Кара Хантер - No Way Out

`So what do you think is up?' says Gislingham.

Ev glances at him. `What do you mean `њup`ќ?'

`You know. With the boss. Don't tell me you haven't noticed.'

Everett sighs. `Of course I have. It just seems a bit shitty talking about it behind his back.'

`People are just concerned, Ev.'

`I know. And so am I. But we're not going to solve it, are we? Whatever it is.'

Gislingham picks up his glass. `Baxter thinks his wife has left him. Says he overheard Fawley leaving a message for her.'

`That doesn't necessarily mean anything. Whenever I've seen them together I've never thought they were having problems. Though, to be fair, I haven't seen her for a while.'

She thinks back. It must have been at Fawley's birthday drinks. Last October, a couple of dozen of them crammed under the low ceilings of the Turf Tavern, the air thick with the smoke from the braziers outside. Fawley's wife arrived half an hour before the end, saying she'd been held up at work. She'd looked amazing, as always. High heels, scarlet suit, long dark hair in one of those swept-up-and-falling-down things that Everett couldn't manage even if she had the hair for it. Or the time. Alex Fawley had drunk half a glass of warm Prosecco and teased Gislingham about his promotion and smiled at her husband when they did a toast and he'd looked at her in a way no one has ever looked at Everett, her whole life. And then they were gone. No one seeing the Fawleys together would have said there was anything wrong. But then again, anyone can keep up a facade if they only have to do it for half an hour.

`Look, it may still be nothing,' says Everett. But the look on her face says the opposite. The sound system is now playing `Saving All My Love For You' . She's always hated that song, and right now, the lyrics have become horribly apposite.

Gislingham makes a face. `Well, I never had Fawley pegged for a cheater. And after that car crash with Quinn, I'd have thought Somer would have had enough of shitting on her own doorstep.' He glances at Everett. `You two are mates `“ has she said anything to you?'

Everett shakes her head. `Not a squeak. But I wouldn't either, if I was shagging the boss.'

They're silent for a moment. Everett makes circles on the table with her glass.

`Look,' says Gislingham eventually, `I'm going to have to go. I told Janet I wouldn't be late.' He gets up and drags his coat off the back of the chair. `And, Ev? Not a word, right? There's enough bloody gossip at the station already.'

She gives him a `what sort of a person do you think I am' look, and drains her glass.

`I'll come with you.'

Sent:Thurs 11/01/2018, 21.35 Importance: High From:Alexandra.Fawley@HHHlaw.co.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Your email

I've had a look at it. It's not the sort of arrangement we would ever recommend these days `“ it's far too restrictive. But basically your assumptions are right:

A life interest in the house passes to the oldest son of each generation, and failing that, the oldest daughter.

He (or she) is entitled to live in the house, but cannot sell it (it being the property of the Trust).

However, according to clause 5, if the house has to be demolished due to circumstances beyond the Trustees' control (such as a catastrophic flood), the house and plot are to be sold and the proceeds distributed among all the direct heirs living at the time.

If this is the Southey Road house we're talking about, in my opinion the conditions of clause 5 have more than adequately been met.

Hope that helps,

A

Alexandra Fawley | Partner | Oxford office | Harlowe Hickman Howe LLP

Not even an `x' at the bottom. Something she'd do without thinking even for friends, but must have stopped herself doing for me.

I don't think I've ever felt more wretched.

20 July 2017, 11.45 a.m.

168 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

The man on the doorstep is in overalls, with a stepladder and a toolbox.

`Mrs Esmond?'

`Yes,' she says warily. There's a van parked by the kerb with `DS Security' painted on the side.

`Your husband booked us in,' he says, seeing the look on her face. He reaches into his pocket for a sheet of paper. `Side gate, alarm system, new deadlocks to windows and exterior doors throughout.'

`He never said anything about it to me.'

At least, she can't remember him doing so.

He looks up and smiles. `Feel free to check with him. You can't be too careful, that's what I always say.'

`If you don't mind, I will.'

She closes the door and goes into the sitting room. She can see the man through the front window. But, as usual, her husband's mobile is off.

`Michael `“ can you call me back? There's a man here to do something to the locks. You never mentioned he was coming.'

She puts the phone down and goes back to the door.

`All OK, then?' says the man, cheerily.

`I couldn't reach him. Do you mind `“ could I see that piece of paper?'

`Office said he came in earlier this week,' he says, handing it to her. `Tuesday, I think it was.'

The day after Philip left. Two days after she'd confided in him that she thought there'd been someone in the house. Only Michael didn't know about that. Did he?

`See?' says the man. `That's his signature right there.'

She stares at the paper. And he's right. It is Michael's signature.

`What did you say you were doing again?'

`New side gate, state-of-the-art alarm system and new door and window locks.' He glances to the side of the house. `I mean, anyone can just walk right in as it stands, can't they? And this time of year, you could be upstairs, with your back door open, and any Tom, Dick or axe murderer could walk straight in. A house this big, you might not even realize. In fact, didn't your husband say you'd had a burglary?'

She flushes. `Not a burglary, no `“ not as such `“'

`All the same, like I said, Mrs Esmond, you can't be too careful. Not these days. Some of those weirdos aren't interested in nicking stuff. They just want the kick of knowing they're somewhere they're not supposed to be.'

`So why the fuck didn't he tell us?'

No prizes for guessing who that is: Quinn, at peak bolshie.

`Seriously,' he continues, looking round at the rest of the team, `Philip Esmond has known all about this will right from the start and yet he hasn't even mentioned it. Not a bloody word.'

`But how is it relevant?' says Ev. `Philip couldn't possibly have set fire to the house because he was in the middle of the sodding Atlantic.'

`Do we actually know that?' Quinn again.

Ev flushes. `Well, no `“'

`Well then,' he says.

I turn to Somer. `What day did you first speak to Philip?'

`On the Thursday afternoon, sir. A few hours after the fire.'

`Right. Could you double-check the exact co-ordinates of that satellite phone call, please? Just to be sure.'

Meanwhile Ev's got a second wind. `In any case, why would Philip want to trash the place? There's no suggestion he was in need of the money.'

`Even a hundred grand at compound interest will run out sometime,' says Asante. `Especially at his rate of burn.'

He's not wrong `“ it's not just the shiny new boat, it's the go-as-you-please lifestyle, and all without any visible means of support.

`That's as may be,' says Baxter grimly, `but it sure as hell gives Michael a motive, though, doesn't it?' And he's right too: setting fire to that house would have solved his financial problems for good and all. But would he really go so far as to burn it down? A building so intimately bound up with his sense of self and his place `“ quite literally `“ in the world? If you're asking me, that's one hell of a stretch. Even if his family hadn't been inside. Even if I didn't know he was fifty miles away at the time.