanging off the door handle, but as Gis sees at once, it's not been closed properly.

`And before you ask,' says Rigby as he pushes open the door, `it was already in that state when I got here. And I've been wearing gloves. If there are prints, they'll be intact.'

He reaches for the light switch inside and the neon strip stutters and plinks on. It may have been built as a garage but it's being used as a shed. Wheelie bins, a couple of ancient shovels, boxes of assorted household detritus, a wheelbarrow, bicycles, a garden table and chairs, and a parasol, furred with spiders' webs.

`Looks like it's true what they say,' says Gislingham, looking around, `junk really does expand to fill the available space.'

But even as he says it he knows that's not why they're here: pushed against one corner is a lawnmower. A motor mower.

`Judging by the stains on the floor,' says Rigby quietly, `I reckon there was a spare can of petrol for that mower in here. A spare can that definitely isn't here any more.'

Gislingham's face is grim. `But I bet I know where we're going to find it.'

Rigby nods. `And it's not just that. There's something else.' He starts to pick his way across the junk and gestures Gislingham to follow. There's a door in the back wall. A door that opens into a completely different kind of space. Pale walls studded with children's drawings, brightly coloured kelims on a tiled floor, and glass doors opening on to the garden.

`We didn't even realize it was here,' says Rigby. `They have roller shutters on those doors so as far as we could see it was just the back of the garage.' He looks round. `Pretty nice man-cave, eh?'

Gislingham is staring. At the desk, the filing cabinets, the shelves of textbooks.

It's not a man-cave. It's Michael Esmond's study.

When Gis calls me from Southey Road I can tell from the echo that he's indoors.

`We've found his desktop PC and the charger for a laptop, though I assume he has the machine with him. And there's a stack of paperwork. And I do mean a stack .'

I take a deep breath. `OK, bring the computer back here and we'll have a look at it. And I'm afraid we're going to have to go through all those bloody papers as well.'

`Right, boss. I'll get it organized.'

I wonder, in passing, who he'll dump with that one. If I were a betting man, my money'd be on Quinn.

`There was something else too, boss. We've finally picked up Jurjen Kuiper's car on the ANPR cameras that night. He was at the Littlemore exit of the ring road at 12.10 a.m. That must have been just after the fire started, so I really don't see how he could have done it. It'd take fifteen minutes from there to Southey Road, even at that time of night, and the car definitely wasn't speeding.'

I still find it hard to comprehend why Kuiper was out driving so late in such treacherous conditions, but that's looking like another story we'll never know the end of.

Everett and Somer are only just in time for the team meeting at 4.30. Somer leaves Everett to park the car and makes her way across to the police station. It's started to rain again and Everett struggles to find a space; when she turns the engine off and looks up she can see Somer talking to someone in the doorway. In the gloom and the downpour it's another few seconds before she realizes who it is.

Fawley.

Everett's not nosy by nature. She's not interested in tittle-tattle, and she tries to live and let live. But she can't stop herself watching. He and Somer are standing close together, but it's impossible to tell if that's just to keep out of the rain. The light above their heads casts deep sharp shadows and Fawley's bending his head now, talking to Somer in an urgent, intimate way she can't ever remember seeing before. He usually holds back `“ keeps his distance, in every sense. But not this time.

She opens the door and gets slowly out of the car. Then reaches into the back seat for her umbrella, which she opens as extravagantly as she can manage. She wants to give them as much chance as possible to see her coming. Which they evidently do, because by the time she reaches the door, Somer is alone.

`Who was that?' asks Everett casually, shaking out the brolly.

`Oh, just one of the uniforms. He wanted to know how the case was going.'

Everett's heart sinks. As any halfway decent police officer knows, people don't bother lying if they've nothing to hide.

Sent:Weds 10/01/2018, 15.45 Importance: High From:Colin.Boddie@ouh.nhs.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk, CID@ThamesValley.police.uk, AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Bloodwork and toxicology: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road

I have just had the toxicology results on the three victims. To summarize: there were no untoward findings in relation to Matthew Esmond. Zachary's bloods showed a relatively high level of acetaminophen (paracetamol) but one which would still be consistent with a therapeutic dose of a paediatric medicine such as Calpol.

Bloodwork from Samantha Esmond detected the presence of desmethylsertraline (i.e. the antidepressant sertraline) at a concentration consistent with ongoing therapeutic use. However, there were also very significant levels of both alcohol (a BAC of 0.10%) and benzodiazepine (i.e. temazepam). For the avoidance of doubt, the latter was not inconsistent with a therapeutic dose, but in combination with the alcohol would have quickly rendered a woman of her height and weight drowsy. There's one final test outstanding on Samantha, which I will forward to you as soon as I get it.

I've also had results from Zachary Esmond's bloods. The level of carbon monoxide detected is significantly lower than I would have expected. I cannot, therefore, rule out the possibility that Zachary was already dead before the fire took full hold. There being no other obvious signs of injury, the most likely cause of death in that case would have been suffocation.

It's fair to say I'm probably not on top form at the team meeting. Alex's call is still distracting me. I tried to phone her back three times today and got nothing but voicemail. And then I stopped because I knew it would just make me look desperate. Even though I am. Even though part of me wants her to know I am.

So if I lose the thread of the discussion a couple of times, that's why. It's not an excuse. But it is an explanation. And I only manage to wing it because there's so little to discuss. Despite the appeal, the tweets, the thankless door-knocking, despite the hundreds of calls that have come in and a running total of man hours I don't even want to think about, we still have no bloody idea where Esmond is. And I say as much. I notice Everett eyeing me once or twice. Especially when Somer is reporting back on the meetings with the school and the family doctor.

`So,' she says, summing up, `we now know that Samantha Esmond was suffering from post-natal depression. But the doctor insists she wasn't a risk to herself or her children.'

She's not saying so explicitly, but we all know what she means: if anyone was thinking of putting Samantha forward as a possible suspect, as far as Somer is concerned you can forget it. It wasn't her who set that fire.

`Are you sure about that?' says Baxter, googling on his phone. `It says here that severe cases can lead to paranoia and hallucinations, and if it goes untreated up to four per cent of mothers will commit infanticide.'