Кара Хантер: No Way Out

Oxford United beat MK Dons 3`“1

Thomas, van Kessel and Obika all score in a lively home tie`¦ /more

65 comments

Janeelliottcornwallis

Am I missing something or were neither of the parents actually in the house? They left those two kids alone `“ at that age? Words fail me, they really do

111chris_the_bliss

Probably out getting pissed somewhere. That type `“ it's all gin and Jag `“ all me

ernest_payne_gardener22

I went past that house an hour ago `“ one side of it has completely collapsed. There could easily be more bodies in there. Give the police time to do their job, can't you

Josephyosef88188

I wish more people would take note about the fire risks posed by Christmas decorations. I was a fireman for 30 years and I've seen some truly horrific incidents.

It's only when I'm signalling left on the Banbury Road that I remember exactly where Southey Road is. Three turnings north of Frampton Road. Frampton Road as in William Harper and what we found locked in his cellar. The papers called him the `Oxford Fritzl'. At least, at the beginning. It was eight months ago now, but I was still in court in December, and the file is still sitting on my desk, waiting to get shunted to archives. None of us are going to forget that one in a hurry. Least of all Quinn. Detective Sergeant Quinn as was, Detective Constable Quinn as now. Speaking of whom, his new black Audi is the first thing I see as I draw up in the street and turn off the engine. But then he's always been a bit of a swanky git when it comes to wheels. I couldn't tell you what Gislingham drives and I must have seen that damn car a thousand times. As for the scene, the fire may be under control but the place is a circus all the same. Two fire engines and three police cars. Nosy parkers. People taking pictures on their phones. Thank Christ they parked the undertaker's van out of sight.

Quinn and Gislingham are up by the house and they turn to face me as I walk towards them. Quinn is stamping his feet in the cold, but aside from that the body language is awkward, to say the least. He took to DS like a dog to water `“ zero hesitation, maximum splash `“ but he's having a lot more trouble going back down to DC. Well, you know what they say, trading up is easy, trading down is a different matter altogether. He's trying to balls it out, needless to say, but it's that part of his anatomy that got him into this mess in the first place. I can see he's itching to get stuck in, but Gislingham deserves a chance to prove he's up to this. I turn to him, perhaps a little too pointedly.

`Anything new, Sergeant?'

Gislingham stiffens a little and whips out his notebook, though I can't believe he actually needs it. His hands are trembling, ever so slightly. I suspect Quinn has spotted that as well.

`The house belongs to a family called Esmond, sir. Michael Esmond, forty, is an academic. The wife is Samantha, thirty-three, and there are the two kids, Matty, ten, and Zachary, three.'

`How is he `“ the older boy?'

`Touch and go. He's pretty poorly.'

`And still no sign of the parents?'

Gislingham makes a face. `Master bedroom's over there,' he says, pointing to the left-hand side of the house. `It's still pretty much intact, but there's no sign of anyone. Fire boys say the bed wasn't even slept in. So I googled the family and this came up.'

He hands me his phone. It's a page from the King's College London website, advertising a conference on social anthropology taking place right now in London. One of the speakers is Michael Esmond: `Death by Fire and Water: Sacrificial Ritual Practices in Latin American Vodou' . Someone said, didn't they, that coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous. Well, if that's the case, all I can say is he has pretty poor taste sometimes.

I give Gis his phone back. `Call them and confirm he definitely showed. At the very least that means we have one less body to look for.'

`Hold the barbecue sauce, eh?' says Quinn.

I shoot him a look that wipes the smirk off his face, and turn again to Gislingham.

`What's the plan?'

He blinks a couple of times. `Locate Michael and Samantha Esmond and establish their whereabouts at the time of the incident. Carry out an initial house-to-house in case one of the neighbours saw something. Talk to Boddie about the PM. Identify and inform other next of kin. Liaise with the fire forensic boys.' He points across the drive. `And track down the car, of course.'

Quinn turns to look at him. `What car?'

Gislingham raises his eyebrows. `There are wheel marks on the gravel. Plain as day. The Esmonds definitely have a car. So where is it? No one in their right mind would drive into London from here so I reckon if we find that car we'll also find the wife.'

No prizes for guessing whose stock just went up a notch.

I nod. `Good work, Sergeant. Keep me in the loop.'

I turn back to Quinn. Who's moved a yard or so closer to the house, presumably on the grounds that if you can't beat 'em, walk away. The house isn't really my taste, but if you like that sort of thing, I guess it's a desirable property. Or was. Right now, filthy water is streaming down the facade and all the ground-floor windows have gone. It's detached and double-fronted but the right-hand side is little more than a shell. The gable is still standing but only barely, and there's nothing behind it but blackened walls and a heap of bricks and roof timbers and shattered glass. What's left of the rest is pebble-dashed and overlaid with Tudorish wooden bits which must have been white before but are charred and soot-stained now. You can just about make out `1909' above one of the windows. As well as an Arsenal sticker still clinging to the broken pane.

`What are you thinking?' I ask Quinn.

He starts slightly. `Oh, just the obvious, boss. How an academic gets to afford something that big round here. How much d'you think `“ five mill?'

More, if you ask me. Round here, houses are divided into large, small, large-small and small-large. Safe to say this is large. Large -large.

`Could be family money,' I say. `Worth checking, though.'

`Why don't you do that, Quinn,' says Gislingham.

Quinn shrugs. `OK.'

And as I walk away I hear Gislingham say, under his breath, `OK, Sarge .'

At 7.05, DC Erica Somer is standing looking at her wardrobe, trying to work out what to wear. She's only been in CID three months and Choosing the Right Clothes is a question that's getting more vexed by the day. She never liked her uniform, but it had its advantages. Uniformity being, of course, one of the most obvious. But now she's in `plain clothes' and the best way to achieve that is anything but plain. How, she wonders for the umpteenth time, staring at the rack of hangers, do you manage to look serious but not frumpy? Professional but still approachable? It's a nightmare. She sighs. In this as in so much else, the blokes have it easy. An MS suit and three ties will pretty much do you `“ Baxter being the living proof. Verity Everett's found her own way forward with a white-shirt-dark-skirt look that scarcely varies. Navy one day, black the next, grey the third and back to navy again. Flat shoes, and a cardi in winter. But on that basis you might as well go back to uniform and have done with it. And what about hair `“ is a ponytail too frivolous? A bun too school-ma'am?

She's just pulled out the black trouser suit (third time in five days `“ that'll be a uniform too if she's not careful) when the mobile rings. It's Gislingham. She likes Gislingham. Not brash (like Quinn) or gifted (like Fawley) but effective all the same. Methodical. Hard-working. And decent. Above all, decent. She really hopes he makes a fist of the sergeantship; he deserves it.