Кара Хантер - No Way Out

She smiles. `No, it's fine. You just took me by surprise, that's all.'

`I did try Mike's mobile but he's not answering.'

She makes a face. `He does that. Turns it off to save the battery and then forgets and wonders why no one's calling him.'

Philip grins. `Always was a bit of a throwback. In a nice way, of course,' he adds quickly.

One of the neighbours has stopped on the other side of the street. She's pretending to fiddle with her shoe but Sam can see her clocking Philip and doing the mental maths that puts two and two together and makes extra-marital affair.

She stands back. `Come in,' she says quickly. `Do you need a hand with all that `“?'

`Absolutely not,' he says firmly. `Dad always used to say, only travel with the bags you're prepared to carry yourself.'

By the time Michael gets home they're sitting in the garden with the bottle of Chablis Philip brought with him. Zachary is sitting at their feet, playing with his toy fire engine. Harry must have been too, because the lawn has been mowed and the cuttings stacked in a bag by the wheelie bin. Michael frowns, then goes to the fridge for a beer before heading outside. Whether deliberately or not, Philip has positioned his chair so he can see the house. He gets to his feet at once.

`Mike! Sorry to turn up unannounced like this,' he says, reaching to give his brother a hug.

`No problem,' says Michael, a little stiff in the embrace.

Samantha looks up, alert to the acerbity. But there's a colour in her cheeks Michael hasn't seen for weeks.

`We brought you out a chair,' she says, gesturing. Smiling.

He puts his beer down on the table. `Where's Matty?'

Philip makes a face. `On his Xbox. I did try to tempt him out but he seemed completely engrossed.'

`Yeah, well,' says Michael. `That won't be the first time.' He turns to his wife. `What are we going to do about dinner?'

`All sorted,' says Philip quickly. `Getting a Deliveroo from Brown's. Least I can do.'

Two hours later the sun is going down and the chairs have been shunted to one side so that Philip can play football with Matty.

Michael stands at the sink, rinsing the plates before they go into the dishwasher.

`They haven't had so much fun for ages,' says Sam, coming in with a tray of glasses and a sleepy Zachary wedged on one hip. `Apparently Philip is Ronaldo and Matty is Messi.'

There's a shout from the garden; Philip has just scored a goal and is running round the lawn with his T-shirt over his face.

`Prat,' says Michael. But not out loud.

`He's going to take us punting tomorrow,' says Sam casually.

Michael glances at her. `Really? Are you sure he knows how? Must be years since he did it last.'

She shrugs. `He says he does.' Then, `I thought you'd be pleased. It'll give you some peace and quiet to get some work done.'

And, of course, it will.

`Do you need me to do some shopping?' he says, making more of an effort. `I can get some picnic stuff from MS in the morning `“'

`Don't worry, Phil said he'd do it. Just you focus on the book.'

She touches him lightly on the arm, then goes back outside. The sounds of laughter blossom in the air.

At Southey Road, Quinn pushes open the door to Esmond's office and stands there looking around. Judging from what's left of the rest of the house, he was expecting a pompous roll-top desk, an antique leather chair and one of those reading lamps with green shades. But he couldn't have been more wrong. Everything in here is light, modern and well designed, right down to the sleek Dyson heater, the Bose CD player and the gleaming Nespresso machine. Complete with supplies. He slings his jacket over the back of the chair and turns the heater on full. Maybe this won't be such a crap job after all.

Sent:Weds 10/01/2018, 18.45 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've had that final test back on Samantha Esmond. Her bloods showed slightly raised levels of human chorionic gonadotropin (hCG). This can be produced by cancerous tumours, but in the absence of any such abnormalities I see no reason to deviate from the simplest clinical explanation: Samantha Esmond was pregnant.

Given the level detected, and the fact that nothing was discovered in the uterus, I would estimate a gestation of no more than four weeks. At that stage the foetus would be little more than a cluster of cells.

`So, do you think she knew? About the baby?'

It's Gislingham, in the incident room. And whether he realizes it or not, he's looking at Ev and Somer.

Everett shrugs. `I'm not the one to ask. I've never been pregnant.'

Somer flushes slightly and I wonder suddenly if she has, at some point in her past.

`Impossible to say, sir,' she says. `Though I think the doctor would have told me, if she'd done a proper test.'

But that doesn't mean anything. Alex only got to that stage once, in all the years we tried. All those days of hope, month after month. Days when she'd buy one of those kits and lock herself away. Days when I'd hear her sobbing. Days `“ the worst days `“ when she'd emerge, dry-faced and silent, her hands cold and her body rigid in my arms. And then there was the blue line that was Jake and a new more desperate hope and a ferocious caution and pacts with a God I don't believe in. I've often wondered, since, if that's where I went wrong. I only begged to have Jake; I never begged to keep him.

`Might give her a reason though,' says Baxter, breaking into my thoughts. He's looking at Somer. `I mean, I know you said she couldn't have set that fire, but that was before we found out she was in the club again. If she'd had such a bad time with the previous two, she might not have been able to face having a third.'

Somer looks at him icily. `That's not a reason to kill herself. And it's definitely not a reason to kill those children.'

Baxter puts up both hands. `OK, OK, I was just saying.'

Somer opens her mouth to reply but Everett cuts in. Peacemaker mode. `There's no point in us arguing about it. The simple fact is we have no way of knowing if she even knew about the pregnancy.'

`Can we do a DNA test?' asks Asante.

I shake my head. `Good try, but no. Way too early.'

`So we don't know Esmond was definitely the father,' he continues. `I mean `“ if it was someone else and her husband found out `“'

`He was in London, though, wasn't he?' says Gis quietly.

`And we haven't come across any other men in her life, either,' I say. `And as far as I can see she was barely up to leaving the house, never mind carrying on a secret affair.'

Asante backs off. He clearly knows when to stop digging. But he's right about one thing. That pregnancy is a wild card we hadn't allowed for. And it's nagging at me like a stone in my shoe.

The door opens and the duty officer looks in, scanning the room.

`DC Somer? Someone in reception for you. A Mr Philip Esmond.'

12 July 2017, 4.43 p.m.

176 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Philip and Matty are on their third chorus of `What shall we do with the drunken sailor?' when Michael finally gives up trying to work and goes back up to the house. In the kitchen, Philip has Zachary on his shoulders and Sam is at the sink scraping food into the caddy. The debris from the picnic is scattered all over the kitchen.

` Way! Hey! and up she rises, Way! Hey! and up she rises, Way! Hey! and up she rises, Ear-ly in the morning ,' bellows Philip, before turning and seeing his brother at the door.